Chapter Text
The flight to New York is full capacity.
Behind Jiwan, Nabi is worrying about the impending jetlag and Bitna, being Bitna, is complaining about something that Gyuhyun did (or didn’t do, Jiwan loses track sometimes of which it is) yet again.
Jiwan has a bigger problem on her hands than either of them: Sol is in a grumpy mood. She’s been quiet ever since they landed in Frankfurt for their layover. Jiwan thinks that it’s got something to do with the whole kerfuffle at customs. Sol’s not saying anything about it, no, of course not, but Jiwan can tell that she’s definitely been unhappy ever since then. And on Yoon Sol, that comes out to a lot of frowning and restless shifting and brooding out of windows.
Unfortunately for Sol, the airplane window is super tiny.
Like, this is the tiniest window that Jiwan’s seen in her life.
So. It’s Jiwan’s job to cheer Sol back up, ASAP.
Jiwan decides to do it in increments.
First, she tells Sol a rapid-fire series of jokes that makes the corners of Sol’s lips quirk up fleetingly before she settles back into her grumpy face.
Second, she gives Sol her Biscotti biscuits. There’s a slight hiccup with this step in that Sol knows that Jiwan really likes Biscotti biscuits and stops frowning out of the window long enough to give Jiwan a very quizzical look when Jiwan offers her packet to her. But Jiwan quickly makes up an excuse about how she’s dieting, so that crisis is averted.
Third, Jiwan yawns very obviously, which makes Sol offer Jiwan her shoulder to pretend to sleep on. This gives Jiwan a very good excuse to give Sol an extended hug.
Fourth, she asks Sol to build her a miniature skyscraper out of the penne pasta in Jiwan's dinner when their airplane food comes around—Sol always gets distracted whenever she can do something with her hands, head tilted and brows knitted in concentration as she carries out her magic of creating something out of nothing.
And then Jiwan also makes a big deal out of stealing the spinach out of Sol’s tray afterward, which she knows will make Sol laugh.
Fifth, she puts on a random American movie and watches it with Sol and whispers a running commentary to Sol the entire time as they share earphones between them. Most of the time, she has no idea what she’s saying—only that, minute by minute, she can see the tension leaking out of Sol’s shoulders and her brows relaxing.
At one point, Jiwan points out something about the blond actor’s blazer that makes Sol turn and outright grin at her. Jiwan grins back, leaning against Sol’s shoulder. Mission accomplished.
Halfway through the flight, Sol gets up to get her backpack. It’s all the way in the front of the plane—all of the overhead bins near them had all filled up by the time they boarded—so Jiwan is left alone for more than a few minutes, twiddling her thumbs. She’s just tapping the in-seat screen in front of her to check where they are (somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, apparently) and deciding which movie to watch next, when the lady in the aisle seat turns to her and says something in English. It’s too quick for Jiwan to be able to catch the first time, so Jiwan asks her to repeat it again.
The lady points to Sol’s empty seat. “Is she a nervous flyer?’
“Oh! Yes,” says Jiwan, nodding a lot. The lady seems nice, and she’s still looking at Jiwan, as if she expects Jiwan to say more. So Jiwan explains, in English, “She was nervous, but she’s better now.”
And then she gives a thumbs up for extra emphasis.
“I get that. She’s lucky to have you.”
Whew. Jiwan is relieved to understand this as well. She hears this line often in a lot of Hollywood films, usually the romantic ones, so she can pick out the words very easily.
“No. I am lucky to have her,” she says, honestly.
The lady has a very soft look on her face. “I’m glad. You two seem very happy together.”
Sol comes back with her backpack. She smiles at Jiwan when she takes a seat again, and Jiwan immediately plasters herself back to Sol’s side (they’d long ago put up the arm rest, so that they can sit without any space between them).
The lady leans over to address Sol. “We were just talking about how lucky you two are to have each other. I’m a nervous flyer, too, but my husband had to stay back in Frankfurt this time.”
“Oh. Thank you,” says Sol, in English, inclining her head. “We’re very happy.”
Jiwan brushes a thumb over Sol’s knuckles.
They’re in New York.
##
Mr. Kim promises to keep their first day in New York a light day.
Mr. Kim’s idea of a “light day,” apparently, is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no breakfast, twelve mini-lectures in between, and another smaller art museum.
Jiwan yawns again. They’re in the second art museum of the day, it’s four in the afternoon, and she thinks that the jetlag might have already possibly crept up on her. For one, she can’t seem to stop yawning ever since lunch. And for another, Jiwan feels like she’s about to collapse. Idly, she wonders how she could possibly sidle up even closer to Sol without Sol noticing.
She’s pretty sure that she could re-charge simply like that, just by standing next to the comforting warmth that Sol radiates just by being Sol.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?”
Jiwan freezes, mid-yawn. Caught.
“What?”
“You’ve been yawning ever since we were on the plane,” Sol points out.
“I have not—” begins Jiwan, indignantly. But that’s when she remembers that, oh, right. As part of her ploy to wrap Sol up in a long hug, she did at one point pretend to be very, very sleepy during the flight.
“Oh, right,” she says.
But that’s not fair at all. Those yawns were fake. Now her yawns are real.
Sol grins at her. “Didn’t you get any sleep on the plane?”
Sleep. Jiwan thinks of it often, and wistfully. “Not enough.”
She must look very gloomy at the moment, because Sol’s smile turns fond and her face softens. “Look. Your eyelids are almost half-closed even as you’re talking to me.”
Sol brings one hand up to brush the pad of her thumb lightly over Jiwan’s eyelashes. Jiwan’s so tired that she doesn’t even twitch at the movement so close to her eyes, just lets Sol gently repeat the motion once, twice, then three times. It’s very soothing, actually. Jiwan sways forward into Sol’s touch for more, and Sol’s hand slides down to instinctively curve around Jiwan’s cheekbone and tilt her chin up.
Her eyes rise to meet Sol’s for one oddly breathless moment. And then Sol drops her hand.
She steps back, and looks around.
“Come on, let’s rest.”
“Oh no. Don’t make fun of me, Yoon Sol,” complains Jiwan. She follows Sol to the next room over, her skin suddenly vibrating with electricity, her very being tugged by this magnetic pull towards Sol. This jetlag is honestly so weird this time, to go from inertia to such wired anticipation in a split second! “You know that there’s nowhere to rest nearby. There aren’t any benches anywhere—”
Sol is looking around. They have to walk into five more rooms, bumping into a few of their classmates along the way, before Sol concedes that there indeed are no benches in this museum.
“Then we can just stand here, and you can sleep on me for a few minutes.”
Jiwan blinks at her, drowsily.
“What? But then you have to stay super still the whole time, and—”
“It’s just for a few minutes, Jiwan,” Sol urges. “Mr. Kim’s mini-lecture is coming up soon, and you look like you might fall over any second. You won’t be able to survive the next two hours here if you don’t get at least a little bit of rest.”
Jiwan nods, too spent to argue against such a wonderful-sounding idea. “You asked for it,” she mumbles, and then tips her head against Sol’s shoulder, her vision quickly fading to black. It’s nice to confirm one thing that Jiwan’s strongly suspected for a while, at least: Sol makes the best pillow, anywhere in the world. The last thing she remembers is Sol’s hand coming up to rest on her back to steady her, and a group of museum visitors behind them murmuring something about performance art of lovers in repose.
The shut-eye does the trick for the rest of the afternoon. By the time that they make it back to the hotel in the evening, however, Jiwan is nearly dead on her feet. Both her and Sol trail hopelessly behind by the rest of the class into the hotel by an ever-widening distance that Jiwan cannot even pretend is respectable anymore.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it, Sol,” Jiwan whispers into Sol’s ear, like a secret. Her hand is tangled in Sol’s hair, which is very curious. When ever did that happen?
“We have to,” Sol whispers back. “Or else we’re going to fail this class.”
Trust Sol to be practical to the end, Jiwan thinks, grouchily.
After about a century, the two of them stagger across the threshold into the hotel, getting many a second glance from passersby, since they look—well. They must look like a bizarre, many-armed octopus, supporting each other across the finish line.
In the hotel lobby, Jiwan has to loop her arms around Sol’s neck to hold herself up, while Sol holds Jiwan around the waist. Ordinarily, their English is really quite good, better than their classmates’, but all concept of language has fled Jiwan at the present moment—which turns out to complicate matters a little bit. Both her and Sol are trying to find out where their classmates went, but the desk clerk at the front desk keeps asking, for some reason, if they’d like him to check them into the honeymoon suite. Really, it’s a fabulous stand-off that’s on the verge of escalating to call-the-Korean-Embassy levels until Mr. Kim comes and rescues them.
He herds them to the hotel elevator and hands them their room key, wiping sweat off of his forehead and apologizing for leaving two of his students behind—his star student, at that!
They leave him behind with some hasty elevator dings.
“I’m just going to wash my face and then sleep,” mumbles Jiwan, as she and Sol stumble to their door. “Do you mind if I don’t shower?”
“I don’t mind,” says Sol, sounding about as dazed as Jiwan does.
“Good. That’s good,” says Jiwan.
And then the next thing she knows, she’s finally, finally horizontal, with her head on Sol’s chest and tilting over into a dreamless sleep.
So ends their first day in New York.