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The trick to successfully boarding an airplane is to treat it like driving: be aware, be defensive, and don’t be an idiot. Kinder, more ethical drivers might argue that driving should be cooperative, what with sharing the same roads and prehistoric ancestors and all, but cooperation doesn’t get you to IHOP as quickly as you might think.
“Or any destination, for that matter,” An explains to Kohane, carefully sidestepping a passenger seemingly sleeping on the ground. At least seventy five percent of the passengers on their flight have boarded the plane, but being in their seats is another situation entirely. Maybe she shouldn’t have ignored her sixteen consecutive alarms, all in five minute intervals. “Like the gas station, or in my case, your house. Tell your neighbour I said sorry about their mailbox, by the way.”
Kohane, whose face is a little washed out (because of the lighting, An hopes, and not because of her tendency to drive too close to the curb), is trying to manoeuvre their carryon suitcase around a suspicious purple spill. “This is just a recommendation, An-chan,” she says, giving up and lifting the carryon into her arms, “but you should really invest in those little convex circles people put on their side mirrors.”
Maybe An would take her suggestion into more consideration if she wasn’t busy staring at Kohane lifting fifty pounds of luggage. Her efforts at the gym have paid off—An’s arms aren’t so bad either given she’s on the basketball team and all, but Kohane is likely probably most definitely more toned than her. It’s a stark improvement from two years ago, when they first met, although no matter what happens, Kohane will always look like a tiny and rather pocketable hamster. The fact that she hides all of her muscles in her oversized jackets is just another thing about her, like her love for snakes and affinity for large hammers in video games.
Large hammers in video games. An eyes how Kohane’s arms flex as she walks through the next few rows holding the suitcase like a newborn. There’s some kind of correlation, she thinks.
They make it to their seats with no additional problems, which is good, because the seats are only three steps away from their last problem and if there were any more An would be leaving the plane immediately. She takes the window seat half because she wants to and half because Kohane wants to, which leaves Kohane in the middle and an empty spot on her right. As soon as she sits down, she shrugs the backpack off and slides it onto the floor between her sneakers.
Kohane, who’s just finished sliding the carryon into the cubby above their row, slips into her seat holding a sheer drawstring bag. An watches as she unzips it to reveal a folded square of fabric. “What is that?” she asks, leaning over.
“A blanket,” Kohane replies. “I don’t like the free ones they give.”
She pinches two corners and shakes it open—it expands in size immediately, like one of those vacuum sealed portable tents. In the middle is a modest print of an anthropomorphic frog in a kitchen. An figures that Kohane owning this kind of blanket is, again, just another thing about her.
They spend the next few minutes getting cosy and experiencing traditional airplane experiences, unfortunately often at the same time. Kohane wraps herself in her blanket and cuddles into An’s side. Somewhere in another section, a baby starts crying. An finds Kohane’s hand under the blanket and intertwines their fingers. The baby stops crying, but the noise is replaced by a very dramatic, very unnecessary argument about the lunch menu between two grown adults. An browses said menu and finds that they have her favourite brand of orange juice. The baby starts crying again.
She hears something about You can’t get that dish, I’m allergic and something else about You’re not allergic, you just don’t like eating it. Resting her elbow on the armrest, she leans over to Kohane’s ear, “Reminds me of your dairy allergy.”
“An-chan,” Kohane replies, “it’s not an allergy. It’s intolerance.”
It takes three flight attendants and the buzz of the speakers on the ceiling to shut all three of them up—perpetrator one, perpetrator two, and unrelated baby. ‘Good afternoon, passengers…’ comes the intercom, and An ignores it in favour of watching Kohane make grabby hands at her in-flight menu, ‘...I’d like to welcome everyone to…’ An gives her a magazine instead, which features an exclusive article on exotic lizards, ‘...from Tokyo to Toronto. We are fourth in line for take-off…’
Toronto, An mouths in repeat. She nudges Kohane’s arm under the blanket and grins. “We’re really going. Can you believe it? It’s been, what, ten years since you left?” In her mind, she imagines heavy snow and moose. She also remembers that it is currently summer. “Aren’t you excited? I’m so excited. I can’t believe it’s real.”
Kohane blinks, staring at An with an indecipherable expression. “That… Canada is real?”
“Yeah,” An agrees.
‘...expected to be in the air in approximately twelve minutes time.’
And she’s about to ask Kohane another potentially useless Canada-related question, particularly about the origins of whatever Tim Hortons is, but when she turns around again she does not see Kohane’s face. Instead, she sees the anthropomorphic frog, staring her down with its hips jutted out and an apple pie in its hands. “Kohane,” she says out of stupor, realising that oh, she’s covered her face with the blanket. “Are… you okay?”
“Yes,” Kohane squeaks, muffled by the blanket. The frog warps when she talks. “Uhm. I’m okay.”
“Is it…” An trails off into silence, chewing at her lip. “Are you—nervous? Tired?” and when Kohane doesn’t bristle, she tries, “Scared?”
That’s what gets her to pull her blanket down, so that the frog crumples in on itself and her eyes peek out from the edge. “Not scared,” she says meekly. “Not of planes, at least. But during takeoff, when we first go up, it’s kind of…” The blanket goes up as quickly as it had fallen. “I don’t really like it.”
“Oh,” An says. In all honesty, she had no idea, which makes a bitter kind of guilt bubble at the bottom of her stomach, especially because this is their first real trip together. She could have found a time to ask.
Then she shakes her head and all of those thoughts out of it, because what matters right now isn’t what she could have done. She knows now, and that’s what relationships are about, aren’t they? There are a thousand things about Kohane she might only find out about in the future, but that’s what the future is for.
She snakes her hand out of the blankets and wraps her arm around the bundle of Kohane beside her, pressing her right against her side. “Hey, that’s totally fine,” she says quietly, rubbing circles on her back. “If you feel safe under the blanket, that’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Kohane’s voice is hushed. “Sorry. It’s dumb.”
“No it isn’t.” An squeezes her. “You can feel however you want to feel. And if you think it’s embarrassing, don’t. You know, I’ve never told you this, but I had an irrational fear of electrical posts until I was nine.”
“You did tell me.” The blanket goes down, and An can tell that Kohane is smiling, even if it’s half hidden by the shadows of the fabric. “But you were sleep-talking."
“My point is,” she replies, “you come first, always. Don’t feel bad about that.” When An squints, she thinks she can make out a blush on Kohane’s cheeks. “Is there anything I can do to help? You can wear my jacket, if you want. And I brought an eye mask, even though it’s the one Akito gave me last year with his eyes printed on it.”
“I think,” Kohane murmurs, “it would be nice if you could just hold my hand.”
She lets the blanket drape around her shoulders. “Yeah,” An says. “For sure.”
It’s a small request, especially for something they do almost every day (and when they don’t, An dreams of it, so it technically is every day), but that might be what makes it so much more special—that they get to keep their affection just to themselves, hidden under Kohane’s ridiculous blanket from everyone around them. The captain announces that takeoff is in five, and Kohane leans her head on An’s shoulder.
It takes a minute for An to start tracing the lines of Kohane’s palm. It takes another for Kohane to gently ask if she 'can have your jacket after all, An-chan?'