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Taehyung thinks.
And thinks some more.
And decides, with a frown, that there is nothing more physically demanding than airport layovers, especially when they're seventeen-hour-long ones.
His iced coffee clangs tinny against the vending machine.
(He's only a little bit worried.)
–
Six hours had given him plenty of time to ruminate and roam around (and shop). It had given him time to conclude that airports are kind of his new favourite thing – this one, especially.
Because this one had closed down completely at ten, slowly curling in on itself maybe two, three hours earlier, when signs on shops changed from OPEN to CLOSED, almost imperceptible, and bodies started to thin out, filtered the stragglers that share the same fate. The main lights went out at about eleven thirty, left the place in a dim embrace, and the remaining travellers migrated towards lounging chairs and waiting areas, gently herded by security officers in dark blue. It's like the building finally let out a resting sigh and shut its eyes, dead to the world outside, but still pulsing with something inside. The shuffle of feet, the humming escalators, the unremitting fluorescence of the vending machines.
Still pulsing.
–
Taehyung taps down the darkened hallway and twirls around. Just because. Just because there's no one around and it's just him and the greenish glow from the EMERGENCY EXIT sign and the marbled floor.
Except, when he comes to a few steps too late, it's not just him and the greenish glow and the marbled floor. There's someone else, a lone figure like him, slowly meandering towards his way. Eyeing him. A silent witness.
And in all his grace and glory, along with the help of 1:40 a.m and the tired buzz of travelling, Taehyung's mouth rushes out an untoward, "Sorry." And his throat rucks up a laugh. And he swoops past him.
The optimist side of him figures maybe the guy didn't quite catch his face or clothes. And that's fine. That's – preferable.
He swears to God he is going to force himself to fall asleep.
–
He doesn't.
In between three and five minutes Taehyung vacillates from robbing glances at the video playing on his phone screen to the darkened hallway a little ways away. All fidgeting. Waiting for the guy to show up. See, he figures he owes him a proper apology, set things straight, convince him that he was just very, very tired, you know how it is with all this stale airport air. Perhaps this is him simply trying to protect his ego under the guise of a formal expression of regret, preserve his impression, make a new one. Perhaps it's the courage to converse with another, spurred on by half-dead airports. Maybe it's boredom. Taehyung doesn't get a chance to solve the debacle that had flared up, though, because 1:46 arrives and – lo and behold – he reappears from the gloaming. Boots first; yellow ochre and from a brand that makes Taehyung think of flannel and lumberjacks. He looks back at his phone, at the fighter girl's entrails splatting red and messy on the pixelated ground. Crosses and uncrosses his legs. Crosses his heels. Jiggles his foot against the other. Doesn't quite stop until the boots guy – oh, the boots guy is a mere two seats away! Two blue cushions and metal frames apart! And – fitting a pair of headphones over his ears. Face drawn in. Hoodie rucked up.
Taehyung sighs.
Maybe later.
–
Taehyung eventually dozes off, two hours later, to the escalator lady's voice.
This escalator goes down to the first basement floor. Please hold the handrail and watch your step. This escalator goes down to the first basement floor. Please hold the handrail and watch your step. This escalator goes down to the first basement floor. Please hold the handrail...
–
Taehyung's seat is 24D, right up front against the gray barrier separating the business goers and the budgeters. He's surprised he even made it here at all. The past seventeen hours seemed marginally unreal; like a dream, or a ghost. A dreamy ghost. A phantasmagorical figment of his weary imagination.
But it's roomier than expected here in 24D, much to the relief of his leggy and jaded self, so he settles down just fine.
The routine airplane schema in him tells him to grab a magazine and start flipping through. So that is what he does. It entertains him, kind of, distracts him from the shuffle of the other passengers as they wriggle their way into their seats, keeps him from developing scenarios involving exploding fuselages and the burning ball of fire that is the remains of the aircraft blazing through the sky, pummelling down into the ground as screams go unheard, melding into the sizzle of the flames on smouldering metal and –
Et cetera, et cetera.
Whilst reading about the Roman-built baths in Bath (The city became a spa with the Latin name Aquae Sulis…), a pair of yellow ochre boots flicker just within his vision, and he blinks at the letters in the article.
His reflexes and debilitating curiosity goads him to look to the left. A small torso and a muss of blond hair under a black beanie snaps the overhead compartment shut. Softly curved lips and a piercing gaze sweep over him, just briefly.
Oh.
Taehyung’s helpless against the words that float up into the forefront of his mind: fate. Destiny. Beginnings of an indie rom-com. And when he follows the slope of his nose, and the subtle pillows of his cheeks, and the peculiar gentle-sharpness of his jawline and chin, he passively concludes, in his most eloquent way, that the boots guy is 1) truly sitting right next to him, a mere armrest away this time, and 2) something of a looker.
(The words taunt him.)
Go figure.
–
Taehyung wakes the guy up for dinner and it was probably one of the best decisions he's made all day. (The other notable one was that he accidentally ordered cheese pork cutlet instead of the regular.)
Taehyung wakes the guy up for dinner and in that small fragment of fluttery lashes and sleepy lids and downturned lips Taehyung's frangible heart grows twice its size and pumps twice more blood. Most go to his cheeks and ears.
He croaks, "I thought you might like dinner."
“Oh.” The guy blinks, slow. “Thank you." His voice; unused and dozy around the seams, guttural but gentle. Taehyung's stomach goes wobbly.
"Your menu, uh." He cranes his neck over the guy's feet, who bends over to pick it up from the floor.
"Thanks."
And. Okay. It's nothing, but it's something.
–
Maybe – maybe he doesn't like him. Maybe he thinks he's weird and wants to change seats. And maybe if Taehyung keeps talking he'll eventually shut him out. He's willing to pull at strings because this guy makes him nervous in the best way possible.
But no.
What Taehyung discovers soon, catching the guy's soft smiles and barely-there laughter, and watching the eager sheen in his eyes when he talks about his favourite albums, and the little jokes he'd weave in between anecdotes, and the silent patience he shows when Taehyung's struggling to get to a point, is that he doesn't not want to talk to him. He doesn't not like him. He is simply being himself.
Taehyung can’t stop fucking smiling.
This habit of attachment to lonely strangers will surely bite him back in the ass one day, but for now he figures he’ll live in the moment.
Carpe diem, he thinks. Carpe stranger.
–
"I've had exactly zero pets."
"Really? Not even fish?"
Yoongi (Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi) shakes his head.
"I've had turtles, a dog, and some koi.” Taehyung counts off his fingers. “The dog and koi remain to this day."
"And the turtles?"
Taehyung's mouth forms a straight line.
Yoongi pats his arm.
–
Sometime in hour three of the flight began an incessant groaning and ghastly wailing within the walled-off business class area. Hearsay and whispers claim it's a drunk guy. Completely trashed. Off of wine.
"Jesus,” Taehyung says.
Yoongi breathes in through his teeth. "There goes my sleep."
"You a light sleeper?"
Taehyung looks up to Yoongi gulping down the rest of his water. Doesn't pay attention to his Adam's apple bobbing up and down or the sheen of his lower lip before he wipes it off with his sleeve. "I just need silence."
"Ah." Taehyung nods, drumming his fingers on his knees. "You know what I do when I can't sleep?"
"What?"
"I list all the galaxies I know. Full names and the works.”
"That's – kind of impressive."
Taehyung runs his fingers through his hair. "There's always this one I can never remember, though."
"Well, there’s. A shit ton." Fingers wiggle to represent a shit ton. "Can't blame you."
"Guess not. I used to know each and every one by heart.”
"Funny how memory works."
"Right?"
The flyer next to Taehyung asks the stewardess for some water and a blanket, yes, thank you, and do you happen to have socks, too? No? Alright, no, that's fine –
"So, what are the ones you do know?"
Yoongi's gaze is softly trained on him, and he’s flicking lint off of his hoodie. All uneven nails, most likely bore of teeth. All long, steady fingers. Taehyung doesn’t think about wanting to feel their molds on his palm.
"Well." Taehyung shifts in his seat. “There's a couple. Don't fall asleep on me."
–
(Yoongi ends up falling asleep on him, against his shoulder, but that's a lot later on, long after the drunkard has stopped his crying, long after they've gone through the Milky Way, the Whirlpool, the Pinwheel, the Sunflower, the Black Eye...)