Work Text:
Manon hates flying.
She’s, like, very serious about this.
Manon wishes she’d have been born the type to claim she hates flying while scrolling through her phone during takeoff, the epitome of unbothered and calm; no, she got the bad genes and is stuck being the type that’s too busy having her stomach cave in on itself to speak, palms drenched with sweat.
In short: she’d love nothing more than to curl into a ball, and pretend planes were never invented.
It’s irrational, she knows.
Manon’s from Switzerland, firstly, so any instance where she’s able to go home — which is truly never, in all honesty — finds her held hostage by this terrifying air contraption.
And, if you want to ignore the fact that she’s from another country, Manon’s literally an idol, or a pop star – or, whatever you want to call it, she’s found herself with a job that requires her to fly over dozens of times for schedules, tours, appearances in a singular month.
So.
She should probably be less scared of this.
The statistics are against her irrationality, too. She’s ninety percent sure flying is safer than driving, and given that Manon’s on the accident-prone side, it’s probably accurate to assume that it’s safer than walking down stairs, or anything else she does on a daily basis.
She knows this. Not only does she know it, but Manon understands it; she’d like to think she accepts it as a relatively true fact.
Mentally, anyway.
Her body, unfortunately, hasn’t gotten the memo.
The Seattle flight is early morning, and it’s barely past dawn when their van pulls up to the private terminal.
It doesn't matter how early it is, nor how tired she is, because Manon’s already on edge — it’s a familiar, aching tightness in her chest that began the moment she woke up and started packing for their flight.
Her lungs kind of hurt, which makes breathing a little more difficult than usual; it feels oddly reminiscent of that one fainting case she had back in September, at that airport with Megan, and that only serves to dial her anxiety up by a hundred.
Because, please, God, do not let this be another fainting case. She is not rehashing the wheelchair debacle. Manon would simply prefer death.
It also probably doesn’t help that she’d hardly slept, kept up by staring at the ceiling and running through worst-case scenarios.
Her mind had looked a little like this: engine failure, and they crash; rocky turbulence, and they crash; bird strikes, and she's left with pooped-up hair and a plane crash; this one documentary she'd stupidly watched at 2 AM last month about —
“You good?” Lara says, nudging her shoulder as they file out of the van.
Manon forces a smile. “Yeah. Fine.”
She’s not fine. Manon’s never once been fine before flights, and never will be. But she’s gotten good at pretending, at least.
“I bet,” Lara mutters, then mimes drinking water. “Buy a bottle before we leave. And you are not sitting next to me. If I smell vomit, I might die.”
They all move through the terminal like they’ve done this a million times, which — well, they have, but the speed they’re going at is out of Manon’s comfort zone.
Dani’s in this era where she thinks sunglasses are ‘cool’ and has a pair sheathed over her eyes even though they’re legitimately inside the airport, but she’s still miles ahead of Manon; Megan’s yawning into her third coffee of the morning, but she’s carrying her and Yoonchae’s bags – something about chivalry and honor — so she’s also doing far better than her; Lara’s already in front of her, absorbed into whatever's playing through her headphones, occasionally nodding along to the beat.
They shuffle through the scanner one by one like it’s nothing.
Manon trails behind them, and silently prays that there’ll be an open window at their gate. Fresh air might do her good. Though, the air she’d caught a whiff of outside the van had been choked with car exhaust, so perhaps this wishful thinking isn’t the smartest thing to… wishful think for.
One foot in front of the other rings through her head, one foot, two foot, one foot, two foot, alongside warning of hey! don’t focus on how planes are essentially metal tubes that defy gravity through flimsy physics and —
She jolts when she feels a hand slip into hers, lacing their fingers together, palm to callused palm.
The hand in question is cool and damp, but Manon hardly notices, overwhelmed by the warmth traveling from the tips of her ears all the way down to her chest.
Said hand passes her a water bottle — which explains the dampness — and… Sophia.
“Hey,” she says, quiet enough that the others won’t hear over the general airport noise. Her thumb brushes over Manon’s knuckles once, twice. “Doing okay?”
Manon glances at her; she perks up like a dog, really, because she’s always liked Sophia’s attention on her. When Sophia’s words finally register, after an embarrassingly long moment, her lips crook up into a humorless smile. “Define okay.”
“Ah,” Sophia winces, squeezing her hand. “That bad, huh?”
“Well,” Manon sighs. “I watched a plane crash documentary at 2 AM.”
“Manon.”
“I know, I know. I’m an idiot.”
“I wasn't gonna say that,” Sophia denies, though she sounds more amused than anything, as they approach security — it’s the only time she lets go of Manon’s hand, because security is a separating, soul-sucking demon. “I was gonna ask why you do this to yourself.”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” Manon chuckles; she’s a lying liar, though, because she does know. It’s the same reason she googles her symptoms when she has a headache and convinces herself she’s dying. It’s the same reason she reads the hate comments she knows she shouldn’t read — then proceeds to pretend she’s never seen a thing. “Brain’s just like that.”
“Your brain’s mean to you,” says Sophia, matter-of-factly, a frown making its way onto her face. Manon isn’t spared a second to remove it from her face, not when the TSA agent is impatiently waving Manon forward, forcing her to step through the scanner.
On the other side, Sophia finds her immediately.
One thing: they’ve kind of hit peak stardom. Like, private jets are how they fly now; economy is a thing of the past.
This is both a good and bad development, for Manon, because while they’re no longer waiting six hours in a gateway and sleeping on airport floors, the flight comes much faster than she’d like.
So, they’re already on the plane. It’s a pretty small one — granted, it’s a private jet; yachts would always be smaller than cruises, etc etc etc — but it somehow makes it worse. Manon’s fairly certain smaller planes are statistically more likely to… well. You get her drift.
Bad thoughts. She boinks her head, which incurs a weird stare from Megan but, like, Megan of all people has no room to judge her. She’s seen at least a thousand ‘Megan core’ edits, which typically summed up to her being, simply put, weird.
Anyway. Good thoughts, good vibes, good mind: she’s going to be normal and fine and everything is going to go smoothly. She will also not be thinking about how this metal tube is suspended in the air with nothing but physics and hope holding it. Manon’s not particularly trusting of science’s abilities to keep her safe.
The interior of the jet is all white leather and polished wood, and pure fucking luxury — it should feel comforting but, like, there’s been countless instances of expensive things killing people.
Like yes, it is expensive; as in, an expensive death trap, rather than a cool, expensive vacay to the Bahamas.
This was going to be her OceanGate, wasn’t it? Except it’s not a submarine, but a private plane that their company decided was necessary, and they aren’t quite billionaires, but girls who’d really love to make it to their next performance.
There are eight seats total, configured in pairs, and Manon can only watch as Megan immediately claims the middle row and presses her face against the glass like an overeager golden retriever, which — okay, cute, but also Manon cannot relate to that level of enthusiasm right now. Yoonchae quickly follows, plopping down next to her, and Dani and Lara have taken the backseats, leaving… the remaining front two. For her and Sophia.
Okay. Sure.
Sophia’s hand finds Manon’s again, gently tugging her toward the front pair of seats. “Come on,” Sopha says; then, a little more cheerily, which is a lot more for someone like Sophia, “Together. We’ll sit up here, together.”
Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, so Manon lets herself be wordlessly led — she thankfully stumbles over nothing only once. Win in her book.
They settle into the front two seats, and one is on each side of the narrow aisle, so the logical assumption would be Sophia releasing her hand, for ease if anything else, but her pulse spikes and her cheeks flush when Sophia doesn’t the exact opposite. Instead, she maneuvers herself into her seat in a way that doesn’t require her to let go of Manon’s hand. Not by an inch. The entire time, their fingers remained stretched across the space between them.
She doesn’t get a chance to comment on it; the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom.
“Good moooorning, ladies,” he drawls, like enthusiasm was injected into his veins. “So, on this beautiful day, we’re looking at about a two hour and forty-five minute flight time to Seattle. The weather's clear, and it should be a smooth ride. We’ll be taking off in about ten minutes.”
Smooth ride — Manon’s heard that one before. Then the plane had hit turbulence so bad she’d genuinely started writing down her will on a napkin. All her valuables were destined to be given to Spoon anyway, because, duh. That’s her child.
Her hands are shaking.
Her sorry attempt at hiding it involves grabbing the water bottle Sophia had given her earlier, but her grip is weak and flimsy, and the plastic crinkles loudly as she flounders to properly hold the fucking thing.
Sophia notices, which is both wonderful and terrible.
“Hi,” she starts, adding in a ridiculously charming wave with the hand not currently enclosed around Manon’s; then, she’s leaning over the armrest of her seat, stretching herself close enough that Manon can smell her perfume — it cuts through the air as citrusy, and clean, and very Sophia-in-nature. “Look at me.”
Manon does, because there’s never been a point to denying someone as determined as Sophia.
She turns around to meet Sophia’s eyes, the dark brown a color Manon’s seen far too many times in her dreams. It’s paired with a tiny crease between her eyebrows that scream worriness. “You've done this before, you know? Hundreds of times.”
“Doesn't make it easier,” Manon mutters, but it’s half-hearted when she’s already feeling marginally less like she’s going to vibrate out of her skin by simply staring into Sophia’s eyes.
“I know.” Sophia reaches across the aisle, and for a mortifying — exciting — second Manon thinks she’s going to brush her hair back, or touch her face, or, like, hell, pat her head, but instead she just adjusts Manon’s seatbelt, tugging it a little tighter. “But you’re going to be fine. We're going to be fine.”
It’d be more comforting if the plane hadn’t started to move just as Sophia finished her sentence.
Manon’s stomach drops instantly, even though they haven’t actually started flying. Moving down the runway. That’s all. That’s all. It doesn’t matter, because her fingers are digging into the armrests, and her knuckles have gone white, and she can feel her breathing quicken.
“Breathe with me,” Sophia interrupts, and she starts doing this exaggerated breathing thing — in for four, hold for four, out for four — that would have Manon bursting out into laughter in any other circumstance. But, like, Manon’s desperate, and Sophia’s always kept her safe, so she tries to match it, focusing on the rise and fall of Sophia’s steady chest, instead of how the plane is moving.
It helps. A little.
A lot.
It’s Sophia.
Sophia nudges her with her foot; it’s kind of awkward, given that the gap between them is on the larger side, but Sophia doing it erases the awkwardness. “Tell me something. Literally anything. Just talk to me.”
“About what?” says Manon, strangled.
“I told you: anything. Your favorite food. Restaurants. Anything you wanna try in Seattle?”
“Uh…” Despite everything, Manon huffs out a laugh. She tries to think of a single type of food she wants to try that won’t make her nausea right now — so fast food is out, and so is anything greasy, and she’s not inclined to eat noodles on a weak stomach — and gives up after drawing a blank. “Birds?”
“Okay, so let’s try not to eat birds.” Sophia’s thumb starts tracing circles on the back of Manon's hand. “But that’s good. Yes. Keep going.”
The engines roar to life, and Manon’s breath catches.
"I can't,” she chokes out, eyes shut and fingers tightening around Sophia’s own.
“Yes, you can,” Sophia counters, poking an eyelid and forcing Manon to stare at her. “Come on. Don’t do that. I love seeing your pretty eyes.” Which. Sweet Jesus. This girl was going to kill her. “Ooohhh, tell me about Switzerland. You’re my Swiss side, Manon, and while I’m very proud of it, I don’t know much. You never talk about it.”
“Because there's nothing to talk about,” Manon grits out; the thing is, the plane’s accelerating now, and she needs something, anything to focus on that isn’t the way her entire body is screaming at her to get off, get off, get off. “It’s just… mountains. And chocolate.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is. Was.” The pressure is building in her ears. They’re going faster. Manon’s blinking back tears less out of fear and more out of nostalgia, though. She hasn’t been home in awhile. In a long time. “I miss it sometimes. The quiet.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Manon repeats, before adding, “It’s, like, way different from here. Slower. Everything here is so loud and fast and everyone wants something from you, but there it was just. I don't know. Simple.”
The nose of the plane lifts.
Manon’s stomach lurches, and an undignified sound exits her throat, and she’s feeling very glad that she chose to skip out on hotel breakfast — Sophia’s only response is to tighten her hand around hers.
“You're okay,” Sophia murmurs. They’re so far, but they’re so close, and Manon can feel her breath. It's successful comfort. “We're okay. Just a little bit longer.”
The plane climbs.
“More,” says Sophia. “Give me more. I want all your nonsense.”
So, Manon has to screw her eyes shut, unable to take those bare glimpses of the sky, but she doesn’t stop talking, even though she’s not sure what she’s saying anymore — something about cheese, maybe, or skiing, or the way the Alps look at sunrise. It’s okay, because Sophia keeps responding in soft mumbles, which keep her more anchored than the fabric strapped around her chest.
Eventually, finally, the plane levels out.
The seatbelt sign dings off.
Manon opens her eyes.
She finds Sophia watching her with some blender of tenderness and concern and, like, fondness.
Then, because boundaries are nonexistent, Sophia cups her cheek, fingers curving over her jaw — it feels like she’s leaning in to kiss her.
Which is. Objectively crazy.
They’re bandmates, and even if they’ve kissed before, they’re currently in a planebus with all their other bandmates, so. Like. Kissing would probably not be a good look.
Sophia pulls back before Manon can lose her last thread of self-control and do said stupid crazy thing, like kissing her, like looping her arms around Sophia’s neck and digging her nails into her scalp, or climb over into Sophia’s seat, situating herself on her lap and marking up that perfect throat with a trail of bruises.
God, does she want so badly to, especially when — especially when she spots the flush on Sophia’s cheeks, like she hadn’t been the one holding Manon’s jaw.
“Told you,” Sophia says quietly, brushing nonexistent crumbs off her lap. It’s a flimsy distraction; Manon lets it work. “You're okay.”
Manon nods, not trusting herself to speak without vocal cracks imbuing themselves into every word.
Her hand is still in Sophia’s, and she thinks it might be time to let go.
She doesn’t.
“You want to try and sleep?” Sophia asks, and guilt sparks when Manon catches the exhaustion in her voice too. She hadn’t slept either, that much is clear. “Might make the time go faster.”
Manon shrugs. It’s disjointed and wonky, with how shaky she feels. “I don't know if I can.”
“Try anyway,” she pleads before saying, softer, “I'm right here, okay? Not going anywhere.”
Which… yeah.
So, she leans her head against the window and tries to find a spot that doesn’t leave her neck cramping. It’s not ideal — the glass is cold and slightly uncomfortable — but the tour tiredness is catching up to her now. She’s gotten maybe two hours of sleep, max, most days since it all began, and the adrenaline from takeoff is fading fast.
Across the aisle, she can see Sophia doing the same, settling into her seat with her head tilted toward the window.
Their hands remain clasped in the space between them, arms stretched across the gap.
It's not the most perfect, nor most optimal position for maximum comfort; Manon finds she doesn’t care. The weight of Sophia’s hand in hers is grounding, and she’d be damned if she gave it up for literally anything.
“Sophia?” Manon whispers into the quiet space between them.
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
There’s a pause; then, Sophia’s thumb brushes over her knuckles, again, gentle and warm. “Always.”
And it’s, like, Manon’s exhausted, and the hum of the engine has faded out into something less scary, and Sophia’s hand is in hers, and they’re relatively leveled out and stable — it all conspires against her determination to stay awake.
She doesn’t mean to fall asleep.
But she does, anyway.
She wakes up to her phone buzzing.
For a second, Manon’s super disoriented — neck stiff, mouth dry, a weird plane taste coating her tongue. On top of that, the window is cold against her temple, but her body is hot from the blanket that had made its way into her lap while she was passed out, and there’s an ache in her shoulder from the angle she’d been sleeping at.
Her hand is still warm.
She blinks her eyes open, tilting her head across the aisle; there, she finds an asleep Sophia, face relaxed and peaceful. Her head is angled toward Manon, resting against her own window, and their hands are steadfastly intertwined in the gap between their seats.
So. They’d slept, like, who knows how long, with their palms together. That’s… normal.
Manon’s phone buzzes again.
She fumbles for it with her free hand — because hell no is she letting go of Sophia — and squints at the too-bright screen.
megan: you're welcome
And then, a photo.
Manon’s breath catches.
It’s them.
Both of them, captured from in front and slightly above. Megan must have stood in the aisle to get the angle. Which is a little bit creepy, but she can’t really be mad when the image shows both of them asleep with their heads dipping toward each other, and right in the center — perfectly framed — their hands clasped together in the space between them.
The lighting is on the softer side, golden from the open windows, and they look... peaceful. Content. Two puzzle pieces that just fit.
Manon stares at the photo; then, before she can overthink it — before the anxiety, and the what-ifs, and the but-we’re-bandmates can creep in — she opens Instagram.
She saves the photo to her camera roll first, because she wants to never stop staring at it. Maybe make it her lock screen. Manon silently says fuck it before uploading it to her story, fingers moving quicker than her conscious.
The caption is simple: still scared of flying, but @.sophia_laforteza keeps me safe <3
She hits post.
Then she sets her phone down, face-up on her lap, and lets herself look at Sophia again. Really look. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, her lips are slightly parted, and Manon thinks she can see drool, but on Sophia, it’s only the most adorable sight she’s ever been graced.
And, it’s like.
Maybe planes aren’t so bad after all.