Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Narita airport. Summer 2003.

Suguru had never been in the cabin of a private jet like this one before. I mean, technically speaking, he had been onboard lots of planes a gazillion times, and sat on the pilot’s chair in a cockpit, and grabbed the control yoke and went bang bang bang, imagining he was striking down nasty enemies. He was, after all, the son of a pilot, so aircraft were no foreign environment to him.

Still, the Cessna Citation his mother had dragged him into this morning was into a whole different category. Yabai. It belonged to like, a whole different dimension.

Elegant, that was the word to describe that plane. Like any other Citations his mom usually flew for Mercury Jets, the design of the cabin was sleek, ending in a pointy nose topped by a glass-covered cockpit. Five perfect windows and a bright neon-like turquoise line adorned its flanks.

Climbing the boarding stairs with his purple backpack dangling from his shoulder he hadn’t really noticed how fancy it was at first. Wind was blowing like a demon over the airstrip of Narita airport, twisting and tangling his messy, long black hair, even though he had tied it up neatly in a bun. As neatly as he had been able to after his mother had shaken him up into consciousness at five am in the morning. His brain was still drowsy.

“Sugu-chan, up. We’ve gotta go,” his mother whispered, as she turned on the lights of his bedroom.

He had sat on the bed, rubbed his eyes and tried to make his tongue and vocal cords form something coherent, but it came out as a wailing, shapeless sound.

“Up, sweetie, I’ve got a flight,” she insisted.

“A flight? Today? Didn’t you have the day off?” he said, and his voice came hoarse, odd.

“It’s an emergency. I’m sorry. Ishii got sick, and Tanaka called me like ten minutes ago. He was desperate, Sugu. Ultra-VIP clients, he said, and they pay very well. Had to say yes.”

A bitter disappointment began to grow inside Suguru, a vomit-inducing ball swelling up in his throat, something he couldn’t quite swallow. He always got it, that bitterness, every time his mother walked away like that, every time he felt like a lost object, a forgotten trinket on a shelf. He also got it when he heard the wheels of her carry-on suitcase rolling out the hall in the quiet hours before sunrise, and she sneaked away from their apartment, like a thief, just to avoid waking him or the girls up.

He didn’t want to complain. He was older now and he was beginning to understand his parents worked their fingers to the bone for Mimiko, Nanako and him. They did what they could, his dad in Nagoya, and his mom up in the sky. Still, he was sleepy, moody, and now disappointed, and overall, he was thirteen, so the next thing he said came out as a complaint.

“You promised we were going to Ueno…”

His mother watched him over her shoulder, just around the corner of his bedroom door frame. The ghost of a half-moon smile appeared on her face as buttoned up her starch-white shirt.

“Well, I mean, the girls are going to Ueno with granny. You can go with them if you want, or…’’

Her words dangled in the air, like the chord of a balloon Suguru knew he had to catch. They snapped him awake in like, seconds. He tilted his head.

“Or…?”

“You can come with me to Okinawa,” she explained while she adjusted her black tie.

He gasped; his eyes went wide. His mother guffawed.

“You are not serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“How?”

“No way I was leaving you alone for three weeks. I told Tanaka I was only going if I could take you with me. Benefits of empty legs.”

“Three weeks? Wait, what?”

“That’s the other requirement. The client needs me to stay around in case one of them needs to go back to Tokyo for business or whatever.”

Suguru was speechless, his fists were still grabbing the sheets for stability. He blinked, slowly, trying to take in all this unexpected information before the sun had even started filtering through the shutters of his bedroom window.

“Did Tanaka tell you how many passengers—?’’

“Two? Or three, maybe. He did tell me. I don’t remember, honestly,” she explained, her voice coming muffled from the kitchen, followed by the pungent smell of coffee and the rumbling of the coffee machine and the rice boiler. “I’ll check the passengers list and the other documents on the train.”

His mom resurfaced on the doorframe and snapped her fingers twice.

“Don’t you wanna come, mister future pilot? Hurry up, we are late already!”

Suguru didn’t even answer. He stumbled out of the bed and fetched his black sneakers. In a flash, he was dressed, his teeth were brushed, his hair was up in a bun, and his jacket on, backpack ready. When his mother emerged from her bedroom with her carry-on luggage set, he was standing next to the door, shivering with excitement. His mom giggled as she teased him once more and asked if he was really sure he didn’t want to go to Ueno Park instead.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Suguru explored the cabin, scared to even breathe too hard and accidentally squash something. Outside, the Cessna was alright, but the interiors were just awesome. Eight reclining seats covered by creamy, soft leather invited guests to enjoy their champagne as they enjoyed the view from the clouds. The smell of new plastic and cleanliness permeated the whole compartment. Fold out tables were wooden – or made of something that resembled lacquered wood all too well. Except for the wood details on the side everything was so…white. He had the feeling his sole presence in that place was already staining it somehow.

He plopped down on one of the window seats, while he watched his mom come and go with refreshments in one hand, flight documents in the other one. He asked her if she needed help, but she refused with a gentle smile.

Somebody squished his shoulder, and he turned around.

“Hey, Sugu-chan, lucky day, isn’t it? Good to see you, boy” said the familiar voice of Wada.

Suguru grinned back at his mother’s copilot as the man patted on his shoulder one more time and moved forward to the cockpit.

“Got a free ride, didn’t you?”

“So it seems,” Suguru replied as he leaned back on one of the comfortable seats and closed his eyes. Oh, yes, this was going to be fun. Flying with his mom always was.

“Is this like a new plane, Wada-san?” he asked, encouraged by curiosity.

“Looks brand new to me. It must be.”  

Suguru heard the clock of the compartments shutting closed, and the zipping of buckles around him. Aircraft sounds. Beautiful, anticipatory sounds. Wada kept on chatting.

“It ain’t a Mercury one if that’s what you are asking, kiddo.”

“Is it theirs? Do they own the plane?”

“Yes,” this time his mom was the one to answer.

Suguru held his breath.

“Wow. Who even are these people?”

“Rich people. Very rich people.”

He opened his eyes again when a kind hand poked his shoulder. His mother’s amber gaze met him.

“Want some snacks?” she asked as she handed him a Pocky box and a Ramune soda bottle. He nodded as she kept on speaking. “So, what’s the procedure, lieutenant?”

Suguru kept his eyes on hers while he tried to jam the Pocky and the bottle in his backpack.

“I am invisible. I don’t exist. I don’t talk to them unless they speak to me first. If they ask me anything, I vow, and say yes, please, no, thank you,” he quoted.

“That’s my boy!” she replied and squeezed one of his cheeks. Suguru flinched.

“Mom! Don’t do that!” he complained as his ears reddened.

Wada’s chuckles reached them from the cockpit while Suguru’s mother stood up and went to his side. They started discussing the route and going over preflight preparations. Meanwhile, Suguru was still trying to squeeze the Ramune bottle without much success. He huffed and emptied out the contents of his bag, in a frustrated attempt to make room for the supplies. For half a minute, all his belongings were scattered on the seat: his black sweatshirt, the old ragged Full Metal Alchemist shirt he used as pajamas, the novel he was reading, his toiletry bag, a couple of hair bands and clips, and even the tin containing the balsa airplane model he was working on – he had hopes maybe he would be able to finish it over there and try flying it on the beach. Methodically, he began to stash the items again, placing them like Tetris bricks.

“So, lieutenant, what are we listening to today?” his mom asked. His lips curved in a smile.

“Do I also get to choose that?”

“You say that as if you didn’t always choose.”

He laughed and his mother laughed back, the same way birds in a forest sing to each other across the branches of trees and they can recognize each other’s songs despite the distance.

“How about some Fleetwood Mac?”

“Sounds good.”

“Here they come,” Wada interrupted them.

“I’ll go downstairs to greet them,” his mom said while she peered out through one of the round windows. Her gaze fell on him. “Put that away, sweetie.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m almost done.”

Suguru was sweating, and his hands were shaking as he jammed everything inside his backpack in a rush. His mom strode through the aisle and her feet clanked against the metallic staircase as she left the cabin.

“Sugu-chan, come here and buckle up,” called Wada’s voice at the same time Suguru sank into the seat closest to the cockpit to leave room for the guests.

Suguru’s seat faced the cockpit, which was a good thing because he didn’t have to avoid the passengers’ stare, and he could remain there quietly, next to Wada and his mother. Pretending to be invisible was easier that way. He sighed while he checked the bag one more time. He pulled out his copy of the Empire of the Sun and flipped the pages to find the bookmark.

The metallic clattering of footsteps announced the arrival of the passengers. Suguru resisted the itch to turn around, the temptation to spy; he was intrigued by who these extremely VIP passengers could be. People rich enough to own their private jet and have a pilot at their exclusive disposal for three weeks in Okinawa. It was insane. He was curious to see what they looked like.

Once they were onboard, his mom was the first one to speak.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll place your hand luggage in the upper compartment if that’s okay with you. Would you like any drinks or snacks before the takeoff, Ms. Gojo?”

“A bottle of water. Evian only, please. Natural, not chilled. I’m allergic to anything else,” a woman’s voice replied. Suguru swallowed his own giggles, and he would have bet his Tamagotchi Wada was chuckling too. It was exactly what he had been expecting.

He heard the heavy thuds as his mother dropped the bags and probably started to stash them away. Then, the fumbling and ruffling of jackets being pulled and bodies dropping on their corresponding seats. He also sensed as if someone sat on the seat opposite him, just behind his back.

“And for you, Gojo-san?”

Silence. A thud and a high-pitched ‘ouch’.

“Satoru, the lady is talking to you. Drop that thing!”

“Sorry. What?” asked a third voice. A boy, probably a teenager like him.

“This lady is asking you if you want some snacks.”

“Do you have KitKat?”

“We do, in fact. I heard you liked them from our guest form. Thank you for filling it out. How many would you like?”

“Five, please.”

Suguru suppressed another chuckle. For a rich brat, he was not very well fed.

“Satoru.”

“Fine,” he huffed, he dragged the vowels long and heavy, as if he had been sent to bed without dinner. “I’ll have three.”

“Excuse me, Miss,” said Ms. Gojo. “Where’s the pilot?”

Here we go again Suguru thought.

“I am the pilot, Ms. Gojo.”

“Oh. I thought you were the flight attendant or something.”

“I am the pilot,” his mother repeated, and a warm feeling of pride swept through Suguru. He wanted to stand up, look at that lady in the eye and tell her Yes, that’s my mom, and she is the pilot. She is the best pilot in this airport and I’ll be the same one day too.

“Ok. Fine. When are we leaving then? I have a massage appointment at four and I don’t want to be late.”

“Don’t worry. Our flight will begin shortly.” His mother’s voice was emotionless; rehearsed. 

Suguru rolled his eyes. Spoiled rich people, just as he had predicted.

“Hey, what’s this? Is it for me?” the kid spoke again. “Isn’t it like a plane model? How did you know I like planes?”

Suguru lifted his eyes from the page. All air escaped from his lungs. Oh no. No. No. No.

“Oh, I’m extremely sorry. That’s my son’s, he must have dropped it here by accident,” his mother stretched the last word in a way he knew he was in trouble. He sank on his seat, wishing he could melt into the leather.

“It’s so cool. It’s a Piper, right?”

“He is flying with us, isn’t he?” asked Ms. Gojo, dismissing her son’s question altogether. Suguru felt smaller and smaller every second that went by.

“He is, but I can assure you he will be of no trouble during the rest of the trip. Now, if you excuse me, we will be taking off shortly. Would you like to listen to some music as we fly?”

“I plan to sleep but never mind me. I have pills and earplugs. Maybe Satoru wants?”

“Uhm, yes,” the kid replied.

“Any preferences? Do you like American music?” Suguru’s mother asked.

“Yes, yes, why not?”

“Lovely. You can request any song you like. Anything else you need, either Wada-san or I are at your disposition.”

“Thank you, Geto-san.”

Suguru said nothing as his mother walked past his seat. The tin box of his model landed on his lap, and he winced. He knew she was going to have a word with him afterwards. He bit the inner side of his cheek. At least it hadn’t been a big deal in the end, had it? It didn’t seem so, because after closing and sealing the door, his mom disappeared into the cockpit.

Suguru reopened the book, crossed his legs and went on reading. He pondered whether to open the Ramune now or later.

“Good morning, dear passengers, welcome to our flight JA118 to Okinawa. This is your Captain, Geto Keiko speaking. Now, it's 27 degrees Celsius in Tokyo, with clear skies. We’re expecting a flying time of about two hours and fifteen minutes, cruising at thirty-nine-thousand feet, and we estimate our arrival in Naha airport at around 11:40. Weather reports indicate favorable wind conditions, so we should be enjoying a pleasant flight along our route. Please, remember to keep your seatbelt always fastened and remain seated during takeoff and landing. On behalf of Mercury Jet services, I would like to thank you for flying with us today. We’ll be departing shortly so make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the flight.”

While the plane taxied out toward the runway, Suguru’s heart started fluttering its wings. He leaned against the plastic panel of the window, and traced the shape of the perfect, slim wing. In a few minutes, they would be flying. Actually flying. It never ceased to amaze him, how they could magically grow wings and conquer the skies, even just for a little while. It was an impossible gift, and yet, it existed and somehow, he was lucky enough to be part of it.

Suguru loved every second of it. His favorite moment was when the plane lined up, faced the sky waiting for the final order. The snap of fingers to cast the spell.

He closed his eyes when the turbines accelerated, and the aircraft began to gain speed. The inertia pulled him backwards, knotted his stomach, and pushed him against the seat. Suguru beamed.

“Ugh, I hate this part,” Ms. Gojo complained.

“Mom, this is literally the best part.”

Suguru nodded, no one to see his agreement but himself. He knew he wasn’t supposed to look but, well, sometimes you can’t help but doing things you are not supposed to do.

He waited until the plane was stable and the buildings from Tokyo’s skyline were blurry grey patches thousands of kilometers below. Only then, he leaned forward, his tongue poking out slightly, and tried to peep.

Ms. Gojo had already fallen asleep by then. The lady was wearing a long, pale blue summer dress and some high-heeled sandals. A dark sleep mask covered her eyes, and she snored loudly. Her dark, short, trimmed hair fell like a curtain. It wasn’t very different from his own mom’s haircut, except for the fact his mother wore it a bit longer, maybe. There was nothing in that lady that would reveal that she was a millionaire.

Truth be told, Suguru was more interested in the kid. As they were sitting back-to-back, he couldn’t see him. The only thing he could catch out of the corner of his eye were his fingers, tapping on the Game Boy he was playing with. Long, white fingers. His skin was so pale it looked surreal. It made Suguru want to touch it just to see if it was real. He certainly must have had some sort of condition. If he could only bend over a bit more…

Some battery beats emerged from the loudspeakers and the music snapped Suguru back against his seat again. He stared into the cabin. Nobody seemed to have noticed what he was trying to do.

He relaxed, reached for the Ramune, unwrapped the lid and pressed the glass ball down to open it, while he tapped his feet to the beats of You Make Loving Fun by Fleetwood Mac. His mom, as usual, had been dead right with her choice. He liked Dreams better, but this one was a cool song too. He sipped the fizzy drink, and he tried to follow the lyrics in English, those he had listened to a hundred times before with his mother at home, in the car with his sisters and his parents.

He was really into it by the time the chorus began so he didn’t realize when he started singing. Ramune was chill and good, he was enjoying the reading, so his voice just slipped from his lips.

“I never did believe in the ways of magic,” he sang without noticing.

“Suguru!” his mother’s hushed him from the cockpit.

“Sorry!” he said, too loud, too quickly as his face and ears burned. He turned around slightly and apologized again to the passengers. Ms. Gojo was snoring like a hibernating bear, so he doubted she had heard him.

However, the Gojo kid had definitely heard him.

Suguru sank into the seat. His Ramune seemed to have lost all its nippiness. Maybe his hot skin had turned it into this bubbleless warm juice he no longer intended to drink. He left the bottle in a cup holder, and huffed, frustrated with himself.

Then, the miracle.

A quiet, sweet singing reached him from behind as the next verse of the song continued playing.

“Don’t, don’t break the spell.”

Suguru’s eyes went wide. The Gojo kid was singing? Wait, not only did he know Fleetwood Mac but also the actual lyrics? Yabai. He sang well Suguru even had to admit, and his angelic, spot-on voice broke through the roaring of the engines as they pierced the clouds.

Still, Suguru was the one who had started singing in the first place so he couldn’t back up now, could he? Less in front of this posh, cool kid who wanted to show off.

 Suguru rejoined him in the chorus.

“You, you make loving fun,” they both sang in unison and Suguru smiled a grin so big it made his cheeks hurt. A part of himself wished they never stopped hurting in that way.

They kept singing together for the entirety of the track. Somewhere in the background, his mother and Wada giggled in the cockpit, paired with Ms. Gojo’s snores. Still, over everything else, he heard Gojo-san’s voice guiding him through the whole song.

When it was over, a quiet clapping came from the cockpit.

“Nice duet!” said Wada.

“Thank you!” Gojo-san replied, “I am a terrific singer.”

“Pretty smooth, Stevie Nicks,” Suguru added.

“You aren’t that bad either.”

He couldn’t help himself now, so he unbuckled and turned around. He felt the other kid do the same on the other side.

Suguru didn’t know what to expect at this point. Someone like Ms. Gojo probably. He sure wasn’t expecting Gojo-san to have sky eyes. That was the only way he could describe them because they were so fiercely blue, so intense they could swallow you whole. Long, curled and white eyelashes framed them. The fact that his hair resembled a snowy, puffy cloud just added to the overall effect. He had a button nose so perfect it made you want to press your finger against it.

Gojo-san smiled. They were so close to each other he could probably scent the Ramune in his breath, the same way Suguru could perceive the faint, sweet smell of chocolate from him. The white-haired boy grabbed his own bottle of Ramune and raised it towards him.

“Gojo Satoru, nice to meet you.”

Suguru picked up his own bottle and clinked it against Gojo’s. He grinned back.

“Kanpai. Geto Suguru, nice to meet you too, Gojo-san.”

He waved his hand.

“Call me Satoru. Can I call you Suguru?”

Suguru nodded and shrugged. He didn’t mind; it felt strangely easy. The boy moved even closer and Suguru flinched, surprised by the sudden advance and lack of respect for personal space.

“So,” Gojo started saying as he peeked over his shoulders and pouted, “I want to see that plane model of yours again, Suguru.”

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Haneda airport. Early July 2018.

Satoru stood up immediately after the seatbelt sign turned off. He stretched out his long limbs. He could never quite squeeze his lanky body; not even in these spacious first-class seats. He yawned, grabbed his black leather duffel bag from the upper compartment, and adjusted his aviator sunglasses before sliding his phone out of his pocket. He turned flight mode off.

His fingers started typing as he waited for the long line of passengers to move along the aisle.

[17:38] Me: Yuuuuta, my boy

[17:38] Me: just arrived

He hesitated then, and scrolled a bit through the contacts. He closed Line, opened it again. He finally found the contact window he was looking for.

[17:38] Me: Hey, everyone! Just landed.

He looked at the screen for several seconds, but there was no blink, no message. Nothing. Satoru lifted his gaze and moved along the aisle. He was striding through the jet bridge when his phone buzzed again.

[17:40] Okkotsu Y: Welcome home, Gojo-san!!!

[17:40] Okkotsu Y: I’m already here 😊

[17:41] Okkotsu Y: Was the flight okay?

Satoru smiled at his cousin’s Line messages while he climbed onto the escalator on his way to Immigration and Customs. God, his legs were sore and stiff after the long-haul flight.

[17:45] Me: Lovely. Hope you are hungry.

[17:45] Me: What kind of question is that? I designed that plane, ofc it was a breeze.

[17:46] Okkotsu Y: 😂😂😂

An officer pointed his way into the next room and Satoru lined up behind several people. He whistled; there was quite a crowd. He would probably be there for a while. He adjusted his glasses and unbuttoned the neck of his shirt a bit more. He had forgotten how hot and humid Tokyo was in summer. He could not recall the last time he had been there for summer.

Okinawa, maybe? Ages ago. A past life.

After twenty minutes or so, Satoru was asked to move forward and take his turn at the passport control booth. He leaned on the counter and grinned at the immigration officer, a serious-looking middle-aged man with scarce grey hair covering his bald head.

“Good afternoon, sir. What’s the purpose of your visit?”

“Can’t a simple man visit his home country now and then?”

The officer blinked and stared at him. He repeated the question and Satoru let out a breathy laugh.

“Visiting my family. I live and work in London.”

“Occupation?”

“Aeronautical engineer. I work for Airbus. I design planes, like those. Pretty, huh?” he joked, pointing at the glass panel on their right. The man didn’t flinch. Satoru started to wonder whether it was possible the officers had finally been replaced by robots.

“Oh, and I’m also a professor. I teach Avionics at the Imperial College London.”

The immigration officer raised an eyebrow as he scanned his passport. Then, he gave him that look, the when-the-heck-do-you-sleep look.

“Thank you, sir. That’s okay. How long are you staying?”

“A month or so. I’m coming back to England after the summer break, on August the…uhm…let me check,” he said, rummaging for his phone again, “August 19.”

“Where are you staying?”

“My place. I have an apartment in Roppongi.”

After Satoru gave him the address, the office vowed, wished him a pleasant stay and let him go. Satoru put his passport away and strolled to Customs. He leaned against a column while he waited for his suitcase next to the baggage claim carousel.

Reading the kanji and the kana in the signs felt like a warm blanket on his shoulders. Despite using English perfectly every day at work, Satoru had a part of himself that still missed reading and speaking Japanese on a daily basis. The same part was nostalgic about drinking Kirin and chatting with his friends in an izakaya. The very same part who yearned for Okinawa’s sun on his pale skin in August and ached for the soft kiss of Sapporo snow on his cheeks while sliding down mountain slopes. Fish and chips would never become strawberry daifuku, in the same way the Shard would never turn into Tokyo Tower.

He sighed; his hand stroked the back of his stiff neck after flying for almost fourteen hours non-stop. You can keep a bird in a cage, but it will always belong to the skies.

His phone’s screen lit up again.

[18:28] Dr. Ieri: Have you arrived already, Howard Hughes?

[18:28] Me: SHOOOOKOOOO

[18:28] Me: Hiiii!!!!

[18:28] Me: Yes, still at the airport waiting for my luggage

[18:29] Me: Did you miss me???

[18:29] Me: I know you did 😉

[18:29] Me: You remembered my arrival time 😭😭😭 I luv u sho

[18:29] Dr. Ieri: ofc I did you idiot

[18:29] Me: I’m having dinner with Yuta.

[18:29] Dr. Ieri: Sushi in Roppongi. Come with us!!!

[18:30] Dr. Ieri: I’m on-call at the hospital atm

[18:30] Dr. Ieri: but we can meet on Saturday for coffee how about that?

[18:30] Me: Yaaaay! I missed you

[18:30] Dr. Ieri: Maybe if you didn’t visit once in a blue moon you would miss me less

[18:31] Me: What can I say? I’m a celebrity. Busy man. Your friend is faaaaamous.

[18:31] Dr. Ieri: Right.

[18:31] Dr. Ieri: Let me know when you get to your place.

Satoru reacted to the last message with a heart. He then picked up his suitcase and headed outside. When the sliding doors opened, he caught a glimpse of Yuta standing on the first row with a hand-written welcome home sign that read ‘Welcome to Japan!’ in red, bright letters. He waved at him with a big grin on his face and those huge, blue, puppy-like eyes of his. God, he was like so tall. When did his baby cousin grow so much?

Well, I guess that’s the kind of thing you miss when you live on another continent he thought.

He had missed a lot of things. Too many, to be honest.

Satoru wrapped his cousin around his arms and squeezed him. He ruffled his dark hair and the boy giggled.

“Welcome home.”

“Chap, you are tall. What did they feed you in that exchange program?” Satoru asked, as he stepped back to take a good look at him. His hair was different, parted to the side now. The dark jeans he was wearing were a good match for his navy-blue shirt. “You are looking smart, I’m telling you.”

“Thanks, I still can’t believe you are actually here, Gojo-san.”

“Stop calling me that, I’ve known you since you were born.”

“That’s exactly why I’ll keep calling you Gojo.” Yuta leaned forward and tried to grab Satoru’s suitcase, but he didn’t let him. Instead, Satoru gave him a smirk and pulled backwards. They waved their way out of the crowd gathered in front of the Arrivals Hall. Yuta halted when Satoru detoured in front of a café.

“Ijichi is waiting for us in the parking lot,” he explained as his older cousin parked his suitcase next to the line of people waiting to get a coffee.

“This body needs sugar, or else I’ll drop dead right here. Sugar is the fuel of my sanity. What are you having?”

“I-I’m good.”

“Yuta, my boy, can I be 100% honest with you?” Satoru told him as he put his arms round his shoulders. “Those eyebags tell me you are in great need of caffeine.”

His cousin blushed and chuckled shyly. Satoru took out his wallet from a jacket pocket.

 “Does it look that bad? I mean, I’ve been studying hard for exams so…”

“And that’s exactly why you deserve a reward”. The shop assistant smiled at Satoru, and he greeted her with a small vow. Speaking to strangers in Japanese, in a public spot such as this coffee shop in Haneda felt like wearing your school uniform again. “I’m having a matcha Frappuccino. Extra cream and extra syrup, extra everything, please, and for the young man…”

Satoru turned around and looked at the boy over his dark glasses.

“Flat white for me, please,” said Yuta, finally giving in, “Thanks, Satoru.”

“Anytime,” he replied with a smile.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Satoru had lost count of how many sushi pieces he had wolfed down that night. That had been even before dessert. Yuta looked concerned and said he didn’t need to try out everything in one single night. Satoru was stuffed, so full he leaned back and let his head fall softly, while he stretched his legs. The soft jazz music and the dim lights of the fancy restaurant they had chosen were lulling him into sleep. His knees still hurt and creaked from being imprisoned under the plane’s seat. He huffed, feeling the weariness of the long-haul flight lurking over his shoulders.

“God, how I missed Japanese food,” he admitted, still enjoying the chewy and sweet aftertaste of the mochi he had ordered for dessert.

“You do have sushi in London. We had it, some of the times I went to visit you. I remember,” Yuta replied, neatly stretching the elegant tatami placemat in front of his seat.

“We do but it isn’t as good as this one. Real one.” Satoru clapped his hands and moved his chair closer to the table. “So, let’s talk business. That’s why I am here, after all.”

“You must be tired. Don’t you want to go home and rest? We can talk about this tomorrow or the next time.”

Satoru played with the tiny mint chocolates they had been given as after dinner presents.

“I’m spectacular, kid. Never been better. Jetlag won’t let me sleep anyway.”

Yuta ran a hand through his hair, as his eyes diverted from the table, as if searching for the words he needed somewhere across the room.

“I know I said thank you already, but I want to say thanks again, Go…I mean, Satoru. You are super busy, so I really appreciate that you took a flight all the way here…”

“No probs. Right, so you want to get into aviation. Do you know what you are getting into, Yuta?”

He smiled, that shy smile of his again.

“I guess so. Everyone at home blames you.”

“They are probably right,” he chuckled.

“The problem is…I don’t know exactly what I want to do. I mean, I like planes, everything you tell me about your work is fantastic, and it sounds exciting and everything.”

“But?” asked Satoru, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure about leaving Japan. I mean, the exchange in South Africa was fun but moving out of the country is a big deal. Also, I love the idea of flying but…it’s kind of dangerous and my parents…”

“Are you considering becoming a pilot then?”

“Maybe. That’s thing, you know. I’m very confused, and it’s really getting to me. That’s why I wrote to you in the first place.” Yuta sighed. He was still playing with the tatami, picking at his fingers now and then; restless.

“I understand,” Satoru said softly. His tone changed altogether. He leaned on his elbows. “This is something only you can figure out, boy. I can give you my perspective, but it’s still my two cents on the matter and not much else.” Satoru scratched his temples. “Just remember life is not a race. You don’t have to decide yet, you know? No matter how much they insist, don’t let them convince you. Take your sweet time and in the meantime, have fun. Enjoy life. You are only eighteen once. Meet up with your friends. Date someone. Go to a karaoke bar. Eat free sushi with your rich and handsome cousin.”  

Yuta laughed and nodded. His shoulders, however, remained squared and stiff. The corners of his smile were still too rigid.

“That being said, I could show you what I’m working on. We can even rent a plane and go flying, if you want to try something more hands-on?”

The boy’s eyes lit up for a second.

“C-Can we do that? Do you have a license?”

“Well, I used to. It must be expired; I haven’t been in a cockpit in ages but…I can ask around. I can renew it and teach you a couple of tricks.”

“Won’t that take a lot of time? I mean, these are your holidays…”

“Don’t worry. We have plenty of time. I’ll look into it.”

They ended the dinner with the promise of meeting again and discussing the flight issue. Satoru sure had a couple of contacts. Someone from Airbus could certainly recommend the boy an instructor. Besides, renovating his license couldn’t be such an issue, especially because he had been an awesome pilot back then, when he still intended to go professional. It would be a piece of cake.

Also, he could always call Keiko.

As Ijichi drove them to Yuta’s parents house, Satoru wondered if Keiko would still have the same number. Would she pick up if he called? Probably yes. All in all, she had no issues with him, and vice versa.  She was the first person who had taught him to fly. His family’s private pilot was one of the most talented aviators he knew. Calling her would have been the most sensible thing.

The chilly breeze from the car’s AC felt damp on Satoru’s sweaty skin. Suddenly the cabin seemed to shrink and trap him. He swallowed hard. There was also another obvious matter he would have to deal with if he finally decided to give Keiko a call.

Satoru knew he could also ask her about him. To be honest, a stupid, pathetic part of himself craved to do so. Yet, he acknowledged he shouldn’t. He wasn’t idiotic, he had self-respect. Plus, what was he supposed to ask? How’s your son? Is he still an ungrateful moron?

I mean, on the one hand, it would have been strange he didn’t ask about him. Would he ask about Satoru if he learned he was back in Japan? Satoru grimaced. Who cared, though? He wasn’t going to waste his precious time in his home country to meet that prick. He had better things to do. Like eating daifuku or buying Digimon merch. He pinched his nose bridge and huffed. Why was he mortifying himself so much? Why was he feeling embarrassed? Suguru had been the one who had ghosted him.

He crossed his arms and leaned back. Perhaps he was making a big deal out of nothing.

“Ijichi?” he asked, and his chauffeur looked at him through the rearview mirror. “What time do I have to be at the airport tomorrow? For the flight to Kyoto, I mean"

“Aren’t you taking the shinkansen, Mr. Gojo?"

“I would have but my father insisted on the jet."

You and mom won’t even answer my messages, but you want me to take a stupid flight to impress your business partners he thought, but he saved that for himself. Ijichi didn’t need to hear that.

“In that case, let me check the schedule and I’ll confirm with you asap. Is that okay, Mr. Gojo?"

Satoru thanked him, crossed his leg and cleared his throat.

“Do you know if Keiko still flies for my family, by any chance?"

“I think she retired, Mr. Gojo."

“I see."

Well, that made it simpler. Easy-peasy. He wouldn’t even have to worry about bringing up her stupid son then. Instead, he could just email her and request some instructor recommendations. Sure, he would do that — more indirect, straight to the point. Keiko was a kind person; she would help him. Turns out he had been worried for nothing. Satoru closed his eyes until they reached his Roppongi apartment’s garage.

Ijichi helped him take the luggage up to his floor and said goodbye to him. After taking a shower and getting changed into a more comfortable pair of joggers and a dark shirt, he walked barefoot to the dining room and sat in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window. Tokyo’s neon lights sparkled through the night sky, joined by the distant music and honking meters below, muffled by the wind and the height. Satoru yawned. He could see the yellow boxes here and there, millions of lives unfolding around him, all over. The world was still spinning. The wheel that had kept going while he had been away. It never stopped. Maybe it was this idea, the one that placed a wave of sadness on his shoulders.

He was knackered but he couldn’t sleep either. It was a sort of existential exhaustion that came with visiting his home country, apart from the very tangible, physical tiredness of the long-haul flight. He made eye contact with his phone’s screen. An unopened message notification.

[22:10] Mom: Welcome, son. Sorry, it was a busy day. See you tomorrow in Kyoto.

Satoru should have chuckled. If he had been with Yuta or with somebody else, he would have forced himself to laugh, but he was alone, so he just flipped the phone and left it facing downwards.

After a while, he got up, grabbed his iPad and started checking emails from his students. If he couldn’t sleep, at least he could catch up with paperwork. Working always helped him ease his mind.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Going to Kyoto was neither a particularly exciting activity, nor something Satoru was looking forward to, for sure. It was the sort of obligation you had to comply with, like going to the dentist or renovating your driving license. Not a soul enjoyed doing that crap, but now and then, you had to. Partly that was the reason why Satoru had decided to go to Kyoto to visit the rest of the family and the flock of old hags they socialized with first. The sooner he crossed out that visit of his list of duties, the better. Then, he could dedicate all the time he wanted to hang around with Yuta and Shoko.

After swallowing the painkillers for the headache, he took a quick glance in the mirror. He did pay attention to his looks of course, but whenever he was meeting his parents, he would become self-conscious and second guess every choice, color and texture. Still, the dark slacks and the baby blue shirt he had chosen for the day seemed fine. He knew he was probably supposed to wear a tie and a jacket but screw that. It was going to be around 40°C today and he didn’t plan to sweat like a pig, especially if then he would have to sit in the dining room of the Gojo estate and nod, and smile, and sip wine, and pretend he ate, and agree with whatever was said because he couldn’t really bother. At all.

This time, he took nothing but his black duffel bag with him - he was lucky enough he would only have to stay there for a couple of days, and he would return by train anyways. He just had to put up with the show shortly.

He huffed before entering the elevator. That was probably one of the things he liked best about living in London. He could stay at a safe distance from his family. It was a bitter and yet relaxing thought at the same time.

Ijichi dropped him at Narita around eight. He had to be in Kyoto for lunch, and it was a short flight- he was going to have a nice nap. Plus, since they were in Japan, he could use the family jet.

After the brief security checks, Ijichi pulled up on the tarmac of the private terminal. Satoru frowned and peered through the window. The old Cessna Citation was well kept. Despite being around fifteen years old, the aircraft still looked smooth. His father had mentioned the idea of Satoru helping them choose a new jet for the family now that he was in Japan. Still, he was a bit reluctant. He was fond of that plane. He said goodbye to his chauffeur and jumped out of the car.

“Mr. Gojo, do you need help?"

“Nah, I’m good. It’s just a short walk. See you when I’m back."

A gust of unrestrained wind entangled the white strands of his hair and sent chills through his spine, so much so that Satoru readjusted his black flight jacket. He winced when the sun mauled his eyes, and he put on his aviator glasses before striding through the tarmac, hands sank in his pockets.

A security officer from the airport stopped him briefly to check his ID and give his duffel back a very superficial inspection. Satoru smiled coyly at him before heading towards the already lowered staircase.

Yuta was already standing next to the airstair, chatting with the pilot. His cousin waved at him when he saw him walking towards them. Thank God the boy was coming with him. He was probably the only decent person in the family and considering they were…

The pilot turned around to greet him, he smirked. Satoru recognized him and his composure shattered.

Oh no. Please, no. Anything but this.

Satoru had been on airfields dozens of times in his life, but he had never puked on an airstrip. He had never felt that sick, that affected. Today could very well be the first day to do so.

He kept walking, his limbs moving as independent beings from his mind, on autopilot. He had to do this; he had to pretend this wasn’t happening. Keep up with the show, c’mon, you can do it, Satoru, you can do it. Smile. Nod. Wave at Yuta. C’mon.

Until then, he had hoped he had been wrong, prayed that he was hallucinating due to the jetlag. Yuta made eye contact with him and smiled widely, innocently.

“Good morning, Satoru! Our pilot here says he knows you?" he said then.

Those words killed any drop of hope left.

Dark slacks fell gently over his legs. A white short-sleeved shirt stretched over his broad chest, with glistening epaulets decorating his shoulders. His long, dark hair was neatly tied up in a bun. Blue gauges. Captain’s hat framing his sharp features, dark tie descending from his collar to his stomach. An elegant Seiko watch adorned his right wrist. Unmistakable. It was him.

Please, let the tarmac crack open and swallow him whole before Suguru reached him.

“Yo, Satoru. Long time, no see," said Suguru, with that low and teasing voice of his. A voice Satoru had not listened to in years.

Satoru’s ears were ringing. Okay, keep your shit together. You’ve got this. You are fucking Satoru Gojo, you’ve got this. He breathed in, readjusted his glasses and beamed.

“Well, well, look who’s back from the dead."

Chapter Text

Sato Aero Club. Somewhere in Chiba prefecture. Early July 2018.

Suguru knew his morning was going to be another shitty one when he saw Yuki approaching the car in haste. He breathed in deeply before he grabbed his cup of coffee and opened the car door.

Why couldn’t he get one quiet morning now and then? One morning when he could sip his coffee quietly in the office.

Yuki was already wearing her uniform, and her blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail but the fact she wasn’t taking off on time was already a sign of trouble.

“Morning. Still here? You are supposed to be in Narita at…"

“I know, I know, but we’ve got a problem."

Unconsciously, Suguru sped up the pace as they walked towards the large box hangar. Wind was rebellious that morning and it kept tangling his hair. He was already regretting wearing it in a half-updo instead of just tying it up in a bun, which just added to his overall bad mood. Yuki kept babbling while she strode by his side.

“The GPS display is freezing again. I can’t leave like that. Inumaki is looking into it."

Suguru cursed as he crossed the huge entrance of the hangar and shadows swallowed up the bright morning sun. Their footsteps echoed, and the soundwaves reverberated against the metallic ceiling and the concrete floor, and against the three Cessnas Skyhawks they kept. The familiar smell of gasoline and grease intensified as they entered the hangar and headed towards Yuki’s plane. Inumaki was seating in the cockpit, inspecting the display. Suguru didn’t want to startle his young technician, so he pulled the sleeve of his blue overall gently, as he usually did when he wanted to get his attention. The silver-haired boy waved at him.

“Morning, Toge. You good?” Suguru asked him, looking straight at him so he could read his lips, and Inumaki gave him a thumbs up. “Please, tell me you fixed it.”

“[It’s rebooting, but it will take some time.]” his technician signed.

“[Do you think that will do the trick?]” Suguru flickered his fingers as he said the words out loud as well.

The boy nodded and then kept gesticulating with his hands to describe the technical issue. Yuki climbed onto the wing and leaned in.

“[I get the reset takes time but I’m going to be so late.]” she added, impatiently.

The boy pointed at the display, shrugged and then stared at both pilots.

“We’ll replace it soon, so we can stop this from happening again. I’m so sorry we have to put up with this, Yuki," Suguru apologized, and the blonde woman laughed and winked at him.

“All good, Captain. Occupational hazard."

A half smile flickered over Suguru’s face. Not that he enjoyed dealing with these issues, but he preferred doing so with Yuki. Not only was she one of the best friends he had made in flight school years ago, but she was also professional and resourceful. He knew he could count on her to sort out troubles, he really valued her as a crew member. It was something solid, something relatively comfortable among all the turbulences of his life.

“Did you call the passengers to let them know we are late?" Suguru asked.

“Suda-san called them. I mean, I think she called Mercury."

“Good."

Somebody cleared his throat and the three of them turned around.

“Sorry, this is not a good moment to interrupt, is it?" Miguel’s voice came, out of the blue.

The tall flight instructor’s figure was looking at the three of them, arms crossed over his chest, glasses on, white beret hovering over olive skin. He tilted his head.

“Can I have the keys to the office? My landing light beam is burned out. I would have replaced it myself, but the office was locked."

Suguru fetched the keys from his jeans’ pocket and tossed them at him. Miguel snatched them in mid-flight.

“Why didn’t you ask Monkey to do it? She’s also got spare keys to the office."

Suddenly, all of them went suspiciously quiet. Yuki’s eyes dropped and Miguel adjusted his glasses, pretending to listen to the birds outside. Suguru clenched his jaw involuntarily. He inhaled deeply and smirked.

"She’s late again, isn’t she?"

He reached for his phone, dialed her number and used his shoulder to press the device against his ear while he slid out of the plane. He snapped the keys from Miguel’s hands again and started walking towards the office at the back of the hangar. He was surprised by the chirping of the ringtone echoing through the hangar.

A girl in a blue overall swung the office door open, lightbulb in one hand while she adjusted her glasses with the other one.

"Monkey," Suguru hissed, "it’s 9:53. You are late. Again."

"I’m here already!" she yelled back, ignoring the phone ringing inside her chest pocket, " and don’t call me that, Geto. You know I don’t like it."

Suguru glared at her, and because Monkey was Monkey, she glared back at him. She passed by his side and headed towards Miguel’s aircraft. Her dismissal only fueled his anger, and he trailed after her. She positioned herself in front of the propeller and started inspecting the burnt-out beam under the plane’s nose. Suguru stood by her side and held the lightbulb box, so she was able to maneuver better. He was still piercing her with his gaze.

"What have I told you about being late?"

His mechanic still didn’t look at him. She was busy putting up her green hair in a ponytail and adjusting her bangs to be able to work better.

Suguru swept his hand across his face, struggling to keep his limited patience. They had discussed this a million times prior. He knew the kid had a rough time at home, his parents were horrible to her and looked down on her career as an aircraft mechanic. They did every imaginable thing to sabotage her attempts to become one and Suguru didn’t want to be one more roadblock on her way. Rational Suguru knew this but still when she put up these scenes, when she acted so bratty, she just got on his nerves. Those attitudes hit too close to home for him to ignore.

"I’m talking to you, Maki."

"I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again," she apologized as she fetched a screwdriver from her tool belt. Her eyes still avoided his.

"You say that but it’s the fourth time this month. I need you to be responsible. "

Only then, she dropped the tool and looked at him straight in the eye.

"Look, my stupid sister took the car without telling me because she thinks she lives alone, and then I had to catch the train and walk here. I wasn’t late because I overslept or because I was having fun, okay? I had to walk for forty fucking minutes, Geto."

"I know you have issues, but you’re the mechanic, you are supposed to be here before take-off. You can’t just arrive whenever you want. Next time Mai takes the car, call me and I will give you a ride. And watch your language. I’m still your boss, you know?"

She didn’t say thank you or I’m sorry, or yes, Geto, I will call you. She just kept unscrewing whatever she was unscrewing, and pretended he was a ghost. He didn’t want to keep arguing with an eighteen-year-old as if he weren’t a decade older, so he let out a long breath once more, and made his way into the office.

Manami was already typing on her PC when he entered, the repetitive clicking of fingers striking keys matched the ticking of the silver clock on the wall. His secretary greeted him as he got rid of his black corduroy jacket and hung it up next to her dark purple coat. He was tempted to state there was nothing good about the current morning so far but instead, he forced out a washed-out smile. She then stood up from her heavy wooden reception desk and came around it with a significant stash of papers in her hand.

"Captain, I have already sent you the Mercury invoices, and the flight instruction lesson’s schedule for this week too. What else? Mr. Nanami is coming for the safety & compliance inspection on Friday. Also," she explained, and her hands fiddled among the pile of papers, "the technician is coming to repair the vending machine on Thursday. He actually came yesterday to inspect it. "

"Yes, I remember you told me he was coming."

"I had to insist on him coming before the inspection.”

"Thanks, Manami, I really appreciate it."

"Anyway, he says the refrigeration compressor needs to be replaced. He has already sent us the bill for his service," she added and cleared her throat.

Because Suguru sensed there was something else unsaid, as his secretary tended to do when she feared giving him bad news, he reached for his phone again and checked the email on spot. His eyes widened, taken aback by the number of zeros. Right, that explained Manami’s silence.

Only then he realized she was holding out her hand to him, a paper folded in three. He apologized and seized it; his fingers toyed with it as his still-surprised brain tried to decoy the characters and make some sense out of it.

"Excuse me, what’s this? "

"The electricity bill for this month, sir."

"I see. I’ll check it now. Thanks. Anything else?"

"That’s all."

"Oh, and have you fed Akari, yet?"

"Yes, Captain, I did. I have no idea where she is, but she’s fed already.”

He withdrew into his office, because he needed it. Suguru could sense in his guts when solitude became a necessity. His attention span shortened; he got restless. He became suddenly moody, snapping even at a breeze. He craved seclusion like birds crave it for prayer. He needed his quiet moments the way engines need fuel to work, the way wings need flaps to take off and land. He couldn’t function properly otherwise.

In the holy silence of his office, Akari was snoozing on top of his laptop, just in the middle of his desk. Her white and fluffy tail oscillating from one side to the other. Suguru grabbed her softly and placed her on the guest chair, where he kept a pillow just for her. He scratched her between her ears.

"Hey kitty girl, did you miss me? You didn’t, did you, you soulless thing?”

He sank on his office chair, he tossed Manami’s bill to the side and turned on his PC. He put on some rock and started reviewing his delivery schedule for the week. It reminded him of the music Keiko played in the cockpit when he was still her ‘lieutenant’. When he wasn’t afraid to fly.

Finally, some peace but never silence. Never ever absolute silence: he needed the background noise. Stillness was a dangerous territory, the ledge of a building.

Silence was like stalling.

In aviation, when you stall, you push your aircraft to the limits. The angle of attack – the angle between the wind and the incoming airflow – becomes too steep so wings lose their aerodynamics. In other words, if a plane noses up too quickly, it may freeze mid-air, incapable of doing what’s supposed to do. Wings lose lift and the aircraft can no longer sustain itself airborne.

Stalling has telltale signs a pilot should recognize. You shouldn’t reach stalls, in theory. Pilots drill them though, because a pilot must be prepared for any kind of situation and, most importantly, to recover the aircraft from such situation. Suguru remembered these symptoms the same way he knew his palm lines. He could identify them like he identified when he craved solitude.

Recovery from chaos involves retreating to your office, petting your cat, playing 80s American rock. Stall recovery involves lowering your nose, adding power to the engine to regain speed and levelling wings to resume normal flights.

The first one was simple. He had an office to hide, to begin with. He had Akari to pet. He had a playlist with hits ready for his moody mornings. For the second one…well, he still had a plane.

The problem was Suguru, actually. He was cursed in a way nobody else seemed to perceive. The moment his hands brushed the yoke; the wings of his plane would turn into lead. He was as certain of that fact as he was certain the sky was blue. What a terrible curse for a pilot to carry. Somebody should have warned him how dangerous it was, how naive he was to believe he could flutter his useless wings in the first place without bringing harm to those he cherished the most.

With wings like those, how could he recover? How could he not stall? Any pilot with two cents of common sense knows an aircraft that stalls is a plane that soon starts spiraling.

A plane with broken wings cannot recover. It cannot fly; it shouldn’t fly. It’s a dangerous thing, a mortal yokai that should not exist.

Because of his dread of stalling, Suguru was somehow grateful for the chaos in the aero club. Chaos kept his mind busy, running on practical matters as its fuel. It allowed no room for anything else. Nothing nasty could creep in and weigh down his wings. The buzz of engines, the beeping of a display restarting, the steady thrum of the radar, the humming of propellers when he slid into a cockpit. The voices of Yuki and Miguel chatting next to the vending machine, even Monkey’s complaints to Inumaki, as she always did. Those sounds were blessings that filled Suguru’s cracks. It was the very same reason why he always, always played music in the background when he was in his office, or in his room upstairs. If his ears and cracks were stuffed with music, he could pretend, he could survive.

It was yet another reason he could no longer fly. Not like before. The sky was a silent place. An infinite void to be alone with. Suguru could not risk placing himself in such an environment.

He would stall. He was certain he would.

He still flew now and then, deliveries only. He didn’t want the engine of his Cessna to get spoiled, less due to lack of use, and he had bills to pay, ends to meet if he intended the Sato Aero Club to keep running. Yuki and Miguel did most of the flying but still. They could not spare a pilot, not in their current position. Not when he needed to pay one hundred thousand yen to fix their vending machine.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

That snapped him out of the stall his mind had gone into. He stirred up on the desk, the schedule untouched and with a dry voice he told whoever was outside to come in. Yuki opened the door ajar and popped in.

 "You forgot your coffee.”

He thanked her as he gripped the cardboard cup from her hands. Suguru suppressed a laugh as he removed the lid, the coffee was cold. He pondered how disgusting reheated coffee was and whether he was willing to drink it or not. Yuki tilted her head.

"Are you alright, Captain? You seem like…”

"Like what?”

"Like your radar is malfunctioning or something. Do I call Inumaki to give you a reset too?” she joked and Suguru chuckled.

"Just a messy morning. Are you ready to take-off?”

"Almost. Any interesting news?”

He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

"Not really, unless you’ve got a hundred thousand spare yen to fix the vending machine.”

"What the…? Nah, you are not serious.”

"Uh-huh.”

"What? Tell that technician guy we fix planes for less. Planes. It’s a freaking vending machine.”

Suguru shrugged.

"I hope money starts growing in trees or I’m going to kill someone.”

"Maybe if you agreed taking passenger flights...”

Suguru didn’t say a thing. He didn’t need to; he just glared at her and Yuki scoffed as she put her hands up in the air. He heard a buzzing on his desk, probably his phone. He frowned. His mom had a session this morning, didn’t she? He felt unease grow in his stomach.

"Alright, alright, Captain, as you say. Anyway, see you when I’m back tomorrow. Have a nice Tuesday.”

"You too, Yuki. Take care. Fly safe.”

Yuki’s tall silhouette disappeared behind the door, which clicked closed. Only then did Suguru gave a quick look at his phone’s screen.

[10:11] Mom: Morning! Gotta a flight for you.

[10:11] Me: Morning aren’t you supposed to be at hospital?

[10:11] Mom: I am, but you know your mother.

[10:11] Mom: I’m always working

[10:11] Mom has sent an attached document.

[10:11] Me: Thanks. I’ll pass it on to the guys.

[10:11] Mom: You may want to take this one.

[10:11] Mom: I think you didn’t read the whole thing.

Suguru opened the pdf document, frowned, and clicked his tongue. Why did his mom keep insisting on him taking passengers when he had made it so clear he would only take cargo flights?

[10:15] Me: I did.

[10:15] Mom: Read again Sugu. Read the passengers’ list

[10:15] Me: What about it?

[10:16] Mom: It’s Satoru.

Suguru read the kanji. He read it again to check he had read it right before swallowing hard. He felt like hurling the phone through the window, like it was a piece of burning iron and not his own smartphone. His fingers started typing carefully.

[10:17] Me: Satoru is in England.

[10:17] Mom: He is visiting, and he needs a pilot to fly him to Kyoto next Monday.

[10:17] Mom: He will be happy to see you.

[10:17] Mom: Plus, it’s good money. Short flight. Your call.

Suguru dropped the phone on the desk, he resisted the urge to fling it because he was well aware he couldn’t afford a new one if he happened to destroy this one. He pressed his palms against his eyes. He didn’t want to go in there, he didn’t want to explain to his mom why meeting Satoru was probably not a good idea, and why very much likely he didn’t want to see him.

Honestly speaking, he wouldn’t have wanted to meet him either if he were in Satoru’s shoes.

It was at this point his phone started blinking and ringing. He looked at the ceiling and cursed when he should have said a prayer. He had always been more of the curses-over-prayers type.

He raised an eyebrow when he made eye contact with the buzzing screen and saw the name on the incoming call. It wasn’t his mom.

"Hey Sho, what’s up?”

"Hey there. All good?” his friend asked him. Suguru could hear muffled chaos of voices behind her.

"Sort of. You are at the hospital?”

"I am indeed. I met your mom earlier.”

"How was she doing after the session?”

"Amazing. Keiko’s a warrior. She’s my queen.”

He chuckled.

"In fact, I was calling you to tell you I can drive her home after my shift is over, in like twenty minutes, ‘cause I’m finishing soon. She said she could grab a coffee and wait for me instead, so you don’t have to drive all the way here and she doesn't have to take a taxi or anything either. ”

Suguru smiled silently, playing with the edges of a crumpled invoice. Shoko was always such a good friend.

"Really? Thank you, Shoko. That would be very helpful actually. The Aero Club was a hot mess this morning.”

"I can imagine. So…Guess who I am meeting next weekend.”

Suguru huffed. He didn’t want to guess. If he kept guessing this morning, he wouldn’t have time to listen to his music, to go over his schedule, to pet Akari, to ask Manami to get him another coffee. If he didn’t do any of these things, he would stall. If he stalled, he would start spiraling, losing altitude, approaching the ground at great speed.

"Who?” he said, nevertheless, because he needed to attempt recovery at least. Anything was better than stalling. He knew the answer though.

"A mutual friend of ours.”

"I wouldn’t be so sure of that mutual, you know.”

"Oh, so you do know about Satoru coming over, don’t you?”

"Mom just told me. He’s looking for a pilot.”

"Interesting,” Shoko added, playfully. “Do you know any?”

He let out a dry laugh.

"Very funny. Yeah, I may send someone from my crew.”

"Right. I’m sure he will appreciate it,” she said, a playful hint in her voice.

They remained there. Silent. Silence, he reminded himself one more time that morning, was a dangerous monster. It bred other things, so he cleared his throat. He realized Shoko was expecting some sort of reply for him, but he detoured. It was the safest procedure to do when the course was not as steady as usual. He thanked her one more time for the favor and hung up.

At some point during the call, Akari had climbed on his lap. Suguru put the phone away, he caressed her soft white fur and his cat started purring. His gaze flickered between his regular schedule and the flight plan his mother had sent him.

She was right, the Gojos always paid well and on time. A flight to Kyoto was short. To put it simply, it was easy money. Money that could go straight into fixing the vending machine among other things, especially if he took the flight and avoided paying one of his pilots.

He might think about it, only because he needed the money, he told himself.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Okinawa. Onna Village. Summer 2003.

That windy morning, Satoru had gone to Manza Beach with a clear mission. For the sake of that very mission, he was disguised in a black baseball cap and tainted round glasses. His odd white hair was too recognizable. Ordering the blue slushie he was slurping through a straw was another puzzle piece to his delicate plan. He needed to go incognito, like a spy. For the bystanders, he was just there, one more tourist lying back on the metallic beach chair while drinking something under the shade of a white resort parasol, his long pale legs crossed and the soles of his feet stretching over warm, coarse sand.

That was how people went undercover in movies, wasn’t it? It had to work. He was, however, having a hard time keeping the cap in place because of the salty breeze. Other than that, it was a fantastic morning. Dozens of people were swarming at the sun-drenched beach. A couple of teenage girls, probably older than him, walked past him, chatting and laughing. A few meters to his right, a group of friends were playing volleyball; Satoru could hear the thuds every time one of them hit the ball and the subsequent screaming in excitement —or panic, depending on the team.

He sucked at the cloying slushie until ice froze his brains and leaned forward; his elbows resting on his knees. He wondered whether he should put on the hoodie of his orange sweatshirt or if that would have been too much. After some hesitation, he decided it was more natural to leave it like that. He didn’t want to give himself away.

Across the distance, the sky melted into a deep blue sea. The rocky silhouettes of the bay resembled a sleeping giant, plagued by trees and bushes and palm trees that had crept up on its back. To the right stood the contour of the fancy ANA resort which, to Satoru’s views, resembled curiously a cruise. It had this irregular tiered structure which looked a lot like a pyramid, but not quite. Rows of perfect rectangular windows dominated the white façade. A fancy logo topped the upper part. The beach club day-pass he had paid for that morning belonged in fact to that very same hotel.

Still, Satoru was not interested in the hotel. He was neither interested in the piers nor the rocking yachts tethered to them, nor the swaying palm trees that rimmed the bay. His attention was devoted solely to the two people he had carefully followed, after sneaking from his family’s holiday villa up Manza Beach today.

He eyed his phone, resting on the beach table. Eight missing calls. Bah, screw them.

Suguru was standing in the center of the beach; the waves licking his feet as he examined the balsa model in his hands. He was talking to his mother, who was standing in front of him, arms akimbo. She looked different, younger today; Satoru supposed it was lack of uniform. Her hair was loose, and she was wearing a cotton pink shirt over her denim Bermuda shorts. She kept making gestures with her hands and giving her son instructions. They were testing and trying the model, which nine out of ten times ended up sunken in the sand.

Tsk. Satoru could fly it better than the Geto kid, he was certain.

Still, he was not stupid. The goal of this mission was to get as much information as possible on model flying. I mean, Satoru did read a lot about aviation, built models and flew them when he could. Flying them in the Shibuya penthouse was difficult; Satoru often tried to do it on the rooftop but that usually ended up with horrible consequences for the model and a bitter disappointment for him. Sometimes he convinced his parents and dragged the chauffeur to Ueno or some other park to have a better chance, but he didn’t have many of those. He needed more practical advice to hone his model flying skills and, who better to provide that than an actual pilot?

The Geto kid would help him, he would be his bridge. Satoru was determined; he would pester him until he got what he needed. He didn’t know how old he was, but he gathered they were roughly the same age. Suguru was significantly taller though. He even felt a pang of jealousy. With that tanned skin and height, he seemed so resistant, so fit, Satoru thought, as he saw the boy sprint clumsily on the sand, his eyes lifted and chasing the balsa plane on the wind. Satoru winced. He was built like a squid: longish, pale and slim.

"Did you see that? It’s the furthest so far!" Suguru yelled at his mother after turning around.

"That was beautiful, sweetie."

To Satoru’s panic, the woman pointed his way.

"If you launch it from there, where’s a bit higher…"

Crap. Suguru was coming towards him. OK, no problem. He crossed his legs, and lowered his cap, pretending to be half asleep. He lowered it just enough for it to hide his face but enough to take a glimpse of him walking in his direction. All in all, he was there doing field research and observation, wasn’t he? He needed to see what spot he chose, how he positioned himself to make the actual thing glide, how he would twist his wrist before launching.

He observed how Suguru licked his finger and sensed the wind. The same wind that was doing its best to tangle his dark hair and rustle his white shirt. He moved towards his mother.

"From like, here?"

"A bit higher, Sugu."

Satoru could now hear his footsteps on the sand. Suguru aligned with the wind and raised his right arm, searching for the right angle. He twisted his wrist and made the model nose upwards, so the wind would carry it forward. Satoru’s eyes were glued to his back.

"Wait for a gust."

"I know, mom."

Suguru waited, and so did he. Satoru was so into it, he lifted his head up and leaned forward, waiting for the wind, waiting for the sea to summon it.

When the wind finally came, Suguru darted forward and released the plane into the arms of the breeze, Satoru followed it, like birds follow each other in a flock, aiming for the same direction. He didn’t realize when or how or why he stood up, his eyes absorbed the beautiful balsa model rising — up, up — and then dropping suddenly, like the ending of a song. Cradled by the breeze, the tiny, whitish wooden skeleton descended into the waves and Geto-san dashed after it.

"Satoru?"

Satoru stood there for just half a second, considering if he could still pretend he hadn’t heard him. Maybe if he ignored him, he might…

"Hey, Stevie Nicks, I’m talking to you.”

Suguru was looking at him; it was too late to escape. At full speed, Satoru reached for the slushie and slurped until his mind was so frozen he could barely form a coherent thought.

"Oh, hi there," he babbled and smiled quickly. He sank his free hand into the pocket of his swimming trunks, so the boy would not see his hands shaking. He would look so ridiculous, and it was nothing really. He was just a bit nervous, that happened sometimes. He could handle it, he always handled it. "I didn’t notice it was you. I just come here, sometimes — to drink slushie and that."

Suguru grinned and his eyes crinkled with his smile. Under the baking sun, Satoru noticed his face was splashed with freckles. His temples beamed with sweat.

"Are you here on your own?"

Yes, I always go everywhere I want, whenever I want. He was definitely getting a lecture on why he shouldn’t sneak around without telling anyone where he was going. Frankly, he couldn’t care less. Tokyo was a different world, but Onna was a small village. He needed to take his chance. It was more difficult for his parents to track where the heck he was. Besides, he would be back for dinner. Not that he was going out very far, Satoru was more of an indoor creature. He preferred reading about planes, or watching Digimon, or playing with the Nintendo. He liked the beach too of course, but he usually went alone, and he got bored quickly. Satoru barely knew this kid, though. He was not going to tell him that. He crossed his arms, pretended to look at his watch — as if he had anything else to do— and nodded.

"I suppose. Why not?"

Suguru tilted his head and frowned at him.

"You don’t have to if you don’t want, you know," Suguru scoffed.

"Tsk, don’t be so dramatic. If I didn’t want to go, I just wouldn’t go, dude. Besides, " he said and crossed his arms, "I could teach a thing or two about proper model flying."

"Excuse me? You mean, I could teach you."

Satoru rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, sure, by the looks of your impeccable technique you were lucky that one last time. You have spent the morning crashing that plane into wet sand."

Suguru was about to bicker, but he stopped himself, jaw dropped on the verge of a word.

"Were you snooping at me?"

Crap. That had slipped. Satoru’s cheek burned, and his mind froze for a second, he opened his mouth to say something and then noticed Geto-san approaching them.

"Gojo-san, what a nice surprise," she said before vowing politely, "We were trying my son’s new model. The one he showed you yesterday on flight."

"Did it get too wet?" Suguru asked.

"Nothing too bad. Besides, balsa floats, so as long as a shark doesn’t gobble it up, we should be good."

The boys giggled. Her joke seemed to have washed away the tension the way waves clean the beach at night as the tide rises. Geto-san was adamant that Satoru join them. Satoru imagined she was only agreeing because it was her employer’s son and nothing else, but still he was glad. He was surprised when she walked him to a nearby parasol. Not a resort one, but just a plain one. A couple of striped towels sprayed on the sand, next to a plastic seven-eleven bag, a purple backpack, a beach tote made of straw and a tiny cooler.

Satoru sat and crossed his legs feeling like an alien. Beautiful, his plan was working wonderfully. He could now even talk to the pilot himself, he wouldn’t even have to deal with to Suguru, whose eyes were avoiding him. It hadn’t been that embarrassing to hear he had been watching him, right?

Before Satoru had time to blink, Geto-san had already opened the cooler, and grabbed a couple of cans for her and her son. She also offered Satoru one, but he waved his head; he still had the freezing glass of slushie in his hands. She fetched some sunscreen from her tote and started applying it.

"Would you like some, Gojo-san?"

"Mom," Suguru complained, as his cheeks blushed.

"What? He’s very…"

Satoru tilted his head; his eyebrow rose over his glasses.

"White."

"Mom!"

Satoru started laughing quietly, he couldn’t even explain why he was laughing, maybe he was nervous. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of Suguru, he was also amused, an expression on his face that could very well read as "Mom, seriously?”

"I’m sorry, Gojo-san. I sometimes speak without thinking. Apologies."

"That’s alright, I do that too. A lot, actually. My mom says I’m a chatterbox, but I think I just really like talking. It’s fun. I think because my parents only talk about gossip and money; it’s not my fault everyone is so incredibly boring in that house. Most people enjoy talking to each other. Plus, I told her in Sociology at school the teacher said people are social beings so it’s okay to talk."

Geto-san nodded, as she kept fumbling for something in the seven-eleven bag. Suguru was chuckling? Wait, was he laughing at him? Satoru felt his face heat up. Why was he laughing at him again? Weird kid, with his silly long, messy hair and his ridiculous bangs.  Who wore his hair like that, anyways? Who did he think he was? Atsushi Sakurai?

"Do you like school? What year are you in?" Geto-san asked, handing out an onigiri to her son and another to him. "Sorry, they are tuna. I don’t know if you like them. I don’t have any KitKat around this time."

Satoru bit his onigiri, and said it was okay. Chocolate was not the ideal beach food anyway.

"Junior high school, first year," he replied, recalling what the woman had asked him a moment ago, after swallowing a sticky bite of rice and mayo.

"Me too," added Suguru, kneeling on the sand by his side, munching his onigiri as well. He took these small, ceremonious bites, like a fish, while Satoru had already gulfed down half of his.

"Well, you have plenty of things in common then."

Satoru pretended he hadn’t seen the furious smile Suguru was giving his mother. Miserable-looking kid was there being forced to befriend him. Don’t worry, Suguru, you might sing well but I have no interest in being your friend either he thought. Geto-san went on.

"You are the same age, you both like Fleetwood Mac, you like planes."

"I love planes," said Satoru excited that the conversation was taking the direction he had originally intended, "It’s so cool you are a pilot, Geto-san. Is it very difficult? Flying, I mean."

"Thank you. Well, you need nerve and a lot of practice, but if you ask me, I love flying. I wouldn’t choose anything else. Suguru wants to become a pilot one day too."

For the first time, his son agreed and their eyes locked, like a secret promise, and they both smiled at each other. Satoru could not help but feel something tightened in his chest, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Maybe he was feeling a bit envious that Suguru’s mother had such a cool job. His parents just did the most boring stuff on Earth and its surroundings. Something about investment, finance. He wasn’t even sure. Boring crap.

"So, the model flew sort of okay," Satoru added, looking at the balsa plane, whose nose was dug in the sand, next to them, presumably to avoid it being carried away by the wind.

"We can try flying it after we finish eating if you want," Suguru suggested. He sipped his soda. "We could try and see who flies it further."

Satoru raised an eyebrow. Was that a challenge? Oh, this kid seriously thought he could beat him. He was more stupid than he looked. Satoru sneered. 

"Suguru," his mother said, a hint of threat in her words.

"What? Gojo-san says he wants to teach me a few things. Apparently, he is the best when it comes to flying gliders," he smiled, the most fake half-moon smile Satoru had seen in his entire existence. Satoru narrowed his eyes. Wise guy, uh? Who did he think he was to play smart on him? Stupid bangs. Satoru was going to launch that stupid model of his to Taiwan if needed, just to make him swallow his clever words.

"Let’s go then," he said as he jumped to his feet. He shook sand from his trunks, and Suguru followed him. The boy snatched the balsa plane and looked at him right into the eyes.

"Be careful, boys," Geto-san said tentatively, very well aware of what was going on between them.

Suguru launched the plane once, twice. It didn’t fly that far the first time, but the second time felt like a record. Even if Satoru hated to admit it, Suguru was a pretty good flyer. He positioned his wrist well; he sensed the wind brilliantly. Better for him. Beating Suguru was going to be even more exciting. After a couple more successful tries, Satoru sprinted after the model and snatched it with excitement.

"Not bad. Let’s try again," he said, handing the model to Suguru, but the kid smirked at him through lidded eyes.

"You try this time."

Satoru looked at the slim, light wooden model in his hands.

"Me?"

"Yes, c’mon. Show me your tricks."

"It’s your model."

"Oh, I thought you could fly any model, since you are such an expert."

Satoru glared at him. He seized the model from his hands and walked to the top highest part of the beach, near the point where he had seen Suguru make his first launch that morning. When he was standing in what he thought was the best position, he looked down on Suguru. He gave him some directions: a couple of steps to the left, close, no, wait, a bit further. Just a bit. That’s it. Thumbs up and Satoru was ready.

"I know how to do it, thank you," he said, even though he had followed each one of his instructions.

"Oh, I know. You are the best," the boy said. Agh. Satoru wanted to slap his condescending face.

He didn’t know why this felt like a big deal. Maybe because Suguru was looking at him and they had this silly competition going on? He snapped himself back to his senses. He was acting silly for nothing.

He breathed in deeply, savoring the salty air, and wrapped his long fingers around the paper-thin fuselage. He waited for the right gust as his eyes set on the blue horizon. He pretended he didn’t notice Suguru’s piercing gaze as he lifted his arm and got ready for launch.

It was almost as if the breeze grabbed the model from his hands. The nose climbed to a significant height, and Satoru held his breath. It dipped quickly, but another subtle draft picked it up again. It landed just before Suguru’s feet, as if it was supposed to land there. The boy’s dark eyes met Satoru’s.

"Well, you were not so horrible."

"Of course, I’m the best at this. I would have flown even further if I was flying one of my models, I’m telling you.’

Satoru came down the hill on a sprint and leaned down to pick up the model from the sand.

"Thank you, I…I actually had a lot of fun" he told him, and he meant it when he said. He handed the model back to him, but Suguru just waved his hands.

"You can keep it if you want, so you practice."

"What? It’s your model."

"Seriously, keep it."

Satoru opened his mouth, looking at the balsa plane. Why was Suguru giving him the plane? Why did he have to be kind to him after all those glares and smart words? It made him even more annoying. Agh. He wanted to punch him. He opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say. It was so upsetting, Satoru always had something ready on his sleeve, but Suguru was there, just smiling as if he had outsmarted him in a way that was beyond his understanding.

He huffed. How unnerving. Because he was not saying anything, Suguru shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile.

"I’ve got more balsa wood, no worries. I can make another one and we can organize a competition, maybe? "

Satoru smiled and squinted. He crossed his arms.

"That sounds cool actually, but we have to bet on something."

"Bet on something? Like what? A Pepsi?"

"Nah, something better, something bigger."

Suguru frowned, trying to figure out what he meant. Not even Satoru was sure what he meant. Wait, maybe he did have something in mind.

"I know", he said. "When you become a pilot, you have to teach me to fly. If you win, I will teach you some tricks to making better planes. What do you say? It’s a win-win. A friendly bet. "

Suguru chuckled, as if Satoru had suggested he handed him a slice of the moon.

"I still have a long way to go before I turn into a pilot."

"No worries. It’s a no-expiration-date bet." Satoru stretched out his hand. "So, do we have a deal?"

Suguru shook his hand. His skin looked tanned, dark, compared to his pale fingers, as they wrapped them together. Satoru held his gaze as he did so.

"Of course, we do."

Satoru gave him a cocky smile.

Prepare yourself, Suguru, because I’m totally winning this, he promised himself.

Chapter Text

Okinawa. Onna Village. Summer 2003.

An orange sunset was melting over Nabee Beach when Satoru arrived, sweating and breathless. He wished Suguru had not left, or else he was going to end up looking like a coward. He was so late, he needed to catch up. His light blue bike dropped on the sand, and his clammy fingers fumbled for the chain and the lock in his bag to put it in the right place before heading to the beach.

Suguru was standing in the middle, dark long hair in a bun, same as the other day. The frown on his face — he didn’t look exactly cheerful. He had the same balsa model from last week in one of his hands. It was starting to get cooler, so no wonder he was wearing a dark hoodie. Good, at least he had not left. Satoru sprinted towards him, and the model box inside his backpack rattled. Even though he had tied it carefully and that foam was covering it, he really, really hoped it didn’t get damaged. It would have spoiled his whole day, the whole week he had spent preparing for this encounter.

Satoru had spent every late evening working on his own glider. He didn’t have his best models in Okinawa, so he had resorted to restoring an old one. It was a tiny Supermarine Spitfire he hadn’t flown in years. The balsa frame had warped, probably due to sea humidity. Using a bowl of steamy hot water, he had made the balsa frame pliable and set it straight again. He had checked the balance, reinforced the joints with tape and extra glue. Considering that he didn’t have his main stash of supplies, the outcome was pretty decent. After that, he also repainted it, camouflage scheme, blue-and-red roundel, and everything. It was a bit sturdier than Suguru’s Piper, but Satoru was confident he’d win, still.

Suguru had also been up to something. Satoru had been observing him, coming and going, from the staff accommodation area across the garden where he and his mother were staying. The boy left early in the morning and headed to the beach, he supposed. If he had made any modifications to the Piper or not, Satoru did not know.

Satoru was panting when he got by his side.

"You’re late, Satoru," Suguru complained, glowering at him. "I thought you weren’t coming."

"Sorry, sorry. My aunt and uncle arrived from Kyoto, and we had this silly family lunch that went on forever and I couldn’t sneak… sorry. Really, sorry."

"I thought you had chickened out." Suguru smirked.

Satoru huffed and left out a breathy laugh as he brushed a few white strands from his forehead.

"Please, why would I chicken out of something I know I’m gonna beat you at."

"Whatever." He scratched the back of his head. "So? How many rounds do we go for?"

"Uhm, I don’t know. Three?"

"Three is alright."

"The one with the longest flight time wins, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Have you got a stopwatch or something?"

"Uh, I do. It’s in my bag. Wait." Satoru fetched the black sport stopwatch which dangled from one of the handles of his backpack.

"Cool, you check my time, I’ll check yours."

"You really like giving orders, don’t you?"

"Why? Is that an alien concept to you? " Ugh, he was giving him one of those stupid fake smiles again. "Let’s go. I’m freezing," Suguru complained as he walked toward the uppermost section of the beach. Satoru could tell he had been spending more time flying and practicing on the beach because of how much darker his skin was, how he had the mark of his beach sandals tamped on his feet. Suguru chose a suitable high spot and asked him if it was okay with him again, before marking the launch point.

Truth be told, Satoru was glad they had chosen Nabee Beach this time. It was wide, and definitely quieter. Breeze was gentler here; it would be easier for the planes to glide. He dropped his bag on the sand, took the box out and inspected his Spitfire. It looked okay, the structure didn’t seem to have been damaged.

"A Spitfire, uh?"

"Don’t act like you had not been spying on me painting it in the gallery the other day," Satoru replied, with a cheeky smile.

"Says the one who was stalking me on the beach the other day."

"I wasn’t stalking you," Satoru lied. "Your mom didn’t come?"

"Mm, no, she was…busy."

Satoru turned around and gave him another wicked look over his dark glasses.

"Shame, she is not going to see me win."

Suguru rolled his eyes before slipping his hand in one of his pockets. Satoru chuckled; it was so easy to upset him. He couldn’t help himself.

"Heads or tails?"

"Heads."

"Tails for me then." Suguru flipped the coin up in the air, while wind tangled his dark bangs. He showed it to Satoru, his palm wide open. The boy grinned and his eyes crinkled. "Oh, look at that. Tails."

"I’m kicking your ass anyway, so, enjoy your stupid tails."

Satoru observed him place himself on the upper sector, just where they had both agreed on the launch point. He studied the wind, and while he positioned himself and raised his glider, Satoru waited.

"Do you plan to toss it any time near today?" he joked as Suguru lifted his right arm. The boy gave him a side look.

"Keep quiet, please. Or is it that you can’t win without cheating?"

Tsk. Fine. Satoru would stay quiet but only to show Mr. Stupid Bangs he could win even without pestering him. He frowned, crossed his arms, carefully holding the Spitfire in one hand.

Suguru’s first flight was okay. It was nothing extraordinary though; it amounted to about four seconds. Satoru’s was two. His second one was better: wind favored him, and he was able to reach five seconds. Suguru managed three, which meant they were even by the time they reached the last round. At that point, the sun had almost set, and shade was starting to cover the beach with a blanket of shadows. The tide had gone up and water was almost licking their feet. It was so cold Suguru had put on his hoodie.

Suguru’s Piper’s final glide was beautiful. Cradled by the wind, the small wooden frame cut the air like an arrow, swift and powerful. Maybe it was the tide or the dying day, or some marine magic that bubbled from the seafoam, but the plane drifted towards the ocean and remained suspended up in the air for several seconds before dropping.

It had been a fantastic flight. Satoru knew it even before he looked at the stopwatch. Five point five seconds. Lovely for Suguru; terribly difficult to beat for him.

When the boy came back trotting with a huge smile on his face, Satoru could tell he was already celebrating his victory. He kept his cool and placed himself for his final toss.

"Nicely done. Unfortunately for you, you are flying against me."

"Please, surprise me", Suguru said, and his eyes wrinkled with malice.

Satoru positioned himself, one leg slightly ahead of the other. He squinted, it was that time of the day that tricks you and prevents you from looking straight at the sunset. It was a melting pot of purples, oranges, and yellows, equally breathtaking and blinding. He lifted his right hand, waiting for the wind to rise, for its whisper to brush his ears.

Satoru had something, he was sure. He possessed a sort of untamable cosmic gift that bounded him to the sky. It allowed him to sense the breeze and the currents like no one else could, to see the invisible and turn it into magic under the wings of his plane, and he wielded it to bend the wind at his will.

He breathed in, leaned forward and let his Spitfire go. The airflow stole it and hoisted it upwards. Satoru’s neck went backward as he witnessed his plane claim the small patch of the purple sunset sky for three, four seconds and…

Another gust, a warm current, lifted it again and made it soar even further into the waves. The Spitfire slipped into the water delicately, like a petal falling on a pond.

 "Time? Time? Tell me the time," he demanded, squeezing Suguru’s arm.

"Six seconds," he whispered.

When Satoru met his eyes, he was surprised. Suguru didn’t look disappointed or upset, probably a bit surprised since his eyebrows were raised. Still, he was smiling. Giggling, actually.

"Damn, you did it. Six damn seconds." He patted Satoru’s shoulder. "Nicely done!"

"Six? Six seconds? For real?"

He nodded and Satoru jumped; his feet came crashing into the sand. He clapped up in the air, danced, yapped, all at the same time and Suguru just kept chuckling quietly by his side.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! I told you so. I told you I’d win," he yelled, and his screaming was muffled by the wild winds of the ocean; the very same ones that had dragged his model far into the distance, into the embrace of the sea.

He frowned, looking for the silhouette of his Spitfire, but he couldn’t spot it. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Satoru dashed into the ocean. Icy water licked his calves as he tried to trace his plane. Feather-light as the fuselage and the wings were, the tide would take no time in swallowing them and claiming them for the sea.

He hissed. The very same feature which had made it so extraordinary was going to be the one thing to destroy it.

He looked around but it was dark already, the final flickers of the day stretching over gloomy waves that rocked his body backwards and forwards. He turned around clumsily; his feet sucked in by the sand. He thought he had spotted something over there, maybe a flash of red.

A splash by his side, and he was barely processing what was going on. He just saw a black blur to his right before he could tell it was Suguru.

"What the hell are you doing? Come back here!"

Suguru did not respond, he just kept swimming. His figure became a blur in the distance.

"Suguru, come back! Forget it! "

Suddenly, Satoru’s heart was beating fast. Suddenly, the air was thicker around him. Suddenly, the sea had turned more aggressive, and the skies had grown darker, a cloud of dread over their shoulders. He could barely distinguish Suguru’s shape in the blurry horizon. Satoru retreated a bit, to get a better view, and the cold air bit his wet skin.

"Suguru, you idiot! Come back!" Satoru screamed, and his throat burned with sudden despair. His eyes grew teary because of his nerves, so on edge. He called his name again, just to hear no response but the crashing waves. Should he run and call an adult? Who should he call? There was no one on the beach. Should he swim after him? He wanted to help, but it was useless.

How could he have felt so powerful and unstoppable a moment ago, just to realize a few seconds later that he could do nothing to help someone else? How the world could slip through his fingers like sand? How could he…?

Suguru emerged from the waves violently. He waddled in his direction coughing heavily.

He snatched his arm. The boy’s sweatshirt was soaked, and his dark bangs were plastered messily all over his forehead, dripping salty water. He stood there, shivering and panting.

"You are an idiot, why did you do that?"

Satoru was so mad at him, he couldn’t even explain why he cared that much. He thought of admitting he had got scared, but he refrained from himself. He held that string of coward words, knotted them and put them in his mental pocket, in that tiny place where he kept all the big things he couldn’t let creep into his mouth. Most people thought he just blurted out everything that came to his mind — they had told him so. Little did they know he resisted the urge to say what he felt like so often.

"Your plane," Suguru muttered, as he tried to catch his breath back again.

"What?"

"Your plane."

Satoru’s gaze landed on the model Suguru was holding in his right hand. His model. His Spitfire. One of the wings was slightly crooked. Suguru met his gaze and then his eyes traveled back to the plane.

"This side, the left one, I…I squashed it when I grabbed it. I’m sorry. I-I will fix it for you," he said, before pausing. He seemed hesitant, lost for words. "Was it expensive?"

Satoru shook his head. A lump rose in his throat. He lacked the words -or even the mind – to describe what this fluttery, overwhelming emotion that coated him was.

"It’s just a stupid bunch of painted balsa. You should have let it sink."

Suguru refused with a small, shaky motion. His hair had come loose, and it was longer than Satoru had expected. He slicked it back, together with his bangs.

"You worked really hard to fix it. I saw you. I…"

The words died in his lips. Instead, he held Satoru’s hands and pressed the Spitfire into them, fingers cold and wet.

Satoru felt his heart throbbing fast, pounding in his ears. He had gotten too scared. He was not used to fear and he had not liked it, not even a bit. He squeezed Suguru’s fingers before letting go. He pouted at him.

"You’re so stupid, you could have drowned because of a freaking balsa plane. "

"Well, it was your plane."

Satoru looked at the Spitfire and then back at Suguru. His dark eyes had melted, like his whole face softened, as if salt water had washed away every defense. Satoru really meant to say thank you so much, but also thank you for flying with me, for sharing your food with me and inviting me over with you and your mom the other day, thank you for listening to me yap about planes because not many people put up with that. Thank you for putting up with me in general, even when I always have to win at absolutely everything or I get moody.

Thank you for being my friend.

Still, that was like a lot, and Satoru knew he was a lot for people more often than not, and he didn’t want to push one more soul away from him, so he just said a timid "thanks," even when it felt incredibly like not enough.

Suguru shrugged, his chin quivered as he did so. Satoru pulled him from his dripping hoodie.

"C’mon. We’ll get home faster on my bike."

"Thanks."

Satoru turned around and headed towards the beach. He was giddy, still drunk on this exhilarating sense of victory and yet weighed down by the exhaustion of the aftermath. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes stinging. He felt like he had spent too long under the sun. His eyelids were tired, heavy iron curtains.

A cold burst splashed against his back, sending shivers down his spine. He gasped and whined and cursed before turning around only to find Suguru laughing out loud at him.

"You traitor," Satoru laughed before splashing back.

"I’m soaked, it makes no difference," the boy grinned.

"Screw you, Suguru."

By the time they got back home on Satoru’s bike, it was pitch dark, and they were both soiled in salty water. On the way home, both his and Suguru’s balsa models bounced in his backpack, while Suguru was talking over his shoulder. Satoru’s ears rang with excitement, as he pedaled while chasing the glow of the streetlights like a magical road. Once he got back, Satoru was definitely getting grounded, but he had had such a good day that he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Furin danced and chimed in the morning breeze above Suguru’s head as he carefully maintained the fuselage of the Spitfire model in fixed position, so it would glue properly. Wind annoyed him. It kept playing with his bangs and he flipped his head in vain attempts to get dark strands out of his eyes. His hands were busy maintaining the wings steadily. Small steps kicked the gravel in the garden, just next to the engawa where he was sitting, and he lifted his gaze to meet Satoru’s bright blue eyes. His puffy hair floated over his temples; it stood out against the green lush garden like snow in midsummer; his hands sunk in the kangaroo pocket of his navy hoodie. He kicked a tiny rock before climbing on the porch and sitting cross-legged by his side. The wooden floor creaked as Satoru dropped by his side.

"You didn’t need to fix it, I told you," he whispered.

Suguru focused his attention on the joint between the balsa pieces.

"I broke it, so I want to fix it," he replied, without looking at Satoru.

"Yeah, but you were just trying to help."

"I still broke it."

Gently, he stood up, eyes still stagnant on the model his hands were cradling, and he moved inside the house. His footsteps were short, careful as if he were holding a butterfly between his fingers. He lowered the Spitfire onto the small table and let it rest. Suguru studied it for a few seconds, as if waiting for it to break up again, but nothing happened.

"Thanks," Satoru said, as he examined the dark floor planks.

"Anytime," he replied while he rubbed his hands, trying to get rid of the sticky residue of the glue.

Satoru walked around the inner gallery, inspecting the white walls; the square, vintage-looking clock on the southern wall; the Washi paper lantern hanging from the dark wooden ceiling. He stopped to inspect the sudare bamboo blinds rolled up on top of the windows they had just crossed.

"I’ve never been here," Satoru admitted.

"It’s nice. Everyone’s been really nice to us."

Suguru was not surprised at his statement. Satoru had no need whatsoever to cross the garden and wander through the weathered staff accommodation quarters. Across the garden, the Gojos had a magnificent oceanfront villa. It had a pristine glass panel overviewing the most beautiful ocean cliffs in Onna Village. Over ten rooms, and luxurious aesthetic furniture. Not that he had seen anything but the facade on the first day they had arrived. Kiriko, the house manager, had told them about it during their first dinner over there. She was the person in charge of looking after the property throughout the year, so Satoru’s family could enjoy it during summers and other breaks. There was also a gardener and a chef, who came around seasonally, same as they had. They were all friendly and kind, and Suguru enjoyed chatting with them over meals when they were around.

He wondered if Satoru disliked the place, if he looked down on it, but if he did, he didn’t seem to show. Instead, he explored the room, hands still in his pocket.

 "So, where’s your room?" he asked.

Suguru raised an eyebrow.

"Mine? Upstairs. I mean, I share it with my mom but it’s upstairs."

Suguru scratched the back of his head and asked Satoru if he wanted to drink some tea. Maybe it was strange, but he thought it was the kind of thing his mom would have encouraged him to do at home if he had guests. Satoru nodded and he went to the kitchen to get him some. He came back with two warm, herb-smelling cups in his hands.

"You know, I’m also working on another model. A glider. A big one. Like this," he explained as he gestured to show the size of his glider.

Satoru’s bright eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Really? Do you have it like…here?"

"Yeah, I brought…"

"Can I see it? Is it upstairs?" Satoru interrupted him.

"Sure, I’ll show you."

Before Suguru could even blink, the boy was already veering into the dark wooden staircase. Yabai. Suguru tried to follow his pace, which was a difficult thing to do considering that Satoru leaped up the stairs three at a time.

"Which one is it? "

"Hey, slow down," he replied but Satoru was already poking his head into the different rooms.

Suguru went all the way down the corridor and knocked softly on one of the doors before opening. He pushed the door ajar. His mother was basking in the sunlight next to the window. A plum blanket covered her lap and legs. She was engrossed in her laptop, which rested on the kotatsu. The soft smell of her sencha tea permeated the room, the clicking of the keyboard joined the beats of the background music. As usual, she was listening to Genesis.

"Hey, sweetie," she said as they both slid into the room. Her eyes widened and she propped herself up when she realized he was not alone. "Oh, hey, Gojo-san."

"Hi, we are here for the glider," Satoru turned around to face Suguru "Where is it?"

"Satoru, that’s a bit rude. How about saying hi to my mom like a normal person?"

Satoru huffed and scowled. His mother laughed quietly.

"Good morning, Geto-san, I’m sorry for storming in and disturbing your peace. It’s Suguru’s fault, he promised that he was going to show me the glider."

Suguru’s jaw dropped.

"I didn’t promise…" he started saying as he raised an eyebrow, but Satoru went on rambling and cut him short.

"I like your music, Geto-san. What are you listening to?"

His mother asked if they wanted to or snacks, but they both declined.

"Genesis, I was listening to Genesis. Brit rock? Ever heard of them?"

Satoru shook his head and dropped himself on the tatami next to her. Suguru, in the meantime, went to the closet and checked for his aero modelling supplies and the parts of the large glider he had started assembling just last night.

"My mom is into English music," Suguru explained, as he collected the different pieces.

"I grew up in the States. Los Angeles. American and Brit music are a sort of acquired taste"

"Wait, really? That’s so cool. Were you born in America?"

His mother laughed as she moved away from her laptop and dedicated her full attention to the boy.

"No, I was born here in Japan, but my dad worked for a big American firm and got transferred when I was a kid. I lived there for many years, went to school there too. I even learnt to fly in the US as well. Then, when I was around twenty two, we moved back."

"You must speak English really well. " His mom nodded. Satoru kept going, as he leaned his elbows on the kotatsu. "My English tutor is American and sometimes we listen to songs for practice. It’s good fun. There are many cool bands."

"Yeah? Which ones do you like? Apart from Fleetwood Mac."

"I dunno," he hesitated. He tilted his head, and Suguru thought with his blue eyes and his puffy hair, he resembled a puppy. "Cyndy Lauper. Bryan Adams? "

"Oh! We’ve got a connoisseur," she joked.

"What do you like, Suguru?" he suddenly asked him as he placed the large, incomplete wings on the low table.

His mother smiled at him silently, as if giving him room to join them. A tight knot grew in the pit of Suguru’s stomach, it bubbled up and rose up to his throat. He pressed his lips on a thin line, his eyes wrinkling out of fake complacency. Why did this boy have to be gravitating around his mom like this? He didn’t quite understand why Satoru was so curious about chatting with her all the time. Didn’t he have his own mom to talk to?

Suguru recalled the tall lady who he had barely interacted with him during the flight, how immersed she seemed in her own agenda, and how quickly she fell asleep, and got off the plane equally fast. From his first impression she didn’t seem very talkative, or at least not very interested in listening. She hadn’t spoken to Satoru during the trip at all, except for the bare minimum. Maybe she didn’t talk much to him at all. His granny always said that rich people were like that, only concerned with themselves, and by taking a quick glimpse into the Gojos’ family life, Suguru could guess there was a hint of truth in her words.

His mom and Satoru kept exchanging music recommendations about songs and albums. Satoru giggled shyly, less abrasive than it had been with him on the beach. He had this clamshell personality, hard and resistant on the outside, but then when it opened up…Suguru had initially thought he was only bratty and spoiled, just because. Still, the glow in his eyes when he got the chance to ramble about the things he loved, like music or aviation, was almost magical.

Only then it hit him that perhaps Satoru had no one to share these interests with. Surely, he must have had friends at school — a boy like him was surely popular — but maybe they were into other things. Maybe, under all that noise, Satoru had no one who cared to listen. Was that the reason why he was so loud?

Satoru was staring at him, his mom as well. Oh, right, they were waiting for his answer. Yabai. How stupid of him.

"Well, uhm… I’m into Genesis too. Also, Elton John."

"He loves ‘Tiny Dancer’," his mom added, her smile growing into a full grin.

Suguru rolled his eyes as he carefully adjusted the pieces on the table, but he had to resist the urge to smile back. He wasn’t granting his mother that pleasure, not in front of Satoru. He placed the glue flask he had brought in his pocket on the low table, next to the brushes and tiny tools, before kneeling in front of them.

"I like lots of songs," he explained. Satoru’s eyes had that glint of curiosity, like a child contemplating the sea for the first time. They danced from the model to Suguru, and from him back to the plane. Suguru cleared his throat. His voice had started to grow deeper lately, and it surprised him becoming odd and velvety at the most unexpected times. "It’s uhm, a sailplane."

"Are you going to bungee-launch it?"

"It’s the idea. I mean, I haven’t figured out how but…we’ll see."

"You will come up with something," his mother said before standing up. "I’ll go for a walk; my back is killing me. I’ll leave you the PC on in case you want to play some music, alright? Have fun, guys." He nodded, she patted him on the head lightly and waved goodbye to both before leaving.

The white-haired boy hung over the incomplete balsa frame, inspecting the edges.

"Do you know what color you are going to paint it?" Satoru continued, as he inspected the fuselage.

Suguru took in his frown, the tiny freckles that wrinkled on top of his nose when he did so, his dedication when observing details; and he made up his mind on the spot, as if the wind had pushed him to it.

"I don’t know. What color would you like?"

"What?"

"I said what color would you like."

"Blue? I mean, I would paint it blue. Well, not completely, maybe a stripe or something."

"Great, we’ve got a plan then."

Satoru held his gaze, frowning even more than before.

"What do you mean?

"Aren’t you going to help me put it together?"

He remained quiet. It was surprising, he seemed like a whole different person from the boy who was competing against him a couple of days ago in Nabee beach. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

"If you want, of course," Suguru clarified. He was then surprised for a second time, not by Satoru but by himself, because a small corner of him was whispering, praying that Satoru would accept his invitation. He was relieved when the boy started nodding enthusiastically.

Snap. Satoru went back to one of his cheeky grins. Just like that, he was an evil and reckless Gremlin again, the softness in his eyes completely replaced by audacity.

"I’m not painting it though. I’m covering it with MonoKote."

"For aerodynamics," Satoru guessed.

"Uh-huh."

"Smart cookie, Suguru."

He raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, you are not the only one in the vicinity, you know? I’ll probably do that part when we come back to Tokyo though. I don’t have a heat gun or anything here."

Satoru leaned on the table, resting his chin in his hand.

"I do, and MonoKote too."

"You have a heat gun in your holiday home?"

"Yeah, I always get bored here, so I got lots of supplies."

Suguru felt tempted to ask how you could get bored in that fantastic beach paradise of a home in the Okinawa coast, but he suspected why. He was starting to connect the dots.

"So, Suguru, where do we start?" Satoru’s eyes twitched with excitement. " What’s next?"

"Well first things first, genius. “Put on some music, since we are at it."

"What do we listen to?"

"Whatever you like is fine."

Satoru stretched his legs under the table, reached for his mother’s PC and smirked.

"Lovely. Elton John it is then."

Suguru shook his head and muttered something about Satoru being silly and how that was definitely not sparing him from cutting a piece of balsa for one of the wings. He swallowed the warmth that rose in his chest and pretended his fingers were not shaking when he picked up the small hand saw to cut his own piece of balsa wood.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

En route to Kansai airport. In flight at cruising altitude. July 2018.

"Cabin pressure," Miguel asked him.

"Set to cruise altitude," Suguru replied.

Suguru loosened his tie, a bit, just a bit. His eyes were stagnant on the whimsical clouds dotting the blue canvas here and there. White knuckles gripped the yoke, even though they were on autopilot and there was no need to be doing that. His shirt was too stiff. 

"Fuel flow?"

"Stabilized, 850 pounds per hour," he said.

Stabilized, he echoed for himself. His voice felt like someone else’s, like a version of himself who was buried under layers and layers of time, days and weeks and years he had carefully threaded into a blanket of numbness. Otherwise, how was he supposed to make it? He wasn’t expecting to thrive, just to barely make it. To the airstrip, to the cockpit, to his room, to the hospital, to his parents’. He had to be in places; he had to answer questions, pay salaries, fly planes, fix a vending machine, feed a cat. People expected things from him.

What did he expect from himself? The yoke between his fingers was slipping again. An irrational part of his mind was terrified it would melt, as if made of dark sand.

Suguru was afraid of landing, because he had landed once and crashed into reality, cold like sea water and sturdy as rocky shores. He couldn’t land. He simply couldn’t. How was he going to land in Kansai?  He couldn’t remain adrift either, yet he had been floating for ages, unable to modify altitude. He was like one of those aircraft lost to the Dragon’s Triangle.

Something. He needed to do something, or he would stall. His gaze danced from the FMS Control Display unit to the switches and displays of the instrument panel. He needed to make sure everything was working properly.

"Engine instruments?"

"Checked, all green."

He clenched and unclenched his fist over his dark slacks. This had been a terrible idea. He could have perfectly done without that silly vending machine…

"Autopilot?"

"Engaged."

What could go wrong would always go wrong. It was like gravity, events had that inclination, to wither in Suguru’s hands, to go. To stall. To spiral. To be swallowed whole into the whirlwind of the Devil’s Sea. He breathed in deeply and he would have sworn he could taste the salty sea on his tongue, and the water running through his forehead.

"All good, Captain? "

Suguru turned to him. His eyelids were heavy as lead; he had barely had any sleep last night. He could never sleep, not when he knew he was flying next morning.

"You look a bit tense."

"I’m cool. It’s just been a while."

"Yeah, I guessed so." Miguel tilted his head towards the cabin. "Would you like a coffee?"

Suguru nodded. Yeah, surely a coffee would help. A coffee would clean the salty taste of seawater from his mouth; it would quiet the screaming of waves and the screeching of the lurking seagulls. Yeah, coffee would do.

He also asked his copilot to check on the passengers, and he said he would do so. The cockpit curtain rustled softly when Miguel closed it behind his back. Suguru dozed for a second, as he stretched his limbs. After the take-off tension, his shoulders were still stiff.

At least the flight to Kansai was short, less than an hour. They were almost halfway through it already.

Chatting reached him from the cabin. Miguel must have been offering them some snacks or complimentary drinks. He couldn’t tell the words, but he could recognize voices. Satoru’s hearty voice, over all of them.

Satoru was on the plane, that was the most terrifying thing about it all.

He had thought Satoru would insult him, scream at him. Well, it had been so many years since then; those iron-hot feelings had probably cooled down. All of them, sadly. In any case, he had not thrown a tantrum and demanded a real pilot instead of him. He had had this tiny spark of hope that maybe Satoru would not recognize him, that he would go past him and that Suguru would be lucky enough to steal a furtive look, like when you see one of those mesmerizing marble statues in a museum that you can’t touch but only appreciate from afar. Suguru would drink then from that ecstatic, divine moment, those precious seconds to appreciate him and then move on.

Still, when he had seen him walking towards him in the runway, on the verge of a purple breaking dawn, he thought he was a specter in the fog. Satoru had an unreal aura about him; he always had. Perhaps it had been that, or perhaps it had been the fact he often dreamed of Satoru that way, coming to meet him next to a plane, in a dark leather jacket, wearing his aviator glasses and his perfect smile, ready to soar the skies.

Suguru wished they were still seventeen way too often for someone who was almost thirty.

Satoru had always been Greek-God like, but age had only amplified that. He could swear he was even taller now. Also, that new undercut sharpened his features. Well, truth be told, Suguru didn’t know if it was a new haircut. Maybe Satoru had worn it like that for ages. Maybe everybody wore it like that in London. He pictured his towering frame in those fancy elegant halls and cloisters of British universities that you saw in movies; with his hazy, angel-like hair and his silver smile illuminating the room. His loud voice would thunder through those halls and corridors, and people would whisper around him like they always had. He would have bet the wings of the plane that his halcyon eyes sparkled even brighter under the overcast skies of England.

It was funny they had reunited on the same plane where they had first met, so long ago.

The curtain drew open again and he stretched his right hand to take the cup of coffee. He kept his gaze fixed on the FMS control display.

"Thanks," Suguru said, while he seized the warm cardboard cup in his hands.

"You’re welcome," Satoru replied.

Suguru snapped out of it. He was standing by his side, not a ghost in the fog, not a specter from a past life. Sky eyes glowing with curiosity, the hint of a smile dancing on his face.

 "Hey."

"Hey," Suguru replied, more a reflex than anything else, "Satoru, you can’t be here. This is the cockpit."

He grimaced. One of his hands came to rest on his hip, the other one on the backrest of Miguel’s seat. Suguru’s gaze darted to his left hand, looking for a ring or the shadow of one, and found nothing. He wasn’t sure whether that relieved him or not.

"C’mon, Suguru, don’t rain on my parade. I even brought you a coffee."

The curtain swished violently over his shoulder. Miguel was standing up with a disheveled look.

"Mr. Gojo, I’m extremely sorry but you can’t be in the cockpit."

Satoru adjusted his glasses and leaned even more on the seat.

"Let me see If I’m getting this right. You are telling me I cannot be in the cockpit of my own plane?"

"Our safety regulations…"

Satoru turned to him slowly. He let his hand slip in his trousers' pocket.

"I design planes. I know the regulations, First Officer…"

"Uduol. Uduol’s the name."

Tension sparked in the air. The fact they were three tall men on a minuscule compartment didn’t help. Miguel was hefty, but he could still not match Satoru’s height, who was glowering at him. He tilted his head, and Suguru had to hold himself not to grab him by the hem of his shirt. He reminded himself he had long lost that privilege.

"First Officer," Satoru repeated, pedantic. He could be insufferable when he was set on it. "The captain here just authorized me."

Suguru blinked once, twice. His hand landed over his mouth as he gathered himself.

"Captain?"

Miguel met his gaze, and Suguru wished he hadn’t looked at him at all, because only then did he notice Satoru was staring at him as well. His shy smile had morphed into a shameless grin. God, he had forgotten what a menace he could be.

After some endless seconds, Suguru nodded, and Miguel’s expression softened.

"Oh, could you check the toilet? It’s clogged, I think. Somebody should fix that," Satoru demanded.

"Satoru," Suguru warned him, his voice on edge.

"It’s alright, Captain," Miguel replied quickly. He was used to bratty clients, maybe even more than himself. Satoru was certainly not the first he had argued with, and it wouldn’t be the last one either. His copilot vowed politely. "Worry not, Mr. Gojo. I’ll go check it."

Satoru hopped into the corner next to him. He dropped himself in Miguel’s place and crossed his legs, as if he were sitting on a throne and not on a copilot’s seat.

"Much appreciated, Uduol-san. Close the curtains, please. We don’t want the captain to get distracted, do we?"

Miguel was professional enough to pretend he hadn’t heard that, he just did as he was told and strode outside the cockpit. Satoru’s gaze came to rest on Suguru as soon as the copilot had closed curtains again.

"Why on Earth is that man so boring?"

"Satoru," he repeated, much more sternly now they were on their own. He frowned and gave him a severe look. "Sit down properly and buckle up if you are going to stay here, please."

"Aye, captain," Satoru joked as he obeyed.

Suguru rolled his eyes as he removed the lid of the coffee and tapped the sugar before pouring it inside his drink. He gave a tentative sip. Satoru kept chatting.

"Your hair is longer, isn’t it?"

"Yours is shorter. It suits you."

"Thanks. You are looking good too."

Satoru’s look diverted from his and danced over the flight deck. He pointed at a couple of displays and dropped two or three technical questions. Suguru knew very well what he was doing, fishing for an excuse, testing the waters. At some point, he got quieter, wondering whether to go deeper or not.

"Does he always fly with you?" There was not an ounce of playfulness in his voice now.

"Who? Miguel?"

Satoru crossed his arms; his gaze had turned glacial.

For the first time in half an hour or so they had been airborne, Suguru looked away from the display and dedicated all his attention to Satoru. It was so strange to be in the same room as him again. Satoru’s elbows were resting on his knees. An elegant, and certainly expensive, light blue shirt covered his muscular shoulders. Suguru caught a brief glimpse of the freckled skin of his collarbone. His eyes flickered and he sank his gaze in the dark cup of coffee in his hands.

"What the hell was that for?" Suguru asked, drily.

"What was what?"

He tried another sip of his drink. It was so burning hot and bitter he almost winced. Good, at least he was feeling something. He was more grounded. Anything was better than saltwater in his mouth, even petroleum-like coffee.

"You know what I’m talking about."

Satoru inspected his nails and shrugged.

"I just thought we could have a coffee, catch up. Plus, Yuta was sleeping."

Suguru had prepared himself. He knew Satoru enough to imagine he would pull up something like this, even in a fifty-minute flight. He reached for the pocket of his jacket, which dangled from the backrest of his seat. When he found what he was looking for, he tossed it to him. The red packet of KitKat landed on Satoru’s lap.

When Satoru glanced at him again, his cheeks were blushing pink, a brush of sakura on white canvas. God. Suguru swallowed hard. He peered into the clouds and inhaled deeply. He needed to focus. He reached for the empty coffee cup, crushed it and tossed it to the bin. Eyes on the clouds, eyes on the clouds. Hands on the yoke. Salt in the sea.

"What’s this?" Satoru asked. Suddenly, his electric blue gaze softened. "Is this for me?"

It’s a peace offer, a pathetic one Suguru craved to say, his lips twitching.

"It’s just a souvenir." Suguru raised an eyebrow.

"You remembered?"

"Sure thing," he replied, and he had this itch, this urge to deter the conversation into another direction, any direction "That was rude. The way you spoke to Miguel."

Satoru crossed his arms, his mouth a thin line.

"You didn’t answer my question, by the way."

"What question?"

"If you always fly with him?"

"I usually fly solo. If I fly that is. I’ve kind of fallen out of it."

"What? Why?"

"I run my mom’s aero club now. In Chiba, remember? I’m always busy with management and errands. There’s not much time left for flights. Miguel is one of our pilots. There’s also Yuki."

"Yeah, I remember her. How’s business then? How’s Keiko? I heard she retired."

Terrible, Suguru thought. He held himself from making a face; the face he always made whenever anyone who didn’t know about it asked him about his mother. Shoko could tell him. He didn’t need to tell him. What could possibly be the point of doing so? They would land in Kansai, Satoru would walk one way, and he would fly back to Chiba, and that was it. Separate lives. A transfer to his bank account. Strictly business. Why would he climb into the cockpit of an aircraft he could not fly? He had lost the keys to that heaven ages ago, impossible to be retrieved by now.

Satoru had asked the wrong questions, all of them. Maybe now that he came to think about it carefully, there weren’t many right questions people could ask Suguru. The root of the issue was most likely that he was incapable of providing satisfactory answers in general, regardless of the question.

"Business’ fine. Kind of. You know, ups and down, but fine," Suguru explained. He cleared his throat, as he walked that thin and blurry line between truth and the reality you want to believe in. "My mom…yeah, she retired. She’s spending a lot of time with the girls. They are at uni now."

"At uni? Wow, time flies."

"Yup. Kyoto University."

Satoru let out a soft whistle.

"Kyoto university? Cool, cool."

Suguru let silence stretch, purposefully. He hated and craved it at the same time, this pretense, this script of faux sympathy. It was like trying to commute back home and choosing the wrong streets to keep driving in circles, over and over. It was like maintaining the aircraft on holding pattern. It was like drinking muddy water, a substance can prevent you from dying but that can kill you in other terrible and poisonous ways.

Yet, it was better than nothing.

There was so much he wanted to ask him, but if he opened that window, he would lack the strength to close it again. Besides, what right did he have to peek into it again, after what he had done? Suguru had a gift for breaking, and Satoru’s life was shattered enough already. He could have tried, though. He could have asked meaningful things, and he knew Satoru would have answered sincerely.

How’s life in England, Toru? How’s your job? Do you still like London Imperial College? What are your students like? What subjects do you teach? Tell me all, tell me everything. Tell me what your house’s like, what house plants you’ve got and how often you water them, how many windows your tearoom has, and how Robins perch on windowsills and rain droplets hit the glass on rainy days. Tell me what’s your favorite food market in London and if you cycle there on weekends. Tell me if you go to those ridiculous stores like Harrods and Liberty and fritter away money in the kind of small and sparkly trinkets you love to collect. Show me pictures, show me videos and let the bright light of the screen illuminate your face. Tell me, Toru, please, tell me. There’s so much you I want to know. Ramble. Ramble for hours, with that gleam in your eyes you only get when you are overly excited, like when you talk about planes, about music, about us. I’ve read about your planes. I read about them on sleepless nights, when I google your name and search for your articles, check your work. I have even flown a few. Airbus, uh? What’s it like? Is making planes like how we imagined when we were kids? Do you still feel alienated in that beautiful and grey city on another continent? Do you miss Miso soup, mochi, sushi? Do you do videocalls with Shoko? Do you talk about me?

Do you have friends? Do you have…someone?

Do you miss flying like I do? Do you crave being alone with the sky instead of sitting down at a desk? Do you miss feeling that we have unbreakable wings? Do you miss the time we wasted?

Do you miss…us?

Instead, Suguru rested one of his hands on the yoke, because sometimes your body acts on reflex in ways in which your tongue fails to do so.

"So, you are going to Kyoto to see your folks?"

"That’s right. Gathering of vipers. All ages and sizes. It’s better than a zoo."

Suguru chuckled.

"Bet they missed you."

"Of course they missed me. Imagine. They must have these civilized lunches with fancy clothes in extravagant restaurants eating wagyu and drinking French wine. Nobody gets drunk and rambling nonsense to survive the ordeal. It’s like the Vatican but worse because they don’t even pretend."

Suguru laughed more heartfully this time, and Satoru joined him.

A spur. A patch of blue sky like the one that drags you out of a storm.

"You can’t keep giving them that attitude. We aren’t seventeen anymore."

"Sadly," Satoru added, and his overcast gaze locked in with his.

Suguru had arrived at the conclusion that Satoru’s eyes were really sky eyes, not because they were halcyon blue or clear but because they shifted. They changed the way clouds did, impulsive and wild, going from bright morning cerulean to almost an icy powder blue, depending on the light. Satoru’s soul was the same. Bright and bubbly, deafening, and still so cold at times.

"We are landing soon," he said, words heavy on his tongue. "You really need to leave the cockpit now."

"You are as boring as usual, Suguru. An old man’s soul. Shall I call your friend back?"

"He is not my friend."

Satoru gave him a lopsided smile. What else was there to give at that point?

"Anyway, I’ll head to the cabin then," he said. "It was nice to see you."

"Thanks for the coffee, Satoru. Good to see you too."

Satoru sighted dramatically before standing up, so tall he had to duck. The swish of the curtain told him he was almost leaving, but before it closed again, his footsteps stood still.

"Suguru, will I see you again?"

He looked at him over the corner of his backrest.

I hope so. I didn’t think we would meet again, and yet here we are. Even now, even after all these years, even after everything I did, it seems we are still both tethered to the sky and to each other.

"Take care, Satoru. Enjoy your time in Japan."

Chapter Text

Okinawa. Gojo Villa. Summer 2003.

Suguru rang the bell and a long, vibrant dong stretched over the entrance hall. He clenched and unclenched his fists, adjusted the neck of his light green shirt and shifted the weight of his feet from one foot to the other. He studied the immaculate Welcome rug beneath him —so painstakingly clean it seemed no one had ever stepped on it before. Painted ceramic pots overflowing with bright and lush ferns guarded the massive doors to the Gojo villa. He cleared his throat, and his heart sprinted when the white doors swung open.

"Suguru-kun! So lovely to see you. Did you or Keiko-san need me for anything or…?"

Suguru opened his mouth, his look fixed on the wrinkles of Kiriko-san’s face. He wiped his palms on his shorts, and tried to articulate something. He didn’t know what made him so anxious.

"I-I,” he babbled, “I came to see Satoru. Gojo-san, I mean.”

The old woman stared at him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Right. I see if he is available. Give me a moment. Is it for something in particular?”

Suguru cleared his throat again, in an unnecessary gesture.

“It’s uhm… it’s an invitation.”

Kiriko nodded kindly and invited him to come in and wait. Suguru stepped on the marble floor, his sandals timidly tapping its dark and golden veins. In spite of being perfectly clean, his shoes already seemed to stain the floor. He removed them in a blink and placed them aside, together with the rest, neatly displayed on the shoe rack. It was the same aura of inadequacy that had invaded him while he was onboard the Gojo’s jet, weeks ago.

While he waited for Kiriko to return, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection on a mirror and tried to fix his bun; he took a glance at his fingernails and made sure they were clean. “Dress well to go in there,” his mom had warned him. The way she had said there had made it sound as if he were sneaking into a dragon’s den.

He inspected the large hall. Everything around him screamed luxury. An inky flowerpot of pink flowers rested on the table. He frowned. Were those…? How did they call them? Orchids? A pair of ceremonial masks stared into him, long wooden noses and frown carved eyebrows, hanging from the wall. The air carried the artificial scent of a house which was more suited for being shown around rather than lived in.

A series of thuds came storming through the corridor Kiriko had vanished into. Satoru’s tall silhouette appeared, in a loose Digimon shirt and dark joggers. His eyes lit up in a cheeky grin.

“Suguru! Listen, I’ve found blue MonoKote. I thought I only had red and yellow here, but it turns out that…”

“Hi. People tend to greet each other,” he teased him, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Satoru grimaced and let out one of his signature huffs.

“Bah, I see you every day.”

“Still, you should say hi. You never know when’s the last time you will see someone.”

“So dramatic. Fine — hi. You’ve got a thing with greetings, huh?”

“Everybody greets. It’s basic. My little sisters do it. Even kindergarten kids do it.”

The boy shrugged, and gestured Suguru to follow him as they walked down the corridor. His hands sank in the pockets of his swimming trunks.

“Who cares? How was I supposed to know that? I didn’t even go to kindergarten.”

Satoru let out a strangled laugh. He was mocking — or trying to mock, for the record — but Suguru still perceived a hint of something in his voice. A cloud hovering over a blue sky, a subtle shadow still haunting his facade.

He raised an eyebrow, “Wait, what? How come you didn’t go to kindergarten?”

“My parents wanted me home schooled. I had a bunch of tutors, but they kept quitting. Said I was insufferable,” he laughed, even louder, and his hollow giggles echoed through the pristine halls.

Suguru didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock either. He was just there listening, witnessing how clouds gathered.

“About three years ago they ended up sending me to this bilingual school. Dude, they are obsessed with my English. They wanna send me to university in England, and I have to take, like, this ton of international tests…?”

“England?”

As they crossed the hall, Suguru could not help but peek into each of the rooms: a beautiful solarium, framed by dancing palm trees; an intimidating office with a heavy wooden desk and two antique armchairs; a musty library with lounge chairs looking into a massive window with ocean views. Satoru’s loud, stormy voice reverberated through the desert corridors.

“Yeah, ‘cause my dad went there and my grandad too and who the hell else in the Gojo family knows.”

“Satoru.”

“What?”

Suguru rolled his eyes. In the late nights which they had spent assembling the glider together, he had learned telling Satoru to watch his language was pointless.  He just shrugged.

“I don’t know, there’s still a lot of time for that. We’ll see.”

Something prickly rose in his chest, up to his throat. They hadn’t known each other for so long, and his life or his family’s life were none of his business. Still, the idea of his new friend moving away to another continent made him recoil.

Wait, was Satoru that? Could he call him his friend?

While he kept chattering as they arrived at the last room, Suguru pondered over that question. Most likely, they would have fun putting up the glider and maybe flying it if the island weather was feeling generous. Then, they would return to Tokyo, and he wouldn’t meet him again. Again, there it was, that bitter ball in the back of his throat. What was it that made it so different, so special to be enjoy spending time with a person he had only come across a couple of weeks ago? Meeting Satoru had been like picking up a silver coin from the streets: an unexpected treasure, found by chance when you least expect it. What was the point in worrying about it? He was a kid, but he was old enough to realize they belonged to different worlds. Satoru was a blue halcyon that soared the skies with no one to limit the reach of his wings. He himself… he was an earthly creature. Earthbound. He might get his own wings one day, but he hadn’t been born with them.

Bratty, often abrasive with people—yet Satoru was so authentic. He was like an open sky, like the one Suguru loved diving into when his mom indulged him into a flight. Clear skies hide nothing, just blue infinity. Suguru loved that about him; looked up at him for that, even. He himself was so reserved, careful with his words and actions, as if he perpetually walked on eggshells. He treated the world the same way he treated his models: carefully, delicately, as if balsa was to snap any second. He knew once things got damaged, it wasn’t that easy to get them repaired. Maybe that was the reason why they got along so well; their personalities complemented each other, and despite the obvious contrast, they still were, somehow, birds of a feather.

Perhaps, he could listen to Satoru free spirit this time and just have fun for the summer. Enjoy. Splash in the sea. Assemble a glider. Ride a bike. Have a flying contest. Who knew? Maybe his mom got another flight to Okinawa. Maybe he got to see him again.

Wasn’t that the idea that had originally brought him here?

As they reached the last room, the immensity of the deep ocean engulfed them both. A huge glass panel covered the north wall, overlooking the sharp cliffs of Onna Village. Suguru was pretty sure that if he walked next to it and looked down, he would be able to see foamy waves crashing against dark rocks. Seagulls and other sea birds glided over the horizon. White contours of yachts and ships blurred in the distance.

Because a room with such a view could not be wasted, a long and comfortable-looking L-shaped sofa had been placed in front of the massive window, as an observation platform for what the sea and sky had to offer. Another jar with fresh flowers perfumed the room, standing elegantly on top of a low table.

Apart from that, a bar and what looked like a small kitchen occupied the left side of the room. Satoru climbed onto one of the four stools and grabbed a packet of chips. He stuffed a handful into his mouth before offering some to him.

In response, Suguru shook his head and pressed a nervous palm to the back of his neck, as his eyes traced the shape of the floor tiles.

“Hey, actually, I came here to ask you if you want to come over tonight. My mom is going to make soba.”

The boy tilted his head. Suguru raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Soba? Do you like it? Have you tried it?”

Satoru’s blue gaze turned cloudy and distant.

“Off course. Who doesn’t know soba?”

“We brought some DVDs and maybe we‘re watching a movie after that,” Suguru lowered his gaze. He counted the strands of the soft carpet below his feet, “We might watch the Empire of the Sun or Porco Rosso,” he said, and the last strand of words came out of his mouth stomping over each other. “Thought maybe you would like to come?”

It was all it took for Satoru’s eyes to light up and recover their crystalline light blue. He turned to him, his long limbs dangling from the stool.

“Wait, is this like a pajama party? A sleepover?”

Suguru hadn’t even considered inviting him over like that, never thought he would want to, to begin with. Why would he, if he could simply cross the garden and sleep in the comfort of his home? He scratched his neck, pondered the idea. He didn’t mind, though.

“I guess we could. We can also work on the glider…”

Satoru jumped from the stool and dived into one of the cupboards. He started taking out packages of different colors and sorts: ebi crisps, Haribo gummies, Lays, Skittles, matcha cookies, monakas. Suguru ducked when a package of Pocky almost collided with his forehead.

“What exactly are you doing?”

Satoru ignored him and pulled himself out of the cupboard.  

“Damn. I don’t have chocolate. And mochi, we also need mochi. We can’t have a proper sleepover without mochi. We’ll have to go to the konbini. Do you have money?”

Suguru eyed the mountain of snacks the boy had stacked. It was surprising to have a hibernating stash of food in a summer house.

“You’re afraid of an earthquake striking and running out of supplies or something?” he asked.

He smiled at him.

“What? Can’t I get hungry now and then?”

“Yeah, you and how many more people?”

“My God, can you stop being so boring?”

Suguru crossed his arms and glowered at him.

“I am the one who organized the sleepover to begin with, so don’t go calling me boring.”

Satoru sat back on his heels and contemplated the stash as he tapped his chin.

“We need chocolate, Suguru. It’s non-negotiable. We have to go to the konbini. Do you know where there’s one? Do you have money?”

Suguru leaned back, his eyes wide open.

“What? Are you seriously asking me this? You’re the one with a holiday home here. I imagined you would know your way around already.”

“Kuriko always gets everything we need. I can ask her,” he explained as he rose to his feet and brushed off his hands.

Suguru let his eyes wander over the seagulls outside. He was going to mock Satoru for being so pampered, but instead he said, “We could also go on your bike.”

“Cool, let’s go.” Satoru grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him outside through one of the window panels of a previous room and right into the garden.

They rode downhill, through the rough and slippery roads of Onna and, as usual, Suguru begged him to go slower. Yabai, Satoru was so reckless that sometimes he understood why his parents kept grounding him. He wondered if this was also not the same reason why the boy was so rebellious. He grabbed his shoulder to beg him to go slower, but he just chuckled. a cheeky flash of his blue pupils. The air was hot and humid, but the sea breeze played with his dark hair as they slid across the winding roads. He was pretty sure if they both survived a roll downhill on those barely paved streets with some scratches on their knees and maybe a broken bone — his mother would’ve killed him anyway for dragging the Gojo kid into that situation.

They reached the konbini he had been to a couple of times with his mom before. It was one of those small independent ones, belonging to a doubtful or non-existent franchise. The sun was glistening and their foreheads beamed with sweat as they placed the bike on the bike rack before dashing through the small automatic sliding doors. Satoru ran up to the aisles yelling at him, his trainers squeaking against the plastic floor, and asked what kind of drink he wanted. Suguru flinched and lowered his head, asking him to turn down his volume. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t help but hold a giggle as he seized a bottle of green tea.

“Suguru, get me a basket. You do have money, right?”

“Yeah, my mom gave me some. Told you so. She guessed we would want some snacks.”

A shrill voice startled them from behind.

“Hey, you can’t run in the aisles.”

Both turned around. Behind the counter, a short haired girl wearing a cap with the konbini logo stared at them. She placed some of her dark strands behind her ears. Suguru apologized as Satoru kept stocking items in the basket. He frowned as he counted the items. “I don’t know if I have that much money.”

They placed the basket in front of the girl, who raised a suspicious eyebrow at the amount and variety of mochi they had selected.

“You know, the grape ones are not that good,” she warned as she scanned the items.

“Isn’t there, like, an adult in this place?” Satoru joked, smirking meanly.

“Satoru,” Suguru whispered, without even thinking. “Don’t be rude!”

The dark-haired girl scowled at him.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Suguru elbowed him and apologized to the girl for the second time in less than a minute.

“What? We are buying lots of things from her shop and still she is telling us off?”

“I’m telling you off ‘cause if you break your neck in my grandparents’ shop, they will ground me until my next life,” the girl complained.

Satoru stared into her eyes. He did not apologize, and she didn’t do it either. It was like one of those silly staring contests from primary school. It was so stupid Suguru could not help but roll his eyes, sink his hands into his pockets and turn around.  Finally, he gave in, grabbed a peach-flavored Pocky packet and handed it over the counter to the girl, “This one is on us. An apology.”

She returned it to them.

“Put it back. I don’t need a bribe. Just don’t run. Also, I prefer the Oreo ones next time.”

“Who says we are coming back?”

The girl smirked and leaned towards Satoru over the counter. She was also smiling in a mischievous way, almost breathing on his face.

“We are the only konbini that sells that mochi brand in Onna, so, your call really.”

“Shoko-chan!” somebody screamed from the back. “Be nice to the clients! I can hear you!”

The girl, Shoko, turned back to them, who were giggling, snorting and exchanging glances.

“Yes, obachan, don’t worry!” she yelled back before lowering her voice and staring at both, “See you around.”

Satoru waved at her, swinging the plastic bags as he strode outside “See you around, Shoko-chan.”

Suguru didn’t hold back this time. They both burst into laughter as soon as they left the shop, before getting on the bike together.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

“This has to be a joke,” Satoru whined.

Outside, Suguru waited on the gallery, but he could hear the screaming perfectly well from where he was standing, the konbini bag dangling from his fingers. Wind brought the faint smell of sea salt, a refreshing break from the heat moist that clung to his skin. In the distance, muffled waves reached the shores as cicadas’ singing pierced the summer air. He counted the panels from the wooden floor, seeking some sort of distraction.

“I’m serious about this. Either you take her, or you are not going.”

“Why can’t she stay with Kiriko-san?”

“Because I told you already this is her night off and, we have plans. You were supposed to look after her.”

“Mooooom.”

“That’s enough, Satoru. You take Riko with you.”

Half a minute later, the glass panel in front of Suguru slid open with a bang and out stepped Satoru, with a deep frown and not a trace of a smile. Sweat beamed on his pale forehead, his white hair sticky due to humidity. Small steps followed him. A short, tiny girl with a dark braid came after him. Her loose khaki shorts seemed three sizes too big for her skinny legs, and Suguru could have said the same about her white Sanrio shirt. It hung from her bony shoulders, waving in the faint sea breeze that reached the garden gallery in the break of the sunset.

Satoru huffed and tilted his head dramatically.

“Suguru,” he said, as he glared at her and gathered his words to keep going, “this is my cousin Riko. She is staying with us tonight.”

The little girl stomped beside him. Suguru smiled softly and waved.

“Hi, Riko-chan. Nice to meet you. I’m Geto.”

The girl sneered at him.

“You are a boy? I thought you were a girl with that cow-licked hair.”

Satoru turned to her, nostrils flaring, his blue eyes glowering at her like the blue beacons of a runway.

“Riko!”

Suguru raised an eyebrow, so taken aback he had to pause and try to decipher what was the correct reaction to that comment was.

“What? Look at his hair. Looks like an emo. Is he like, your assistant or something? Doesn’t he live over there?” Riko gestured vaguely across the garden. “Satoru, tell him I want ice-cream. Strawberry ice-cream.”

“Stop it.”

Suguru wished he could vanish into thin air. His eyes darted from Satoru to the girl and back. He had words stuck in his throat; he knew he had to say something, but he couldn’t conjure up the right ones.

“Satoru, it’s okay, Riko-chan can…”

“Why are you calling me Riko-chan as if I you weren’t one year older than me.”

A fake, condescending smile shaped Suguru’s lips. The girl was, after all, a member of the Gojo family and he’d better remember his place if he didn’t want to cause any trouble for his mom.

“I’m not…I’m not an emo.”

“That’s enough.”

Based on how Satoru’s face contorted, his cheeks flushed red, and how he stomped his feet, Suguru thought the boy was about to implode. He raised his hands, in a meek attempt to intervene. It was like trying to separate two hissing cats.

Satoru dashed and snatched her by the collar of the shirt. Suguru stretched his own hand to grab him. A sudden heat flared up from his chest up to the tip of his ears. Why the hell was he doing that? Yabai. He was getting along better with Satoru but grabbing him like that... Instead, he gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Satoru, it’s okay. She can come along.”

“No, no, it’s not okay. I always end up babysitting her.”

“You are the one who needs babysitting,” she snarled, bolting away from Satoru. “You are just upset because you wanted to go to that stupid pajama party. Stop yelling at me!”

“You aren’t getting any ice cream!”

“Hey, hey, that’s enough you two,” Suguru finally snapped, placing himself between them.

Satoru frowned and huffed, as his lips became a thin line.

“Fine, but you,” he threatened, pointing at the girl over Suguru’s shoulder, “have to do as we say.”

Riko smirked — dark smile, way too severe for someone almost their age.

“I’m going to tell Mom and Auntie you are being mean to me.”

“You… you won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Riko stuck her tongue out to him. That was obviously the moment Satoru lost it. He dashed around Suguru, grabbed her by the waist ,and suddenly, the girl’s torso was draped over his back, as she was throwing the tantrum of her life.

“Let’s go!” he hollered, striding across the gallery and into the garden.

“Satoru, put her down!” Suguru demanded as he hurried after them.

The boy clicked his tongue as he crossed the grass.

Riko yelled and kicked so much Suguru was surprised nobody came to check on her. He briefly peered back toward the Gojo villa, but what they were doing didn’t seem to be of anyone’s concern.

He had no choice but to follow Satoru into the staff quarters. He hopped on one foot as he removed his shoes in the entrance to follow him and Riko. By the time he reached them, Satoru was already in the kitchen, talking to his mother. The girl stood by their side, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks while she sobbed quietly. Suguru stopped by the door frame and met her nervous stare.

“Of course she can have dinner with us. Do you like soba, Riko-chan?” His mom turned to her and knelt a little to meet her gaze.

Riko’s look fell onto the floor. A small, tiny nod.

“That’s it then! All settled for movie night. We’re having soba and some tempura. What else? Tea’s ready. You brought snacks, right?”

Satoru nodded with excitement, while his cousin just stayed there, frozen as a statue. Suguru moved closer to her, walking slowly, carefully so as not to upset her any more than she was.

“It’s alright. I’m sorry he was a bit rude to you.”

Riko averted her gaze from his, but he insisted.

“What would you like to drink?” He walked towards the fridge as he spoke. “We have cola, hojicha, water…”

A quiet voice replied behind the fridge door.

“Tea’s fine.”

The girl’s face was serious, her lips a line of indifference as his mom placed the bamboo trays in front of them on the table. Suguru’s mouth watered as he inspected the mountain of cold, grayish noodles his mother had placed in front of them. He giggled when he saw how Satoru frantically mixed the wasabi and the scallions into the sauce before dipping the noodles.

Suguru could tell by how quickly Satoru spoke during dinner, how he gestured to his mom and wolfed down the tempura, he was thrilled. Ironically, he seemed to have calmed down.

His demeanor always softened when he was with him and his mother. It was as if he were more grounded somehow. His outbursts were placated by his mom’s quiet, patient smile, and his reminders to mind his language, to be more considerate of others — even Riko.

He stared at his soba tray, the noodles, the tsuyu sauce and yakumi. His mind detoured, as he played with the sticks between his fingers, his gaze lost among the lines of the wood. Soba are pretty dull without the right seasoning and toppings, the same way those seasonings were too strong to be enjoyed on their own. Blended, however, they made an outstanding combination.

Riko, on the other hand, remained quiet and still. She played with her chopsticks, munching the noodles here and there, and poking at the shrimp tail left from the tempura on her plate. He almost felt sorry when he stood up, pulled her plate away from her and took it to the kitchen. When he asked her if she was feeling alright later, she just nodded. She was no longer teary, and her expression had returned to its distant, mildly aggressive state.

“So, what movie would you like to watch?” his mother asked as she placed the DVD box in front of them. Suguru grabbed it and placed it on his lap, just to avoid stirring up chaos between Satoru and Riko again.

“I wish you had Top Gun here.”

“Have you watched Porco Rosso?”

“I haven’t,” Riko intervened. Satoru raised an eyebrow at her and Suguru softly elbowed him. His halcyon blue eyes softened when it met his.

“Sure, why not?”

Voices quieted when the first scene — a red plane parked in a coastal cove — appeared on the screen. Riko’s eyes widened, her shoulders hunched as she witnessed how the sky pirates captured a group of schoolgirls. She turned to the boys.

“He is going to save them, right?”

Satoru rolled his eyes.

“Porco is the best pilot in the Adriatic Sea. Of course he is going to save them. Watch.”

Suguru shushed them.

“Don’t spoil it, be quiet.”

“Don’t spoil it? It’s your favorite movie. You’ve watched it ten times.”

Suguru smirked at him and snatched the packet of gummies from his hands with a mocking look.

“Do you know some people actually have the capacity to stay quiet?”

Riko giggled quietly, but when Satoru glared at her, she pretended nothing had happened and glued her eyes back to the small, old TV.

Watching movies with Satoru was anything but quiet. He couldn’t help but commenting on every single aspect, or bumping his shoulder and chuckling, while pointing at some joke or funny scene. The sea-blue spark in his eyes was contagious.

That was the first of many — oh so many — movie nights. They started with Porco Rosso and had a popcorn-bucket sessions every single night after that. It was always plane movies: Tora! Tora! Tora!, The Empire of the Sun, Ôzora no samurai and even Top Gun (when Satoru finally got another copy).

He usually talked a lot during the movies and normally that would have driven Suguru mad, but with him, it made the experience unique. So much so that, weeks later, when he returned to Tokyo and restarted movie nights with his family, he found himself wondering what Satoru would think of a scene, or what kind of joke he’d make. He discovered he secretly craved those moments — the way Satoru found the funniest remark at the perfect time, moments Suguru thought only he found funny until Satoru winked at him.

His lips curled every time he heard one of his stupid jokes, like he couldn’t help it. They would stay up until two or three in the morning, munching snacks and drinking soda, while pointing at the TV. Riko was sometimes there, and she was usually the first one to fall asleep without even noticing. In spite of all the complaints, Suguru discovered that when such scenario occurred, Satoru huffed, fetched a blanket and an extra pillow, and made sure she was comfortable. She would always ask about the ending next morning over breakfast.

Suguru didn’t notice what time it was when he fell asleep that first night. The next thing he knew was that his mom was gently shaking him awake, at some unnamed hour before dawn. He blinked and realized Satoru’s white head had dropped onto his shoulder, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Riko was curled up at the other end of the couch; the pale artificial light of the TV painting their faces in bluish hues. When his mother insisted he go upstairs, Suguru shook his head.

“I want to stay here, please.” Through the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of snowy hair. “Can I stay with them, please?”

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Chiba Prefecture. August 2018.

“Are you sure about this?” Yuta asked.

Satoru’s lips curled, his gaze still fixed on the highway, lampposts disappearing at flashing speed on their flanks. He didn’t hear him the first time. His attention was too scattered, half focused on the car’s SatNav, half focused on the music, which he had made sure was loud enough so he wouldn’t be able to think. He was too busy singing to Duran Duran and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked at Yuta over his aviator glasses.

“What’s up?”

“I said if you are sure about this.”

“About the lessons, you mean? Or the aero club?”

Yuta chuckled.

“Everything, really.”

“Kid, it’s totally fine. Chill. Shoko told me so,” he replied, hoping his cousin wouldn’t notice his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, or how tense his jaw was.

Shoko had not said so at all. Quite the opposite, really — but Yuta didn’t need to know that. He wouldn’t go into the details about the coffee they had shared last weekend and how Satoru had begged for the aero club address. Nope, he didn’t need to go in there.

“You want to do what? Are you insane?” she had asked him, lips parted in surprise, a smoking cigarette in hand as she leaned back in her chair.

Satoru fumbled over his half-eaten pancakes, glazed with whipped cream and chocolate sauce.

“C’mon, where else am I supposed to get a good flight instructor for Yuta?”

“Is the poor boy aware you’re using him as bait?”

“Bait? Shoko, seriously, who do you take me for?” he asked, pointing at his own chest dramatically and huffing.

“No one, since I can’t think of anyone more dreadful than yourself. Okay, let me get this straight. Suguru told you he didn’t want to meet, and your plan is to drop by his place, just like that?”

Satoru raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Did you leave your freaking common sense in London?”

“He didn’t say it… verbatim. Not, like, explicitly.”

Shoko brushed her hand over her face in frustration.

“Satoru.”

“You know Suguru — he sometimes needs…a little push to make up his mind.”

She sighed, and crushed her cigarette on the glass ashtray. Satoru kept fumbling with the wrecks of his pancakes, and his eyes were still fixed on the napkins when he said, “Please don’t tell him I’m going.”

“You know what? Do whatever you want. You’re going to do it anyways, like you always do, but when you get a restraining order, don’t call me crying. I’ll act clueless.”

“So… feel like sharing the address? Name? A hint?”

She genuinely glared at him; her dark wooden eyes pierced him.

“It seems your time abroad has hindered your understanding of the Japanese language because I said,” she climbed onto the table and voiced each syllable carefully, just on Satoru’s nose, “I am going to act clueless. Play dumb. Stay out. That entails not giving away any information, Gojo Satoru.”

He pouted, leaned backwards.

“You are being really unfair, you know? Doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

He had. It had taken him a lot of Googling and researching, but he had finally found it. Sato Aero Club. Chiba prefecture. One hour from Roppongi. His heart had started beating fast last night when he had called Yuta, lights from the PC screen blinding him in the dark as he checked the times on their website.

“Hey, I think I have just found you a good flight instructor.”

He recalled all the events as he took the off-ramp from the highway. He kept singing, the syllables in English comfortable in his tongue, like a second skin he wore to hide his true self, to hide Satoru from the world. He could manage Gojo though, but Satoru, the boy who dreamed of soaring the skies? He hadn’t been that person in so long. Pretense was all that was left. Even here, on his way to meet Suguru, he could still wear his second skin, he could still pretend. Especially now, he needed to wear the name of Gojo Satoru, the sterling aviator, the genius engineer, the Londoner. The reputation that rendered him untouchable. What else if not could protect him from what he was about to face?

Satoru didn’t know what had dragged him to the aero club. He wasn’t surprised though. Chase was as natural to him and Suguru as clouds were to the sky. True, he needed a flight instructor for Yuta, but there were other means he could have pursued. Simpler, cleaner. He did trust Suguru and whoever worked with him, even if he didn’t fly anymore. Still, he could have sent Yuta off with Ijichi. He could have called Keiko. He could have taken other paths that did not involve facing Suguru again.

The pull was still there, even after all those years. Satoru found it both terrifying and enticing. Why had Suguru chosen to fly them, if he did not wish to meet him? He had been the one to pull the red string first, the one to do an uninvited wing wave. What for? Just to play it cool and then reject him? So typical of his old friend, to tease, to touch and go instead of landing. Coward. He huffed as he turned on a back road; a small billboard featuring the name of the aeroclub signaled they were on the right track. His cousin asked him again if everything was going alright, and he just smiled and shrugged.

He convinced himself it was going to be alright. In the end, skies always cleared after a storm.

Satoru’s heart pounded in his ears like thunder as he drove into the parking lot. After turning off the car, he took a moment to study the warped outline of the white hangar against the blue horizon. He clapped his hands excitedly before grabbing his backpack and calling Yuta out.

Outside, the summer air was prickly. Wind caressed the tall, yellowish grass that rimmed the runway. Satoru could not see it, but he knew it was there. He could also catch the contour of a plane, he believed a Cessna, if his eyes were right, parked on one end of the airstrip. He was surprised to find everything so open. They walked a small path that led to a small back-office door. A disheveled ‘welcome’ sign hung on top of it.

Yuta called the door once, before adjusting his jacket again. Satoru studied the way he pressed his hands, how he stretched his fingers. He could tell he was nervous.

When nobody opened, Yuta looked at him again and shrugged. Before he could go for a second attempt, Satoru went ahead and tried the knob, which opened with a ‘clack’, and he pushed. He peered inside and discovered a small office. Bleached aeronautic calendars and postcards dangled from the peeling walls. It was clean though, and a soft smell of freshly made coffee permeated the air. From behind a heavy wooden desk, a pair of soft eyes raised to meet his. A tall, pink-haired woman in a purple dress stood up.

“Yes? How may I help you?”

Satoru pushed the door fully open, grabbed Yuta by the arm and dragged him inside. His blue eyes went wide as he was presented in front of the beautiful lady’s desk.

“Hi-hi,” he babbled.

“Good morning, I’m looking for Captain Geto Suguru.”

The woman, Satoru presumed a secretary, smiled and nodded gently in one of those artificial gestures.

“The Captain’s busy now, but if you wish, you can wait for him. It might take some time though.”

“Is he on a flight?”

The lady blinked. She seemed to be calculating her answers.

“Ehm, no. Actually, he is dealing with a technical problem in the hangar. I may announce you if you want.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you, Miss…”

“Suda. Suda-san.”

“Thanks, Ms. Suda.”

“Anytime,” another silly smile Satoru didn’t really like. It was one of those horrible customer-service rehearsed gestures. He just couldn’t do that, and he didn’t like people who could wear a mask so lightly. It was part of the kind of job she did, he assumed. “Shall I get you a coffee?”

“Yes, please. Extra sugar, extra cream for me,” Satoru requested as he sat cross-legged on a little plastic chair.

After Yuta convinced her that he didn’t need to drink anything, the lady nodded before disappearing into a back hall. The second she left, Satoru jumped off the chair.

“What? Satoru, where are we going?” Yuta looked both ways, as if terrified someone would punish them for what they were about to do.

Satoru smirked before winking at Yuta and approaching the door that led to the hangar.

“Well, if they’re dealing with some technical issue, I’m sure they could use an aviator, couldn’t they?”

Before his cousin could even respond, Satoru was strutting into the hangar. He inhaled the petrol-like stench of avgas, and beamed. Some places always felt like home. It was the familiar smell of bygone days, almost as intoxicating as the pristine silhouettes of the two Cessnas parked in one of the corners. He waved at Yuta to follow him, as he headed towards the airplanes, his anxious footsteps echoing against the metallic ceiling, the soles of their shoes adhering to the grease-drenched floor.

Satoru guessed which airplane was Suguru’s immediately. Only Suguru could have painted the outline of a white and green dragon on the flanks of an aircraft, its golden eyes crowning the nose of the plane. As a sort of confirmation of his suspicion, Suguru himself was standing in front of the aircraft — no fancy epaulets this time, just a navy-blue work overall, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, sinewy arms. The Seiko watch was also missing.

As soon as Satoru recognized his broad shoulders and his night-sky hair pulled back in a bun, his heart started banging against his chest. He bit his lip, upset at how telling and traitorous his body was. Why did he still melt like this — as if he were Icarus and Suguru the sun? He didn’t deserve his molten wings, and he wasn’t willing to give them away so easily.

Damn you, Shoko, he thought to himself. I can always find my way.

He turned to his cousin and waved his head towards the aircraft. The closer they got to the planes, the louder the roaring of the engines got.

“Hear that? That choking?” Yuta nodded. “It’s sputtering — something’s not feeding the engine right.”

“A mechanic and not avionics thing then?”

He clicked his tongue. “Sounds like fuel starvation to me,” he explained as he trailed his gaze over the upper cowling, which had been removed and tossed aside, so Suguru could inspect the engine. One of the wing caps had also been put aside. A head popped out the cockpit, long green ponytail dangling in the air and a severe pair of dark eyes.

“RPM’s needle is still dancing,” the girl shouted over the stammering of the engine.

“Pressure is still low?” Suguru yelled back before leaning down on the engine again.

It was only then that the girl seemed to notice them. She climbed out of the cockpit and ducked her head out. Yuta stopped and waved at her, but she frowned and adjusted her glasses.

“Excuse me? Who the heck are you?”

“What?” Suguru asked, deaf by the engine sputtering by his side.

“Sounds like you could use an expert hand,” he exclaimed, and Suguru turned to him.

Greasy smudges covered his gloves and arms, his forehead beaming with sweat, wild strands of his bangs falling uneven over his temples. Satoru wasn’t sure whether the smell of rain over hot metal came from the actual plane or from him. It was always hard to tell where Suguru ended, and where his plane started. A part of him supposed this was the case with all pilots, but how could he really tell? He was not pilot himself, but only a bystander.

Suguru opened his mouth, as if searching for words that didn’t quite seem to land.

“Satoru,” he just said finally, his eyes wide. He smirked in response. Oh, yes, now he would have his revenge. Suguru had had his fun surprising him out of the blue at Narita, hadn’t he? It was his turn to play cheeky now.

Still, muscle memory betrayed him. Satoru swallowed hard. His stomach dipped the way it does when an aircraft takes off, as if preparing itself for something extraordinary. Oh, the irony of it. Wasn’t Suguru something as extraordinary as the sight of sea from a plane window? No, not really. He was more like a starry sky at night, dark and sparkling, so beautiful it seemed endless. So beautiful it could consume you if you were not careful.

He nodded his head toward the fuselage.

“Nice pattern. A dragon, huh? That’s so typical of you.”

Suguru seemed to have regained his restraint.

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping you fix a sputtering engine, it seems.”

Satoru sank his hands in his pockets before heading towards the cockpit. The green-haired girl flinched when he propped himself into the cabin and started complaining loudly.

“Monkey, calm down, let him work,” Suguru’s voice said from outside.

“What does he even know?” she complained, and his lips curled into a cheeky smile.

“A thing or two,” he replied, before he stretched his hand to her, “You are his mechanic, right? Gojo Satoru, nice to meet you.”

She blinked, and her expression suddenly softened. Her eyes darted to Suguru, then to his cousin, then back to him.

“Gojo Satoru? Like the aviator?”

From outside, Yuta’s voice reached them. “He is the aviator.” There were beads of pride sewn to every syllable and Satoru couldn’t help but stretch his smile.

“You are kidding me. Is it really you? I must tell Inumaki. He’s going to kill me otherwise.”

“May I?” Satoru pointed to the display, and she quickly moved aside.

The girl cleared her throat as she adjusted herself in the cabin. She introduced herself as Zen’in Maki. When asked about her diagnosis on the matter, she described an issue with the fuel system. Though she looked a bit nervous, she managed to be technical and precise when explaining herself. He didn’t know how old she was, of course, but if he had to take a guess, he imagined she was around Yuta’s age. Young, but still incredibly savvy. Her strongest hunch, she clarified, was a clogged strainer. Exactly as he had predicted just from hearing the engine.

Oh, so she was a smart cookie. Suguru knew what he was doing. He had a good mechanic, of course. He was not even a bit surprised.

“You’ve got it all figured out, Maki.”

She crossed her arms, stretching her limbs on the small seat.

“We just need to check the strainer, because the fuel pressure is low. Could be the vent line.”

“I’ve got you, Monkey,” Suguru replied, crouching by the cowling. He pulled a thin wire from the toolbox.

A hiss of compressed air sizzled.

“That should do. Try it again, please.”

Maki turned on the engine again, her eyes steady on the gauge. Yuta, who had approached slowly up to that moment, climbed onto the door carefully and checked the panel himself too. She gave him a side look that—oh boy, Satoru himself would’ve perched down.

“We are working here,” she warned him.

“S-sorry,” he smiled and leaned backward a bit.

“Sorry,’ Satoru teased, “my cousin here is getting into aviation, and he is a bit curious.”

“I’m actually impressed,” Yuta intervened. The girl didn’t even look into his direction this time.

“Because I’m a girl, I assume?” she said mockingly. “Save yourself the compliment. I’m used to it.”

Yuta, incredibly, didn’t flinch. He laughed softly instead.

“Because you’re smart. I must admit I wouldn’t know where to start. That’s why I’m here, actually. I want to learn more about aviation and hopefully, be half as clever as you.”

She stared at him then, quickly, for the span of a few seconds and then focused back on the Cessna’s dashboard.

“Thanks, but it ain’t a big deal,” she clarified, dryly. “Just a minor issue.”

She remained serious as she inspected the jittering needles of the gauges, but Satoru still noticed the blush on her cheeks. As if to spare her from her despair, he inspected the engine instrument cluster and turned to Suguru, outside. “Pressure’s at 3 PSI now. Flows like a breeze.”

“Yeah, it’s good now,” she added.

“Vent was clogged; you were right,” Suguru replied, from the cowling.

They both climbed out of the cockpit then, their feet meeting the ground with a solid thud. Maki excused herself and insisted on calling Toge — apparently, he was their technician. Before heading to the exterior, she paused, her gaze wavering toward Yuta.

“Hey, you,’ she called him, “are you coming or what?”

His cousin raised his head, inquisitively.

“Sure,” he said, and by how high his voice was, Satoru could tell he was both excited and surprised. “I’m Yuta, by the way.”

“Well, Yuta, follow me. Be quick. I’m not slowing down for you.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” he said, quickly chasing after her.

Satoru watched them walk away before turning his attention to his old friend.

Suguru circled around the Cessna as he wiped his hands with a rag. Satoru liked this version of himself better than the one he had met at Narita last week. Here, he was less of a pilot and more like Suguru. No feigned smiles, no slacks, no epaulettes — just himself, covered in oil, sweat and dirt.

Yeah, no wonder why he liked this version better.

Satoru grabbed the upper cover of the cowling and helped him readjust it.

“Thought you said you didn’t fly anymore.”

Suguru tilted his head.

“I fly cargo.”

“Flying cargo and not flying are not the same thing, Suguru.”

Suguru let out a low chuckle as he adjusted the last Camloc.

“A man’s got to eat. I know that’s usually not a concern for you, but it is for the rest of us, so…” he leaned his full weight on the nose, pushing the panel, before running an expert hand along the cowling, with fluid precision, as he double-checked for gaps in every inch of the seams. Satoru’s eyes followed each motion; every movement made his pulse thrum faster. He had to remind himself to breathe. “…cargo pays the bills.”

His dark, narrow eyes met him then; the gleam of sweat catching the dim hangar lights.

“Besides, doesn’t the great aviator have better things to do than nose into my flight book?”

Air reached Satoru’s lungs. Thanks God, he was about to faint. He had to remind himself he hadn’t driven for one hour to Chiba just to punch Suguru in the face. Why did he always have to be this infuriating? Oh, but he could be worse. So much worse.

“Oh, sorry, forgive me for actually showing interest in your life, you know?”

Suguru took off the gloves and tossed them aside. He leaned on the cowling, ran his long fingers through his bangs.

“Why are you here, Satoru?”

“I know this is your business, and you run it the way you want but—’ he placed his hand on his shoulder, and Suguru raised an eyebrow, ‘—customer service is terrible, you know? Your secretary promised me a coffee. I mean, no snacks, no complimentary drinks. You could use a customer service department.”

Suguru brushed his hand off his shoulders and gestured vaguely towards the office. He followed him with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Good, he could still persuade Suguru into almost anything he proposed.

Ms. Suda didn’t look particularly happy when he reappeared in the office. A plastic grin all over her face, her eyebrow almost twitching. The plastic coffee cups for him and for Yuta were waiting on her desk.

“Ah, Mr. Gojo, I was wondering where you were.”

Oh, she was crossed. Satoru had to help himself, he wasn’t even sorry. Not if he had managed to help Suguru and Maki with the engine. He gave her a flashy grin before seizing the cup.

“Suda-san! I was looking for the toilet and got lost. Lucky me. Captain Geto found me.”

Suguru gave him look over his shoulder and then — there it was, just a blink, the shadow of his lips curling a bit upward. Satoru lowered his eyes, feeling victorious because even after all these years, even in spite of the oceans and continents that had kept them apart, he could still make him smile.

“Thanks, Manami,” he replied as he navigated his way into the office.

Suguru’s office was what Satoru had expected it to be. He was so predictable.

Everything was clearly organized: from the recently watered plant pots lined up on the windowsill, to the stash of papers on his dark, wooden desk. A half-drunk metallic cup rested next to his PC. The stench of sandalwood permeated the air and over the subtle aroma of freshly made tea. A smoky thread oscillated through air, the crimson flicker rising from an incense dish on the side table next to the window. An infinity of folder and files piled up below. Satoru’s gaze was captured by the shelf and the photographs that brightened the right wall. His eyes stopped at one of the picture frames.

Three people in the cockpit, a selfie. He knew it was a selfie because he had taken it. He recognized the plane, the wide beach behind. It was so strange to see a younger version of himself in those photographs, his hair all spiky and fluffy, especially because Suguru had been ruffling it before that; he remembered. Both their faces were rounder, softer. He still wore braces then, and Suguru’s hair was shorter. He had gotten neither the piercings nor the gauges at that time. Keiko, who hugged them from behind, remained timeless in the still too, her hair dark and long, and that dimpled smile she shared with Suguru. Even though he already knew what it said, he couldn’t help but read the caption she had written, inky kanji faded by decades of sun over the paper.

First of many flights for my flying boys. Love, Keiko

The ghost of a past life. How could sun and time have bleached away an instant once so bright, as intense as the blue sky? Satoru gasped when he noticed the object hanging from the wall next to the picture he had been inspecting

“No way. Is that our old glider? The Okinawa one?”

Suguru, who had found his place behind his desk and was marginally checking on the screen of his PC, looked up at him. Satoru turned to him.

“You kept it,” he said, the words slipping from his mouth like sand between his fingers.

“It’s a bit worn-out, though.”

“Worn-out? Dude, it looks like crap. We should fix it.”

Suguru just hummed, and a burning substance boiled inside Satoru. Right. He had forgotten that molten emotion that overcame him every time he decided to act like an infuriating imbecile and dismiss him. Sometimes he needed to remind himself that this was the same person who had ghosted him years ago. Why did he forget so easily? The bastard hadn’t even apologized. He was not going to question him, though. He didn’t have the stomach to hear those answers. Not know, another day, perhaps.

“Anyway, Yuta wants to learn to fly,” he explained as he made his way to the guest seat. He let out a cry of surprise and grabbed the cat from the seat. She blinked, blue eyes wide and open, and meowed. “Akari! You’re alive — and you’re a granny now!”

“Satoru, put my cat down!”

Satoru cocked his head and clicked his tongue.

“You mean, our cat.”

“Our cat? You haven’t seen that animal in the last ten years. What makes you think she is still your cat?”

“Thought we agreed to look after her together when we picked her up.” Akari meowed again and Satoru smiled, “See? She still remembers me.”

“That was ten years ago.”

“Has he looked after you well? Does he take you to the vet? Does he buy you treats?”

“Who are you — the pet social worker?”

Satoru sat down and placed the cat on his lap. Her purring vibrated against his thighs, as he rubbed the soft skin between her ears.

“I’m just kidding, Sugu, don’t be a killjoy. She’s lucky to have you all by herself.”

Suguru chuckled, low and playfully and gave a sip to the tea mug on his desk.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, no, no. Now you go on.”

“First you make a scene on my co-pilot, and now you are jealous of the cat.”

“I didn’t make a scene.” He grimaced, dramatically. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Suguru gestured vaguely over the desk.

“Well, let’s talk then. You ain’t leaving even if I call security.”

Satoru left out a bitter laugh before leaning back and crossing a leg.

“As if you had security.”

Suguru’s gaze darkened, and that shouldn’t have been half as enticing or pleasant as it was for Satoru. Boiling blood in his ears, his chest, his guts. God, his brain was a twisted place, wasn’t it? Only a cursed mind could find joy in the senseless pull-and-push that had tethered them both throughout the years.

“Careful, Satoru. I still run this place.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know you would personally drag me out of here if it was necessary,” he shot back, elated as anticipation bubbled up inside him.

Suguru dipped his head before sighing.

“For the tenth time, what do you want?”

 “I told you. I’m looking for a flight instructor for my cousin. You are the best pilot I know.”

“I’m no instructor and I don’t fly anymore. Besides, what’s the point? Teach him yourself. You are a better pilot than me, always were.”

“We were both great pilots, for the record. Also, I can’t. I haven’t flown in ages, honestly. Work in London is… I never have time. Plus, my license expired.”

He shrugged.

“Miguel’s actually an instructor. A certified one.”

Unsaid words died on Satoru’s lips, interrupted by his train of thought. The idea fell in his mind with a ‘click’, the way coins drop into vending machines. An engine was suddenly on, but not outside in the hangar. It was his mind, which was always chasing, always trying to take the leap, always taxing through the runway, ready to take off at the most minimal invitation.

He took in Suguru’s elegant features — his sharp jawline, his perfect nose, his dark almond-shaped eyes. Not that he could forget that face. He hadn’t been able to, not even when he’d tried again and again. Not even after swearing to himself he wouldn’t think of him anymore.

He saw himself walking through Kensington streets, his white bangs agitated by the cold winter winds, a mantra echoing his mind: “You live here now. It’s over, let it go. Let it go. What’s the use of it? Why do you do this to yourself?”

He had vowed to bury his old memories, a black box sunken in the middle of the sea.

Still, like a flight recorder, he replayed the scenes, the conversations from their youth over and over, in pursuit of the critical sequence. He tried to figure out when they had lost their direction on their way to heaven. It got harder every year, as memories dissipated like fog. Had he really said that? Had Suguru actually done that? Did he remember correctly?

Up to that day, and for summers and winters over the last decade, Suguru had been that for him. A poor-quality recording. A blanket of mist over a runway, evaporating with the first rays of sun. The vanishing pale contrails planes leave in the sky as they fly away.

He knew Suguru didn’t care. He wasn’t that stupid. Still…

“He is extremely professional and can help you with the paperwork if you want, either for you or Yuta…”

Satoru cleared his throat. He stopped mid-sentence.

“Actually, I changed my mind.”

“What?”

“I said I changed my mind. You are right. I do want to train Yuta myself.”

“Well, as I was saying, Miguel can help you go over a refresher’s…”

He shook his head, adamant. Akari leaped off his lap and Satoru took advantage of that to lean his elbows on the desk and come closer.

“It has to be you.”

His eyes softened for a second, a look he had only dreamt of. That was good. It confirmed his memories; it proved he was no madman. He had not dreamed it then, that once Suguru had once looked at him like that.

“I’m retired.”

Satoru pursed his lips. He wanted to smack his face, grab his chin, shake him to his senses.

“You are too damn young to be retired, old man.” Words felt funny in his mouth. They were almost the same age, still, he felt so old “Train me then and I will train him afterwards.'

“That’s going to take time, and you need to go back to London.”

He smiled. For the first time, he hadn’t said no.

“I have time. I can manage it for a few weeks. Considering I know my way around flying already, it shouldn’t take that long. A capable flight instructor could certainly cope with that time frame.”

Suguru leaned closer to the desk too.

“Are you testing me?”

“Why? You don’t feel capable, old man?”

“I’m younger than yourself, remember?” he almost whispered, sending shivers through Satoru’s spine.

“Age is an attitude,” he replied quickly, before his gut kept betraying him systematically. He stood up because his sense of control over himself was pathetic. An urge to move around, to walk, to do anything overcame him. He sank his hands in his pockets, so Suguru wouldn’t notice the trembling, “So, is that a yes or a no?”

“Let me think about it.”

“That means is a yes.”

“I said, let me think about it.”

“Knew you couldn’t say no to a good challenge,” he mocked, as he leaned against the door frame, his chin up, pointing to him in defiance.

“That’s not why I’m doing it, Satoru,” he said.

He turned back to him before grabbing the doorknob.

“Oh, is it not?”

Suguru was staring at him. Not just looking but staring at him the way sunflowers follow the sun in the sky.

“We made a promise, remember'?”

The gulp stuck in his throat. The air shifted; the floor dipped, as if he had encountered an air pocket mid-flight. He felt the sand on his bare feet, his ankles deep in salty, cold water. Purple sunset on the horizon. Suguru putting a balsa plane in his hand, holding it in his hand longer than necessary.

Right — the promise. The bet he had won. What exactly had he won, he wondered.

“I remember.”

Unfortunately, he remembered. Luckily, he remembered. He would always remember the way he remembered his name was Gojo Satoru, or the sky was blue and vast, his infinite hand forever reached towards him.

Chapter Text

Okinawa. Onna village. Gojo villa. Summer 2003.

“Listeeeeen to your heart!” Satoru screamed, his gaze fixed on the lyrics on the TV, his bare feet on the low table as he swung the deodorant he was using as a make-shift mic.

A popcorn kernel hit the back of his head. He turned to face the audience, his face contorted.

“Hey, respect the artist!” he shot back.

“Next singer!” Riko howled.

“Enough, Roxette!” Shoko complained. “It’s my turn!”

Suguru wolf-whistled at him in a mocking way and the three of them exploded into laughter. Satoru’s cheeks burned and pulled out his tongue before tossing the ‘mic’ to Shoko. He sank on the sofa and ignored his friend when he elbowed him.

“C’mon, Satoru, I was just kidding.”

“Yeah, learn to take a joke,” Shoko teased him, as she zapped through the CD’s repertoire, looking for the track she wanted.

Daily movies — or karaoke sessions, like the one they were holding that evening — involved daily snacks from the konbini and Shoko-chan had become a reliable provider. She had grown curious after their fourth or fifth visit and asked what they were doing with so much candy. One thing had led to another, and she had ended up going to a beach picnic with them the next day. At first, Satoru could only frown at her, but she turned out to be friendlier than he had initially thought. Like them, she was from Tokyo, but her mom’s family was from Okinawa, so she spent her summers in Onna too, helping her grandparents with the shop.

“So, is the big plane ready yet?” she had asked them that day on the beach, while embracing her legs as the three of them lay scattered around on the sand.

“Not yet,” Suguru mumbled, trying to speak and swallow a piece of egg sandwich at the same time.

“Fuselage is ready, and wings and tails too. It’s looking alright so far, but we are still missing the tow hook,” Satoru explained.

“Do you think you will finish it before you go back to Tokyo?”

“I hope so. We’ll fly it here on the beach.”

“Do you come here every year? I had never seen you before,” she said, sea breeze playing with her dark strands. Satoru nodded.

“Uh, yeah, but I don’t go out much.”

“Your house is the huge white manor on the cliff, right? So cool, I wouldn’t leave that place either.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

Satoru didn’t tell them. If he had said he hated that place, they would have stared at him. He didn’t say he usually took his Gameboy and his planes because he rather be inside his room, and he didn’t really care if it was there or in Tokyo. He didn’t say he never went to the beach because he always did it alone. His parents had their own separate schedules, which rarely included him. Not that it bothered him — he was used to it. The couple of times he had visited Manza beach last summer, he swam a bit and then sat on the grainy sand until he got cold, watching the waves eat up the sunset. Nothing but the screeching of seagulls, other children and their families’ distant voices along the shore. He didn’t know why, but he had returned to the villa feeling drained, hollow. Even a bit sad.

It was the last time he tried. Staying inside was better.

He didn’t tell Suguru that the pajama party on Porco Rosso night was his first one. He didn’t mention he had never had dinner at a friend’s house either. He didn’t want him to find out he was weird.

Because you know, the thing is, you need to have friends in the first place to get that.

Satoru didn’t have many friends at school, but that was mostly his fault. He was always getting into fights, and he usually got good grades. Unfortunately, he discovered very quickly that was a poor combination. Most people dislike you when you get good grades. Add a famous last name and a posh bilingual school environment and you have a recipe for disaster. No, Satoru didn’t like school at all.

Worst part was that he often felt people, especially his teachers and the other kids, had already decided who he was even before he stepped a foot on the classroom. He could do nothing. The bratty Gojo kid. The weird-looking, problematic Gojo. It enraged him, it got him so mad he often found himself daydreaming of ways to rile them up. At least, it made school days more bearable.

Now, he was far from school. Far from Tokyo. Far from everything. His parents rarely asked what he was doing. Here, he was just Satoru. He liked that Suguru only knew that version of himself. It was like being an entire new person, like being born again.

Satoru, who had pajama parties and karaoke nights. Satoru, who played baseball on the beach with his friends. Satoru, who talked about planes and assembled models with his best friend.

He thought best friends were things that belonged only to movies and manga. He scoffed at those who sat together at school and exchanged jokes, shared bits of their bentos or swapped Digimon cards. To be honest, he thought they were exaggerating it, faking it. He didn’t find most other kids interesting, and probably the rest couldn’t stand him much either.

Then, Suguru was unique. He never got impatient — yes, they could bicker and pester each other, but the moment it got heavier on Satoru’s shoulder, the moment it really got him, Suguru would tone down. He knew when to pull and when to push; it was an unexplainable instinct it to read Satoru’s energy like no one else ever could.

They loved the same things. Suguru never thought one of his jokes was silly. He said yes, every time Satoru suggested a plan, and did so with a discrete grin, as if it were the best plan he had been invited to.

Sometimes, when they were playing loud music and singing Roxette or Fleetwood Mac, as they glued MonoKote over balsa wings, Satoru just looked at his friend and wondered if he was real. Could you really feel they understood you without speaking your mind? Could you really sit next to someone without having to mold yourself into a softer, diminished version of yourself?

He always felt a peace of mind that reminded him of being suspended up in the air, a perfect state of balance. Everything he said would be welcomed by Suguru, even if he disagreed, even if he scolded him; deep down, he understood. Satoru needed to ask no questions, and he didn’t fully grasp why this came so easily with Suguru, but he knew it did.

He quietly wished that vacation weeks never ended.

It was also the first time he assembled a model with somebody else. Suguru was so methodical with his tools, the way he cut the MonoKote pieces and aligned them while poking out his tongue without noticing. Satoru was more…frantic. He got so excited he wanted to get over it as quickly as possible

Still, that excitement often led him to creative paths, to glue things where they didn’t belong. Touching things which were not supposed to be touched was Satoru’s specialty. He loved to design, to mold, to bend, to go beyond the box of expectations. Suguru, who was a natural follower, was often taken aback by these impromptu decisions.

“That’s actually brilliant,” he said one night, whilst inspecting how Satoru had added washout to the wings to aid stability. “You’re a genius”

He clicked his tongue.

“Of course I am!”

Suguru huffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m being serious. Your models are always so good. You should build real planes when you grow up.”

He let out a chuckle as he held the recently added ailerons in place, so they would glue properly. Suguru’s fingers were coated in glue, as he was doing the same thing the opposite wing.

“I’d rather fly them.”

“Well, maybe you can do both. First you design them, then you fly them. Somebody has to test them.”

“Or maybe, I can make the planes, and you can test them for me.”

“Anytime,” he smiled, and Satoru couldn’t avoid staring at the dimples next to his mouth. “We would make a great team.”

“We would.”

Satoru knew he was difficult, everyone kept telling him he was, so obviously, there was something wrong with him. Still, sitting there with Shoko to his left and Suguru to his right he felt different. Best part was that he wasn’t trying to act different as he sometimes did for his parents or at school. He was still whiny, volatile even, but they didn’t seem to care.

That night, after they got tired of singing, Shoko went back home — it was only a couple of blocks walk — and Riko ended up snoring next to them, as usual. Satoru slid in front of the couch, the remains of the popcorn bucket on his lap. His fingers were sticky with caramel; his mouth was sickly sweet with so much sugar.

Shy droplets hit against the glass panel, a dark sky peppered by clouds in the distance. No seagulls, no distant whistling from the ships. Suguru sat by his side, his head dropped backwards. His eyelids were beginning to droop. Satoru let out a long yawn. 

“You’re going to fall asleep first,’ he teased him. Suguru gave him a drowsy look.

“I don’t think so, you are the one yawning.”

“Says the one who’s struggling to keep his eyes open.”

“Is everything always a fight with you?”

“Well, at least you never get bored.”

They both laughed softly. Satoru wasn’t sure what prompted him to say the next thing he said.

“I don’t want to go back to Tokyo.”

“Me neither.”

 He cleared his throat. He wanted to say something, yet he wasn’t sure what it was.

“Do you miss your home?”

“A little bit. I miss my sisters. I wish they could have come. Same as my dad.”

“I wish I had siblings too,” he admitted. “Maybe you can have a holiday all together.”

“Maybe. We don’t travel much.”

Satoru chuckled.

“Funny, thought your mum could fly you anywhere.”

“I know, right? Well, it’s her job. Besides, my dad works a lot. He is actually in Nagoya most of the time.”

“Nagoya?”

Suguru nodded.

“He only catches the train back on weekends. My parents work a lot really. We spend most time with my gran.”

 He nodded. Suguru’s words were…different. His voice had shifted. They talked a lot, but he had never heard him speak like that before.

“The thing is I want to go to aviation school, and it’s expensive. Very expensive.”

Satoru nodded. He sometimes forgot he didn’t have to worry about those things. He was lucky, he often complained about his parents’ always being busy, but he sometimes wondered if he was ungrateful. He could just pick things he liked. “My mum says she was lucky to become a pilot in America because it’s cheaper over there, but here… They are saving up for me.”

“Don’t worry, Suguru. You are going to find a way to become a pilot.”

Suguru looked at him. His bangs framed his dark eyes, and Satoru wondered if they had always been so deep. His lips curled, his eyes found Satoru’s, and his smile widened. A true, big one. He really had one of the most beautiful and heartfelt smiles Satoru had ever seen.

“Sure, I know I will. There’s still a lot of time for that.”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Sato Aero Club. Chiba prefecture. August 2018.

“Okkotsu, right?”

With his backpack dangling from his shoulders, Yuta smiled and extended his hand to Miguel for a shake. Satoru observed everything from a safe distance, waving discreetly at Suguru’s co-pilot only when their eyes met. He didn’t seem particularly excited to see him and Satoru couldn’t blame him. Still, he trusted Suguru enough to rely on his reference. If he said Miguel would be a good instructor for Yuta, he believed so.

They had agreed he could learn the basics from him and from Maki, whilst Satoru went ahead with his refresher’s course. Miguel would teach him about flight, and she would guide him through functioning and mechanics. He was feeling relieved after seeing his cousin chat with her and with Toge earlier that morning, as they drank tea next to the office door.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Maki nodded a quiet ‘hi’, as she walked past him.

“Look after my boy, Maki, will ‘ya?”

She stared back at him, her lips upwards.

“He better help to get the plane ready.”

Satoru gave another long sip to his Sakura-flavored latte. He winced and looked at the plastic cup. Even he could go overboard with sugar sometimes. After dumping the cup into a nearby bin, he strode outside, the blanket of morning sun warming his shoulders. Tall grass was singing, light breeze threading its playful fingers over it. A bird sang in the distance as Satoru strolled towards the white Cessna.

Now that he could take it in under the sun, the dragon pattern on the aircraft was indeed gorgeous. Sun ripped rainbow sparkles from the flanks. Turquoise and gold churns covered the fuselage. Long whiskers and swirling golden eyes crowned the large head on the cowling. It was a work of magnificent beauty.

He suspected Suguru had painted it himself. He always had that artsy side. When they were kids, it was usually him the one gently airbrushing bright yellows over wood, painting blue circles and white lines on stencils. He had these delicate hands, you see, which despite having long and thick fingers seemed perfect to cradle a bird, to cup a cheek, to wipe a tear. He would irk when Satoru teased him by poking a finger to his cheek, and he got something slightly wrong. He laughed remembering how flustered he would get, complaining that he now had to start all over again. 

Satoru adjusted his shades and sighed. Skies were clear. It was a perfect day, so gorgeous it seemed to belong to the past.

Blue was all encompassing, a mirror of Satoru’s eyes. Over his aviator glasses, he stared into the blurry horizon over the airstrip, playful scattered clouds swirling on azure canvas. It always mesmerized him, the sky. It hung there, perpetually by his side. So beautiful, yet so unreachable, a warm, observant blanket of limitless beauty. The more you ran — or flew — into it, the further it got, like an ungrateful lover. Still, what would have been the use, the beauty of reaching for something and seizing it instantly?

With the passing of years, Satoru had discovered he was a seeker. He lived for the perpetual hunt, flying into the blue distance in pursuit of that beyond his limits. He chased after things that were impossible or nearly impossible to catch. Things that smarter people would have given up on. Satoru couldn’t help himself. He chose a strange and tough career when he could have comfortably sat in the chairman’s seat in his parents’ company. He yearned for someone who had long forgotten him. He decided to live in a foreign country and master an odd language just because no challenge was too big for Gojo Satoru.

Well, that was not entirely true. It had been one of the two reasons.

The other one was leaning against his Skyhawk, watching at his Seiko watch. Corded arms folded over his ample chest, brows knit together in worry. Waiting for him.

Even though Suguru had rejected him twice, there he was. He didn’t feel particularly victorious at that, but just relieved. He breathed in and started walking towards his Cessna.

Indeed, Satoru was a seeker, but who could blame him? Even below all the layers of ego that wrapped around him like bandages, he was still human, and a human heart will always yearn for that which cannot possess.

•───────•· ᯓ ✈︎

Suguru circled the plane for the eighth time, its white frames blinding under the sun. Satoru was certainly arriving late, as usual. His heart was banging against his ribs like a trapped bird because he was supposed to fly with someone else again. Keiko’s messages were not helping either. He slid the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen again.

[7:23] Mom: Hey, sweetie, how are you feeling today?

He bit his lip before scrolling down. Even though this was not chemo week, he should have been the one asking.

[7:23] Mom: Did you call Dr. Takeda?

[7:24] Mom: I can call him for you if you want.

Suguru ran his hand over his face before leaning on the cold metal of the fuselage. A certain paralysis crept from his feet — that ghost feeling that he was trapped in his own body, in his own life as if it belonged to somebody else. He would have loved to have enough drive to call his therapist, or to tell his mother he absolutely abhorred the idea of going back to meds. Either would have been fine because at least Suguru would have been able to decide, instead of holding.

His fingers started tapping on the screen.

[7:25] Me: I’m great😊

[7:25] Me: haven’t called him yet.

[7:25] Me: I’ll call him this weekend.

The phone vibrated again before he could keep listing things he didn’t intend to do. She was still online and that made it somehow worse, the lie felt more blatant, as if he was spitting nonsense on her face. Nothing new. Lying to Keiko had become a whole habit of his.

[7:26] Mom: Promise?

He looked at the screen, lost in the blinking cursor. His eyes grew watery, and he wished he were stronger just to shoot off a quick ‘yeah mom, don’t worry’ and toss the phone in the depths of his backpack as they went on flying.

Yet he stalled, over and over, stalled and plunged. He just gave her a thumbs-up reaction emoji before putting the phone away.

He cleared his throat as he saw Satoru coming near him. Caressed by a gentle breeze, his hair floated over his head like a frosted crown. He wore that dorky, stupidly stunning smile like a shield. Bright blue energy that could tilt the world. Well, at least Suguru’s world.

How could he still smile at him? Suguru wanted to scare him off — to throw a brick or a stick at him, the way you would when a stray dog is following you, but you are afraid your stupid love might pull it away from the house they truly belonged to.

That’s why he preferred cats. Blindly loyal, dogs would chase after you to the world’s end. Even if you were a shitty owner and didn’t deserve it. Especially if you didn’t deserve it.

Satoru patted his shoulder; grin still plastered on his handsome face as if it were his birthday. In spite of the warmth that bathed Suguru, he was already regretting having said yes to him.

After Satoru had harassed him with messages, emojis and rings after a full week, he had finally given in and promised him a trial flight and that was it. Just a couple of hours up in the air. He had flown that with Satoru dozens of times; he could certainly do it one more time.

One flight. One single stupid flight. Two hours airborne. He could do it. He would do it.

Suguru knew he was a maniac with flight pre-checks — he had reasons to be so — but Satoru had done well during pre-flight, which surprised him. Pre-check had never been his cup of tea when they were kids: he was always anxious to get started, and dive into the sky. Back then, Suguru was the methodical one, the one who grabbed him by the hem of his  sweater and begged him to be careful, to make sure everything was safe before take-off.

“I’m only doing all of this shit because otherwise you’re going to go mad,” Satoru warned him.

He had to swallow a chuckle then because, when had Satoru ever wasted a chance to rile him up? He could pester him and Miguel and everybody else in the hangar as much as he wanted, but he wasn’t an idiot. There was a very clear line between being cocky and being idiotic, and Satoru knew when to draw it. Usually. Sometimes.

Satoru’s expertise became evident during pre-flight checks. He turned on the switches, the lights. Checked the fuel gauges, lowered and inspected the flaps. He examined the cowling, the fuel and oil tanks. He inspected the front exhaust, the nose, the propeller, wings, ailerons, struts. Every hinge, every lock, every single corner of the Cessna. He did everything by the book, which was certainly surprising coming from Satoru. He danced around the plane so swiftly, so smoothly, as if his last flight had not been ten years ago, but yesterday.

Suguru very much doubted he had actually been that long without flying. Satoru surely had friends, select people to go flying with to the Isle of Man, over green fields and white cliffs in England, soaring murky skies. He bet it was even easy to fly to the continent from London.

He probably flies better than you do, why do you think there’s anything you could teach him?

Suguru swallowed the lump of nerves in his throat. It tasted of sea salt, clammy sand and blood. Bitterness drenched in death. He was hearing the roar of sea waves and the pelicans again.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

“Oh, man, I missed this,” Satoru said, bumping on his shoulder. “Day’s fantastic, look at that sky.”

Suguru turned to him slowly and nodded. It took him so much effort to just move his neck, not to mention how stiff his fingers felt. He had this poor and unstable command over his limbs, as if he couldn’t quite control his own body. Clouds moved slowly around them, the circling of the propeller caught his eyes like an infinite swirl, an Uzumaki-like vortex he couldn’t look away from, the buzzing in his ears…

“You good, Sugu?”

He nodded again, with more energy. Better acting. A truer lie. Move. Do something. His hand came to his neck, he adjusted the neckband of his shirt, and then carefully, the headset, tugging in dark strands that were in the way.

“I’m just a bit tired. It’s the summer stress.”

“Lots of work, uh?”

“Kind of.”

It was such an irony that up in the air Satoru seemed more confident than he did. He was the flight instructor. He was supposed to be the one in charge, the shoulder Satoru could lean on, even now. Yet, he was there, quiet and breathless, his hands shaking on the yoke. He tried to suck up more stuffed air from the cabin. There was nothing to worry about, not really. Takeoff had been uneventful, and now they had reached a stable altitude. He could let Satoru play around a little bit.

Satoru was so lanky and tall that he had issues contorting his body into the Skyhawk’s cabin. Suguru readjusted himself in his seat, and his left knee slightly brushed Satoru’s right one. His fingers tingled, as if they didn’t belong to the control wheel but somewhere else.

“Your plane’s really cool. How long have you had it?”

“Like three years.”

“It’s like the one we used to rent in Okinawa”

“Well, the Skyhawk is a very popular model. Easy to fly, simple display.”

Satoru stretched his arms, his yoke idle. It was fine, Suguru was the one in command at the moment anyway. His hand brushed the roof of the cabin and slowly landed on the backrest of his seat, his fingers slowly caressing Suguru’s shoulder, ruffling the hairs on his nape.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, was he really pulling that stupid move. How old was he? Fourteen again?

The worst part was Suguru had nowhere to go, nowhere to run from his stupid attacks and chases. His expensive musky perfume was all over the cockpit. God, he needed to keep his hands busy with something. He gripped the yoke with sweaty palms, struggling really, really hard to ignore all the blood draining away.

“You could do this perfectly on your own, you know?” he snapped, just because he felt like a cornered animal.

 “Yeah, but I will always rather do it with you by my side, Captain, you know. Just in case.” Satoru leaned even more, so much so he could see his eyelashes and his bright blue-sky eyes behind the shades. “How about the aero club?”

“What about it?”

“When did you take over?”

“My mom started it long time ago but yeah, I started managing it in 2013 or so.”

“Cute name, by the way.”

Suguru frowned and stared at him briefly, his gaze divided between the horizon and Satoru’s chiseled features. Honestly, he wasn’t paying attention to his ramblings, especially since he needed to focus on the controls.

“Did you really think I was not going to notice? Sato Aero Club?”

His shoulders stiffened involuntarily.

Suguru had plunged into an air pocket and all air had sucked him in. He opened his mouth to reply, which took way longer than he would have liked. The fact his cheeks were burning red wasn’t helping matters. God, why did he have this sort of mental and emotional regression? Why was he acting like a child?

What if he had, indeed, re-named it after him? What about it? What if he needed a little something to push him through dull days, a part of Satoru’s name blended into his life? It was not like he was going to admit it out loud — it didn’t matter. Satoru was just playing with him. He was a swallow, coming and going between oceans. He belonged to the world, not to him, and needed no tie-down anchor to tether him to his aero-club or to Japan.

“Jezz, do you want to stop giving yourself that much importance?”

Satoru dropped his head backwards dramatically, his laughter reverberated through the small cabin, vibrating in Suguru’s bones. His Adam’s apple bobbled up and down, and his long white neck invited Suguru to think. To recall. To yearn. To desire. It was as white as canvas, waiting to be painted, stained by expert hands. He grabbed the yoke more steadily and fixed his gaze on the clouds. Breathe in Suguru. It’s just a flight. Just a flight.

“Can I give it a try, Captain?” Satoru asked and he agreed. This situation was incredibly odd — so familiar yet so distant, as if he were living moments belonging to a past life.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m always ready. You should know that.”

Suguru pushed his arm away and let the yoke go. He nodded to Satoru. “You have flight control now.”

He took it all in, observing how his long fingers circled his own yoke now. His entire demeanor had turned, his halcyon eyes becoming one with the sky, as if there was nothing else except for Satoru, the plane and the heavens. Suguru would have lied if he had said he didn’t like looking at him. A secret guilty pleasure of his since they were kids. Ghost fingers ran through the file cabinet of his memories: Satoru’s milky legs kicking the sand on the beach; Satoru eating watermelon with him on the engawa, juices dripping from his chin; Satoru’s eyes brimming over freckled cheeks as he stared into him at an airport.

Suguru forced himself to swallow and proceeded.

“Let’s try stalling.”

“Stalling? That’s too easy.”

“Would you please stop fumbling and focus on the damn flight?”

“Okay, okay. Alright, alright. Let’s clear the area first.”

Suguru studied him as he checked airspace was clear before starting. Normally, he wouldn’t have felt comfortable yielding control of his plane to someone else. His Rainbow Dragon was his and only his; unless there was an emergency and one of his colleagues absolutely needed an aircraft, Suguru was adamant about not lending it. Still, Satoru was a brilliant pilot and expert aviator, who still felt like an extension of him. Letting him lead them through the skies came as second nature.

“Do you remember how…?”

“Who do you think you are talking to…?” he replied with a grin, as he tilted the nose upwards.

“Be careful because the angle of attack of this plane…”

Suguru knew his plane and its limits, so he didn’t get surprised when the nose plunged and, now they were looking at the yellow fields instead. Satoru yanked the yoke back quickly, too quickly.

“Shit, I’ve got it.”

“Slowly, Toru, slowly and smoothly.”

“The wing is dropping.” His tone was flat, but Suguru didn’t miss the way his breath was hitching.

“Relax. You can do it, c’mon. Just hold the attitude.”

Satoru’s blue gaze was pure concentration as he hissed and regained control of the situation. When the horizon had turned azure again and wings were perfectly aligned, he searched for his instructor’s eyes, and Suguru didn’t even try to hold back his smile.

“Really good job, Satoru.”

He clicked his tongue.

“It was a bit rough on the edges.”

“It’s only the first day, give yourself some credit. You’ll do better next time.”

Satoru added slowly, his voice tainted by a hint of shyness.

“So, there will be a next time, then?”

Suguru wanted to bite his tongue. He hated his stupid cheeks that hurt so much from grinning. Was he that weak to Satoru?

Yet, when was the last time he was able to smile, truly smile and be at ease in a cockpit? A tiny victory — like getting the toy you craved from a Gashapon machine. It wouldn’t change your life, but it was still a win. He could also give himself a break and enjoy it for today. He stretched, left his hands rest as the sunlight warmed his skin. It had been ages since someone had flown him around. It felt nice, like being cradled. Like being held after a good cry.

“So, what now?” Satoru insisted. Then, with a freakish wild smile on his face and the sole purpose of upsetting him, he added, “Lemme do an Immelmann.”

“Are you insane? Don’t even think about it.”

He turned to him for a second, his pleading heavenly gaze seeking his approval.

“Don’t look at me like that. Eyes on the damn front, Satoru. Just keep it stable.”

They spent a good hour and a half or so trying basic maneuvers. Satoru recalled the theory, mostly. Execution was his major issue. He lacked delicacy; his movements were too forceful when he jerked the yoke from one side to the other. Besides, he sometimes got too lost in the instruments as well and Suguru had to remind him to steer his eyes away from the gauges.

“Hey Suguru?” Satoru asked after a while.

“Hm?”

“Shall we play some music?”

“You need to stay focused.”

He huffed dramatically as he fetched his iPad from his jacket, to Suguru’s disbelief. He opened his mouth to complain but he was already complaining instead, of course.

“No soundtrack? Man, you’ve always been boring but now you are plain awful. What did they do to you in that horrible flight school? Did they remove your brain and replace it with somebody else's?”

Suguru grimaced and cast a sidelong glance, his brow arched.

“You need to stop watching those weird horror movies.”

“How do would you know what kind of movies I watch?”

“I know you well enough. Did I guess correctly?”

Satoru whined and bumped his knee, playfully.

“C’mon. Let’s play some bangers.”

Suguru didn’t quite register what he did next until after he had done it, as usually happened between him and Satoru. Without removing his eyes from the front, he seized Satoru’s kneecap and kept it still. He rubbed his palm against the fabric and pressed his thumb against the soft tissue of his inner thigh.

“You’re a fucking nightmare of a passenger; did you know that?”

He wasn’t angry when he spoke, he didn’t think he came off as threatening, or even as sexy. He just said it, as you say good morning when you arrive at the office or thank you very much when you leave a shop.

It was effective enough, though.

Satoru might as well have died on the spot. He went stock-still immediately, his breathing no longer audible. Suguru added a bit of pressure to his finger, feeling the rough texture of his jeans and the tender flesh below.

“Everything alright, Gojo-sama?”

“Shut up.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that to your captain.”

“I hope we fucking crash.”

Suguru’s chuckles turned sour, and suddenly he was spiraling, sinking in the depths of a bottomless pit. Wet sand stuffed his throat, salty water bubbling from his nostrils. That brief, beautiful ray of light he had brushed for a second had vanished. He was spiraling into a storm again.

How foolish of him, to believe broken wings could be repaired so easily.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” he muttered, his voice so low he thought Satoru didn’t hear him.

“It was a joke; in case it wasn’t obvious.”

What Satoru said then no longer mattered because all Suguru could feel was a stabbing sensation, as if someone had plunged a screwdriver between his ribs. He swallowed, tasting salty water.

“We should land. We’ve been up here for a while.”

“We could…”

“I don’t want us to run out of fuel. Let’s head back.”

He wasn’t sure how much time went by after that strained interaction. He left Satoru land with a bit of guidance, but he didn’t tell him much else apart from technical instructions. His landing was a bit bumpy, but acceptable. Sun was up and it was around noon when they crossed the runway and walked lazily towards the hangar.

“Same as always?” Satoru asked him when he was about to head into the office.

He turned and saw him standing in front of the vending machine — the newly repaired one Satoru had no idea he had paid for. He just nodded and Satoru produced two cans. Metal was cold when his fingers gripped it.

“It’s kind of hot here,’ he told him, as he cracked the peach soda open, “We could go to my office.”

Satoru’s blue eyes danced over the sticky floor, he played with his foot, in a sort of nonchalant way. “Lead the way then.”

The aircon in the office was a soft welcome when Suguru slid the door open. Akari mewled at him as he held the door open for Satoru.

“So,” he said, closing the office door behind him, leaning his back on it while Suguru circled his desk and seized Akari from his seat, “see you next week?”

Suguru placed the can on the corner of his desk and met his halcyon gaze. He knew what he was doing. The prerogative he was asking for. He was stretching the seconds, chasing after the infinite delay of the moment they parted ways. Suguru had lost count of how many times they had played that horrid game over the years. He was too worn out by the flight to say anything.

“When are you going back to England?”

“A couple of weeks from now. I still have plenty of time.”

Suguru gave another long sip to his soda. “I don’t know if it’s enough time to get any significant advances…”

“Then let me come on Friday. Double lessons. I can come.

“Aren’t you super busy with lessons and Airbus, and everything?”

Satoru tossed his empty can into the bin. “I can make time. I really want to.”

Suguru breathed in, wishing it were easier. Everything, really: lying to his mother, saying no to Satoru, flying. He didn’t even know where to start. When he raised his gaze, Satoru’s sky eyes were cloudy, yet not stormy. There was still hope for skies to clear.

“Friday at eight, like today. Don’t be late.”

Satoru’s lips twitched, as if he was hesitant, reluctant to let that smile see the world. Maybe he was afraid he would scare his flight instructor again. How could he blame him? He was as elusive as a ghost.

“I won’t, promise. “

Satoru excused himself saying he was busy, and he didn’t push further. Not even when a crippling sensation started to ache in his chest, and intensified as he saw him pick up his jacket and wave him goodbye. His heart was hollow enough already, so it was easy for it to find its cracks and poison him.

“Oh, I bought some paint, by the way,” Satoru announced, as he adjusted his shades.

“Huh? What for?”

He tilted his head towards the right wall.

“The glider, I got some paint.”

He nodded, and again, his tongue acted on his own before he could think of what he was saying.

“Cool, bring it over next time, then.”