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“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Nanami hears the anguished moan behind him, and his mouth twitches in spite of itself - misery likes company, as they say, and the individual behind him is quite certainly miserable. He can’t even blame them - the border control queue is taking entirely too long. He should really go talk to someone.
“I- I’m so sorry, do you speak English?”
A question this time, targeted directly at him, from the shadowy figure in his periphery. It would be in poor taste to ignore it. He heaves a sigh and turns.
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“Oh, thank fuck,” comes the responding gasp, and the waves of relief coming off you are so strong that Nanami is compelled to sigh again. “Sorry. Language. Um, do you mind me asking when your flight is? Just ‘cause my gate closes in 20 minutes and we’ve been here for like an hour, and I guess what I’m trying to say is do you mind watching my bags while I talk to someone?”
You’re - pretty. Quite obviously panicking, considering your bug eyes and your hands trembling on your suitcase, but you’re fresh-faced and about a head shorter than him and looking so helpless that he feels all his rationality go out the window. Nanami feels himself swallow and decide to bite.
“I think we might be on the same flight. Mine closes then too. Are you going to Tokyo?”
“Yes,” you say breathlessly, and laugh. “Wow. Okay, great! I’ll go talk to someone. We’re gonna miss it if we stay here-“
“It’s all right,” he interrupts. You fall silent quickly, confusion colouring your features. “I’m a lot bigger. It’ll be easier for me to get through this crowd.”
“Right,” you say after a brief pause, “yeah. I’ll - I’ll look after our stuff. Good luck.”
He looks down at you and nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and sees your eyes widen imperceptibly. Good. Nanami knows he’s attractive, but it’s a much more satisfying feeling when someone like you knows it too.
He ducks under the barriers and makes his way to the nearest airport employee. It doesn’t make him feel guilty when he uses his cursed energy to create a buffer around him, parting people left and right. He’s got something to do.
The employee proves useful. “Normally we couldn’t allow it, but…” He takes in Nanami’s towering height, the severity of his jawline, the cold glint of his glasses, and seems to dismiss any and all training he’s been given. “You can go to bay 8.”
“I’ve got someone travelling with me.”
“Yeah, yeah, bring them over,” says the poor employee. “Just go to 8. Safe flight.”
Nanami turns, sweeping his eyes over the crowd, and finds your gaze locked onto his. You’re looking anguished again, but when he inclines his head in invitation, a smile like the burning sun breaks across your features. He feels himself lose his breath, and he has to turn away so he doesn’t have to watch you bend and slip through the queue on your way to him.
You’re there in seconds, smiling a little embarrassedly, his suitcase and yours in either hand. “You’re an angel. Seriously, an angel, you know that? Thank you so much.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, taking his luggage from you, and trying not to twitch when his fingers brush yours. “Go ahead.”
You grin at him again, so gratefully, and do as you’re told. He hears you greet the border control employee, hears you tell her to have a nice day, and then you’re through the doors and waving at him. You pause for a moment, glancing his way, but your resolve seems to harden when you check your phone. “See you later,” you mouth through the glass, he lifts his hand in goodbye, and then you’re gone, sprinting down the corridor like a bullet.
The border control woman doesn’t seem to like him nearly as much as she liked you, demanding all sorts of redundant questions and scowling at him, so that he’s held up another several minutes. You’re long gone by the time he finally makes it into the corridor, and he makes it onto the plane by the skin of his teeth. You’re nowhere to be seen. Maybe you wheedled your way into faster boarding.
He’s at the very back of the queue by the time he makes it into the damn vehicle, jostled by a family in front of him and a family behind, and when he finally sits down it’s with the weariest of sighs. He scrubs a hand across his forehead. At least he’s made it. Maybe he can sleep off some of the journey.
“Look who it is,” comes a laugh from the window, and Nanami finds you seated, smiling and shrouded in morning sunshine. “Glad you made it. What’s your name?”
The edges of his mouth turn up. “I’m Kento.”
“Kento, I owe you my life,” you say, and tell him your name. “That was crazy. I almost ran over some toddler trying to get to the gate.”
“Manslaughter probably isn’t the best start to a journey,” he intones, leaning his head back and looking down at you. He sees your eyes flicker to his jaw and back again, but then you laugh.
“Mm, probably not,” you sigh happily, and copy his action. He can see the expanse of your neck from under your headphones. You have a little mole in the middle of your collarbones.
“What are you doing in Tokyo?”
“I live there,” he responds. “What about you?”
Nanami finds out quickly that you’ve just graduated, you’re doing some kind of internship at a magazine, and you’re going to be in Tokyo for the forseeable future. Your Japanese isn’t great, you tell him, but you’re taking classes. You’re not illiterate - this you inform him with pride - but the concept of kanji escapes you completely. He chuckles at that, and doesn’t miss how your face goes a little pink.
“Kanji is … difficult,” he agrees. “You’ll get there, though. I have a student who’s lived in Japan all his life and he still can barely read it.”
Your face lights up in surprise,
“You’re a teacher?”
and suddenly the distribution of information is coming from him. He tells you what’s safe for you to know - his grandfather was Danish and that’s why he’s blonde, he’s lived in Japan all his life, he teaches at a specialist high school. The topic of passports comes up when you ask if he has a Danish one. He doesn’t.
“You could get one, right? Also. Wanna see how fucking bad my photo is?” You make the mistake of handing it to him, grimacing at your portrait. “I look like a serial killer.”
Full name, date of birth, home address. Memorised in seconds.
“Very scary,” he agrees as he hands it back, somewhat incredulous at how guileless you are. How comfortable you already are with him, despite having spoken to him for less than twenty minutes. You’ve leant into him, trying to gauge his reaction, and he knows you’re close enough to smell his cologne.
“You look good, though. Maybe a bit bloodthirsty, but - you’re still pretty.”
You’re surprised. Hearing such a thing shouldn’t have been so unexpected to you, he thinks, with a slight internal frown.
“Well, thanks, Kento,” you say, trying to play it off as a joke, but you’re pleased and he can see it clear as day. “Your turn. I bet yours is model quality.”
You’re flirting. Nanami allows himself to smile properly.
“It’s in my bag in the overhead. I’ll show you once we get down.”
The concept of still speaking off the plane seems to make you happy, because your face is pink again.
“Okay,” you hum, and switch the conversation to something mundane.
You’ve got no idea what’s waiting for you once you get back into Tokyo, Nanami muses, as he tells you what his favourite colour is.
Someone like you is special. Rare. Someone like you is an opportunity he’s not quite willing to let slip back into the blue.