summary: you get stuck between planes and airports and find someone to hang out with <3
this is based basically in this idea i´ve got a few days ago.
wc: 3.4k. also there´s no no real warnings other than perhaps fatigue and a questionable number of frightening events, but nothing too worrying or intense.
a/n: pls I'm BEGGING you to ask me for requests for them, really, ask me something about them. they've been so lovely to write that I could cry. requests for them, and in general, are always open.
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The sun filters through, almost wanting to melt the glass walls of the airport. It's too hot for it to be around six in the morning, and you're sweating with the little clothing you're wearing, plus a wrinkled jacket on your arm. You regret not having shoved it into your suitcase, but you trust it might come in handy to keep you warm inside the plane.
You don't even want to think that in two days you'll be sitting in an office in southern Liverpool signing papers and drafting deeds until you complete the extra weekly hours you agreed to do, you just think about where you'll go after this trip.
Your week of vacation ended up becoming two weeks traveling through most of the islands and canals that your birthday gift covered, as if those two weeks were strong enough to make you live a summer that lasted just two weeks and felt like a fantasy. Maldives became a place you don’t want to return to, even though the people you stayed with were kind.
You hate to say you miss the heavy vibe of the UK environment, but you really do. You miss the bustle, the heavy traffic, and the crowding of people.
The layover from Maldives to Paris has given you nine hours in which you've done nothing but wrestle between sleeping for a few hours, watching series downloaded on your phone, or catching up on music albums you had pending. But you're exhausted. Just thinking about the remaining layover hours makes you anxious, you need to be on that final hour-and-a-half leg, flying back home again.
The Paris airport is abysmal if you count all the people you see running past, more than usual. Luckily, the coffee served at some of the stands is strong enough to wake you up and cheap enough that you’re not left broke at this moment.
You run your fingers over your phone, browsing online just enough to entertain yourself when you see your battery is at the limit between existing and not.
When you get up to find an empty seat near the boarding gate, you feel something bump into you, but not in a rough way.
"Yo, fuck, sorry." You hear someone mumble beside you and then feel your coffee spill on the floor.
You look at the crime scene with fatigue; your head feels like it’s about to split.
"It’s okay." You shrug, not wanting to start a fight with a stranger in an airport. You don’t even see his eyes behind his sunglasses.
"I’ll buy you another, I really am sorry." He bites his tongue trying not to say too much. He pats his pockets looking for his wallet while waiting for your response.
You size him up before answering; there’s something about the disheveled yet put-together vibe he has that unsettles you. A worn backpack hangs from his shoulders, and he’s carrying a black guitar case. You laugh when you notice he’s wearing a silk shirt with blue jeans and sneakers, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to wear.
The worst part comes when he takes off his sunglasses, waiting for you. Oh, God. You’d be lying if you said the guy you bumped into isn’t handsome—because he definitely is.
Curls fall from his dark hair, messy across his forehead and falling uncontrollably all over his head. He has brown eyes, too soft even though he’s looking at you with enough regret.
"It wasn’t even that good, but I’ll take it." You smile, and he hooks his Ray-Bans in the pocket of his white shirt.
You don’t talk much; neither of you is interested in killing the silence or making small talk at the airport. Just that, as you walk back to the stand, you wonder if, since he’s carrying a guitar, he must be a musician.
You think you recognize his face from somewhere, but the more you try, the less information comes to mind. You should ask your friends who are more into current shows in the world, but you don´t want that now.
"Latte, right?" He turns to look at you when it’s his turn, and you tilt your head. "Alright, they’ll give it to you when it’s ready."
"Thanks for the attention." You smile, a bit calmer, while he puts his wallet away again.
"It’s the least I could do, I’m really sorry. Good luck with your flight."
He disappears with a final smile, and your coffee is served at the main bar. For some reason, you have the impression you’ll run into him again even though you don’t even know his name.
You sit down once more, ready to face the last hours of your layover.
Suddenly, it’s eight thirty, and your flight is at ten.
You breathe. Almost there.
Until you see on the screens your flight number and airline with a red message that says: "Paris-Liverpool, delayed. Approach counter 102 for more information."
You let yourself fall back against the seat for a few seconds.
You were definitely in for long hours surviving on a stranger’s coffee while trying to find somewhere to recharge your phone.
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The counters numbered from 100 to 110 seem like a direct entrance to hell. You move toward your counter number with a heavy body carrying only a coffee and the heavy weight of thinking that the little you can do to kill the waiting time will be to look at work stuff, though you could save time for when you return on Thursday.
The terminal is packed, and then you see the sky and understand—the clouds sneaking in are thick and threaten to pour over the entire region. Apparently, all flights are delayed, and the look on the face of the clerk at your indicated counter confirms it.
Her face also summarizes fatigue, but in a completely opposite way to yours. She doesn’t say much, just grabs your ticket, scans it, and keeps typing.
“The flight has been rescheduled due to safety reasons, estimated departure is at 14:45. Updates will be announced at gate 10.”
You nod without trying to protest, knowing it will be in vain. You see gate 10 in the distance and hold back a bit for not having rested enough to have to drag yourself through an entire airport now. Anyway, you pass by a gift shop and buy chocolate bars and some snacks just in case.
Gate 10 seems to flicker when you get close, and when you turn down the hallway hoping to find seats by the window to lie down, it seems funny to think you’re being chased through an airport by a musician you still haven’t managed to recognize.
Leaning against the wall, he seems tense, trying to solve something on his phone. You stop at the way his cheeks hollow and he makes a pout with his lips. He has headphones on and his gaze lost on some passing object, just like you.
You don’t try to disturb him because you wouldn’t know how. You don’t want to seem weird staying by his side or making him uncomfortable; the situation is awkward enough on its own.
You wait for a response that simply never comes, and that’s how the next hours pass as if you’re carrying a stone on your back, unbearable to bear. Luckily, your message inbox isn’t full enough, leaving you free space to start reading on your laptop and uploading photos from your digital camera to your computer.
“Excuse me, do you have a type-C charger?” A rough but tired voice pulls you from your daydream some time later. You look up, and there he is again, the mysterious guy.
“Sure, here.” You hand him the cable from your backpack, grateful you charged your phone recently. “Are you going to Liverpool?” You ask, more for the need to have some interaction with someone to feel human again than out of actual interest.
“Not initially. I was going to Lisbon, but now I have to layover in Liverpool.” He replies frustrated, bending down to plug in the cable. “I hope to arrive on time or they’ll cut off my head.”
You laugh, genuinely, for the first time since you stepped in this place.
“Where are you going?” You close your laptop and look at him, sitting on the floor.
“Well, I have to give a concert. If I’d been on the previous flight I’d be there right now, but I had to sort things out in Paris.” He answers teasingly. It takes you a few seconds to understand what he means; he has a quite thick English accent.
“Oh, you’re a musician?” You ask, ignoring that you’ve been speculating that since you saw his guitar case and attitude.
“Yes, I am. I’m the singer of a band I have with my friends, we’re touring Europe.” He explains in a fairly self-referential tone, but without becoming egotistical or narcissistic, hoping you recognize him and appreciating when you don’t.
That is, Matty loves his fans. The band’s fans are amazing and have saved his life in every way. But in such a bad situation as this, he knows he can’t give his best with a fan by his side when he doesn’t know if he’ll make it to the next show, when jet lag hits him hard and he’s anxious because time changes make him grumpy. So, something calms inside him that you’re talking to him like any ordinary person.
His shirt rides up his arm, revealing the tattoos on his wrist. You don’t stop looking at him, crossing your arms when you don’t recognize him, although now his voice sounds a bit more familiar. For some reason, he doesn’t get lost in the airport murmur.
When you see his wrist decorated with the inscription “1975” and a black ink rectangle, the gears start to try to form something. It should be a harmless mark, but suddenly something shakes you inside.
You think about when one of your best friends was telling you she would fly to another city to see a band with a pretty similar name. You also remember hearing songs from that band in some pub at night, but you never cared too much about them.
Then his name comes to your mind, as if your best friend’s voice slipped into your brain and whispered it to you.
“I think I know who you are.” You murmur after a while, and he jumps up surprised by your voice. He mumbles a “Yes?” and prepares to listen to your answer. “Matty…” You pause, thinking of the last name. “Well no, I don’t have the last name. Sorry.”
He tilts his head and laughs, licking his teeth as if about to make a joke.
“I think that’s me.” He confirms calmly, running his hand through his hair.
Just as you’re about to tell him your name, or add anything else to the conversation, you hear the loudspeaker echo throughout the airport.
“Passengers of flight Paris-Liverpool, board at gate 10. Boarding will begin in five minutes.”
You almost leap from your seat when you hear the voice vibrating, practically stuffing your laptop into your backpack while looking for your passport and ticket and getting up. Matty laughs lowly at your erratic panic, but you hear him.
“That was a great conversation. Good luck in Lisbon. Goodbye!” You say goodbye as best you can, getting in line for boarding as quickly as possible. You smile at him one last time and he repeats it.
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The moment you pass boarding and find your seat in one of the last rows by the window is the moment you think you can relax for a second. The next move is almost automatic: you buckle your seatbelt, put on your headphones, and hope to be asleep when the plane takes off.
Your arms start to itch and you realize the air conditioning is blowing right at you. You spread your brown jacket over your striped shirt and curl up as best as you can in the seat.
The back pain will be brutal later.
“Hey, hi.” Someone sits next to you, and you don’t even turn to look, there he is again.
“Are you stalking me or something?” You cut him off the second you recognize Matty’s voice on your arms. “That’s an... interesting tactic.”
“No, no. Of course not. If it’s uncomfortable, I’ll change seats…” Anxiety corrupts his voice and you feel a bit sad hearing it. His erratic tone battles with something like fear?
“Matty.” You just murmur his name and turn to look at him. Your green irises collide with his brown ones. “I’m kidding, don’t move.”
“Okay.” He says, a bit calmer now. “If you see me asleep when they serve coffee, can you wake me up?”
“Sure, rest.” You smile and squeeze his arm as a sign of comfort. He doesn’t move under your touch and smiles, closing his eyes.
The whisper of the plane lifting off the ground is felt beneath your feet, and that sharp pull of about to take off forming in your stomach. The atmosphere is decorated with your companion’s soft snores.
There’s Matty, dozing with his head back, hugging his guitar, mouth slightly open and curls falling over his nose.
You take your time analyzing him, how the bridge of his nose shows little marks on his face, how his body contracts every time he breathes, no malice in his movements.
About forty minutes later, when only an hour separates you from your airport, the pilot’s voice sounds over the speaker. You hope what he says next is just a dream.
“Dear passengers, due to unsuitable weather conditions for landing, we will make a technical stop at Manchester Airport. All passengers will remain on board during this unscheduled layover. Estimated duration: three hours and fifty minutes.”
You open your eyes instantly, trying to convince yourself you only dreamed it. Matty looks at you just as confused as you.
“Manchester?” He steals the words from you and you sigh frustrated.
“We’re a damn hour from Liverpool, I could even walk home.”
You’re talking without thinking and realize it when Matty’s laughter sneaks under your words.
“I’m resigned to getting home and not even knowing what time it is.” You huff, leaning your head against the vibrating window.
“It could be worse, right? You could be next to a crying baby.” He laughs, lying back again and looking at the ceiling. His voice tone is honest. “At least we can talk to each other… that doesn’t usually happen.”
The atmosphere thickens unwillingly, but you tilt your head toward him to sit sideways, causing your arms to brush.
“You have a point. Nothing better than being stuck on a plane with a rock star.”
He smiles with a very low sound. “Touché.”
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The plane lands in Manchester a few minutes later. In the distance, the airport runway looks gloomy in the darkness, but above all, empty. Only a few yellow city lights twinkle far away.
The plane stops, and with it, the seatbelt locks click open. But, obviously, the doors don’t open.
The exhaustion in the atmosphere is almost tangible to the touch—there are people sighing, people complaining, and people groaning.
Still looking at him from the side, you feel a slight tug in your back. Next to you, Matty cracks his knuckles and adjusts the guitar case against the nearby seatback so that it doesn’t fall. Matty doesn’t stop smiling at you.
“So, tell me what you’re coming back from, or what you’re running away from,” he asks, clearly eager to talk to you.
“It’s nothing as grand as yours, it’s pretty simple, actually. My family gifted me a trip through several islands for my birthday, and I traded the stay in exchange for covering extra hours later.” You answer, letting your knees now brush against his. Neither of you moves.
“Where do you work?” Almost no one else is talking, which makes you laugh considering the loudest murmur comes from the two of you.
“I’m a junior lawyer, I just finished my degree.” You say, smiling with pride.
“That’s great, congratulations on the honors.”
“Thanks, but hey, I don’t want to talk about me.” You cut him off, telling the truth. You don’t like talking that much about yourself just like that. “I’ve got a crossword magazine and Snickers bars in my backpack, if that helps.”
He looks at you with a new glint in his eyes, like you’ve unlocked some distant memory in his life.
“I don’t know when was the last time I did one. But yeah, let’s do it.” He stretches and pulls from his bag a grayish hoodie along with a notebook and a pen.
You both glance at each other and look away immediately, laughing at how odd and ridiculous this is. Both trapped on a diverted plane, solving crosswords with a musician many people would die to meet, including your best friend. Or maybe because of the way Matty is scanning the pages as if he were reading a map, like it’s something very serious, he doesn’t lose his sweetness.
“This one looks good.” He points at one with his finger and looks to you for approval. You nod after glancing at it, managing to read questions about definitions, music, and novels.
He takes the cap off the pen and slides his arm into the seat armrest space, almost next to yours. You don’t even understand why it gives you goosebumps.
“Oh, this one’s easy,” he says and clears his throat. “Beatles song that starts with B.”
“Blackbird,” you both say almost in unison, counting the blank spaces.
“…Maybe, Oasis album,” you read aloud, emphasizing the question.
You try to read his face, hoping he’ll answer it right.
“Morning?” You stare at him, horrified.
“Matty!” you scold, giving him a light tap on the chest. “You can’t be a musician and not know that album. Don’t mess with me.”
“Of course I know it! I just wanted to see your reaction.” He squints his eyes and you stick your tongue out at him.
You watch him write Definitely in messy but still readable handwriting, almost mixing up the last two letters.
And that’s how the next hour goes by, with you two moving through that maze slowly, with no need to rush, celebrating each time a correct word appears. It’s dynamic, when he gets stuck, you complete it, and vice versa. Sometimes the words make him laugh, and other times you can see they trigger a memory in his head, when he drifts into a haze.
There’s a moment when you’re too focused, stuck on a clue labeled “Feeling for something that’s no longer there,” and you’re snapped out of it by Matty’s fingers touching your knees. He places his hoodie there and takes away your brown jacket.
“That doesn’t keep you warm, you’re freezing,” he murmurs in explanation, and it’s only then you realize your skin has turned to gooseflesh.
His words brim with tenderness and a kind of care that throws you off, you’re not quite sure what to say other than to nod in thanks.
The garment now covering you wraps you in a mix of cigarettes, mint, and vanilla. It softens with you, while all you can feel is the sound of paper tearing, the wind hitting the window, and time seemingly standing still.
Oh, you’ve figured out the word.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! ‘Feeling for something that’s no longer there’ has to be nostalgia.” With that, the crossword is complete and you feel the plane vibrating under you again.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Matty lets his head drop onto your shoulder. It’s not invasive, and it doesn’t feel heavy either. He just settles in and closes his eyes.
“Wake me up in Liverpool, yes?” he whispers in your ear.
Before you even realize it, your home appears from every possible angle.
And then, Liverpool shows up on the plane’s edges.
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i reeeeeally hope you enjoy it as i did, writing this has been a wonderful dream, and i found it too soft. i would love to know what you think, leave me a comment in the question box on my profile.
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