somebody ; minsung

XXXIV ; new life

I can still hear the thunder of the airplane's engine once I'm locked in the bathroom, a four-by-four stall that feels like a standing coffin. It reminds me of the incubation pods at Oracle.

I sit on the toilet seat and cover my ears with my hands. I just need a break. I've been awake since three this morning just to catch a plane at seven. It's seven in the evening now. Every part of the process has been stressful, the rushing, the waiting, the TSA where I had to explain why the metal detector kept beeping every time I walked through.

I thought I'd get to relax once we were on the airplane. But as soon as we crammed into our seats in coach, a different kind of anxiety bubbled up in my chest. Hundreds of humans in a dicey winged contraption hurtling through the air. My subconscious offers up a master list of everything that could go horribly, awfully wrong.

And if something did go wrong — if the engines failed or the mechanisms had been sabotaged — would I be able to stop it? How many humans could I save? There are passengers in the lower level of the plane as well, and the ones in first class — I won't be able to save all of them. So many will die.

I know I'm treating a molehill like Mount Everest. I can't help it. Since I regained consciousness, body numb and mind blank in a glass cocoon, everything has come out of left field. Even winning our lawsuit against Oracle offered no certainty. From internet trolls digging into my past to Adrantine poachers hunting cyborgs for our armour, none of this has been easy or predictable.

(There is still so much going on back in the city, demand for the lab to be shut down permanently, nationwide policies to control the production of Adrantine, transparency in government subsidiaries. With all the public interest focussed on the seven of us, our best option was to leave the city and fly back if we were ever needed to bear witness or testify.)

I blow out a breath. I can't hide in here for the whole flight. I step out of the bathroom and squeeze through the aisle, trying to avoid looking out the windows. Jisung meets my eyes and gives me a smile. He must have been watching the door, waiting for me to come back.

Us... we're confusing. I guess labels aren't our thing. It's enough for him, to be together, to depend on each other, to trace gentle circles in my palm at night without it ever meaning anything. I want more... I think. I haven't been able to feel out the line between love and in love. It feels blurry and dangerous and I want to cross it but I'm afraid it'll be a mistake I can't take back.

I shimmy past the aisle seat — a long-haired human who looks higher than the airplane — and buckle up in the middle seat.

"You okay?" Jisung asks.

"Yeah, I was just feeling a little claustrophobic."

"So you went to the bathroom?"

I shrug. "It's been a long morning."

He's giving me the side eye. I have to admit I like it when he worries about me. "I know you had a hard time waking up so early. You can sleep if you want."

"I don't think I can. The plane could go into a nosedive at any moment."

He laughs. "Is that what it is? You're afraid of flying?"

"Technically, I guess. Probably not for the same reasons you're thinking."

"Are you gonna tell me the real reason?"

I sigh. "No, forget it, I'm being weird. Just let me freak out till we land or crash or whatever."

"You know, the odds of dying via plane crash are one in two-hundred-thousand. I had a friend in aeronautics who said you're more likely to get struck by lightning."

"Good to know, I'll be terrified of lightning instead."

"Not what I meant."

A service droid has parked the snack trolley next to our row. "Good day, may I offer you something to drink?"

Jisung looks at me, then back at the droid. "Two coffees please, thanks."

It passes him two cups along with a couple packets of milk and sugar. He mixes it together and holds one cup out to me.

"Er, I can't drink... right?"

"Just smell it, you'll like it."

I sniff hesitantly. "Oh wow."

He smiles, stirring milk into his own cup. "First time I drank coffee, I put salt in by accident. Have I ever told you that story? Picture this: me, 11 years old, desperate to be cool like my foster dad. I poured the rest of the coffee pot into a mug and added, like, three spoonfuls of salt."

"Jesus, that many?"

"That's how much sugar my dad used to add. Cold and salty, a lot of grounds. I spat it out all over the kitchen floor and got the belt for it." He smacks his lips. "I can still taste it a bit."

"Sometimes I forget you haven't always been smart."

He rolls his eyes. "I've never been smart. What's smart? Smart is stupid. Who's to say putting salt in coffee isn't smart?"

"I'm pretty sure that's just a universal fact."

"I don't care about smarts anymore. I got a degree — so what, I'm still an idiot and my life has been a disaster." He leans his head on my shoulder. "Not anymore. I have you, that's all I need."

I wish I felt the same way. I need to figure my shit out. All I know is that I want to call him mine, not vicariously, not kind of, not in the past tense. Just mine.