Every single miserable time Seto jumped out of that plane, Isis saw the future all over again. The remains of a stupid, stupid man splattered along the runway. An ambulance parked at a distance, a paramedic lowering his head. "It's too late, miss. He's gone. Are you sure this pile of putty used to be a person?"

He leapt from the cockpit sometimes dozens of feet off the ground, sometimes rolling to catch himself, even missing the runway once or twice and tumbling into the brush. He let the plane land itself. He swore by the autopilot. It was fun, he said. It was harmless. It was madness, was what it was.

Isis was angry with him. She'd asked him not to do that anymore—at least, at the very least, not when she was there to watch. She worried about him an inordinate amount. Of course, he paid her no mind.

They sat at their usual café table, sipping occasionally, silent otherwise. Loud crowds of people surged past on either side. He studied her. She avoided him.

"Isis…" he soon said. "Do you hate me?"

She nearly choked on her coffee. "Why would you ask me that?"

Seto took up the dallah resting between them and refilled his cup. "Because I hate myself." Rest assured, dear onlooker, that this was Seto being playful. Cheeky misanthropy. Jovial self-loathing.

Isis motioned for the dallah. "Is that why you leap out of airplanes?" she asked, pouring slowly, drilling into him now with her gaze. "Because you hate yourself?"

"No."

"Then why do you do it?!"

"To get this reaction from you."

Isis rammed her cup upon its saucer, a pointed clatter. "Well, I'm glad you're happy!" She fumed. "I'm glad you're still alive so you can enjoy your happiness!"

Seto's grin only widened. "So am I."

"Ugh!" Seto cackled. Isis fought her nagging smile and won. For the most part.

It was not at all the first time Isis had flown. It was, however, her first venture in the Blue-Eyes White Dragon jet.

She was off to Japan. There was space in the dragon's literal belly for her luggage, and gratefully lots of it—for she didn't know when she'd return to Egypt. Depending on Seto's intentions...this could be a one-way ticket.

He was antsy and irritable, squirming in the front seat and grousing at Isono over the radio, but such behavior was nothing out of the ordinary. Would she be able to sense if he was extra-nervous?

Isis struggled with her seatbelt; her compartment was cramped. "Seto, does this seat adjust?" she asked. He twisted and hung over his headrest to show her the controls.

"Mokuba used to sit there," he said, more matter-of-fact than sentimental. "It's been years. He was short back then."

"Is he much taller now? I haven't seen him in person in ages, you know."

"Yeah." Seto brought a hand to his forehead as though saluting, tapping his eyebrows. "Up to here."

"Goodness me." Isis smoothed her peasant top and stretched her legs. "Thank you," she added, "it's comfortable now."

They made eye contact; his gaze lingered, and Isis began to feel static gathering at the base of her skull. The shivery kind. The good kind. What was that strange look for?

"Seto-sama, you're cleared for takeoff," his radio cut in. Seto thumped back into his seat, flipping at the controls in a manner incomprehensible to Isis—reminiscent of a child pretending to fly a plane.

...She gave her seatbelt an extra tug, for good measure.

Many hours and one fuel stop later, Isis was stirred from another cat nap by Seto's resonant voice.

"There's Japan," he said over his shoulder.

She rubbed her eyes and leaned forward. The sun tipped toward the horizon, spilling golden honey into the gilded ocean. "It's beautiful," she said.

"We'll descend into Domino in about half an hour." And with that, he returned to the controls.

Isis felt secure enough to relax and enjoy the scenery. Despite Seto's adrenaline addiction, she hadn't imagined he'd leap from the plane with her in it, and it seemed as though he'd make good on her supposition. He spoke calmly into the receiver, passing information to air traffic control, steering the yoke with the heel of one hand.

But a half-hour later, Isis's peace evaporated—for while they were still many, many feet off the ground, the roof of the cockpit detached, and the unhinged pilot stood on his seat.

Isis ripped her seatbelt off in a panic and lunged for him, seizing his forearm. She yelled with all her might but heard almost nothing over the roar.

"SETO! SIT DOWN! DON'T YOU DARE!"

"Jump, Isis!"

"WHAT?!"

"JUMP!"

His hair whipped in his face. His eyes blazed. He looked mad. She could barely see through her own hurricane of hair, could barely hear him over the screaming wind, and she tried one last time to shout at him,

"I CAN'T!"

"NOW!"

"NO—AUGH!"

With the steely force of a shark bite Seto clamped her to his side, grinned into her flabbergasted face, and leapt.

All sensation abandoned her. Isis had the fleeting thought, It's nice at least to die in his arms

...But only seconds later, a peal of wild laughter shot holes through her reverie.

Seto's jetpack guided them to Earth a safe distance behind the Blue-Eyes, who lowered herself to the runway and coasted to an elegant stop. Their feet touched sun-bleached concrete, and Seto waited till Isis had gathered her center of gravity to power down.

"Wasn't that...fun?" he wheezed, his voice pierced through with too much air. "You got to...fly! Don't you want to...do it again?"

Isis sloughed off the arm around her waist and staggered away from him. She panted, "No...no! How...could you, Seto! I was...terrified!"

He extracted himself from the jetpack, and she glared at him, very nearly truly hurt. How many times had she begged him not to jump? How could she convince him of how badly she worried for him?

"Why are you like this, Seto?" she entreated. "Why do you do this?"

Seto rocked on the balls of his feet, shook his hair out. Restless. Alive. His roaming eyes locked onto hers and her heart clenched, wringing the neck of her anger. There was that strange look again.

"Because," he said, "when I do that...when I fly...for a few minutes...I feel like I can do anything."

Was it truly strange, or just strange on his face? The latter, Isis thought, because she knew the look well from giving it. Equal parts admiration, anxiety, and joy.

It was love.

And it was still Seto. The loving smile morphed into a toothy, shit-eating variant. "Close your eyes," he said.

"I refuse." She was breathless now for a different reason.

"Alright, fine." He fished around the inner pocket of his bomber jacket and drew something out, balled in his fist so Isis couldn't see it. Then he hid both hands behind his back. "Pick a hand, then."

Isis took a cautious step toward him, then another. Still unsure of her footing after their leap of faith—after all this time. She always would be...and that was okay. For Seto was always there to hold her up. Isis lay a trembling hand on his left shoulder.

Seto hesitated, suddenly bashful. Then he squared his shoulders, nodded once, brought his hand around and spread open his palm.

"Yours if you want it," he murmured.

Isis scoffed, but it failed to scare off her tears. "Aren't you going to kneel?"

"Mm…" His eyes twinkled, full of the fiery sky, almost violet. "Nah."

"Ugh!" Isis groaned, a sad imitation of her standard aggravation, and she leaned all the way into him, drying her eyes against his shirt. She offered him her left hand, sliding it between them, between their hearts; and she felt rather than saw him slip the cool ring over her finger.

"Thank you," he whispered into her hair. He brought his arms around her and held her. From his other hand, another piece of gold tumbled out and evanesced into the sunset.

They held each other on the runway till the sun gave them their privacy, and sank.

PIECE #6: FLIGHT

Doctor's Note: Poor Isis! But she knows full-well what she's getting into. :) I love Trustshipping and would venture to call it my OTP. There is respect and a realness between them I admire.

Thank you for reading! - Dr. MP