Leaving on a Jetplane

19:23 – Hawke's Bay, New Zealand – Six months after Florence

"Yeah, all my bags are packed. I'm ready to go. Of course I'm ready – I'm at the airport."

For a Wednesday, the airport is packed with locals and travellers alike. He sighs, glancing down at his flight details – two layovers in Hong Kong and Zurich, both lasting far longer than he is physically and mentally ready for. Still, he's taken to flying first class as of late, so his check-in line is markedly shorter than others.

He's looking forward to a very large gin-and-tonic and the possibility of passing out in-flight.

"Did you get the wine I asked for?" Nakiri's end of the line is busy as always. It's eleven in the morning Italian time, and the kitchen staff and cooks of Effréné will have begun their daily prep work and mise en place. By all accounts, it's a miracle she'd even found time to ring him.

He supposes that means she's actually missed him this time around. The thought is enough to bring butterflies to his stomach – an unfamiliar feeling to be certain, but one he's happy to accommodate where Nakiri is concerned.

After all, he's spent so long dedicating his cooking to her that it seems fitting she should be the first and last to hold his heart.

He hoists his bag up onto the ramp, a light smile touching his lips, eliciting one from the stewardess behind the counter. "D'you know how far Waiheke Island is from Greenhill Lodge? I had to bribe my way into Wild Estates, and even then I still had to name-drop you to buy up the last of their stocks."

"How many bottles did you get out of that?"

He can't help but to chuckle. "Two crates. Should be enough to keep you in Syrah for weeks."

"Really? That's all I get?"

"Well, believe it or not, commercial airlines have a limit to the amount of stuff you can check in. This is going to cost me a fortune in duty."

The stewardess lets out a laugh, and he favours her with a wink. This girl I'm seeing, he mouths. She's a handful.

13:45 – Zurich – The next day

He's exhausted.

As far as flights from hell have gone, Yukihira has to admit he's never feared as much for his life. He'd been halfway through his second leg from Hong Kong when the captain's voice had come on over the PA – light-hearted enough so as to not incur in-flight mass hysteria, and yet stern enough to be obvious that something had gone horribly wrong.

We'd like for you all to remain calm as we sort this out. In the meantime, please allow our stewards and stewardesses to assist you. Listen to their instructions and remain in your seats with your seatbelts on.

The deafening screams of the passengers back in coach are still ringing in his ears when he disembarks. There are food stains and broken shards on the ground, but he barely registers the crunching of glass beneath his boots as he steps into the safety of the airport. It's a short walk to the restroom, and he barely makes it to the sink before the stresses of the past six hours come up.

His throat is burning when he finishes, and he looks up to the mirror to see himself pale, eyes red-rimmed and nose a bright reindeer-red. He rises out his mouth, ignoring the three separate looks of disgust from his fellow fliers. It takes him five minutes to wash last night's dinner down the sink, and then another five to clean himself.

His hands are still shaking when he pulls his phone from his pocket.

Over thirty missed calls from Nakiri and several long, ranting messages from his other friends.

The PA system jolts him back to the present; in his shock, his hands slip, and the phone crashes to the ground. He stares mutely at the shattered screen, barely registering the fact that his next scheduled flight to Florence will soon be ready for boarding.

I'm not getting on that fucking plane.

As expected, Nakiri is in a state when he finally manages to ring her. He assures her that he's alright and perfectly alive, and she responds the only way she knows how – with some half-hearted barb about how he would never dare to die on her fucking watch. He has to commend her efforts and ability to somewhat hold it together.

The quavering in her voice is enough to cue him in. Come home, Yukihira. Come home right now.

He makes his way through Duty Free in a daze, and doesn't even remember how he gets to his luggage. Someone from the airline talks at him – something about his checked crates suffering some form of damage in turbulence. He nods numbly as compensation and cleaning is discussed, and then a bag is shoved into his hands and he's ushered into a cab to the train station.

All the while, only one thought lingers: I almost left her behind again.

The guilt cuts deeper than fear.

22:45 – San Marco, Florence – Hours later

Nakiri is home when he turns the key into her Florentian apartment. He's barely made it through the door before she's on him, hands gripping the front of his shirt and face pressed into his chest, and it's all he can do to assure her he's there in the flesh, safe and alive. When she lifts her face, he manages a smile, the sight of her face warming him deep into his core.

"I've never seen you cry this hard," He says. That earns him a punch to the side, but then her lips are on his and her tears are wetting his face.

"I hate you. I fucking hate you."

He kisses the top of her head, grateful he'd managed to clean up on the train. "I know. I'm sorry I scared you. Can I come in?"

She guides him into her living room. There's a teapot on her coffee table, and he recognises the herbal scent from a memory long tucked away. When he sits down, she glances his way, hand to on handle and an empty glass in the other.

"I, uh." He digs into his backpack and pulls out the sole surviving bottle of red. "I have something a little bit stronger. The rest broke."

She barely manages a smile. "I'm never letting you travel alone again, you know that, right?"

He chuckles heartily, then reaches aside to the bar cart to pull over two crystal wineglasses. "Because I can't even be trusted to keep your precious wine safe, right?"

"No."

They sit in silence as he pours the wine. She downs her glass without pause, and he's acutely aware of her eyes upon him, the lilac dark and misted over. It's a look he recognises, he thinks – a mixture of pride and fear and anxiety all bundled together in the every look and every touch.

"You know," He breaks the silence by setting down his glass, then turns on the couch to face her, crossing his legs beneath him. "The last time you looked at me like this, we were seventeen, and you had only just told me you were going to Le Cordon Bleu."

She nods. "And you told me we'd find a way to stick together."

The subtext is all too clear: We failed.

He takes her hands. "We're together now. Nakiri, I'm done with this." Panic flashes briefly in her eyes, and he has to physically hold her hands down to keep her from bolting away from him, off the couch. "No, not like that. I mean I'm done with this arrangement we have. I'm done with waiting weeks just to spend some time with you. You want to know what I thought up there, when things were flying around and people were screaming?"

Nakiri shakes her head. He barely notices her nails digging into his palms.

"Three things. I thought I was going to die, and that my last words to you would have been 'you'd better be in those panties when I get home'. And then I thought they'd call you to identify my body – only they wouldn't, because how would they know to, if we don't even know what we are?" He swallows, looking down at their intertwined hands. "The last thing I thought of was that I had to marry you. And I want to."

She's stunned into silence just then. Nakiri Erina has never been one to openly show her affections, so he's not exactly surprised it takes her this long to compute. But when he finally dares himself to look back up, he's greeted by the sight of eyes wide open, shock and panic prevalent in her expression.

He clears his throat. "What's on your mind, Nakiri?"

She rolls her eyes, a soft, scoffing sound escaping her just moments after. "I was in those panties, but you got into trouble and I could barely function, let alone think of that."

"Really?" He squints at her. "Out of everything I said, that's what you're gonna comment on?"

"Shut up." Nakiri launches herself at him again, arms and legs and the warmth of her body crashing roughly into him. Her lips find his, and she kisses him hard, hands fisting against his chest. When she finally pulls away, her breath warms his face. There's a gleam in her eyes. She's back. "You're not getting away with a near-death proposal. When you do it, I want to know you mean it – not because your thoughts are all jumbled up. You hear me?"

He grins. Relief floods his senses. That's as good as a yes. Adrenaline exhausted, he leans forward. When their foreheads meet, she shuts her eyes.

He wonders if he'll ever see anything as beautiful.

"I hear you," He whispers.