It's a cold January morning when it's time for Yuta to leave.
Tokyo feels heavier than usual — fat white snowflakes falling in an icy hush, the bitterly cold wind biting through your thick down jacket, the winter sun hidden behind grey storm clouds, the kind of weather that is, in hindsight, perfect for that tearful goodbye at the airport.
You suppose that to a passing traveller, it wouldn't be a scene out of the ordinary. Just a group of teenagers (and two adults) at the airport, saying goodbye to one of their friends.
The motely group's all lingering at the departure gates, waiting for the flight to be called: Maki with her arms crossed and her glasses glinting; Inumaki sipping on one of those Frappuccinos from Starbucks with too much sugar and a mountain of whipped cream; Panda towering over the other travellers, all of him are looking askance at him, probably wondering why a furry mascot is wandering about the airport. Gojo's got his hands shoved into his coat pockets, grin as obnoxious as always as he cradles another monster of a too-sweet Frappuccino. A cigarette, unlit, dangles from Shoko's red-painted lips, curved up into a small smile; Megumi stands next to her, his hair artfully arranged into the gel spikes as always.
And then there's you.
You're standing a little apart from the others on the platform, your eyes dark and downcast, your gloved hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, the cold air biting through the fabric.
The morning's chill isn't helping — your joints ache, your breathing feels shallow. You'd woken up sick again, your chronic pain flaring in ugly little pulses that make the edges of your vision blur.
But you'd come anyway. Of course you had.
There's a new, persistent ache in your chest, because it's not just your body hurting this time; it feels as though your heart and lungs are collapsing, folding in on themselves.
But still, you pretend you're fascinated by the carpet in a rich shade of cranberry red, pretend as though your world isn't about to come crumbling down, so that the boy about to leave the country won't be able to see how you're teetering on the edge of tears — or an anxiety attack. You can feel your pulse fluttering in your wrists, too fast, too fragile.
As usual, Gojo acts as the loudest, most over-bearing father-figure. "Now remember, Yuta — sunscreen. Eat your vegetables. Don't summon Rika on airplanes, the cabin pressure can't take it —"
Yuta groans. "Sensei, please —"
"— And call me if you get cursed," Gojo continues, ignoring him entirely. "Actually, call me even if you don't get cursed. I get lonely. My cute students are all so mean to me."
Maki and Megumi snap at him in unison, "You deserve it!"
"Yuta, punch a zebra for me!" Panda gives him a double thumbs-up.
"I don't think . . . That's not —" Yuta starts, but Panda's grin is so sincere that he just sighs, defeated, as though he's regretting all of his major life decisions. "Sure, Panda. I'll . . . Punch a zebra."
"Atta boy!"
Even Megumi cracks the tiniest smile at that, though he hides it quickly behind his scarf. Inumaki flashes a peace-sign and offers Yuta a "Salmon," and waves his phone at Yuta, which, coming from him, might as well be "I'll miss you, and I'll text you every day bro".
It's all so normal. Laughter, banter, Gojo pretending to cry into a handkerchief — where did that come from? — Shoko smiling fondly as she reaches out to ruffle up Yuta's hair for what will probably the last time in a long while, warning him against the dangers of malaria, and Yuta smiling in that shy, bashful way that has your stomach turning.
But you — you can't say anything.
You can't look at him.
Your throat is too tight, your fingers twisting at your sleeves, because if you look at him, you'll break, and if you break here, you'll never recover, and you know that if that happens, Yuta will never get on that plane.
And then he looks at you.
"Hey," he says, softly.
That gentle tone. And that same unbearably sweet smile of his that always makes your stomach twist and your heart flutter. His eyes find yours, hopeful and fragile, like he's been saving this moment for last.
You can't look at him. Your eyelashes feel suspiciously wet.
Yuta tries again. "I guess this is goodbye for now."
A nod — because it feels like tears are wrapping around your neck now, stopping up your throat and trying to kill you.
"Um..." He hesitates, scratching at the back of his neck. "Take care of yourself, okay? Don't overtrain. Listen to Shoko. And, uh... Don't pick a fight with a Grade 2 sorcerer . . . Or a Special Grade . . . Or any other sorcerer, really . . ."
Because he won't be around to protect you.
There's a long, pregnant pause — the kind that's full of words neither of you are brave enough to say. He shifts his bag higher, the strap creaking slightly. His hair's gotten longer; it's still damp from a morning shower and falls into his eyes — soft and bright and too much — which linger on you just long enough to sting.
He lingers for a breath — probably hoping that you'll reach out, touch him, hug him, say something that isn't a grunt or a pained inhale of air — but when it becomes obvious that you aren't going to move, your feet rooted into the carpet as though roots are anchoring you in place, he turns. Shifting his duffel higher on his shoulder, taking those first few steps toward the terminal — towards the new world that isn't here, isn't you.
And that's when it hits you.
This is it.
He's going.
"Wait!"
Your voice cracks, breaks apart. Everyone turns — Gojo halfway through a smug smirk, Shoko's eyebrows rising, Maki blinking.
Yuta stops mid-step, startled.
And you feel the hard pressure of saying goodbye crash down on your shoulders.
You flail. There are so many things you want to say. I love you. Don't go. I'll miss you. You can feel them all in your throat, clogging up your airways, and you're terrified of what can happen if you let them loose.
But last chances have a funny way of shaking up priorities, and you lunge for him before you can second-guess yourself.
The space filled with words unsaid, now collapses away into mere inches, centimetres, before you finally, finally press your lips to his.
Your hands twist themselves into his hair as he snakes an arm around your waist. You want hours, you want weeks, you want more than these few seconds that do little to satisfy you and this new, burning need. Yuta holds onto you so tightly that his fingers bite into your sides, and in return, you kiss him with everything that you have.
His breath catches, yours stops, and for a second, everything is weightless.
You're breathless when you finally remember to pull away; your face flaming and your heartbeat thundering in your ears. "Um," you mumble, looking anywhere but him. "Come back to me . . . Okay?"
And then you bolt.
What do you know, Maki's Spartan training did come in handy after all.
You barely hear Gojo's delighted, drawn-out wolf whistle echo across the terminal ("OH-HO, GET IT, YUTA!"), or Maki and Megumi both yelling "Gojo, shut up!", or Panda's muffled "I ship it!"
Yuta's still standing by the gate, frozen. You catch one last glimpse before you flee entirely — the stunned look fading into something soft, something radiant. He's smiling — wide and foolish and full of something you've never seen from him before.
The image burns behind your eyelids all the way home.
