Fly To You ○ Kim Junmyeon

1 | Third's A Charm

Junmyeon was used to the flashes, to the crowds, to the delays, to the loud demands of his manager as he trails behind. It had been suffocating the first few—ten, twenty times and Junmyeon had never really expected himself to turn accustomed to it (because he hated—loathed it oh so much), but somewhere within the months turned years where sweat soaks his favourite travel shirts, Junmyeon found it within himself to accept—actually accept, Junmyeon begrudgingly thinks—the fact that the President of South Korea was never going to have an extra airport built specifically for famous individuals like him to have a more secure (and less suffocating) departures and arrivals.

Junmyeon was also used to the heavy security, to the inevitably uncomfortable proximity between him and all the bodyguards assigned to keep everyone's hands off him—he's used to every single trouble he's forced to go through all in the name of being a law-abiding citizen. He's used to the curious looks of surrounding foreigners once he's set his foot on a foreign country. He's used to moving in the queue to get his passports and visas checked, where his limited patience only barely succeeds in keeping his hands from strangling the closest airport staff walking by.

In conclusion, Junmyeon and airports go fairly hand-in-hand (though they don't get along so well.) In conclusion as well, things have never been friendly between him and mother airport. Things as of late—however—have been a little more worse than usual.

Junmyeon steps out of his SUV, takes a deep breath—inhales, exhales, inhales deeply, exhales deeply. Two hours to departure, twenty minutes through the crowd, another thirty for immigration and customs, forty in the lounge, boarding exactly thirty minutes before the plane departs, and rest—solace, within the airplane, in his first-class seating, and safety over miles above ground.

Please all go accordingly to plan.

Before he realizes it, he's already partially blinded due to the onslaught of the sudden flashes, almost deaf with the screeches that breaks through the silence that he's accepted is nothing but only temporary.

He groans internally, already feeling beads of sweat drip from his forehead—though something from the back of his head tells him that this is only second to the worst part of the whole airport experience. Junmyeon knows exactly of what his mind is implying, but perhaps—perhaps it'll go away if he doesn't think about... it.

—

It will go away if he doesn't think about it. Happens in superstitions. All the 'don't point your finger at it or mention it, or it'll come to you on its' own' kind of thing. He doesn't know if it's proven or true, but Junmyeon believes in his grandmother's wisdom—so he stays optimistic, stubbornly shoving aside every single thought related to her—it.

Still, he's anxious, grip tight on his passport, fingers trembling. Yifan, his manager beside him frowns, gives him the stink eye because Junmyeon has an image to uphold in public. Fuck. Screw that image.

"Junmyeon, stop shaking."

"Shut up, hyung."

"We don't want any damn articles with pictures of you fidgeting and fan theories about you secretly suffering from anxiety attacks."

He scoffs, disdainful, "I hope they sue our company for not giving me proper psychiatric attention."

"Junmyeon!"

Junmyeon's gaze shift upwards to the taller man, "Hyung, if I told you what my problem here is exactly, would you listen and believe me? Would you solve my problem?"