airplane ﹙short story﹚

seventeen

Theodore clicked his seatbelt over his lap, stuffed his phone into his pocket, and braced himself.

The air hostess had announced over the speakers that their journey was coming to an end. A long and painful journey, finally endured.

"You look like a cat out of water," Atticus hummed, side glancing at the boy who was clinging onto the arm rests with a deadly grip. He shot the blond a glare, one that made him shut up quick enough. A powerful force shook the plane widely, and Theodore involuntarily gasped as he jolted in his seat.

His eyes quickly darted towards the window, and then towards the comfort of Atticus' face. "What was that? What's going on?"

The blond slipped his Mac into his bag, sending him an unsure smile. "Theo, it's just turbulence."

Was it? Was this usually how planes shook when hit with turbulence? Theo's eyes began to flit with panic. He was a pale boy, pale with numerous scars from fights, but he looked particularly sickly at the moment. Atticus's jaw seemed to clench, and he propped himself against the seat with a concerned expression.

When the plane shook tremendously, Theodore looked as if he was about to be sick. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

Once Atticus secured his seatbelt, he offered his hand across the aisle, stomach churning as he asked: "Hold my hand?"

Theodore didn't need to think. In fact, he was devoid of any rational thought as he abruptly grasped Atticus' hand in a tight grip, squeezing his eyes shut. The blond was a little surprised at first, but his expression quickly melted, and he relaxed against his seat.

Their intertwined hands hung in the alleyway, as the plane descended to the ground.