Felix Thistle lets that one popular line from 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘞𝘢𝘳 dictate his relationship with Royu Snowdrop, because that is what he is-𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺.
It's vexing enough that Felix has to sit beside said enemy for the duration of a ninet...
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Ding.
When the seat-belt light comes on, I'm still rows away from our place. I want to run. But as fear has the power to rob a man of reason, I assume that my running could bring the whole plane down. No good. Speed-walking, my only option, leaves me jittery by the time I arrive at the fifteenth row.
Right then, the Pilot speaks—"Please return to your seats." The clock is ticking. My palms are sweaty. It'd take the giant in front of me a while—a long while—to unfold and fold himself. Screw tall people. The bomb's about to detonate. I hear the click which means Royu Snowdrop is unbuckling his seatbelt. I rush.
"Stop!"
He looks at me.
I lift one leg, then throw it over his lap. My hands find their place on his chest. Our eyes meet. Where am I. It's the light cramp in my thigh that reminds me of the other leg. I look away, swinging it over to this side too. Then, like a little kid jumping off a swing, I hop off his lap and collapse into my seat. I'm here, I'm here.
It's not until I hear it that I open my eyes. He—that bastard—is giggling into his hand. I slap his arm.
"It was an emergency!"
Royu Snowdrop is a mess when he laughs.
"You—" he cries out. "I—Ah!" The guy isn't able to string four words together. First, he covers his mouth. "Mmm...Mmm....Mmm." So I can't hear a thing he's saying. Then goes his nose. After that, his face—until what's left is a muffled sound, bringing sunny picnics and old photo albums to mind.
I grin at him. I grin some more. I keep grinning.
Drop.
That is when I realise that the seat-belt isn't digging into my stomach—I'm shaken awake. The plane sways to one side. I bite my tongue, the cut sends shocks. Can it get any worse? I'm fumbling with the seat-belt when Royu Snowdrop's long fingers come flying into view—at my crotch. I might've yelped.
"Felix, calm down! I'm helping you put it on."
He was going for the damn seat-belt, not my—yeah. Can you blame me for assuming that, though? Being on a plane that seems to twerk and shimmy and stagger like a drunk can make serious altercations to the way you see things.
He takes no more than a second to click the seat-belt into place, but long after his hands swim to the shore, I find myself floating in this river, surrounded by water lilies and cicadas.
Drop-Rise-Drop-Rise.
My eyes slam shut. I want to escape this—this constant motion, up-down-up-down, which does not only shove me into a pool of hazard, but has me calling out, too, for a lifeguard. When my breathing turns heavy, I think he hears it.
Royu Snowdrop's hand is in my hair. He keeps it there, for a moment or two, as if checking to see if I'll bite—and I don't.
