sonny

Robby is already two glasses of whiskey in, hoping the alcohol will knock him out, while Jack keeps shifting in his seat, unable to get comfortable. Just as the cabin finally settles into that quiet, drowsy rhythm of a night flight, the first bout of turbulence hits.

At first, it's nothing unusual. They're rational adults, and turbulence happens. The flight attendants move through the cabin with practiced smiles, assuring everyone there's nothing to worry about. The seatbelt sign stays on, a few overhead bins rattle, and the plane shudders every now and then. It should be fine.

Except it doesn't stop. The turbulence keeps coming, each wave rougher than the last, until every drop feels like the floor has vanished beneath them. Robby isn't panicking (not exactly) but he's clearly having a miserable time. His jaw is tight, his fingers grip the armrest hard enough to whiten his knuckles, and every violent jolt makes him suck in a sharp breath.

Jack tries humor first. He tosses out a couple of dry comments and jokes, but none of them earn so much as a smile. Logic isn't doing Robby much good.

Seeing the tension etched across his face, Jack quietly reaches over and slips his hand into Robby's.

It's strange. They're fully grown men holding hands because of turbulence. Under any other circumstances, one of them would make a joke about it.

Neither of them does.

Robby's fingers close around Jack's with surprising strength, almost painfully tight, and Jack lets him hold on without comment. It's awkward, a little embarrassing, and somehow exactly what Robby needs.

A few minutes later, the captain comes over the intercom to explain that a large storm has formed across their planned route. They'll have to divert around it, adding some time to the flight, but there's no cause for alarm.

As if on cue, the turbulence begins to ease.

The cabin settles into gentler vibrations, and Robby's breathing gradually evens out. His grip loosens enough that Jack can finally feel his fingers again, but neither of them lets go. Their hands remain loosely intertwined on the armrest, casual enough that they could almost pretend it happened by accident.

The flight stretches on like that. Nobody acknowledges it. Even when Jack eventually has to use the bathroom, Robby reluctantly releases him without a word. The moment Jack sits back down, though, Robby reaches over again, takes his hand just as quietly as before, and stubbornly avoids looking him in the eye.

Jack says nothing. He simply laces their fingers together again.

Eventually exhaustion catches up with Robby. The whiskey, the adrenaline crash, and the endless hours in the air finally win. His head tips sideways until it comes to rest on Jack's shoulder, and before long he's asleep, practically folded against him.

Jack smiles to himself. He adjusts just enough to make Robby more comfortable without waking him, slips on his headphones, puts one of his favorite playlists on, and closes his eyes as well. The seats are cramped, his neck will almost certainly regret this tomorrow, and his hand is still trapped beneath Robby's bruising grip, but he can't quite bring himself to mind.

They're pressed shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined, quietly dozing somewhere above the clouds.

Then the storm catches up with them anyway.

The turbulence returns with enough force to wake half the cabin, and after another tense stretch of flying. The weather gets worse and the plane will divert to another airport until it clears. By the time they land, it's well past midnight.

The airline scrambles to find hotel rooms for a plane full of exhausted passengers, but with several other diverted flights arriving at the same time, accommodations are scarce. At check-in, the clerk barely glances up before sliding a pair of keycards across the counter.

Sharing a room is the least of their concerns. They just want a shower, a mattress, and eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.

They make it upstairs, unlock the door, and walk inside.