[One-shot] Inflight (Prince of Tennis)
Title: Inflight
Characters: Fuji
Wordcount/Rating: 3100+ words / G
Summary: Fuji takes a plane and lets his mind wander.
Author's Notes: [EDIT: Dedication retracted, will make up for it in some other form someday.] Thanks to L and M for the rush beta. *hearts* First drafted on the plane from Narita to Incheon on September 18, 2007.
He arrives too early, and amuses himself for the next two hours taking pictures.
He catches airplanes taxiing, slowly crawling across the concrete (not tarmac, he notes), very tiny silhouettes moving in their cockpits. Fuji lifts his camera. The plane moves too quickly for him to follow accurately, and he aims for a spot further up, telescoping in to wait. He waits patiently, but the nose of the plane slants away just before it enters his view.
It isn't a real loss; the angle from this window is wrong anyway.
He turns away to surreptitiously take pictures of the child who sleeps stretched uncaringly across uneven waiting-lounge benches. He isn't sure who the young child's parents are, but no one is watching as Fuji quietly snaps two shots of dark brown curls against the pink dress of the blonde doll she clutches. Beside her, three women smile and nod to each other and no one in particular as they chatter in soft but distinct syllables. Fuji can hear the commentary on an entertainer Yumiko also likes to watch occasionally, but it doesn't interest him, and he passes the viewfinder across them, pausing a moment to take a picture of manicured pink fingernails gently scratching the golden clasp of a brown Coach purse. Next to them, a teenager's head bobs lightly to the beat of Fuji's heart, a silver iPod clipped to her neon pink purse. Her bright orange hair and white headphones stand out amongst the crowd of black hair and muted coats.
Fuji takes pictures of the young stewardesses clustered by the next gate, his gentle smiles and soft voice cajoling them into relaxed postures as they smile back at this young photographer with his large camera and too-thin frame.
He is about to take a picture of a young man with messy hair, and lifts the camera, only to find when he focuses that the man is looking straight at him. That makes Fuji smile, and he lowers his camera--not without first capturing the piercing gaze aimed at him. Then he puts the camera away, because after all, there is something--someone--more interesting now. Fuji spends some time watching, but the man doesn't look back, instead continuing to read. Fuji wonders what the other is reading--it seems to be a novel of some sorts--but doesn't approach him. The man reminds him of Tezuka, working hard in Germany.
Fuji is struck with the sudden urge to send an e-mail to Tezuka, simply to say hello ("I saw you in the airport the other day," it would begin). He can almost imagine Tezuka's response about being in Germany and nowhere near Narita. He pulls out his phone, composing the e-mail.
While he's keying it in, boarding begins. Fuji continues to press keys, eyeing the line of other passengers waiting to board.
He is the last passenger on board, and squeezes into his window seat cheerfully. The plane isn't full, and he has two seats to himself. All around him, people are settling in. Fuji wonders where Tezuka's doppleganger is sitting, but he doesn't really give it much thought as he settles himself in as well. He presses "send" on his cellphone, making sure the e-mail is sent before he turns the power off. He looks out the window, waiting for takeoff.
Outside the window, he watches as golf-carts tug various attachments on wheels to and fro. Most of these are empty, just flatbeds on wheels. He watches as one worker repeatedly backs up, trying futilely to get the flatbed behind his cart to hitch up. Finally another man, this one in a flourescent yellow vest with a bright orange baton in hand, walks up to hold the flatbed still so that the coupling finally succeeds. Fuji watches the ground crew wave to each other before the first man drives away.
Another golf cart drives off, followed closely by three containers. Fuji notices "Food Services" and "Inflight Catering" on the containers.
He wonders what would happen if there had been a mistake in loading and only empty food containers were loaded onto the plane. It's highly unlikely, he decides, or there would have been news of that by now, considering how many flights depart each day. Perhaps they are noticeably different in weight, or perhaps they are opened to check. He can't help but hope a container designated for a flight to Thailand is loaded onto his flight instead. Even those meals aren't spicy enough for him, but at least there is a higher chance of getting something spicy enough to make airline food palatable. Not for the first time, Fuji feels a pang of sorrow at not being allowed a bottle of Tabasco sauce on board, nor remembering to buy some small packets of wasabi. He makes a mental note to do so the minute he reaches home. He doesn't think of himself as a particularly choosy eater, but it's always nice to have small comfort items on hand.
Activity on the ground has died down, and Fuji feels a little bored again. He watches as hot air shimmers above the turbines as the pilot calls for safety checks over the plane's inflight broadcast system. The plane slowly begins to back away and the terminal building retreats. The lights dim, and the plane occasionally echoes distantly as it runs over small bumps. They're probably lights, recessed into the ground--Fuji can see more of them not too far away.
He's distracted from his inspection of the recessed lights on the plane's wing by the conversation of the couple in the seats in front of him, whispering together in each other's ears. They lean towards each other, talking under the inflight safety announcement. Unfortunately for them, Fuji can hear what they're saying, though of course, he pretends not to notice. The girl is whispering into her boyfriend's ear. She reminds Fuji of Yumiko, but on second thought he discards the resemblance. Yumiko is pretty and sexy, stylish and coy. This girl has neither Yumiko's grace nor style, and has not that much to offer in the coyness department either, from what Fuji hears of the conversation. He will admit, though, that she has a lovely voice; Fuji thinks a voice is not even close to enough. He can listen to pop idols for that--some of them are actually semi-talented.
The plane suddenly jolts and Fuji's attention shifts outside. He feels it now--he's pushed back into his seat involuntarily as the plane rumbles down the runway gathering speed--and then suddenly there are no more vibrations and the roar beneath him drops a way with the landscape outside.
It's over so quickly it feels distinctly anti-climactic. Had he not been paying attention, he might have missed it. Then Fuji notices a slight shudder of the wing outside his window, and he entertains himself with the possibility of a plane crash, morbidly pondering the probability of it happening at that very moment. Inui might be able to tell him, Fuji thinks with a smile.
Around him, people are already unbuckling seatbelts and moving around. No one seems to be contemplating the wonder of a few tons of steel becoming airborne with such little fanfare. He ponders that lack of wonder a moment. He's taken flying for granted--every take off a matter of fact instead of a miracle of engineering.
While he tries to decide if this is a bad thing, the plane banks, and the sun's rays shift to shine from another angle, brightly glowing almost-white patches of light slowly travelling across the cabin, illuminating every passenger in turn. The man across the aisle reading a newspaper shifts a little irritably with a rustle as the too-bright light reflects off his newspaper.
The light shining off the engine turbines is close to blinding, but Fuji doesn't look away--his eyes are shielded anyway, half-closed as they are. He studies the light grey streaks on the visible parts of the turbines, wondering how long it's been since this plane was cleaned. It's merely a thought borne of idle curiousity, but he then imagines what they might look like, spotless.
His eyes are beginning to hurt, and he finally relents, looking beyond the bright reflective spot on the engfine to the white clouds below. Movement catches his eyes, and he looks to see another plane in the distance, much closer to the carpet of white below. It skims quickly across the horizon, and Fuji wonders if the bottom of the plane will rub against the soft tips of the clouds. He pulls out his camera and the telephoto lens--can he make it in time?
He doesn't, but neither does he put the camera away. Instead he spends the next few minutes examining the texture of the clouds in the distance. Will there be any more planes? he wonders. This far away from the airport, there probably won't; if he wants to capture more planes, he will only have a chance later, closer to his destination.
The clouds below him are smooth and white. Further away (ten o'clock, Fuji thinks), they are much more fluffy, forming white cotton hills and bumpy valleys. Fuji shifts and brings his camera closer to the window, telephoto attachment pressed against the scratched plastic viewhole. The angle isn't right--he can't fit them into the frame properly. The plane flies on, and Fuji knows if he waits he can take better pictures in less than a minute, so until then he satisfies himself with images of the transition--smooth white evenness with barely a ridge, which graduates to little tufts of white sticking out like oversized lint, which segues into to an interesting collection of waves and layers, dotted with craters of various sizes.
Something isn't right. Fuji pauses, looks closely, and then smiles, taking another picture. One of these isn't a crater. He takes another picture of the white-tipped mountain peak, the white mist around it giving an illusion of snow in the summer. He takes more pictures--the clouds are tumultuous beneath him, heavier and thicker, climaxing; then they lose momentum and give way. First a crack. Then a larger one. And another. And another.
Too quickly, they part to reveal a river beneath. It's pretty, but Fuji prefers the white expanse of before.
He tries to capture pictures of individual clouds and to pick out the waif-like cluster currently in his sight but not quite staying within the confines of his viewfinder. Alas, the opportunity passes, and Fuji looks ruefully at the blurred patch of indistinguishable white fog splashed across the LCD of his camera. If only photography was as easy as tennis, he thinks.
There are no more discrete clouds worth his attention now, and Fuji lowers the camera. He's interrupted by a flight attendant walking down the aisle with a plastic tray full of small flimsy plastic cups and cans of beer, but Fuji smiles, shakes his head, and returns his attention to the window. The clouds below have turned heterogenous. Now there are thick white cotton balls below thinly spread-out almost-flat barely-there mists masquerading as clouds.
The cabin smells of bread and something vaguely buttery. Fuji looks up to see a flight attendant smiling at him. He isn't particularly interested in watery curry chicken and dry-looking rice, but it will taste better warm, so he eats it while he admires the thicker (still smooth and fluffy without looking spongey) clouds. The flight attendants continue to move up and down the aisles; Fuji can hear their soft but cheerful offers of food, drinks, or snacks.
Now the cabin smells of coffee. Fuji shakes his head at the flight attendant with a distracted smile, but other passengers don't, and the smell of coffee grows thicker. Soon, Fuji wonders if perhaps he shouldn't have asked for some, too. He decides to postpone the decision to after the rice has been finished, and continues to eat. The chicken tasteless and visually unappealing, but the texture is acceptable. The rice is as dry as it looks, and Fuji leaves the small slice of pineapple unopened in its sealed plastic container. He doesn't touch the pickles either. One can't even taste the curry, he thinks sadly.
He asks for wasabi or Tabasco sauce, but the flight attendant merely shakes her head apologetically. Fuji isn't happy--he would have brought his own, if it hadn't been for the regulations forbidding liquids. He wishes manufacturers would make smaller bottles of Tabasco, and eats quickly, leaving most of the meal untouched.
During his meal, the clouds return, and Fuji looks out the window to be greeted again by featureless white. The clouds here are as smooth as paper--it's actually quite boring. He hears a scraping sound as the passenger behind him slides the shutter down, then another scrape as the passenger before him slides theirs up.
Fuji ponders sliding his down halfway.
He discards the notion regretfully; if he did that, it would be difficult to take more pictures. In the end, he leaves well enough alone. He's bored of clouds now, and looks at the wing again. This time, the small black spray-painted letters "NO STEP" catch his eyes. Fuji looks at the markings, noting their position on the wingflap, and finds another one further down, just above the turbine. He takes a picture, the "NO STEP" blurred by dust on the glass of the viewhole.
Curiously, there are no more warnings (NO STEP or otherwise) beyond the turbines. He does see little bits of gray metal affixed to the top of the wing, neatly spaced in a row beginning at the middle of the wing just beyond the turbine and ending a little before the tip. The little pieces of metal have black streaks trailing after them on the wing too, giving the wing a striped grey-and-black top that Fuji looks at for some time. The shape of the wing and the spacing of the lines reminds him of a flight of stairs.
A vision of himself climbing those stairs appears before him, and Fuji smiles because in his mind the him standing on the wing has hair that is being blown in all directions at once. Never mind that if one really was on the wing while it was flying, one would have a few problems more important than hair in one's eyes. He spares a thought for the person who painted "NO STEP" and wonders if they saw that illusion. Perhaps, and perhaps not, Fuji thinks, and he takes another picture, noting that there is a piece of metal ringed with yellow paint in the middle of the row of unadorned metal things.
Why is it the only one ringed in yellow? he wonders.
Telephoto lenses are quite useful for the inquisitive, but in the end, Fuji puts it down, disappointed. It's just a loop of metal, probably to attach things to.
Fuji imagines hanging some large keitai charms on it. Charms for a plane. Really, airlines should personalize their planes in more creative ways than the same old body and tail decals and colors, he thinks, and wonders how he can get a picture big enough to show that sort of detail for a good photomanipulation. Perhaps when he disembarks. He doesn't want to resort to stock photos, after all, through it would be very easy. Perhaps a small swallow. After all, planes and birds go together. He wonders if a dragonfly would look as interesting, and takes a few more pictures.
Bored now, he puts the camera away and stands up. A walk to the restrooms will stretch his legs. He thinks about a plane with four wings on its body, but by the time he comes back he's put the thought aside.
The afternoon sun gives the cabin a strange ambient glow. Even after he closes his eyes, Fuji can still see gold in the back of his mind.
He wakes when the flight attendant gently awakens the passenger behind him. He isn't sure how long he's been asleep, but his neck feels a little sore. He looks at the inflight information up on the television screen in front and learns that there are only a few minutes to arrival. Beneath his feet he feels a shudder as the plane's landing gear descends.
Fuji opens his shade and turns to look. Outside, he can no longer distinguish sky from clouds--it's all a pale blankness from top to bottom. He watches as vague differences in shades signify how much cloud they are passing through at the moment. White streaks flash by his window as the plane descends, and then suddenly there is blue on the horizon.
They coast between white above and white below for a few seconds. The plane shakes a little, and moves down. They are engulfed in white once more. Then beneath them, Fuji sees a patch of grayish-green, and then trees on a patch of light brown.
More islands come into view, and Fuji watches as small boats pass below, training small white lines behind them that disappear quickly. Above them, something arcs, indistinct. A rainbow! Fuji realizes, surprised--he can't see any traces of rain. The plane shudders again, banking, taking boats and islands (and one lighthouse on a man-made boay) away from Fuji's view. It tilts again, and Fuji sees naught but clouds.
He waits.
When the plane levels again, Fuji sees a bigger island, this one large enough for civilisation. The seas slap at the very edges of the island, which has erected a low stone wall just high enough to keep the waves at bay. Within the confines of the walls, Fuji can see rice fields, verdant and green. Much closer inland, tiny houses hug the treeline.
This sight is different from the Japan he knows, and he spends time taking in the sight before remembering--too late--his camera. He retrieves it quickly anyway, but he has already missed the bridge connecting two of the largest islands, four smaller boats circling a larger one, another lighthouse, and what seems to be a row of fences in the water. (Later he realizes that might have been a fish nursery.)
More solid land comes into view. Fuji sees small hangars with open doors, a bright orange windsock fluttering in the wind, the ground approaching closer, closer, closer, closer--is the landing gear lowered?--closer--
He feels the jolt of impact as the plane lands. A small part of him feels disappointed that it was uneventful after all.
As he gets off the plane, he smells fresh moisture in the air. Oh. It had been raining after all.
The last thing Fuji does is turn around to take a picture of the plane. Then he leaves for the immigration counter with a spring in his step, humming tunelessly. Someone will be in the lobby waiting for him--it's not polite to make people wait too long.
Characters: Fuji
Wordcount/Rating: 3100+ words / G
Summary: Fuji takes a plane and lets his mind wander.
Author's Notes: [EDIT: Dedication retracted, will make up for it in some other form someday.] Thanks to L and M for the rush beta. *hearts* First drafted on the plane from Narita to Incheon on September 18, 2007.
He arrives too early, and amuses himself for the next two hours taking pictures.
He catches airplanes taxiing, slowly crawling across the concrete (not tarmac, he notes), very tiny silhouettes moving in their cockpits. Fuji lifts his camera. The plane moves too quickly for him to follow accurately, and he aims for a spot further up, telescoping in to wait. He waits patiently, but the nose of the plane slants away just before it enters his view.
It isn't a real loss; the angle from this window is wrong anyway.
He turns away to surreptitiously take pictures of the child who sleeps stretched uncaringly across uneven waiting-lounge benches. He isn't sure who the young child's parents are, but no one is watching as Fuji quietly snaps two shots of dark brown curls against the pink dress of the blonde doll she clutches. Beside her, three women smile and nod to each other and no one in particular as they chatter in soft but distinct syllables. Fuji can hear the commentary on an entertainer Yumiko also likes to watch occasionally, but it doesn't interest him, and he passes the viewfinder across them, pausing a moment to take a picture of manicured pink fingernails gently scratching the golden clasp of a brown Coach purse. Next to them, a teenager's head bobs lightly to the beat of Fuji's heart, a silver iPod clipped to her neon pink purse. Her bright orange hair and white headphones stand out amongst the crowd of black hair and muted coats.
Fuji takes pictures of the young stewardesses clustered by the next gate, his gentle smiles and soft voice cajoling them into relaxed postures as they smile back at this young photographer with his large camera and too-thin frame.
He is about to take a picture of a young man with messy hair, and lifts the camera, only to find when he focuses that the man is looking straight at him. That makes Fuji smile, and he lowers his camera--not without first capturing the piercing gaze aimed at him. Then he puts the camera away, because after all, there is something--someone--more interesting now. Fuji spends some time watching, but the man doesn't look back, instead continuing to read. Fuji wonders what the other is reading--it seems to be a novel of some sorts--but doesn't approach him. The man reminds him of Tezuka, working hard in Germany.
Fuji is struck with the sudden urge to send an e-mail to Tezuka, simply to say hello ("I saw you in the airport the other day," it would begin). He can almost imagine Tezuka's response about being in Germany and nowhere near Narita. He pulls out his phone, composing the e-mail.
While he's keying it in, boarding begins. Fuji continues to press keys, eyeing the line of other passengers waiting to board.
He is the last passenger on board, and squeezes into his window seat cheerfully. The plane isn't full, and he has two seats to himself. All around him, people are settling in. Fuji wonders where Tezuka's doppleganger is sitting, but he doesn't really give it much thought as he settles himself in as well. He presses "send" on his cellphone, making sure the e-mail is sent before he turns the power off. He looks out the window, waiting for takeoff.
Outside the window, he watches as golf-carts tug various attachments on wheels to and fro. Most of these are empty, just flatbeds on wheels. He watches as one worker repeatedly backs up, trying futilely to get the flatbed behind his cart to hitch up. Finally another man, this one in a flourescent yellow vest with a bright orange baton in hand, walks up to hold the flatbed still so that the coupling finally succeeds. Fuji watches the ground crew wave to each other before the first man drives away.
Another golf cart drives off, followed closely by three containers. Fuji notices "Food Services" and "Inflight Catering" on the containers.
He wonders what would happen if there had been a mistake in loading and only empty food containers were loaded onto the plane. It's highly unlikely, he decides, or there would have been news of that by now, considering how many flights depart each day. Perhaps they are noticeably different in weight, or perhaps they are opened to check. He can't help but hope a container designated for a flight to Thailand is loaded onto his flight instead. Even those meals aren't spicy enough for him, but at least there is a higher chance of getting something spicy enough to make airline food palatable. Not for the first time, Fuji feels a pang of sorrow at not being allowed a bottle of Tabasco sauce on board, nor remembering to buy some small packets of wasabi. He makes a mental note to do so the minute he reaches home. He doesn't think of himself as a particularly choosy eater, but it's always nice to have small comfort items on hand.
Activity on the ground has died down, and Fuji feels a little bored again. He watches as hot air shimmers above the turbines as the pilot calls for safety checks over the plane's inflight broadcast system. The plane slowly begins to back away and the terminal building retreats. The lights dim, and the plane occasionally echoes distantly as it runs over small bumps. They're probably lights, recessed into the ground--Fuji can see more of them not too far away.
He's distracted from his inspection of the recessed lights on the plane's wing by the conversation of the couple in the seats in front of him, whispering together in each other's ears. They lean towards each other, talking under the inflight safety announcement. Unfortunately for them, Fuji can hear what they're saying, though of course, he pretends not to notice. The girl is whispering into her boyfriend's ear. She reminds Fuji of Yumiko, but on second thought he discards the resemblance. Yumiko is pretty and sexy, stylish and coy. This girl has neither Yumiko's grace nor style, and has not that much to offer in the coyness department either, from what Fuji hears of the conversation. He will admit, though, that she has a lovely voice; Fuji thinks a voice is not even close to enough. He can listen to pop idols for that--some of them are actually semi-talented.
The plane suddenly jolts and Fuji's attention shifts outside. He feels it now--he's pushed back into his seat involuntarily as the plane rumbles down the runway gathering speed--and then suddenly there are no more vibrations and the roar beneath him drops a way with the landscape outside.
It's over so quickly it feels distinctly anti-climactic. Had he not been paying attention, he might have missed it. Then Fuji notices a slight shudder of the wing outside his window, and he entertains himself with the possibility of a plane crash, morbidly pondering the probability of it happening at that very moment. Inui might be able to tell him, Fuji thinks with a smile.
Around him, people are already unbuckling seatbelts and moving around. No one seems to be contemplating the wonder of a few tons of steel becoming airborne with such little fanfare. He ponders that lack of wonder a moment. He's taken flying for granted--every take off a matter of fact instead of a miracle of engineering.
While he tries to decide if this is a bad thing, the plane banks, and the sun's rays shift to shine from another angle, brightly glowing almost-white patches of light slowly travelling across the cabin, illuminating every passenger in turn. The man across the aisle reading a newspaper shifts a little irritably with a rustle as the too-bright light reflects off his newspaper.
The light shining off the engine turbines is close to blinding, but Fuji doesn't look away--his eyes are shielded anyway, half-closed as they are. He studies the light grey streaks on the visible parts of the turbines, wondering how long it's been since this plane was cleaned. It's merely a thought borne of idle curiousity, but he then imagines what they might look like, spotless.
His eyes are beginning to hurt, and he finally relents, looking beyond the bright reflective spot on the engfine to the white clouds below. Movement catches his eyes, and he looks to see another plane in the distance, much closer to the carpet of white below. It skims quickly across the horizon, and Fuji wonders if the bottom of the plane will rub against the soft tips of the clouds. He pulls out his camera and the telephoto lens--can he make it in time?
He doesn't, but neither does he put the camera away. Instead he spends the next few minutes examining the texture of the clouds in the distance. Will there be any more planes? he wonders. This far away from the airport, there probably won't; if he wants to capture more planes, he will only have a chance later, closer to his destination.
The clouds below him are smooth and white. Further away (ten o'clock, Fuji thinks), they are much more fluffy, forming white cotton hills and bumpy valleys. Fuji shifts and brings his camera closer to the window, telephoto attachment pressed against the scratched plastic viewhole. The angle isn't right--he can't fit them into the frame properly. The plane flies on, and Fuji knows if he waits he can take better pictures in less than a minute, so until then he satisfies himself with images of the transition--smooth white evenness with barely a ridge, which graduates to little tufts of white sticking out like oversized lint, which segues into to an interesting collection of waves and layers, dotted with craters of various sizes.
Something isn't right. Fuji pauses, looks closely, and then smiles, taking another picture. One of these isn't a crater. He takes another picture of the white-tipped mountain peak, the white mist around it giving an illusion of snow in the summer. He takes more pictures--the clouds are tumultuous beneath him, heavier and thicker, climaxing; then they lose momentum and give way. First a crack. Then a larger one. And another. And another.
Too quickly, they part to reveal a river beneath. It's pretty, but Fuji prefers the white expanse of before.
He tries to capture pictures of individual clouds and to pick out the waif-like cluster currently in his sight but not quite staying within the confines of his viewfinder. Alas, the opportunity passes, and Fuji looks ruefully at the blurred patch of indistinguishable white fog splashed across the LCD of his camera. If only photography was as easy as tennis, he thinks.
There are no more discrete clouds worth his attention now, and Fuji lowers the camera. He's interrupted by a flight attendant walking down the aisle with a plastic tray full of small flimsy plastic cups and cans of beer, but Fuji smiles, shakes his head, and returns his attention to the window. The clouds below have turned heterogenous. Now there are thick white cotton balls below thinly spread-out almost-flat barely-there mists masquerading as clouds.
The cabin smells of bread and something vaguely buttery. Fuji looks up to see a flight attendant smiling at him. He isn't particularly interested in watery curry chicken and dry-looking rice, but it will taste better warm, so he eats it while he admires the thicker (still smooth and fluffy without looking spongey) clouds. The flight attendants continue to move up and down the aisles; Fuji can hear their soft but cheerful offers of food, drinks, or snacks.
Now the cabin smells of coffee. Fuji shakes his head at the flight attendant with a distracted smile, but other passengers don't, and the smell of coffee grows thicker. Soon, Fuji wonders if perhaps he shouldn't have asked for some, too. He decides to postpone the decision to after the rice has been finished, and continues to eat. The chicken tasteless and visually unappealing, but the texture is acceptable. The rice is as dry as it looks, and Fuji leaves the small slice of pineapple unopened in its sealed plastic container. He doesn't touch the pickles either. One can't even taste the curry, he thinks sadly.
He asks for wasabi or Tabasco sauce, but the flight attendant merely shakes her head apologetically. Fuji isn't happy--he would have brought his own, if it hadn't been for the regulations forbidding liquids. He wishes manufacturers would make smaller bottles of Tabasco, and eats quickly, leaving most of the meal untouched.
During his meal, the clouds return, and Fuji looks out the window to be greeted again by featureless white. The clouds here are as smooth as paper--it's actually quite boring. He hears a scraping sound as the passenger behind him slides the shutter down, then another scrape as the passenger before him slides theirs up.
Fuji ponders sliding his down halfway.
He discards the notion regretfully; if he did that, it would be difficult to take more pictures. In the end, he leaves well enough alone. He's bored of clouds now, and looks at the wing again. This time, the small black spray-painted letters "NO STEP" catch his eyes. Fuji looks at the markings, noting their position on the wingflap, and finds another one further down, just above the turbine. He takes a picture, the "NO STEP" blurred by dust on the glass of the viewhole.
Curiously, there are no more warnings (NO STEP or otherwise) beyond the turbines. He does see little bits of gray metal affixed to the top of the wing, neatly spaced in a row beginning at the middle of the wing just beyond the turbine and ending a little before the tip. The little pieces of metal have black streaks trailing after them on the wing too, giving the wing a striped grey-and-black top that Fuji looks at for some time. The shape of the wing and the spacing of the lines reminds him of a flight of stairs.
A vision of himself climbing those stairs appears before him, and Fuji smiles because in his mind the him standing on the wing has hair that is being blown in all directions at once. Never mind that if one really was on the wing while it was flying, one would have a few problems more important than hair in one's eyes. He spares a thought for the person who painted "NO STEP" and wonders if they saw that illusion. Perhaps, and perhaps not, Fuji thinks, and he takes another picture, noting that there is a piece of metal ringed with yellow paint in the middle of the row of unadorned metal things.
Why is it the only one ringed in yellow? he wonders.
Telephoto lenses are quite useful for the inquisitive, but in the end, Fuji puts it down, disappointed. It's just a loop of metal, probably to attach things to.
Fuji imagines hanging some large keitai charms on it. Charms for a plane. Really, airlines should personalize their planes in more creative ways than the same old body and tail decals and colors, he thinks, and wonders how he can get a picture big enough to show that sort of detail for a good photomanipulation. Perhaps when he disembarks. He doesn't want to resort to stock photos, after all, through it would be very easy. Perhaps a small swallow. After all, planes and birds go together. He wonders if a dragonfly would look as interesting, and takes a few more pictures.
Bored now, he puts the camera away and stands up. A walk to the restrooms will stretch his legs. He thinks about a plane with four wings on its body, but by the time he comes back he's put the thought aside.
The afternoon sun gives the cabin a strange ambient glow. Even after he closes his eyes, Fuji can still see gold in the back of his mind.
He wakes when the flight attendant gently awakens the passenger behind him. He isn't sure how long he's been asleep, but his neck feels a little sore. He looks at the inflight information up on the television screen in front and learns that there are only a few minutes to arrival. Beneath his feet he feels a shudder as the plane's landing gear descends.
Fuji opens his shade and turns to look. Outside, he can no longer distinguish sky from clouds--it's all a pale blankness from top to bottom. He watches as vague differences in shades signify how much cloud they are passing through at the moment. White streaks flash by his window as the plane descends, and then suddenly there is blue on the horizon.
They coast between white above and white below for a few seconds. The plane shakes a little, and moves down. They are engulfed in white once more. Then beneath them, Fuji sees a patch of grayish-green, and then trees on a patch of light brown.
More islands come into view, and Fuji watches as small boats pass below, training small white lines behind them that disappear quickly. Above them, something arcs, indistinct. A rainbow! Fuji realizes, surprised--he can't see any traces of rain. The plane shudders again, banking, taking boats and islands (and one lighthouse on a man-made boay) away from Fuji's view. It tilts again, and Fuji sees naught but clouds.
He waits.
When the plane levels again, Fuji sees a bigger island, this one large enough for civilisation. The seas slap at the very edges of the island, which has erected a low stone wall just high enough to keep the waves at bay. Within the confines of the walls, Fuji can see rice fields, verdant and green. Much closer inland, tiny houses hug the treeline.
This sight is different from the Japan he knows, and he spends time taking in the sight before remembering--too late--his camera. He retrieves it quickly anyway, but he has already missed the bridge connecting two of the largest islands, four smaller boats circling a larger one, another lighthouse, and what seems to be a row of fences in the water. (Later he realizes that might have been a fish nursery.)
More solid land comes into view. Fuji sees small hangars with open doors, a bright orange windsock fluttering in the wind, the ground approaching closer, closer, closer, closer--is the landing gear lowered?--closer--
He feels the jolt of impact as the plane lands. A small part of him feels disappointed that it was uneventful after all.
As he gets off the plane, he smells fresh moisture in the air. Oh. It had been raining after all.
The last thing Fuji does is turn around to take a picture of the plane. Then he leaves for the immigration counter with a spring in his step, humming tunelessly. Someone will be in the lobby waiting for him--it's not polite to make people wait too long.