The shaped plastic chairs are uncomfortable to him as the busy sounds of the airport drown on in his ears. His carry on sits between his feet on the tiled floor, the weight pressing lightly against his calf as if in reassurance. He sighs deeply, tilting his head back to rest on the seat, his sunglasses sliding the wrong way. Mumbling under his breath, he leans forward, turning to find the offending accessory.

 

Picking them up, the corners of his mouth drop as he sees the hairline crack across one of the lenses. Mumbles turn to curses as he glances around the sitting area, up to the screens and at his watch. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he checks the time again before moving back out to the main hallway.

Taking a breath, he heads towards the small shops before him. Spotting on, he moves quickly inside, wasting no time at all in finding and purchasing his needs. The man at the register winks, gaining a sort breathy laugh as the new pair of glasses are put into immediate use. Glaring at the broken pair, he grumbles as he drops them in a nearby bin.

 

Walking back to the chairs, he is distracted again by the aroma of fresh roast coming from not far. Wandering off in the general direction, he begins to ease about the situation at hand. Buying a cup, he blows at the steam before taking a sip. The hot air tickles his nose as he begins walking back.

 

Happily humming to himself, he sits down again, dropping his bag back between his feet. Checking the time again, he groans loudly, catching a few glances. Feeling highly embarrassed, he takes another swallow, looking out the window to the city beyond.

 

Dazing off, he is startled by a small hand and voice directed at him. The child joyously declares with a happy little bounce that he has just turned the ripe old age of four years. Smiling gently, he congratulates the toddler, sending him back to his mother with a slight pat to the back. She whispers a 'thank you' as she pulls the child into her arms before walking him back to the other side of the room.

 

He chuckles to himself, remembering when life used to be so simple. When he, like the toddler, didn't have a care in the world.

 

He watches as more people come in, taking their seats in the formed pastel chairs. One man, older in his years, sits across from him, tears in his eyes as he runs his fingers over a worn photograph. He looks up, their eyes meeting for a moment, but it is long enough to understand the emotion. He has lost someone, someone very close and very dear to him.

 

He moves closer, passing the photo for him to see. A young soldier stands saluting in full uniform, once a loving son. The father explains that it was an accident that killed his son, and he's going back home to see his body put to rest. The older man sniffles as he puts the picture in his pocket, being told that one's loved are never gone, but always watching. He nods, shaking his hand before moving back.

 

He wonders why so many are drawn to him, because it's not recognition in any sense. Taking a breath to calm his nerves, he digs through his bag, coming across a piece of paper, a sketch taking up one side. At the bottom, by the artists' signature, he had written only on word, 'Smile.'

 

The sketch was that of his best friend and mentor, someone he though he would never see again, until a fateful day in a coffee shop. The chances of it happening were slim, but the fact that it was an artist that brought him back, it was fate.

 

Glancing at it once more, he smiles, putting the sketch back before grabbing his book. Worn and tattered, it is a welcome feeling in his hands. Turning through the pages, he is taken away from his surroundings, and put in the story itself. He can see it that way, watching it unfold before his eyes. His favorite characters imitate life in his mind until he is completely lost and immersed in the well-used pages.

 

So far gone that he doesn't hear his flight called until an attendant breaks him from his daydream. Handing over his ticket, he walks through the tunnel, smiling at the young hostess as she sits him in the small first class section. Leaning back, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep as the engines throttle him up and into the wild blue.

 

Three times he wakes before deciding to stay that way. Plugging his headphones into his CD player, the melodies of a distant, sad guitar strain cuts through the sounds of the plane itself. He stares blindly at the back of the seat in front of him, trying not to let himself cry.

 

He skips ahead a few tracks, listening to the bluesy beat of Southern instruments singing together in a way that makes him nod his head along with the standing bass. He vocalizes quietly with it, knowing that the people who wrote the words are no older than mere children, though they blaze their talent for all to see.

 

He remembers being that way, standing out and giving everything that he had until it leaves him wounded physically and mentally, killing in an almost deep and profound way. Maybe understanding of what went on will find him well someday, letting him live with a decent memory, away from the way life has left him.

 

Life...He was comparing life to a singular being, person, man. Ruling that maybe it's not insanity that he's facing, but more of a reality check, he tries to eat his in-flight salad. Knowing that even though he was in first class, frozen and thawed vegetables were bound to be a bad idea.

 

Grumbling about everything he could possibly be angry about, he pushed the plate aside, folding his arms in a yawn. Pulling a blanket around him, he settles down again, this time with silence around him as the film starts, sound only pouring through headsets.

 

He stretches as he grabs his bag, tossing the strap on his shoulder as he climbs off the plane and into the air-conditioned lobby. Waiting for his luggage, he looks around at the few people, milling around him, no one stopping to pay him any mind. He sighs, grateful that he can be 'alone.'

 

Pulling his suitcase behind him, he sits again in one of those chairs, wiggling around to get comfortable. The thought passes through his mind that all airports must have some conspiracy going about having the same nasty, ugly, plastic, pastel, solid formed chairs that would never be comfortable, no matter how much he moved. He gives up, simply waiting for his ride to arrive.

 

A few moments later, a tall, blonde hared figure walks through the doors, hugging him like it had been years and not just days since he had seen him last.

 

"So Daz, have a good flight?"

 

"Just the usual Dan. You know, broken glasses, little kids, horrible food, and no sleep."

 

"Yep, sounds like your basic flight to me. Come on, our artist is waiting."

 

He winks, grabbing the suitcase and rolling it out the door. He takes one last look around, a silent good-bye before he meets with fate again.