Chapter Text
Two weeks later, they were at the airport.
Or, at least, they were in an Uber headed to LAX at 3:02 a.m., which felt somehow worse than a red-eye. The kind of hour that caused time to creep and muscles to hurt before the flight even started.
Corey had done everything: pulling the two suitcases down the stairs from Conan's place, carefully stowing them in the trunk of the Uber, and then closing the trunk quietly as Conan watched in a hoodie that was likely two sizes too big and sweats that could've been turned inside out. Conan hadn't even reached for his suitcase. His hands just dangled there, useless, eyes glassy and blinking slow like a cartoon figure just out of an anvil drop.
"Space hands aren't working," he muttered, helplessly rubbing his palms together.
Corey smiled quietly and shoved him toward the car door like a sleeping child. "Good that one of us is strong and heroic."
Conan, already half-sliding into the seat, simply leaned to one side and grumbled, "Tell the press.".
The moment the car was in motion, Conan slumped all the way against Corey's side and laid his head on his shoulder. The seatbelt ran across his chest in a jagged diagonal as if he didn't care enough to buckle it all the way. Corey's strong, warm arm wrapped around his back, and his thumb traced slow, silent curves into the cloth of Conan's hoodie-clad shoulder as the city lights whizzed by outside.
The Uber driver, a man in his forties with a friendly voice and a faint British accent, made light conversation with Corey while Conan dozed beside him.
“Headed overseas, huh?”
“Yeah,” Corey said, brushing Conan’s hair back off his forehead absently. “Tour.”
“You in the band?”
Corey smiled. “No, I’m more of the… support crew.”
The driver chuckled. “Big one, this tour?”
Corey glanced down at Conan’s soft, rhythmic breathing. “Yeah. Big enough.”
But the rest of the ride passed quiet. Conan didn’t stir. Corey just kept rubbing his shoulder, slow and careful, letting the silence hold them steady.
When they arrived, Corey slipped out first, opened Conan’s door, and coaxed him awake with a gentle hand on his cheek. “Hey. We’re here.”
Conan squinted into the low glow of the airport lights like they were a personal offense.
“I literally just closed my eyes.”
“That was thirty minutes ago, babe.”
He barely blinked at the endearment nickname. Just stumbled out of the vehicle like a cat dropped from a table and followed Corey through the glass doors, half-lidded eyes, hood up, earloop black mask cinched down over his face. Not for pomp. Not because he was famous. Just because it made him less. seen. Airports were too much—too florescent, too reflective, too awake. And today, he was none of the above.
Check-in was a blur. Passports scanned, luggage tagged, boarding passes printed and relinquished. Corey answered most of the questions. Conan moved alongside him, swaying, every so often leaning into him like a plant with the sun.
But TSA was where things got interesting.
"Sir, please take off your belt," the officer told him, voice polite but firm.
Conan blinked. "Why?"
Corey, already half done unfastening his shoes, glanced over. "Metal."
"Oh."
Conan's hand closed on the buckle and pulled it out with preternatural slowness, yawning as well.
The minute he was loose, his jeans crept precariously downward. They were not baggy, but they were scarcely tight, and without the belt to secure them, they started to slide, revealing a ribbon of pale skin and a black Calvin Klein waistband.
Corey caught sight in an instant. And smirked.
"Undoing your belt for everyone now?" he growled under his breath, tone honey sweet but completely not.
Conan rolled his eyes, resting the belt in one hand and his waistband in the other, not wanting to moon the entire security line. "If I didn't, we'd be here for three hours."
Oh, yeah. I didn't think I was special or anything," Corey teased, leaning against the side of the bin carousel. "I guess they show everyone the Calvin Kleins."
"You're the worst."
The TSA officer motioned him toward the full-body scanner. "Hands above your head, sir.".
Conan looked at her, then looked down at his jeans, which were slipping once more. "If I put my hands up, I'm gonna—like—I'm not really trying to flash anybody."
"You'll be fine," she replied, unimpressed but patient.
He exhaled a deep breath, handed his belt to Corey, and finally put his arms up while fumblingly pushing his hips forward to get his jeans up without using his hands.
Corey laughed. Louder.
"Shut. Up."
"Not a word," Corey replied, literally glowing with laughter. "Just admiring the artwork."
Corey was still snickering as he helped Conan get his belt and hoodie and whatever dignity he could gather off the plastic trays. "Your Calvin Klein waistband is still visible, by the way," Corey said dryly.
Conan grumped like a man betrayed by the very laws of gravity themselves.
They went into the terminal and found the most subdued lounge space they could. Their flight didn't board another two hours. The airport was all but empty, with only a few exhausted travelers bedded down under low light, curled up in chairs like sleep-deprived commuters.
Conan collapsed into a corner seat and yanked his hood over his head, pulling it tight like a turtle. Mask on, headphones on, one leg sprawled across the armrest. It was not style. It was hibernation.
Corey sat beside him and poked his knee gently.
"Calvin," he said, quietly.
"What."
"I can still see the waistband."
"I hate you."
Corey just smiled and kicked his foot. "Aww, come on. Don't sleep yet. You're gonna miss your free airplane pretzels."
"I'm gonna miss all of it."
They did that for the next hour and a half.
Corey: you look like a rich raccoon
Conan: you kiss like one
Corey: brave of you to think that's an insult
Conan: we are in public. behave.
Corey: you flashed the TSA your undies
Later, Conan's responses were shorter. Teasing was replaced with silence. Somewhere near the ten-minute boarding announcement, Conan leaned over to the side into Corey's shoulder again and did not move.
They boarded early in their VIP seats—spacious, clean, soft leather, the kind that reclined flat into beds and had orange juice before takeoff if you wanted it. Corey didn't even bother asking. The flight attendant brought it to him, and he simply nodded. Conan, shocked, simply sipped what Corey was offering him.
No cameras. No screaming fans. Just cabin lights low and hums of engines and people getting settled to sleep.
Corey pulled Conan's blanket higher and watched him awhile.
Still hoodie-ed. Still masked. Huddled up tight under the navy blue airline blanket, legs tucked up to his chest as if he was cowering from the whole world.
Corey reclined his seat, switched off his overhead light, and whispered softly, "Night, rockstar."
He didn't look for one.
But Conan rested one hand across the narrow space between their seats and just put it on Corey's arm. Not grabbing. Not holding. Just sitting there.
"I like that you came," conan breathed, barely audible.
Corey smiled and said in a soft voice
"I like that I'm here."
They slept at some point during the Atlantic. Side by side. Silent. Unhooked from the chaos. Together.