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johnkun are long layovers spent in empty gates so johnny can stretch his legs out across the bench and sleep with his head in kun’s lap. johnkun are the list in johnny’s notes app ranking airports by the quality of their coffee, and where to get said coffee.
johnkun are frequent flyer miles. johnkun are rollaboard handles breaking in the middle of a mad dash for the international terminal, and barely missing the last call, and learning how to pack light.
johnkun are the doors of the monorail clipping kun’s shoulder as they jump on at the last second, and the way the other passengers glare at them from the corners of their eyes when he trips and johnny catches him and they laugh because that shit only happens in romantic comedies.
johnkun are google searches for “exact middle point between chicago and fujian.” johnkun are unlimited international phone plans. johnkun are the text that wakes johnny at 6am that just asks, “DXB?” and then, a few seconds later, “
?”
?”
johnkun are a constantly changing lineup of different time zones in their world clock apps. johnkun are watching films that everyone else has already seen on tiny screens with no audio because johnny likes that kind of stuff and kun likes resting on johnny’s shoulder.
johnkun are hasty hellos—sprinting towards one another across the baggage claim, jumping into hugs, hurrying out into the city to do, see, eat, play, /be/ together—and slow, lingering goodbyes.
johnkun are johnny always saying the same thing: “it’s just until next time.” and kun always putting on a brave smile and saying, “i know.” the brave face usually lasts until he gets through security, and then crumples into tears while he puts his shoes back on.
(it’s consistent to the point that when they go through security together johnny always makes sure to tease kun about it. there’s just something extra vulnerable about being in his socks in public that always seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.)
johnkun are the one time that johnny says, “it’s just until next time,” and kun is too tired to say, “i know.” they’d fought a lot that trip, for some reason, and kun is tired. he is tired of leaving. being left is no better.
he leaves anyways, because he has a plane to catch.
he leaves anyways, because he has a plane to catch.
the moment he gets his phone back after going through security, he calls johnny and says, “i’m sorry,” and this time johnny replies, “i know.” and there kun is again, crying at the security checkpoint with one shoe in his hand.
(johnny always says his feelings get jet-lagged instead of his body. he usually video calls kun a few days after his return home and sighs moodily for about thirty minutes before he works his way around to admitting, “i think i’m just homesick for you,” in a tight voice.)
johnkun are johnny buying teddy bears with t-shirts that say, “someone who loves you beary much went to [insert city here] and got you this teddy bear!” from every airport he visits. johnkun are a tally of “i-spy” wins and losses counting upwards into infinity.
johnkun are perfect window-seat-aisle-seat preference compatibility. johnkun are the way johnny laughs when kun pulls up his flight simulator app before takeoff and landing, and the way he kisses kun’s cheek and says, “another successful flight, captain qian.”
johnkun are the time they celebrated their anniversary in gate 36-b because johnny forgot to factor in the time changes when planning their trip to florence.
mostly, though—
mostly johnkun are what they become when kun goes through security at o’hare, puts his shoes on, and then turns right around and walks back out the double doors marked, “NO TURNING BACK PAST THIS POINT.”
mostly johnkun are what they become when kun goes through security at o’hare, puts his shoes on, and then turns right around and walks back out the double doors marked, “NO TURNING BACK PAST THIS POINT.”
kun catches up to johnny in the parking garage, and, well, it’s not the most romantic place to propose, but—
“i don’t want to leave anymore,” he says, shouting to be heard over the roar of the jet engine flying overhead that reverberates through the garage. “not without you.”
“i don’t want to leave anymore,” he says, shouting to be heard over the roar of the jet engine flying overhead that reverberates through the garage. “not without you.”
for once in his goddamn life, johnny doesn’t know what to say, just stares at kun with both eyes wide like he’s afraid kun will vanish if he blinks.
“we can go wherever you want,” kun continues. “here, fujian, whatever. just— i’m tired. i’m ready to come home.”
“we can go wherever you want,” kun continues. “here, fujian, whatever. just— i’m tired. i’m ready to come home.”
and, for the first time in all the time they’ve been together (been apart), kun watches johnny’s cheeks crease and his mouth draw tight and his eyes fill with tears. he sniffles a great big sniffle and dives into kun’s arms.
“yeah?” kun coos.
muffled into kun’s shirt: “yeah.”
“yeah?” kun coos.
muffled into kun’s shirt: “yeah.”
and that’s really all there is to it.
of course, it doesn’t happen right away. there are delays, and layovers, and one or two missed connections that have to be rerouted.
but eventually, johnkun are no longer solo tickets. they are tickets booked in pairs—round trip.
of course, it doesn’t happen right away. there are delays, and layovers, and one or two missed connections that have to be rerouted.
but eventually, johnkun are no longer solo tickets. they are tickets booked in pairs—round trip.
— end. 
