Jet Lag

The long flight had left him exhausted and due to an incident involving a newborn infant with a pair of very healthy lungs and a frantic new mother, his eyes were bloodshot. It took an effort not to fall asleep during dinner with Tezuka’s family, and while he tried his best to answer all of the questions Tezuka’s mother threw at him—he was afraid he might have been vague with all his answers, but he remembered how she smiled and exclaimed, “Kunimitsu has told us so much about you!” in the beginning which made his buchou look uncomfortable.

Ryoma looked around Tezuka’s room, flipping through a pro tennis magazine while thinking how the room so accurately summed up Tezuka’s personality. His love of the outdoors was displayed prominently on the pictures of mountains and the fishing lures that were neatly hung on a side of the wall. The bookcase was filled and sorted by authors (no comic books, Ryoma noted dryly) with awards and trophies sitting on the top shelf, his desk organized and his bed neatly made. The entire effect was proper and distantly lonely, Ryoma mused, while noticing how there were a few photographs of the team that Fuji must have taken.

“Echizen? Do you want to shower now? The bathroom’s free.” Tezuka was toweling his hair off, and Ryoma had to blink twice to realize he wasn’t hallucinating and then wrinkled his nose at his buchou’s choice of sleepwear. Lavender pajamas? And he managed to look dignified in them too.

“Sure,” Ryoma answered, and against his better judgment, he added, “Did you ask Mizuki-san to pick that out?”

Ryoma was out of the room before Tezuka could respond, but if he had looked behind, he would have noticed Tezuka’s lips twitched slightly, amused.

Suddenly, three weeks didn’t seem that long ago.

A shower was exactly what he needed, Ryoma realized, and the hot water relaxed his tense muscles and felt good against his skin. He stood there for long time after the water turned cold, and he rested his head against the wall- just because it was there and because he wasn’t sure if he could stand up without it. It wasn’t until Tezuka knocked and inquired whether he was still alive that jerked Ryoma out of his almost half-conscious state.

He hated airplane rides.

“My family likes you,” Tezuka commented quietly, while surveying the younger boy as he fidgeted under his gaze. “I hope you weren’t offended when my mother commented on your size.”

“It was fine,” Ryoma said, dismissively, while trying not to yawn. “I’m almost used to it now.”

“You’ve grown five centimeters since you enrolled in Seigaku.”

Ryoma met his gaze and replied softly, “Horio is still taller than me,” as though it answered everything. His chin was stubborn, and his eyes bright, as though daring Tezuka to correct him.

There was a pause before Tezuka told him, “Sleep,” and turned off the lights.

The sound of crickets chirping and his own heartbeat roared in his ears as he tried to clear his head to fall asleep. He tried to think of dull subjects; English class, Horio, his father’s long lectures, and he even tried to name all the U.S. capitals—giving up after he couldn’t remember Iowa’s.

He missed Karupin, and how his cat would purr a loud lullaby and the feel of the comfortable weight on his chest. But still, he had survived nights without his cat before… so why was this any different? He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Tezuka was close enough for him to touch or if the unfamiliar surroundings were the source of his problem, or maybe it was the way the clock’s tick-tock seemed to echo throughout the room.

It was unfair. His body was tired but his mind was still alert, and easily distracted.

Either way, Tezuka knew.

Turning on the lamp, Tezuka looked down at Ryoma who was struggling to fall asleep in his sleeping bag on the floor, and shifted over. “There’s more room,” he told him, and Ryoma gratefully obliged.

Sleep still came uneasily, and Ryoma stared at the flashing digital numbers illuminated by the clock on Tezuka’s bedside table. When he closed his eyes, the red numbers burned in the back of his eyelids, and he gave a disgusted sigh.

“Still can’t sleep?”

“Sorry, buchou.”

“Warm milk with honey has proven to help." Would you like me to make you some? hung in the air.

“It’s too late,” Ryoma replied. “You’ll wake up your entire family.” He didn't mention how he detested milk, and it was only due to the meal plan Inui had given him that he even tolerated it, and even then only barely.

“You’re going to bed tired on your first day back if you don’t sleep,” Tezuka pointed out. “Are you stressed about anything? I doubt you have to worry about schoolwork, your grades have been fine." Tezuka paused. " Everyone’s excited to have you back. Momo and Eiji in particular.”

Ryoma was silent, his breathing uneven.

Tezuka raised an eyebrow, and followed on instinct. “Echizen...did you honestly think you would win?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice was no need to expand on the question. Ryoma knew.

"No," Ryoma replied, sounding sulky and disappointed, as though he knew his loss was inevitable but still had too high expectations of himself. Tezuka could relate too well.

"Then you have nothing to be upset about," Tezuka replied, logically, and Ryoma was reminded how Tezuka was always right and how he just sometimes hated that.

He let out a frustrated sigh. “I was stupid,” he admitted. “I should have played better.”

It was instances like these that reminded Tezuka just how young he was, even with his skill, and how everyone had such high hopes for him.

“Echizen... You’re twelve. The fact that you were good enough to get as far as you did, that’s an accomplishment itself. You’re all over the media,and you’ve captured the world’s attention.” The unspoken question was asked, what more do you want?

“You probably could have done better than me,” Ryoma stated, and Tezuka didn’t know how to reply.

“Don’t be careless next time,” he told the younger boy, and even in the darkness, he could tell the first year was smiling. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

The room seemed quieter, and peaceful. The rain didn't seem as loud and sounded soothing and low as it hit the roof and fell to the ground. All he could hear was Tezuka’s breathing and his own heartbeat; soft and comforting. He felt lighter, as though something that was holding him down was gone.

“Good night, buchou. Thank you.”

Ryoma rolled over onto his side and was asleep within minutes, his fingers curved as though he was holding an invisible tennis racket.

--fin--