Author: Mosh Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
Insomnia is a new concept for Ryoma. His dreams are usually vivid: the rocket-spin of neon yellow against endless blue sky, the slide of hot rubber in his sweaty fist - first the right, then the left where it feels more a part of him; the sun high, gold and unforgiving above, pushing him to his limits, always. Now he doesn’t dream at all. He doesn’t sleep. He cannot figure out why or how to fix it.
* * *
The locker rooms smell of soap and hair gel, the tang of deodorant and stifling heat from where the other Regulars had showered after practice. Ryoma had hung around the courts, hitting the balls Horio and the others hadn’t collected yet against the net in frustration. He’d spotted Oishi-sempai pulling the door to in his peripheral vision, as the sun set beyond the cityscape and doused everything in a pinkish-orange light. There had been something wrong with the net. There had been something wrong with his grip and he’d wondered if the new tape had been worth the effort, or if he should’ve just let Shinji have it. His vision was playing up; he couldn’t judge as well as normal, couldn’t anticipate. Not so much strength in his arm, not so much direction in his aim. He could’ve sat and pulled his racquet strings apart, but didn’t. It really wasn’t the racquet’s fault.
* * *
The others had noticed his lack of energy, but not said a word except for Kikumaru-sempai. “Hoi, Ochibi!” he had shouted from across the courts, “Don’t overdo it before the Kantou Regionals!” Ryoma had ignored it. “Oishi, tell him!” Kikumaru-sempai had pressed, as Ryoma launched another Twist Serve in the face of his ghost opponent, even though his legs were unusually shaky from exertion. The ball had bounced out, and Ryoma had forcefully stopped himself from yelling at it. To his surprise, Oishi-sempai hadn’t said anything. Ryoma thought maybe Oishi-sempai understood that he couldn’t stop, not right then, even though his body desperately needed to. After that, he had caught his team-mates’ concerned stares out of the corner of his eyes. He had ignored them, continued to hit the net every now and then, until they left, exasperated with him, to get changed.
* * *
The shower runs steaming hot so he turns it down. It’s lukewarm when he finally slides under the water, letting it soak through his hair, down over his knotted shoulders and aching back. Towelling off beside the lockers afterwards, Ryoma spots a crag of white fabric poking out from one of the doors. He tosses his damp towel onto the bench and goes over to open it. Ryoma stares for a long time at the folded jacket, his hands working uselessly at his sides. It’s not neat as he would’ve expected. It looks like it had been pushed in there hurriedly, maybe to get it as far away from its wearer before he could change his mind about taking it off. His eyes fall on the name embroidered on the front and linger there for too many heartbeats to count. It feels almost naughty to reach into the shadows and draw Buchou’s Seigaku jacket out into the soft twilight, like he’s disturbing something sacred that should be left alone until Buchou is ready to return and re-claim it himself. But Ryoma can’t help it. He carries the jacket to the bench by the window and sits down, wondering what Buchou is up to, how his arm is feeling. He wonders other things that flash too quickly through his mind, make his fists clench in the fabric. He doesn’t understand where these images are coming from - the careless flicks of Tezuka’s hair, the elegant but firm curve of his wrists, the sun glinting off the rims of his glasses as he moves eagle-like across the court - and they unsettle him. The remaining light fades outside, and Ryoma closes his eyes.
* * *
When he finally wakes it’s long dark and very late. His parents will be worried, no doubt. Well, possibly not his dad; Ryoma wonders what ridiculous fancies the old man will think up as to why he’s late home. Girls and dating, probably. He looks down at his makeshift pillow, bold creases staining the front of Tezuka’s jacket. Ryoma decides to take it home with him. He stuffs it into his rucksack before leaving, casting one last glance around the dark and empty changing room. It will be important to smooth those creases out, before Buchou returns home. ~Fin~ |
Email | Post a comment on this story | Back to index | Back to Top |