Interlude: Long Distance
Apparently, ali_wildgoose can only go so long without writing about Zuko Xi. Written as part of the fic-at-thon on jetheartszuko.
This story takes place before chapter one, while Zuko is still in Japan.
For the first month or so, Zuko tried to make a real life for himself in Tokyo. His Japanese was good enough for basic conversation, and he spent most of his time surrounded by people who shared his passion for Go. He felt sure that it was only a matter of time before he made friends, if not particularly close ones.
It hadn't quite worked out that way. It made him uncomfortable enough just to say "hello" to the other players, and once their initial foreigner curiosity faded, they had little to say to him in return. If he pressed hard enough, he could worm his way into conversations. But he almost never tried. There didn't really seem much of a point in forcing his company on people who didn't want it.
The days quickly settled into a pattern, ticking away as regular as clockwork. When he had no commitments he explored Tokyo on his own, visiting museums and temples that quickly blurred together. On game days he woke, dressed, took the train to the Japan Go Association, played his match, won, took the train back again, picked up dinner at the convenience store, and ate it in front of his computer.
First he would catch up on email -- there were only two people he wrote to every day, but it still took him most of an hour. He supposed he could have sent them both the same letter, but couldn't imagine actually doing so. They were interested in different things, after all -- one set of letters was mostly about tea and sightseeing, and the other about weird things he'd eaten and mangled English he'd seen on people's shirts
By then, it was usually close to ten, and he told himself he should get some sleep so that he'd be sharp for his match the next day. But he almost never did. Instead he wandered around the internet, reading the news and scrolling through his friends' journals. It both helped and hurt to see what they were doing, exchanging strings of comments about silly things -- all that kept him connected to lives he now had so little to do with.
He stayed signed on to instant messenger, even though most people he knew wouldn't be around until he'd already left the next morning. There was a thirteen hour time difference between Ba Sing Se and Tokyo. Every few minutes -- seconds, really -- he glanced over at his buddy list. Sometimes he pretended that he'd be happy to talk to any his friends; that he wanted to hear from Aang and Chad as much as anyone else. But he knew, when he was being honest with himself, that that wasn't true.
On this particular night, it was almost two when "Cailarious" shifted from "away" to "online." Sometimes he made himself wait until Jet pinged him first, not wanting to seem too desperate, but tonight he couldn't help himself. He'd lost his second game that afternoon, moving him down to fifth place. Only the top three players would pass the pro test. He had a long, hard slog ahead of him, and he was tired, and right now he didn't care about anything but being distracted for a few hours.
Hey, he wrote.
Jet answered right away, and a little of the tension left Zuko's shoulders. Hey! Just got your email. Sorry the "Chocolate dessert cheese" didn't work out.
Ha ha, yeah. It sounded so promising, right? His typing was the only sound in the tiny apartment, a single room that faced a concrete courtyard.
How'd your game go today? Did he cry when you beat him?
They don't always cry.
They do in that manga you made me read.
"Hikaru no Go" is a little exaggerated.
He wasn't sure why he didn't want to tell Jet what had happened. He hadn't told him last time, either -- hadn't told anyone, not even Uncle. He knew that if he failed in this, all the sacrifices he'd made would have been pointless, his old life thrown away for no reason. So much so that he couldn't even let himself think about it -- about what might have happened if he hadn't come here at all.
Oh come on, you've made at least one guy cry, right?
A flash, then, of a years old memory -- standing in a food court, holding out a handkerchief, helpless to take any of it back no matter how badly he wanted to. Not recently, he typed after a moment's hesitation. He wondered if Jet had meant to remind him, or if he was just being stupidly sentimental.
You gotta try harder, then! Maybe you could flip the Go board over and say something dramatic. Like, "Your weakness shames the warrior souls of your ancestors!"
I think they'd kick me out for that.
Well if they did, it'd be their loss.
Maybe. We'll see.
How many games have you won?
Twenty-six
When you win your thirtieth game, you have to go out and do crazy shit, okay? You know, like sing Karaoke with all the other Go nerds and get trashed and wear a tie on your head and wake up in a dumpster.
If I win that many, I'll do something special, he typed. He supposed buying himself a sixpack of beer and watching obstacle course shows counted. It would have to, anyway. His next words were typed on impulse, sent before he could think better of them. You could come visit. Student tickets are cheap this time of year.
There was a pause of a minute or so before Jet replied again. Yeah, maybe.
It'd be really nice to see you. It's been so long. I'm starting to forget what your voice sounds like. There were other things that Zuko wanted to be reminded of -- sitting on the roof of the student center, playing pool on Thursdays, lying next to each other on Jet's bed while they talked, the way Jet laughed, the way his hair smelled when he leaned in to whisper some asshole comment in Zuko's ear, the way his arms felt around him when they shared a quick hug before parting ways. But he couldn't think of how to say any of those things, and the silence stretched on as he tried.
Another line of text appeared. Sorry, gotta head to class. Later, Z. Jet signed off before Zuko had even finished reading the words.
Zuko stared at the computer screen for a several minutes, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. Then he closed his laptop, unrolled his futon on the floor, pulled off his trousers and collared shirt, and climbed under the duvet.
It was a long time before he fell asleep. And when he did, he dreamed of things he never let himself think about when he was awake. The way his life had been once, and would never be again.
This story takes place before chapter one, while Zuko is still in Japan.
For the first month or so, Zuko tried to make a real life for himself in Tokyo. His Japanese was good enough for basic conversation, and he spent most of his time surrounded by people who shared his passion for Go. He felt sure that it was only a matter of time before he made friends, if not particularly close ones.
It hadn't quite worked out that way. It made him uncomfortable enough just to say "hello" to the other players, and once their initial foreigner curiosity faded, they had little to say to him in return. If he pressed hard enough, he could worm his way into conversations. But he almost never tried. There didn't really seem much of a point in forcing his company on people who didn't want it.
The days quickly settled into a pattern, ticking away as regular as clockwork. When he had no commitments he explored Tokyo on his own, visiting museums and temples that quickly blurred together. On game days he woke, dressed, took the train to the Japan Go Association, played his match, won, took the train back again, picked up dinner at the convenience store, and ate it in front of his computer.
First he would catch up on email -- there were only two people he wrote to every day, but it still took him most of an hour. He supposed he could have sent them both the same letter, but couldn't imagine actually doing so. They were interested in different things, after all -- one set of letters was mostly about tea and sightseeing, and the other about weird things he'd eaten and mangled English he'd seen on people's shirts
By then, it was usually close to ten, and he told himself he should get some sleep so that he'd be sharp for his match the next day. But he almost never did. Instead he wandered around the internet, reading the news and scrolling through his friends' journals. It both helped and hurt to see what they were doing, exchanging strings of comments about silly things -- all that kept him connected to lives he now had so little to do with.
He stayed signed on to instant messenger, even though most people he knew wouldn't be around until he'd already left the next morning. There was a thirteen hour time difference between Ba Sing Se and Tokyo. Every few minutes -- seconds, really -- he glanced over at his buddy list. Sometimes he pretended that he'd be happy to talk to any his friends; that he wanted to hear from Aang and Chad as much as anyone else. But he knew, when he was being honest with himself, that that wasn't true.
On this particular night, it was almost two when "Cailarious" shifted from "away" to "online." Sometimes he made himself wait until Jet pinged him first, not wanting to seem too desperate, but tonight he couldn't help himself. He'd lost his second game that afternoon, moving him down to fifth place. Only the top three players would pass the pro test. He had a long, hard slog ahead of him, and he was tired, and right now he didn't care about anything but being distracted for a few hours.
Hey, he wrote.
Jet answered right away, and a little of the tension left Zuko's shoulders. Hey! Just got your email. Sorry the "Chocolate dessert cheese" didn't work out.
Ha ha, yeah. It sounded so promising, right? His typing was the only sound in the tiny apartment, a single room that faced a concrete courtyard.
How'd your game go today? Did he cry when you beat him?
They don't always cry.
They do in that manga you made me read.
"Hikaru no Go" is a little exaggerated.
He wasn't sure why he didn't want to tell Jet what had happened. He hadn't told him last time, either -- hadn't told anyone, not even Uncle. He knew that if he failed in this, all the sacrifices he'd made would have been pointless, his old life thrown away for no reason. So much so that he couldn't even let himself think about it -- about what might have happened if he hadn't come here at all.
Oh come on, you've made at least one guy cry, right?
A flash, then, of a years old memory -- standing in a food court, holding out a handkerchief, helpless to take any of it back no matter how badly he wanted to. Not recently, he typed after a moment's hesitation. He wondered if Jet had meant to remind him, or if he was just being stupidly sentimental.
You gotta try harder, then! Maybe you could flip the Go board over and say something dramatic. Like, "Your weakness shames the warrior souls of your ancestors!"
I think they'd kick me out for that.
Well if they did, it'd be their loss.
Maybe. We'll see.
How many games have you won?
Twenty-six
When you win your thirtieth game, you have to go out and do crazy shit, okay? You know, like sing Karaoke with all the other Go nerds and get trashed and wear a tie on your head and wake up in a dumpster.
If I win that many, I'll do something special, he typed. He supposed buying himself a sixpack of beer and watching obstacle course shows counted. It would have to, anyway. His next words were typed on impulse, sent before he could think better of them. You could come visit. Student tickets are cheap this time of year.
There was a pause of a minute or so before Jet replied again. Yeah, maybe.
It'd be really nice to see you. It's been so long. I'm starting to forget what your voice sounds like. There were other things that Zuko wanted to be reminded of -- sitting on the roof of the student center, playing pool on Thursdays, lying next to each other on Jet's bed while they talked, the way Jet laughed, the way his hair smelled when he leaned in to whisper some asshole comment in Zuko's ear, the way his arms felt around him when they shared a quick hug before parting ways. But he couldn't think of how to say any of those things, and the silence stretched on as he tried.
Another line of text appeared. Sorry, gotta head to class. Later, Z. Jet signed off before Zuko had even finished reading the words.
Zuko stared at the computer screen for a several minutes, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. Then he closed his laptop, unrolled his futon on the floor, pulled off his trousers and collared shirt, and climbed under the duvet.
It was a long time before he fell asleep. And when he did, he dreamed of things he never let himself think about when he was awake. The way his life had been once, and would never be again.