He thinks he feels restless and he cannot understand it. He thinks he should not be since he is only going back to his country, back home, and there is nothing to be restless about. There is no excuse for such feelings.

He supposes it is pre-flying jitters and remembers the first time he was on the plane, a bit nervous but trying to quell his excitement. He does not like intense emotions because it makes him remember a pain so cutting that thinking about it still hurts his head...and his heart. Still, that time he first flew in the plane was nothing compared to this. It feels like he cannot sit still.

His teammates are seated at the back, chattering endlessly about the last match which he had performed, about the different Crush Gears, finally turning to the rain the night before and — wow! — wasn't that erosion scary and exciting and the same time?! He tunes these words out; they have nothing to do with him, not yet, so he lets them blend with the other voices with different languages and accent, hard accent that he recognizes as 'German'.

The man beside him, the one whom he calls his manager, watches him silently but says not a word and that is fine with him although he squirms again on his seat and does not meet his eyes. He has the window seat: a privilege for someone so young, said the stewardess even though he would not have complained had they put him somewhere else.

Restlessness, he thinks as he stares out the window where the cargos are being loaded, is a bit like loneliness. He thinks it now because he knows it is true; the feelings are seemingly endless and the only things that can end it are always hovering before him but always out of reach.

He settles again and gives a small grunt. He does not like restlessness and neither does he like loneliness.

He wonders what the cause for his state is. He has already ruled out the pre-flight jitters so maybe it is going back to his country that bothers him. But he does not think it is so because 'going back' means endless activities that will keep him busy again, keep him from thinking as he is thinking now.

The cargos are now loaded and the machine begins to rumble. The man whom he calls his manager checks his seatbelt for him as if he is his son, then turns to his teammates to check theirs.

The plane lurches forward and he watches the ground roll beneath them, watches the grasses on the fields next to the runway violently move with the wind caused by the taxiing plane, watches as they slowly lift from the ground which they call 'Germany', watches as the plane tilts slightly so he can see the sea and then he can see the sky and clouds.

And then it occurs to him that he can see his face on the window.

It startles him despite the small voice in his head snidely commenting, "Didn't you know?"

But it breaks something in him, and for the first time in years he cannot see the pale face that smiles as if it is not the end of yesterday, the face cropped hair sticking out everywhere from the head, the dark eyes that lights every time something worth seeing is seen.

Instead, from the plastic window, he can see a dark-skinned face, thick lips parted slightly in amazement, low eyebrows hovering over thick black lashes that are wide, wider than ever before. And with a loud exclamation: "Oh!" he realizes that the barely reflected face is that of himself, the one people call 'Carlos'.

"Oh," he says again, softly this time, because he realizes that upon seeing his own face he is now relinquishing all images of that other boy forever.

The restlessness is gone, he realizes, and he presses a palm on the window, knowing that the man beside him is staring, probably even smiling in relief. He ignores this and feels with mixed delight and sadness as he feels his skin flatten against the plastic: harder, harder, until he stops.

He smiles and sees his smile. He cannot decide if, through the action, he is bidding the face of 'Yuuya Marino' farewell, or if he is greeting 'Carlos' a welcome instead.