Summary: The fire burned away everything, and nothing was the same.

Notes: AU, written about 2 years ago when the idea wouldn't leave me alone. One-shot (unless I get more inspiration).

Warning: character deaths. Angst/ drama.

-oO-

He watched as the fire lapped at the building, almost swallowing it whole. The red lights wouldn't stop flashing and the sirens kept on screeching long after the firefighters stopped going into the building because it was too dangerous and about to collapse anytime. Some of the officers were shaking their heads and gesturing, once or twice at him. He stared back solemnly but not really seeing anything. His eyes were curiously dry, but his grip on the racket had tightened to the point of almost pain, turning his knuckles white. It was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

Nobody knew how the fire started. He didn't care. All he knew was that they weren't coming back anymore. The first two weeks after the fire was spent in social service, paperwork, and numerous faces that didn't matter. He wouldn't cry, wouldn't speak, wouldn't let go of his racket and the adults poked and prodded at him until they gave up. The other children talked to him, whispered about him, made fun of him, then poked and prodded at him until a few narrowly missed tennis balls to their faces sent them scuttling. They left him alone after that.

The adults let him go back to school soon after. It was still the same school although there was another one nearer the orphanage, because 'he needs stability and familiarity as much as possible'. But things weren't all that familiar – the teachers stopped picking on him for not paying attention, conversations were awkward around him, and people spoke carefully as if afraid to upset him. He ignored them.

Now he's always the first one out of the school gate after the last bell rang. He'd walk aimlessly, letting his feet take him where they will, but still managed to get back before dinner. He didn't realise he was looking for something beyond getting away, until days later when his feet stopped in front of a tennis court. The sound of rackets hitting balls was almost soothing. They used to play every- He took a deep breath and steadied himself against the fence, left hand curling around the holes.

'Hey kid! Pass the ball will ya?'

He looked up, startled at the yell. There was a ball near his feet. He picked up the ball with his racket, bounced it a few times and hit it back to the teenager. The ball hit the ground but didn't bounce; instead it spun on the spot for a few seconds and stopped there.

The teenager stared at him, eyes narrowed. 'Are you looking for trouble?'

He looked at him, then turned and walked away. A ball flew past his ear. It would have hit him if he hadn't moved to the side.

'Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!'

He ignored him. Someone grabbed his arm and made him turn around. It was that older boy. So annoying. The boy grabbed the collar of his shirt and hissed, 'Don't ignore me.'

He looked at him. Three heads taller than him, spiky hair with red tips, eyebrow piercing, tattoo on the forearm. The boy shook him roughly. 'You looking for trouble, kid?'

He slapped his hand away and glared at him. He had almost bit his own tongue from the jerks. The boy snarled and drew back his arm, preparing to strike. He stared at him steadily, refusing to back down.

'Hey, take it easy. Maybe he's mute or deaf,' the other boy said, walking to his friend's side.

His glare intensified.

'I don't like the look in his eyes,' the spiky hair boy said.

The other boy studied him. 'Yar, this one's got guts.'

'Ought to teach him a lesson.'

'Come on, Jack, no point bullying disabled kids. Let's get back to our game.'

Jack lightly slapped his cheek twice and sneered, 'You got lucky, disabled kid.'

His hands clenched. Disabled? He'd show them who's disabled!

He marched towards their court. The other boy had just served and they were rallying. He took a ball from his bag and hit it at the ball just going into Jack's court. The two balls collided and bounced off course as Jack was about to return his friend's shot.

'What the-' Jack startled and looked around. His face reddened in anger when he saw him.

He marched onto the side of the court opposite Jack's, pointed his racket at him and got into the receiving service position.

'You want a match? I'll crush you, you little brat!' Jack growled.

The other boy sighed and got off the court. He sat on the bench and took a drink, grumbling, 'Hey make it short k. I still want to play.'

The match was short, fast and brutal. He put all his anger and grief into every shot, each was swift and relentless. He wasn't seeing Jack; he was seeing his father, the match they'd never play again, the match he'd never have the chance to win. The teasing perverted comments, his mother's rebukes, the constant squabbling at mealtimes... all of it. He hit the last winning shot and stood there. His cheeks were wet, he realised dimly. The racket slipped from his grip and fell to the floor with a clatter. He collapsed as his legs gave out under him and sat there, tears forlornly trailing down his face.

'6-0,' the boy breathed, 'I don't believe it. You didn't even score a single point.'

'Shut up,' Jack groused halfheartedly, 'The kid's a monster.' There was no heat in his words, only a hint of admiration.

His friend glanced at the boy and his brows furrowed. 'What's wrong with him? He won and he's crying?'

Jack looked at the kid. 'Don't know. Maybe he has some past trauma about tennis?

'Hey, kid.'

He blinked, his vision blurred by the tears.

'Good game.' The spiky hair boy offered his hand.

He didn't move, just stared at the hand blankly. Jack took his hand and shook it.

'It's almost dinner time. Joel and I are going to get some burgers. Want to come?'

'I'll treat. Come on,' he said gently when the kid kept staring blankly.

They helped him up and herded him out of the court, keeping up cheerful meaningless chatter along the way because it's better than uncomfortable silence stretched over worried furtive glances at the boy.