Apparently they were going to give him a home.

Ryoma snorted to himself, shifting in front of the door. He had a bag slung over his shoulder, containing a rare few items: bathroom utilities, a couple of clothes, his favorite book, and a can of Ponta that he'd bought on the way here. He had some money. Probably fifty dollars all together. Nothing he could live off of.

If he had more, he would have run away ages ago.

The house in front of him was large. It lay off on to the side of a country road. It looked like one of those nice, big homes where the kids followed the footsteps of their parents of being a farmer and nothing ever went wrong. Ryoma knew that wouldn't be the case here. Things always went wrong. It was like he was a magnet for trouble.

His father was a child abuser. The scars that stained Ryoma's body and face were all too fresh for him to forget. His mother was an alcoholic. She accidentally killed his precious cat Karupin on one of her drunken adventures. The school he went to was dingy and hopeless. People beat people up for losing the pencil they borrowed.

He stared back up at the home, and bit the inside of his cheek. This house wouldn't end the pain. Nothing ever did.

He knocked anyway.

"Get the door, Momo!"

"Can't you get it?"

He could hear loud voices inside. It made his gut coil sharply. He hated loud voices. His father had always been obnoxiously loud. The harder he yelled, the harder Ryoma knew he would be punished. Shaking his head, Ryoma pushed the trembling thoughts away.

A moment later, there was a click. Then the door opened.

It was a boy. He looked older than Ryoma, but still young enough to have a childish face. Long hair framed his pale face. His eyes were closed in a sunny smile, the lips curving up with warmth. He looked fragile; delicate. Almost like a girl. But there were things about him that were boyish too – broad shoulders, a sharp jaw.

Ryoma surveyed him in less than a second.

"Hello." His voice was silky, like honey. "Are you Echizen?"

Ryoma blinked up at him. He suddenly felt self-conscious from the bruise on his cheek. At least this person didn't look too strong. He couldn't hurt him.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Echizen Ryoma."

"Ryoma." He opened the door. "I'm Fuji. You can come in, if you'd like it."

Ryoma watched as Fuji disappeared into the house, with one last beckoning wave of the hand. Fuji was very much like an angel. His movements were graceful, his voice soft. He seemed very gentle. Good, Ryoma thought, exhaling with nerves. I ought to have some gentle now and then. I don't get it nearly enough.

Ryoma followed him inside. He knew this house held troubled kids. Only four, so far, not including him - but troubled nonetheless.

He wondered what Fuji had went through before he'd come here.

Fuji looked pleased to see him following. "We're all eating in the kitchen right now." His tone was still soft, and Ryoma's tense shoulders relaxed. "You can go to your room first, if you'd like, or introduce yourself to everyone."

"My room," Ryoma said hastily.

Fuji smiled at him, like he'd known Ryoma would choose that. "It's upstairs. Go straight down the hallway, and turn left. It's the one with no sign on the door."

Ryoma nodded, but couldn't find his voice to say thanks. Instead, he trudged up the long stairs, his legs aching from the brutal beating he'd got before everything had spun out of control. His father's face flickered in his mind – tanned skin, the curl of a wicked smirk – but he willed to make the image go away. He was here now.

Safe-ish. For the moment, anyway.

His room was ordinary. He supposed that was a good thing. A single bed lay in the middle, with a pair of windows above it. There was an empty bookshelf, and a tiny closet at the side. The carpet was frayed, and the walls were white. It was…very medicore. On the bright side, unlike his old home, there was no blood stains on the walls, belts and knives lying on the dressing table, and hardwood floors to sleep on.

This was definitely an improvement.

After attempting to comb his unruly hair, failing to wash the bright scars off his face, and changing into a pair of pajamas, Ryoma tentatively headed downstairs. He didn't know what to do. Downstairs, there would be four strangers he didn't know. Sure, Fuji seemed nice, but everyone seemed nice when you first met them.

His mom seemed nice for six years. Then she lost her mind.

Ryoma crept down the stairwell. Voices filtered in through the kitchen.

"Momo, slow down! You'll choke!"

"It's so – mmff – good though!"

"Thank you." He recognized that as Fuji's voice. So Fuji cooked good food. Ryoma couldn't help but think the boy was on the feminine side. Taking a deep breath, Ryoma tried to steady his nerves. He was Echizen Ryoma. He played good tennis. He didn't take crap from anyone (except his violent father and drunk mother and stupid classmates, but that was besides the point). He was naturally gifted in academics.

He could do this.

With quavering confidence on his shoulders, Ryoma stepped into the kitchen. The room instantly fell silent.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him. Ryoma swallowed, and stared back.

There was Fuji, wearing an apron (he would laugh about it later, when he wasn't feeling so terrified), but the rest were foreign creatures.

The first guy had been in the middle of shoving food up his throat. He had spiky black hair, and the most interesting shade of eyes. They were violet. Ryoma had never seen that colour before. Even with his loose shirt, Ryoma could see he was muscular and definitely worked out. He was big, and rugged, and somewhat manly.

He wondered how anyone could ever have hurt him.

The next boy had his chin resting on his hands, elbows propped up on the table. He had dark, cat blue eyes. One of the eyes had the shadow of a bruise. Magenta hair flopped over his forehead. He was lean, and angular. For some odd reason, Ryoma felt comforted by this person. His aura radiated only one word: cheerful. He even worked up a smile for Ryoma.

The last guy was dark and handsome. Ryoma wiped his hands on his shorts. The boy's eyes were narrow and brown, his skin smooth and pale. Ryoma didn't know what to think about him, except that he looked invincible.

How were these guys like him? Had they been hurt the way he had?

"Hi, there." The food-shove guy swallowed, and grinned. "You're Echizen?"

Ryoma felt his throat tight up. "Yeah."

"I'm Momo," the guy introduced himself.

"He eats too much," the cheerful guy said. "And I'm Eiji Kikumaru. But you can call me Kikumaru-senpai. Since I'm your senpai."

Ryoma nodded numbly. He peered at the last guy, but wasn't really surprised when he didn't do anything but nod curtly. He didn't seem like the type to talk.

Fuji adjusted his apron. "If you're hungry, you can eat. There's still some stew left."

He just nodded again. He didn't think his mouth would work.

"Sit down." Momo slapped the empty seat next to him. Ryoma felt nerves shoot up his body, all the way to his knees and ankles. He hated being close to people – emotionally or physically. It made him feel so uneasy. But it would be rude not to. Taking another deep breath, he slipped into the seat between Momo and the hasn't-talked-yet guy.

Ryoma's muscles were rigid as stone. He felt anxiety pulse through him. He just wanted to be home.

If only he knew where home was.

"You're so small," Momo said through a mouthful. "How old are you, anyway?"

Ryoma's voice shook as he spoke: "Twelve."

Kikumaru kicked his legs back and forth. Ryoma saw the bruise under his eye more clearly now. He didn't comment.

"We should give you a nickname," Kikumaru said.

Ryoma didn't say anything.

"You look like someone who should have a nickname," Kikumaru said.

He did? Ryoma still didn't say anything. He wanted to curl up and cry and then maybe die.

"Maybe we should call him 'golden boy'," Momo said.

Kikumaru arched his brow. "That's so lame, Momo."

"What? Don't you get it? He has gold eyes, and he's probably brilliant, so he can be golden boy."

"Nope," Kikumaru said. "I refuse to call him golden boy."

Thank god. Ryoma shivered at the thought of being nicknamed that. He'd prefer just his normal name: Echizen Ryoma, but he really didn't want to say anything. He needed to observe, to make sure these people were safe. To make sure they weren't going to hurt him. He liked Kikumaru, and Fuji seemed okay.

He wasn't sure about Momo, and he definitely wasn't sure about the guy-who-hadn't-talked-yet.

"Hm." Kikumaru tapped his fingers on his chin. "How about Baby Boy? Since he's like the baby of the group."

Momo snickered.

Ryoma frowned, staring at his lap. He wanted to protest, but words wouldn't come out.

Fuji laughed from where he stood, leaning on the fridge. "I don't think he likes being called Baby Boy. Maybe we should just call him Echizen."

He was really starting to like this Fuji guy.

"No, that's boring, nya." Kikumaru bobbed his head up and down. "Maybe we should call him kitten. Since he kind of looks like one."

"Kitten. I like it." Fuji practically purred.

And now he didn't so much like this Fuji guy. But Ryoma really didn't care about his nickname. Just the word kitten send waves of pain rolling through him. All he could think about was Karupin – his only companion, his only friend and family in life being run over by his mother's car. Because she'd been drunk.

His eyes stung, and he could feel his lower lip quivering. Don't cry, he told himself. If you cry, you'll look weak. You have to look strong in front of them.

They somehow sensed his unease.

"Oi, you okay?" Momo asked.

He choked on the tears that wanted to come. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" Momo's thick brow furrowed.

"…Yeah."

He could feel them all staring at him. Fuji's smile was thin, and the dark-and-handsome boy was looking at him from the corner of a slanted eye. He shrunk into the chair. Suddenly, all he wanted was to be locked up in that medicore room, crying and soaking his pillow with sobs. All he wanted was to disappear. Maybe jump off a cliff.

"You look like you're going to cry, nya," Kikumaru said.

Maybe he could drown in the bathtub. Or cut his wrists.

Great, he was thinking suicidal thoughts now. But what was the point of this? What was the point in living when he had no idea what to do anymore?

"I think he doesn't like the name kitten," Fuji said slickly. "Although I wouldn't go as far as crying."

The others half-chuckled at his attempt to ease the tension. Ryoma only wondered if Fuji was supporting him or making fun of him.

"I just…" Ryoma wiped his eyes furiously. "Can I be excused?"

"Aww," Kikumaru said.

Momo scratched his head. "You okay?" he asked for the third time.

Fuji smiled warmly. "Go ahead. If you get hungry, just tell me."

That was the only cue he needed. Ryoma stumbled out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over himself to get up the stairs. When he reached his room, he locked the door behind him, and threw himself onto the bed. He could feel his body shaking underneath him. His muscles ached with bruises and cuts. Their friendly faces swarmed in his mind.

They were all so happy (save the guy-who-hadn't talked-yet).

They obviously weren't like him.

Ryoma shoulders shook as a faint sob escaped his throat. A second later, another came, before he was crying into the bed. He sobbed almost as hard as he had when Karupin died. He just wanted to die,or something like that. He just wanted to be done. It was all too much to take anymore. As he cried, loud and noisy into his pillow, he heard the door creak open.

He saw Fuji's eye at the doorway. His smile was soft, and sad, but encouraging all the same.

Ryoma ignored it, and only cried harder.