A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and liked Chapter 1! Thank you all very, very much! You've made me wildly happy. :D Now, while this chapter isn't as long as you nor I would have liked, I said two weeks, and I meant two weeks. This is what I got done while still trying to study for AP tests, and now I'm offering it up for your pleasure... or I hope it's pleasure. Please let me know what you think! Oh, and I did some research. What Ryoma is probably experiencing is Acute Stress Disorder (ASD). And don't worry - I'll soon be talking about the other characters, too.

Chapter 2

As Ryoma shuffled slowly down the stairs, pain twisted up from his right foot. With each shambling step, despite being oh-so-careful, it spiked. Vertigo wavered the stairs in and out of his sight. …And he could feel his father hovering just behind him, hands itching to help him – to touch him. Ryoma's knuckles whitened around his grip on the rail.

An age later, he reached the floor and stood there. The only indication that the ground beneath his feet threatened to heave like the deck of a ship was the tightness of his grip on the newel.

"Ryoma?" As if she'd sensed his presence, Nanako stepped out of the hall and into the entryway. She had donned an apron – now dirtied – and at some point accidentally smeared flour across her face. His cousin ventured closer, repeating, "Ryoma?" Her eyes glistened in understanding sympathy when she saw him.

The boy's tired eyes lifted and locked onto hers. Waves of eloquent emotion rolled out from that gaze, buffeting her. Overlaid on all the other flavors was a growing anger. Don't say anything, his eyes pleaded. Don't you dare ask.

"If… Ryoma, if there's… if there's something you need," she finally stuttered in a small voice, "just… let me know." She turned and fled back through the living room to the kitchen.

Ryoma sighed in relief, and into the living room he limped. When he was positioned in front of the beige couch, he let his legs collapse beneath him, and he slumped into its embrace.

Nanjiroh leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching as the prodigy let his eyes slip closed. The weight of the boy's ordeal visibly lifted for just a moment, long enough for Ryoma to sit up and slowly fumble for the TV remote. That same weight seemed to settle onto Nanjiroh's own shoulders. Or rather, he wished desperately that it would, that he could erase whatever had happened. He knew, though, that his was a different, lesser burden, no matter how much he might want it otherwise.

Ryoma could feel eyes on him. His family – and earlier, his friends – didn't feel like they could look away for an instant, or he'd snap. Their eyes were the glue to his cracked racket, they seemed to think. But in truth, he wished that they would just leave him alone. Just look away. Nothing happened. Nothing.

Believe in it hard enough, and it just might come true.

Some sort of wildlife documentary flickered across the TV. Ryoma watched passively as the cameraman zoomed in close on a lion just in time to see it roar. Baring long fangs capable of snapping bone clean in half, the lion flicked its tail and howled. Ryoma felt a dim, answering snarl deep within his gut, but it was a cub's cowering imitation, heavy with guilt for its powerlessness.

Some gentle aroma wafted in from the kitchen. He closed his eyes against the rising nausea, and pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.

Nanjiroh finally pushed away from the doorway to perch on the couch beside his son. Weary hazel eyes reluctantly lifted to his. "What?" the boy griped, swallowing down the queasiness.

The man's expression was downcast and confused. "Ryoma," he ventured softly, "please..." His voice trailed away helplessly. He took a breath and tried again. "Won't you tell me what happened to you?"

The boy's face twisted. "That again? Look, I don't want to talk about it. It's nothing."

His father's brow furrowed as he groped for patience. "But –"

"Don't." Rhyolite eyes narrowed.

"Ryoma!" Nanjiroh threw his hands into the air. "I'm just trying to help!" Unwanted tears choked him. "Please, I just want to know what happened to you." He couldn't hold his instincts back any longer and so yanked the boy into a hug.

Ryoma gasped in fright as his father's powerful arms closed about him. With a half-articulated wail, he shot out of the suffocating hold and leaped to his feet. Hands held forth, he backed away until he smacked into a wall, shaking his head over and over. Haunted hazel eyes brimmed over with panic and fear.

Their emotionally charged staring was interrupted by Nanako.

"Ryoma?" she innocently asked again, emerging from the kitchen doorway only feet away from the freshman with a plate piled high of his favorite treat. "I… baked… cookies…" She trailed off and halted, glance flickering between terrified son and bewildered father. "What happened?" she demanded.

The tennis prodigy fought for composure. "N-n-nothing." He heaved a deep breath. "Nothing happened." He caught sight of the cookies and snatched one, even though the sight made his stomach jump madly, just to have something to do with his hands.

"Arigatou," he muttered, and beat a rapid, limping retreat to the stairs.

"Ryoma, wait!" his father called, coming out of his trance. He shot to the doorway before his hobbling son could and faced him down. Ryoma glared up at him from under his bangs. "I'm sorry," Nanjiroh apologized for the unwelcome touch. "I didn't… mean to scare you. I just… wanted to comfort you." And myself.

Ryoma didn't answer.

"Now, please, could we sit back down and talk?" His father gestured to the couch.

"No."

Nanjiroh sighed, "Ryoma…"

The twelve-year-old's face set with stubbornness. "There's nothing to talk about," he insisted. "So move. Please."

If asking nicely didn't work, well, Nanjiroh could be as stubborn as he; that's where the boy got it in the first place, after all. "No. We need to talk."

"We don't." Desperation began to take hold in his eyes.

"Stop it, Ryoma!" Nanako cried. Her voice was filled with unshed tears. They both turned to her forgotten presence, startled. "Please, just stop it!" The plate of cookies shook in her grasp. "It's not nothing! It can't be nothing!"

For the first time that morning, he looked uncertain. Nanjiroh spoke gently, "You see? We're both worried, so much so it hurts. Just… please, let us help."

"Dad…" he mumbled. He swallowed, glancing up at him with a watery gaze before returning it to the floor. He squared his shoulders. "I don't need help," he asserted, pushing past his father.

Nanjiroh let him go, sighing in defeat.


Ryoma leaned against his closed bedroom door and slid slowly down. Then he rested his elbows on top of his knees and buried his head against his arms. A small sob escaped his lips, against his will.

For the past two days since the… incident, he'd felt nothing – and nothing was peaceful. But today, this third day, his numb walls had broken. Everything had broken.

Memories rushed past him: the feel of large hands sliding down his bare arms, the rough wool of the tuxedo pressed against his front, the terror of being unable to breathe as he pressed histhumbs deep into the boy's throat. Tears slid down Ryoma's face, hidden in the folds of his arms.

He couldn't stop the recollections. They were always there, always haunting him, always intruding into his every thought – try as he might to avoid them.

There was a lamp in the living room – his mother's favorite lamp, so there was nothing he could do nor say. But its paper shade was painted with bright colors; he couldn't bear to look at it anymore. Shattering glass sounded in his ears every time, and the colorful shards rained down like torn-off pieces of innocent butterfly wings.