Summary: He is expecting toast for breakfast. Not some strange man standing in his mother's kitchen and staring at him like he's never seen a teenager before.

A/N: Side story set before "Never Neverland" in Takeru's POV. I apologize for the extreme delay in publishing the last chapter of this story. It was drafted completely ages ago, but, ultimately, I didn't like how it turned out and have been stuck ever since. RL has been incredibly busy too. I hope you enjoy this piece in the meantime.

Interlude

Takeru stares blankly at the stranger by the stove, one hand curled around the handle of his school bag, while the other is hooked around the jacket of his school uniform. The man stares back, half turned away from the eggs he is cooking and shifts his weight from one foot to the next.

Takeru takes in the wrinkled grey slacks the man wore, the white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and finally his bare feet. It's the last observation that causes everything to click, and he inhales sharply. It's unfortunate that this is the same moment the man finds his voice to speak.

"Takeru...right? Your mother has told me so many nice things about you," he says haltingly, moving the pan off the flame and turning off the stove. He places the spatula on the counter, rubbing his hands together uncertainly and takes a step towards him. "I'm—"

"Late," Takeru blurts out. "I'm late," he repeats, breaking eye contact and all but running to the front of the apartment. He shoves his feet into his shoes, grabs his sports bag, and takes off out of the house. He's made it down the three flights of stairs before he hears his mom calling out after him. He pretends he doesn't hear her. If only he can do the same about what he's seen.

oOo

"Takaishi! Get your head in the game!"

Takeru winces, as he feels the brush of displaced air of the second pass he's missed today. He spins around on the ball of his foot, pushes his body to catch up with the rest of his team that's already heading in the opposite direction.

He's playing poorly to say the least—has already drawn the ire of his coach and a few of his teammates—but is unable to focus. Fortunately, it is only a few minutes later that a shrill whistle cuts through the air and signals that practice is over. Takeru scrubs a hand tiredly across his eyes and trudges off the court. A few teammates shoot him curious looks clearly baffled at his clumsiness today. Always the more brazen one, Hideo runs up to him and bumps his shoulder, asking in a low voice if everything is all right.

"I'm fine," Takeru mutters back, trying to dredge up a reassuring smile, but fails utterly. If his shoulders slump any further, he'd resemble an ogre.

"Hey, don't sweat it," Hideo says, nudging him again in an attempt to cheer him up. "We're all allowed an off day. You were definitely overdue one for a loooong time now."

Takeru snorts and shoulders him back. "Shut up." Hideo laughs, but quickly quiets once he catches the thunderous look on Coach's face. They are the last to reach their teammates who are circled around the older man.

"If you think for one second that kind of playing will beat Shinonome next week," Coach speaks slowly and deliberately, voice rising with every word, "you'll all be in for a big surprise. This has been the worst practice this entire season!" The man's shout has several of his teammates, including himself, cringe and several cast furtive glares in his direction. Takeru makes no outward sign of noticing the looks, but is certainly aware of them. He is more concerned, however, with Coach's reaction to his playing. He braces himself for the tongue lashing he knows he's earned this morning, but Coach merely barks for everyone to hit the showers. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Takeru turns to do just that.

"Takaishi. Stay."

Takeru freezes in place, and Hideo offers him one last sympathetic glance over his shoulder before he disappears with the others.

Takeru inhales a steadying breath before turning back around and tentatively lifting his head up to meet coach's eyes.

Coach is an intimidating man, standing at six feet with arms the size of tree trunks. His default expression is a frown, which matches his no nonsense attitude. He's stern, but fair, and Takeru respects him a lot.

Coach gives him an assessing look, forehead creased and lips pressed tightly together. He does not look happy.

"I'm sorry," he says at once. "I was distracted. It won't happen again." He hopes the words would deflect the lecture he knows he's due, but it only makes Coach frown more deeply.

"This isn't like you, Takaishi," Coach finally says, and Takeru averts his eyes to the floor. "Is everything all right?"

Takeru's entire body stiffens at the question, and it takes him a moment to force himself to relax. "I'm fine," he says, but even he can hear how untrue the words are. "I'll be fine," he amends and that at least gets an answering hum from the older man.

Coach claps a hand on his right shoulder (the unexpected movement rocks him in place) and gives it a quick, but firm squeeze. "If you need someone to talk to, Takaishi-kun," Coach says making sure Takeru is looking at him while he does, "my door is always open."

The kind offer makes Takeru smile for the first time that day. It isn't nearly close to his usual ones, but it's still one all the same. "Thanks, Coach."

Coach straightens and says gruffly, "All right. Hurry up before you're late for class."

Takeru nods and rushes off to do so.

oOo

His day continues its downward spiral from there. With his mind wandering incessantly back to the events of this morning, he's reprimanded twice for not paying attention, once for being late to class and is given a disappointed stare when he answers a relatively simple question in English class incorrectly.

It doesn't take very long for his classmates to catch on to the fact that something is off with him too. Several approach him to ask if he's alright, and he automatically responds that he's merely tired from staying up too late studying. He isn't about to share the real reason, and thankfully, no one pries too deeply.

It's why he's been ignoring the many messages Hikari has sent him today. Since they attend different schools now, both make it a point to touch base at least once a day through e-mails. Yet, Takeru knows that it will only take a few exchanges before Hikari figures out something is wrong and will get him to talk about it. Talking about it, though, is the last thing he wants to do right now.

It's why he finds himself hesitating at a crossroad. If he turns right, he'll be minutes away from his apartment complex and having to face his mother. If he turns left, he can avoid it for a little while longer.

He turns left, feet taking him further and further away from home. When he reaches the intersection that will take him to Hikari's apartment, he speeds past that too. He wanders for a bit, comes across a park and sits on an empty bench that faces some jungle gym equipment. There are several children sitting at the top, laughing and making silly faces at each other, and their parents mind them from benches set on the periphery of the park. There's a father playing catch with his daughter a distance away, and a mother helping her son build a fort in the sandbox. The day is bright and normal and Takeru can't get the knots in his stomach to unravel.

He leaves, debates about calling Yamato, but has a feeling he won't listen. Will tell him this was bound to happen and Takeru stops that train of thought. He wants everything to just stop.

He winds up in front of Daisuke's apartment. He believes it's where he's been headed all along. Daisuke will let him be. He'll be confused at first. Then agitated and just plain Daisuke and that's what Takeru needs right now.

He takes a step forward, but stops when he realizes he hasn't spoken to the other in a while. Will he let him in? He shifts his bag on his shoulder, suddenly nervous about what to do, where to go.

He doesn't want to go home.

"Takeru?"

He starts, head snapping up to see Daisuke's mom at the front door, right hand braced on the top of the doorknob. She smiles, and Takeru somehow musters one up too.

"Good afternoon," he manages to say, and she nods.

"Good afternoon," she replies. "It's been a while."

"Y-Yes," he says. Then fumbles for what to say next, but comes up blank.

"Daisuke's at football practice," Mrs. Motomiya kindly informs him, and Takeru feels his stomach bottom out.

"Oh." His eyes fall to the ground, and the knots in his stomach wind tighter and tighter.

"Is he expecting you?" she asks into the following silence and takes a step back to open the door wider. "Would you like to wait for him inside?"

"I—no. I mean, he's not. I." He realizes this is a terrible idea and takes an involuntary step back, turning to look behind him. "I should go. I."

"Takeru."

He stops, looks back to see her beckoning him forward.

"Come inside," she insists in a bold manner that reminds him so much of her son. "I just made tea. It would be nice to have some company."

Takeru stays put for a moment longer, unsure, but when it looks like Daisuke's mom isn't going to take no for an answer, he finds himself walking forward.

"Thank you," he says equal parts shy and grateful as he passes through the entryway; the tension across his shoulders relaxes a bit as he does.

Closing the door behind him, Mrs. Motomiya beams. "You're doing me a favor, Takeru. Who wouldn't want to spend an afternoon with a handsome young man?" She slaps him none too lightly on the arm, and the corners of Takeru's lips curve slightly up in response.

Daisuke complains about his mom a lot. About how important appearances are to her. How conniving she can be. How incredibly shameless she can be.

"It's downright embarrassing," Daisuke grouses, "I stillget dirty looks whenever I visit that supermarket, and it's only because they know I'm her son!"

While Takeru's been on the receiving end of some fawning and more inquiries about Yamato's personal life than he thinks is appropriate, truthfully, he's always found Mrs. Motomiya kind of refreshing.

"Now you must tell me how the star basketball player of Kaetsu is doing." She winks cheekily, and he pauses from toeing off his shoes to immediately protest the moniker.

"That's really not the case, Mrs. Motomiya. There are a lot of better players."

The older woman dismisses his response with a wave of her hand. "I find that very hard to believe. Now, Daisuke tells me you scored thirty points in your last game."

"Fifteen," Takeru corrects her as he follows her down the hallway that will lead them to the kitchen. "Daisuke tends to exaggerate."

"That's certainly the truth," she replies dryly, and Takeru finds himself smiling.

Their ensuing conversation is light and easy, and for a while, Takeru forgets. He talks about basketball; his teachers; his schoolwork. He listens to Daisuke's mom gossip about the neighbors, laughs at all the right places, and pretends everything is fine.

And when Daisuke comes home, Takeru inhales a fortifying breath, smiles, and pretends some more.

It works, until it doesn't, but for now, it's enough to get him through the day and even the next.

He can't say that's the case the following day, but, well, nothing ever lasts, does it?