Fall was around the corner. He could smell it in the crispness of the air and the first few leaves that were starting to bleed crimson. Fuji couldn't sleep and had been the first to arrive at school, sitting in the darkness in front of the school gates and waiting for them to open.

He wasn't very surprised by the icy silence that greeted him when Eiji walked into class, and the deliberate manner in which Eiji had turned away from him. The chill had extended from him, to the awkward good cheer of his team-mates. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oishi lingering at the backdoor of the class, patiently listening to Eiji who rambled away at him. Even as he turned to smile at him, Fuji felt his heart constrict a little, when Oishi flushed and looked away quickly, before appearing to chasten Eiji for whatever he was saying.

It was then he realised the inevitability of his team-mates' involvement. Already, he knew Eiji well enough to understand that if they attempted to hear Fuji's side of the story, it would be counted as a betrayal. He was fine by himself, but Eiji only flourished when the spotlight was on him, when his acrobatic tennis drew the loudest gasps of admiration. It was simply the way he was. But at the moment, he could hardly care less as he huddled over the table, burying his face in his arms and trying to ignore the cold that steadily seeped in through the open windows.

As more of his classmates filed into the room, he caught snatches of their scandalised conversation unwillingly. When he forced himself to look up from his arms, he saw the gazes of his classmates, many of which held shock, indignation and more than a little disdain.

Hurrying out of the class, he followed the crowd which was beginning to gather in the main atrium. The stunned silence that his arrival brought was beginning to unnerve him. He walked closer to the bulletin boards and beheld a myriad of photographs.

Clear, sharp photographs that captured him in every possible angle and light, pasted in neat rows. Fuji with his arms around strange men, his neck bruised by a hard kiss as he was roughly pushed against a pillar, lurid hotels known for the cheap debauchery that went on inside. Photograph after photograph showed at least 3 different men that Fuji had been with, candid shots that were taken whilst they were too busy to notice.

Fuji was suddenly acutely conscious of the stares of his schoolmates, waiting to see what his reaction would be. He refused to let them have the satisfaction of watching him cry. His pride wouldn't allow that. Also, he refused to ask them directly who had perpetrated the deed, convinced that no one would have answered.

Under the scrutiny of all the people, who were starting to chatter and gossip amongst themselves, Fuji slowly began to remove every single of the photographs. Only a bleak numbness remained, chilling him to the bone, as the sound of staples methodically ripped out of the paper magnified itself in his mind.

Towards the bottom of the rows, his fingers paused at a photograph.

In it, he slept peacefully in a familiar bed. The bedside lamp was glowing a warm yellow, casting enough light for the photograph to be taken. There was only one person who could have taken that photograph, and the knowledge of it hurt him deeper than any of the other lurid shots that bleated his failures to the world.

Why, Eiji?

"The whole school knows about the photographs by now. Why did you do it?"

The quarrel was turning ugly as the two ex-best friends faced each other on the roof. The moment the bell had rung for lunch, Fuji had requested Eiji to stay and talk for a moment, and had proceeded to drag him to the rooftop unceremoniously when Eiji refused. The cold cruelty of the school tensai was legendary throughout the school, and despite the curious looks and loud gossip that had followed the pair, none had followed them to the deserted place, especially since it had just started to drizzle.

Something had flickered in Eiji's face at that moment. Fuji wasn't too sure what he had seen, but it had almost been…resignation? If Eiji had been expecting the photographs to be placed up, then it had to have been someone else. Fuji felt his heart light in anticipation of that prospect, sheer relief coursing through his veins, when he realised the implications of what he thought. It would be madness to accuse his best friend of such an action when their quarrel had been only a day ago.

And then, Eiji stunned him for the second time in a day.

"Because I hate you Fujiko," Eiji sneered quietly, lightly turning Fuji's nickname in his mouth until it sounded almost like a curse.

"It wasn't you. You wouldn't have – "

Eiji laughed slightly.

"Why not? Who else could it have been? You haven't exactly been broadcasting your nightly activities to the school, or were you even more of a slut than I imagined?"

Crimson drops splattered against the ground wetly.

Eiji's mouth had blood dripping from it, his gum split against his teeth due to the punch. The sticky wet fluid was still trailing down the side of his mouth as he stared at Fuji in disbelief. The tensai's eyes were wide open, a cold, blazing blue as he stared at him. In the cloudless depths of azure orbs, Eiji saw himself reflected and felt an unexpected chill seize him, as all thoughts fled from his mind.

Even as the tensai turned and walked away, his footsteps lightly echoing on the rough concrete, Eiji could only stare after him, unheeding of the blood continued to drip onto his shirt, leaving behind a sticky sensation on his chest. Ahead of him, the fragile slimness of his friend as he walked back towards the staircase, his white shirt billowing in the wind, contrasted against the stormy clouds above.

The image planted thoughts of an accidental murder in his mind.

Eiji shivered again, despite himself.

He didn't bother to attend tennis practice, returning home instead. His father had looked worried when he had informed him quietly that he was merely tired and wished to sleep till the next morning. Yumiko seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but refrained eventually, her eyes reflecting her worry.

The bed was too large and too cold. The floor was at least panelled in wood, which warmed to the touch and felt more real somehow. His head was spinning and his heart was longing to cry. He sank to the floor beside his bed in a corner, holding his knees tightly to him as he rocked himself and waited for the pain to pass.

There were nights where he felt himself reverting back into the nameless void of anger and shame. It reminded him of his past, where unbearable humiliation tore him from the inside and drove him into further depravity until the excess of debauchery numbed his mind to further anguish. He had sought refuge in the arms of strangers, where alcohol drowned out faces, voices, memories, leaving only exquisite physical torment that liberated him from the cesspool his mind's voices had become. If it hurt enough outside, the pain inside could be forgotten.

Before that, he had hurt himself and always, it hadn't been enough. It was never enough. The scars could not be seen even if he wore his tennis jersey. He had taken care of that. The scars marked his shoulders, the higher parts of his arm, legs and even torso. In the darkness, he had crouched in a corner of a securely locked bathroom. Silently, desperately grieving, his knife dug into his skin and raked its crimson furrows, but the pain never seemed enough to take him away.

On those nights, back where he clung onto his belief that he could survive it on his own, nothing was worse than cleaning up the sticky trails of blood that sunk in between the tiles of the bathroom floor, turning on the tap at full blast until the blackening blood washed away to its crimson redness and then to nothing. He often wished that pain could be washed away, just like that as well.

I can't cry. I won't be able to come back if I do.

The tears never came and his heart hurt even worse with the effort of keeping everything inside of him. He couldn't cry. It hurt far too much for tears to be able to wash away. It was a deep, unsettled ache that threatened to break him completely. Crying meant the defeat of matter over mind, of his body over his heart, and Fuji would not accept defeat. Nor the possibility that the first few tears which would trickle down his face, could lead to a complete breaking down. An irrational fear bucked in him every single time he found himself on the verge of tears, that his darkest fears unleashed by his caving in would swallow him whole.

Fuji closed his eyes tighter, his nails digging into his skin as he hugged his legs to him. He hadn't mutilated himself that badly since a year ago and he wasn't going to start again. It hurt, sometimes the memories drenched him in so much pain, pain repressed so deeply inside of him that only his nightmares could bring them out. Often he awoke screaming, crying, but no one ever heard him.

Yet there was the past, and then there was the present.

He felt himself slipping further into depression with each step, and even small tasks were beginning to seem daunting to him. He had been the acknowledged genius who had won countless awards as a child, the academic prodigy who had his works displayed proudly at every festival.

Yet, all the roles that he had once played were an entire lifetime ago.

Now, he dreaded going to school in the morning, and hated tennis sessions even more. Every task was as terrifying, despite his mind's rational insistence that nothing could possibly happen. Stronger than anything else, an irrational desire to stay locked inside himself had bubbled up.

It was a simple wish that could be easily granted with enough sleeping pills and water.

END CHAPTER

A/N: Spoiler Alert! Wait...can one actually spoil one's own story?

The fear that one is helpless even when it comes to the most mundane of tasks, is one part of depression that is often missed out in fanfiction. In this strange alternate-universe, Fuji has been grappling with depression ever since he awoke from his self-imposed coma. Depression is a tedious, wearying process by which the spirit is methodically broken down and nothing about this sickness is pleasant. Actual events in the storyline have only occured sparsely thus far, yet 7 chapters have already been written. The tediousness of this entire story is meant to reflect this illness. To all who took the time to read this story, I am sorry if you liked the current pace, as those who reviewed had preferred, but I have decided to break away from this and things will be speeded up henceforth until the climax at the end chapter. This is the last "slow" chapter and can be seen as a prologue of the ending.

And a big thank you to all for reviewing! I am shiny and happy when you do so!