Ryoma could barely breathe.

His heart squeezed in his chest, pounding like a herd of elephants. His breaths felt distant and faraway, and he was only just aware of his hand clenching onto the side of Atobe's jersey. He couldn't believe that man was here in Japan. Ryoma had done everything to get away from him. His whole family had up and moved to a new country so Ryoma could feel safer.

Ryoma swayed. Why does he have to keep following me?

"Oi…" Atobe gently pried Ryoma's shaking hands from his jersey. "What's gotten into you?"

Ryoma blinked. His world was spinning.

"Echizen." Atobe sounded annoyed. "What's wrong?"

Atobe. Right. He was with Atobe in Hyotei. He couldn't have a mental breakdown in front of him. Clearing his head, he bent down and picked up his spilled Ponta. His thoughts jumbled with fear, but he carded them aside. He had to be indifferent. He had to be okay. He wasn't letting that monster take more of him.

"I should go," Ryoma finally said. He was glad his voice didn't crack when he spoke.

"Who was that?" Atobe inquired. "Did you know him?"

Ryoma shrugged. "No."

Atobe narrowed his eyes. "Ore-sama demands you stop lying."

Ryoma shot him an amused look. "Make me."

"Do you have to be so infuriating?"

"Infuriating. Big word for a Monkey King."

"Treat me with respect," Atobe said calmly.

"Get a life," Ryoma responded cheekily. He was proud of himself with his ability to keep up this charade even when his life was practically crumbling down to the ground.

Atobe sharpened his eyes. "Can you explain why you were trembling in fear a few moments ago?"

Ryoma frowned. "Mind your own business."

"Brat, tell me. He's being a coach at my school." Atobe's eyes were slits. "Tell me what you're hiding."

Ryoma's eyes dimmed, and he had to look at the ground. He wasn't going to tell Atobe what he was hiding. Nobody was ever going to figure that out. This was supposed to be his new life. A fresh start. But what if the Hyotei students were in danger because of his stubbornness? It was a tricky situation. Right now, though, he needed to home. He needed to unravel by himself.

"I'm leaving," Ryoma finally said. "But I wouldn't suggest making him your coach."

Atobe pressed, "But why?"

Ryoma ignored the adamant question. "Also, you might want to get someone to clean my Ponta up. I don't think sugary drinks and tennis courts mix."

"You brat!"

Ryoma smirked. But the moment he turned away, his smile dropped. He squeezed his eyes shut against the buildup of tears, and he told himself to wait until he got home. Until he was locked behind doors and allowed to cry. Without glancing back, he left the Hyotei courts, ignoring the fear that threatened to swallow him whole.

By the time he reached his house, the sky was a contrast of oranges and pinks. Nanako was hanging up clothing to dry on the clothing line while Karupin pawed at her long skirt. She smiled as Ryoma passed her, but Ryoma ignored her. He needed to hole up into his room. He was five seconds away from breaking point.

Entering the home, Ryoma slipped off his shoes as quietly as possible. Hopefully his dad wasn't home. His mother was an attorney, so she was probably still at work.

He stealthily headed for the stairwell.

"Oi, seishounen, not so fast!"

Damn.

Ryoma took an uneven breath. He blinked back burning tears, and swallowed hard. He had to keep his composure. Without looking back, he snapped, "What do you want, old man?"

"So disrespectful!" Nanjiroh tutted. "Now come here, young one…"

There was apparently no escape.

Ryoma took another deep breath, hoping he masked the edginess coursing through his veins. He turned around.

His father was sitting in the kitchen, feet propped up on the dining table. He had a newspaper in his hand, but Ryoma could see the folds of a magazine peeking out from underneath. He rolled his eyes. He had such a stupid dad. "What do you want?" Ryoma asked, standing across from him, heels of his palms pressed on the dining table surface.

"So uncute." Nanjiroh eyed him. "And what's with that face?"

Ryoma blinked. "What face?"

"That one." Nanjiroh pointed. "The one when you're upset but pretend not to be."

His stomach dropped. He really needed to master Tezuka's poker face. "I'm fine." Ryoma waved his hand irritably. "Now what do you want?"

Nanjiroh studied him for a longer moment. Then he shrugged, cackling. "I signed you up for a tennis training camp!"

"A what?" Ryoma wasn't in the mood for this.

"Are you deaf, boy?" Nanjiroh threw a pamphlet at his head. "A tennis training camp. You need to get much better if you want to beat me, you know."

Ignoring the jibe, Ryoma unfolded the bright pamphlet. He skimmed it. A tennis training camp. One week of the summer. Only cordially invited players from the Atobe… wait, Atobe? The Atobe company was sponsoring it. Ryoma just stared, sharp eyes narrowed. "What is this?" He finally said, baffled. "The Atobe Company?"

"Right, right. The rich are running it." Nanjiroh sounded wistful. "You're going to be living in an expensive hotel with first-class spas and pretty ladies serving you food." He fake-sobbed. "You don't even deserve it!"

"We can afford this?" Ryoma said blandly.

"Of course we can!" Nanjiroh waggled his brow. "I have money from my glory days, you know."

"Oyaji, you spent all of that on buying useless shit off of Ebay."

"Porn magazines aren't useless!"

Ryoma stared at him flatly. "How did you get me in?"

Nanjiroh took a sip of his tea. "If you must know, I'm friends with Atobe."

"Atobe?" Ryoma gaped.

"Shigeo Atobe. We went to the same high school."

Oh. Atobe's father. That explained things. Ryoma glanced down at the pamphlet again. That made sense. Atobe's father could probably earn a lot of extra money running a rich tennis camp, especially if his son was known as the ace tennis player of Hyotei. Everyone with enough money would be dying to send their kids to a training camp run by the Atobe family.

"Hyotei might be there," Ryoma said thoughtfully.

"Ehh?"

"Nothing." Ryoma folded the pamphlet. "Is that all?"

"So bratty. Yes, that's all."

Ryoma nodded, about to leave.

His father stopped him with his voice. "Hey, kid."

"Yes?" Ryoma didn't bother to hide his vexation at being interrupted again.

Nanjiroh just stared at him. "You okay?"

The concern – so vulnerable and open – made it even harder to hold himself together.

Ryoma bit his lip because he was seriously going to start crying any minute now. "I'm fine." He couldn't wait for an answer. He whipped around and ran for the stairs, climbing two steps at a time. Tears were already filling his eyes, rolling down his cheeks. He opened his bedroom door, and clicked it shut behind him. Ignoring his messy room, he slid down onto the carpet. He pressed his face against his knees, trying to muffle his sobs.

Memories were flooding back to him. Memories he had pushed away. Memories that his therapist had helped him get over. Memories that were supposed to vanish because of Japan's endless summers and cherry blossom trees.

Why did he have to come to Japan?

Ryoma cried into his knees, only just managing to hide the sound. He choked on his tears, not bothering to hold anything back. He cried and cried until fatigue won him over. When he was unable to cry anymore, he wiped his puffy eyes, taking shaky, uneven breaths. He wasn't going to let Kon win. He was stronger this time. He was prepared. He wasn't a naïve kid anymore who stayed out late at night by himself. He was smarter. It wasn't going to happen again.

Ryoma wouldn't let it.

Exhausted, Ryoma fumbled into his pajamas. Then he curled into his bed, allowing the blankets to cloak him. He buried himself in the warmth. He was so tired. He was so tired of running from his past. And when he'd finally thought he'd gotten over it, the man had come into his life as if he hadn't taken enough of Ryoma the first time around.

Ryoma curled deeper into the covers. He needed to forget about it. He would sleep. Sleep would make everything better.

But even in his slumber, Ryoma dreamed of everything he wished would wipe away from his memory. He dreamed of touch and laughter and musky cigarettes. He dreamed of exhaustion and pain and blood and hands. He dreamed of a time he wished he were dead, unfeeling and empty like a lifeless corpse buried under mounds of sand.

Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews! I do apologize that I write short chapters, but I hope regular updates make up for it? I'm actually really scared with where this story is going. I feel like I have too many things going on at once, and so much to explain. I know a little mystery is good, but I think I may have jumbled things up too much?