Ryoma had been getting nightmares for weeks.

He listlessly walked over to the dining table, burying his head in his hands the moment he sat down on the chair. His head throbbed– a pounding sensation clinging to his skull. His eyes felt heavy, and his body ached from exhaustion. He knew he needed to catch up on sleep, but Kon followed him everywhere. His dreams were almost worse than reality.

A bowl clattered in front him. Ryoma winced at the loud noise.

"Oi, brat, wakey, wakey."

Ryoma didn't respond.

"Seishounen, you're going to be late if you keep this up."

Did his father care if he was late? Ryoma doubted it. But if he wasn't getting sleep, Ryoma knew he needed food for energy. Lifting his head up, he took the spoon and stuffed cereal in his mouth. It tasted like cardboard. Ryoma took another bite, blinking to keep himself awake.

Nanjiroh watched him curiously. "Tired, kid?"

"A little." Ryoma took another bite, before pushing the bowl away. "I'm leaving." He stood up.

Nanjiroh blinked. "You ate three bites."

"Genius deduction, oyaji." Ryoma swept past him. He grabbed his Seigaku jacket from the coat hook, slipping his arms through the sleeves. As he grabbed his tennis bag, he noticed a note on the fridge from his mother. It said that she was going to be working another late shift. He smiled sleepily at the love you scrawled on the bottom. His mother cared about him immensely. He knew that. He didn't blame her for her long work shifts.

But sometimes, especially now, Ryoma missed his mother.

Nanjiroh caught his despondent gaze. "Cheer up, kid! That training camp is only a few weeks away!"

"Great," Ryoma said glumly.

"Tennis 24/7!" Nanjiroh reminded him. "You should be grateful."

And normally Ryoma would be excited for tennis all day. Tennis was his life.

But right now he was too tired and too sleepy to care about anything but the fact that his head was roaring in pain. Discretely grabbing a bottle of Advil, he shoved the painkillers in his tennis bag. He'd take one first period, and maybe grab some disgusting coffee to keep himself awake.

Nanjiroh didn't miss the painkillers. He looked like he was about to say something, but Ryoma glared at him. Nanjiroh shrugged.

"Later, kid."

"Bye." Ryoma turned on his heel, and left the front entrance.

He swayed on the front steps of his porch

Shaking his head, he steadied himself and headed for where Momo met him with his bike.

…

The painkillers helped. The caffeine was a pleasant boost. He breezed through his classes.

Ryoma felt manageably tired as he went through tennis practice. Run laps. Play a practice match with Momo. Endure bone-crushing hugs from Kikumaru. Ryoma was used to all of it. He rolled his shoulders at the end of practice, ignoring the aches in his shoulder blades. He hoped the nightmares stopped soon. He didn't know how much longer he could go without adequate sleep.

Fuji stopped him on his way out of the club room door. "You're looking a tad tired."

"I didn't sleep well," Ryoma snapped out.

"Any reason?"

"My dad was loud last night."

"I see."

Ryoma glared at him, before brushing past. He knew Fuji was perceptive. He knew Fuji could detect a lie from a mile away. But Ryoma didn't care. Fuji didn't need to pry in his business. He already had one person trying to scrounge information from him. Ryoma thought about Atobe at burgers, and his fingers curled tighter around his tennis bag strap.

He hated Atobe.

"Hey, Echizen!" Momo hollered. "Don't you wanna eat burgers?"

Ryoma lifted his hand up, indicating that he would pass. He wasn't in the mood for burgers. He was in the mood for sleep.

Languidly, Ryoma walked down the sidewalk of Tokyo. The sky was a bar of neon separating sky and trees. Children played in their front yards, summer beckoning them out from their video-game hideouts. Ryoma rubbed his eyelids, trying to keep himself awake. He just had to get home. He would get home and go straight to his bed. Swallowing thickly, Ryoma closed his pained eyelids. He continued walking steadily. He felt awful and sick and ashamed. He had thought he had gotten over what had happened in America.

But now Kon was back in Japan, and suddenly the memories were fresh and painful in his mind.

"Tired?"

Ryoma's eyes flew open. Kon Nikolaj greeted him with a nod, blowing smoke from a cigarette.

Ryoma stumbled backward. His eyes were wide, and his chest tightened. Panic swelled to his throat. On instinct, he looked around him. There were a few men on the end of the street, talking. A woman was selling ice cream outside.

He relaxed, but only marginally. His breaths felt uneven and shallow. His heartbeat swallowed him whole.

"Fancy seeing you here, huh, Ryoma?"

His name – Ryoma – felt dirty coming from Kon's mouth.

Ryoma's nails dug into his palms. His ribs felt like they were shattering. "Please go away," he finally managed.

"Go away?" Kon's voice was a low slur. "It's been so long, though. And I just arrived. It would be a pity if I left so soon, wouldn't it be?"

Ryoma took another step back. He trembled. "Stay away from me. I'll call 911."

Kon dug up his lighter. He tossed his used cigarette to the ground, crushing it with his foot. "Call 911? I'm merely talking to you."

"Stop it!" Ryoma begged. Unwillingly, tears flooded his eyes. "Just leave me alone!"

"Oh ho…" The man leered at him. "Breaking into tears so easily? You were so resilient the first time I met you."

Ryoma shook his head furiously. He didn't want to think about the first time. Oh god, the first time.

He was going to puke. He could already feel the vomit halfway up his throat.

He turned on his heel.

"You're looking even better than before, I must say."

Ryoma gagged, and started to run.

Kon called after him: "I'll find my way back to you!"

Ryoma didn't stop running. He choked on his own tears as he ran. His legs ached and his body could barely hold himself up, but he continued to run, wind rushing past his ears. His skin felt like ants were crawling over it. He coughed, and vomit rose to his lips. He swallowed it back, tasting stale and bitter.

Ryoma was a wreck by the time he reached his home. He was shaking badly. His eyes were wide and tear-ridden. He nearly fell in through his front door, gasping for air.

Nanako, who had been in the middle of adjusting a picture frame, dropped the picture frame with a clatter. "Ryoma! What's wrong?"

Nanjiroh only had to look at Ryoma once to know something was wrong. He walked over to Ryoma, gathering the shaking boy in his arms. Ryoma sobbed. He couldn't even be bothered to stop. Everything felt like it was faraway, and nothing mattered.

Why couldn't it just be over?

Nanjiroh just pressed him close to his chest, smoothing back his hair.

Ryoma cried until he lost whatever energy he had left. He passed out against his father – fatigue and emotional strain finally weighing him under. His small form lay limp against his father, the exhaustion in his face smoothing into an unconscious demeanor. His dad scooped him up and carried him to his bedroom. Nanako fretted by the sink, trying to keep herself busy.

When Nanjiroh came back down, his brows were creased in worry.

"What's wrong with Ryoma?" Nanako asked.

Nanjiroh stared at her with tired eyes. "I don't know." He turned to make himself coffee. "But I only know one person who can make my son hurt like that." He pressed his head against the cabinets, taking a shaky breath. A note from Rinko stared back at him. He whispered softly to himself, "I thought we got rid of him for good, Rinko…"

If Nanjiroh's worst fears were true, then Kon Nikolaj was back.

And that meant Ryoma was no longer safe.

…

Ryoma awoke a few hours later, head propped up on a pillow. He was in his bedroom, the window open to let in a cool breeze. Karupin crawled on his lap, paw nudging at Ryoma's right thigh. Nanako had left water and a plate of fruit on his bedside table. Still disoriented, Ryoma smiled softly, scratching Karupin behind the ear. He nestled against his blankets, staring at the shadowy walls of his room.

He flushed when he thought about Nanako and his father seeing him was certainly embarrassing. Ryoma yawned. At least he slept well for a few hours.

There was a knock on the door. "You awake?"

Ryoma curled into his blankets. The last thing he wanted was to talk to his father.

"Seishouneeeeen!" Nanjiroh whined from the other end.

Ryoma curled deeper. "Go away!"

"Aha! So you are awake."

Did he mention he hated his dad? Even more than Atobe. And that was definitely saying something.

Nanjiroh burst into the room dressed in his usual monk robes. He chuckled at Ryoma's half-buried state, leaning against the doorframe. "I only came up here to offer you some magazines. They definitely help when you're sick." He waved a magazine with a bikini-clad girl on the cover. "I'll even give you my new edition."

Ryoma propped himself up. "Can you leave?"

"Whyyy?"

"You're a nuisance."

"Hey, take that back! I'm your father, you know. You ought to treat me with more respect."

Ryoma rubbed his forehead. "Stupid old man. What do you really want?"

Nanjiroh's easygoing expressed changed to a serious one in a span of what appeared to be less than a second. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of Ryoma's bed. Ryoma waited for him to say something, but his father just stared at his tennis posters, looking deep in thought. Rolling his eyes, Ryoma cuddled into his blankets. Maybe he could fit in another hour of sleep.

Five minutes later, Nanjiroh groaned. "I guess we have to talk about it."

Ryoma blinked. "Talk about it?"

"You're breakdown." Nanjiroh rubbed his cheeks. "I'd rather be, you know, enjoying myself, but – I mean, there's you to take care of."

"I don't need you to take care of me."

Nanjiroh snorted. "Please. You don't even know how to do the laundry."

"You don't either! Nanako-san does it."

"I do your socks!"

"One time doesn't count."

Nanjiroh groaned again, this time more exasperatedly. "Just explain."

"Explain what?"

"You're breakdown."

Ryoma squeezed his eyes shut because tears were already burning behind his lashes. He blinked furiously. "I don't want to," he said, his throat raspy. "It's not…like telling you will help anyway."

Nanjiroh studied him. Karupin made a mewling noise. Finally, his father said quietly, "Is it him?"

Ryoma tensed. "Him?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

There was no point in lying anymore. His father knew him too well. Probably some kind of tennis connection.

Ryoma slumped his shoulders. "Yes," he whispered.

Nanjiroh's eyes hardened. "What did he do?"

"Nothing."

"Ryoma."

When Nanjiroh called him by his actual name, Ryoma knew he was serious. He stared at his patterned bedspread. "He's in Japan. He wants to be the tennis coach at Hyotei. He's offering them ¥12093500 to replace their current coach." Ryoma's hand clenched around the fabric of his bedspread. "I don't know what he's trying to do."

Nanjiroh furrowed his brow. "Hyotei? As a tennis coach?"

Ryoma shrugged.

Nanjiroh observed his son. "Is there anything else?"

"Eh?"

"Is there anything else?" Nanjiroh repeated.

Ryoma shifted uncomfortably. He didn't meet Nanjiroh's eyes. "He approached me today. And said some stuff."

Nanjiroh's face lit fire at those words. "That's it! That bastard."

"Oyaji-"

He hopped off the bed. "Don't you worry seishounen! That dirty bastard is going to regret he ever messed with an Echizen!"

Ryoma panicked. "What are you going to do?"

"I have a rich friend. He'll take care of this."

"Huh?" Ryoma was utterly confused.

Nanjiroh patted his head. "Don't you worry."

"Oyaji-" Ryoma growled.

"Hora, hora! Hora, hora…" Nanjiroh sang as he ambled out of Ryoma's bedroom. Ryoma stared at his retreating figure, then hit his head into his pillow.

What the hell was his stupid father planning on doing?