It was finally the day of the summer camp.

Echizen Ryoma gulped down his milk and toast, scrambling to slip on his tennis shoes. He'd had a groggy start to the morning because his father had quite literally dumped freezing water on his head to wake him up, and he didn't want to be late. Normally, being late mattered to Ryoma as much as pretty girls, but today was an exception.

A bus paid by Hyotei was going to arrive at his doors, and he doubted the rich would wait while he tied his shoes.

"I'm leaving!" Ryoma finished up his laces, one foot already out the door. He saw the head of the bus turn into the corner of his street.

"Wait, seishounen!"

Ryoma turned his head irritably. "What?" He was still pissed at his dad for dumping water on his head.

Nanjiroh ambled over. "Hora." He tossed a bottle at his son, and Ryoma's quick reflexes allowed him to grab it gracefully. His Prazosin pills for his nightmares. Right. He felt a little embarrassed for forgetting them, and was almost grateful to his old man for remembering. He would probably have to share rooms during the trip, and if someone saw him sweating and rolling in his bed from nightmares, he would actually die.

"Thanks," Ryoma muttered.

Nanjiroh shrugged. "I'm not as irresponsible as you think."

Ryoma stood there uncomfortably.

"Oh, yeah," Nanjiroh said casually. "I saw that that rich kid from Hyotei walked you home a couple weeks ago." He grinned. "Heh, you're getting to that age, aren't you?"

Ryoma's eyes flamed. Stupid old man. "It didn't mean anything," Ryoma said. "It was only because you had to go open your big mouth and tell that Monkey King's father what happened. You know I don't need protection."

Nanjiroh just cackled. "I was waiting for a kiss on the front porch though!"

"Were you looking out the window?" Ryoma said suspiciously.

"With binoculars," Nanjiroh confirmed.

Stupid. Old. Man.

Ryoma grit his teeth, but he knew he had to get going. The bus was parked in front of his door. He would just get his dad back when he returned from the training camp. Thinking of creative ways to make his dad suffer, Ryoma walked toward the bus. It was a hot day, and the sun poured heat waves on his back. He had only walked from his house to the bus and he already felt sweaty.

Ryoma welcomed the cool air conditioning of the bus with a breath of relief, and nodded his thanks to the driver.

And then he stood there, awkwardly clutching his duffle bag.

Hyotei and other rich kids stared back at him.

Ryoma wasn't easily embarrassed, but he didn't know where to sit, and he felt heat warm his cheeks. He blamed it on the summer air, and started to walk down the aisle. Gakuto glared at him, apparently annoyed that someone with relations to Kikumaru had invaded their trip. Jiroh grinned cheerfully, and Oishitari gave him a quizzical look.

Ryoma kept walking. Everyone was already sitting with someone, and the bus was full.

Damn it. Damn it.

He was nearly at the end of the bus when he saw his ray of hope. There was empty seat! Ryoma moved forward in relief, but that relief flew right under him when he realized that the empty seat was beside none another than the Monkey King. Ryoma stared dreadfully, and Atobe merely glanced at him.

"Take a seat," Atobe said.

"With you?" Ryoma grumbled.

"I have to protect you." Atobe flicked imaginary dust off of his nails. "Take a seat," he said again.

Ryoma's pride wanted him to keep standing, but the driver was now shooting an irritated look into his rear-view mirror, and the whole of the bus was staring at him with either annoyance or confusion. Sighing, he sat next to Atobe, shoving his duffle bag in between them. He didn't mind Atobe. Okay, he did mind him. But there was something about punching someone in the face and then having them walk you home that made you hate them a little less.

That was right. He had punched Atobe less than two weeks ago. Ryoma looked toward Atobe, and gaped slightly. The bruise was gone, and his cheek was clear and smooth. Had it really healed that fast? It was impossible. Was the Monkey King wearing make up? He thought only girls wore make up.

"I know my face is beautiful," Atobe said. "But blatantly staring is a step up in disgracefulness, even for you."

"Hmm." Ryoma hummed. "Your bruise is gone."

"Of course. I had the finest cream created specifically for my skin type. It was gone within three days." He narrowed his eyes. "Obviously, if I hadn't been punched by you in the first place, the cream wouldn't have been necessary."

Ryoma smirked. "You deserved it."

"Hardly," Atobe said.

The bus rumbled as it made its way down the rolling highway. Now that Ryoma was safely settled on a bus seat, he took the opportunity to observe his surroundings. It was a classic rich-people bus. Leather encased all the seats, and the floors were sleek with shine. There was a bathroom at the back, and mints and white wine were in front of each seat.

Ryoma hummed. The bus was clearly not prepared for middle-schoolers. He touched the wine bottle, and it felt cool against his sweaty hand. He pressed it against his cheek, and closed his eyes. It was incredibly hot, and the wine felt nice against his skin. Maybe he could snatch an hour of sleep before they arrived at the camps.

But five minutes into his precious nap, he felt like he was being watched. Ryoma tried to ignore the feeling, but after having been unwillingly ravished for the worst five months of his life, he knew when someone was staring at him. It made him uneasy.

He opened his eyes. Of course Atobe was the culprit. Atobe was looking at him with… was that fondness? Ryoma blinked. It couldn't be fondness. This was Atobe.

"Monkey King?" Ryoma said tentatively.

Atobe broke out of his seeming trance. He flushed. "Don't call me that," he snapped, but Ryoma could tell he was flustered. The Hyotei captain turned away, staring out the window. There was pink on his cheeks and he wondered if Atobe was having a heatstroke.

It really was hot.

"The wine feels good," Ryoma said. "If you're really hot."

"Huh?" Atobe grunted.

"Your face is pink." Ryoma shrugged. "I just thought you were hot."

Atobe looked at him with an expression of incredulity. But it quickly changed to disgust. "I will not press a bottle against my face. That is repulsive." He then proceeded to pull out a mini fan from his bag, and plugged it into the electrical outlet (because they were on a rich bus which had working electrical outlets). The fan whirred, and cool air hit Ryoma's face.

"Wow," Ryoma commented. "Nice."

"It's mine. Of course it's nice."

Ryoma rolled his eyes. He returned his wine bottle to the tray, and curled up away from Atobe. The fan was a nice addition, and the rumbling of the bus set up a rythmetic sound for him to fall asleep to. The leather seats were cool against his cheeks, and very quickly, he was drifting off to an easy round of deep sleep.

He still felt the tug of someone watching him, but figured it could only be Atobe with that weird fondness.

And Ryoma found he didn't really mind all that much, and slept on.

Ryoma whimpered, but the mouth crushed any sound from escaping. It smelled and tasted like cigarettes and stale beer. He whimpered again, trying to push the large body off, but he was suffocating in hard and lean. He hated this. He hated it so much. It was the third time and all he wanted was to die. He wanted to die because dying was better than these hands and this pain and this suffocating helplessness.

The man stopping kissing him for a moment. Ryoma gasped for breath. The eyes on him were dark and predatory, and they roamed over his body in the way Ryoma hated the most. It was the way that made him feel sick and ashamed, like he was a doll that was getting thrown around to play with. A rag doll. With its heart ripped out and blood spilling from its core.

There were never any words. Sometimes there was "slut" and "good boy" but the words never hurt.

It was just the hands. The hands.

Ryoma hated the hands.

He squirmed. "Please-stop-"

The hands slipped under his pants, reaching down, and Ryoma squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to pretend he was somewhere else. He tried to pretend he was somewhere where the room didn't stink of sweat and sex, and hands weren't touching him.

"Please-stop-"

"Please. Stop."

Ryoma jerked awake, sweating bullets. Atobe's hand was on his shoulder, but all he could see was dark and mean and rough. He pushed away, and shouted, "Don't touch me!" jumping off of the bus seats. He was shaking rapidly, tremors running through his body. Tears were wet on his cheeks, and he was trembling.

"Echizen-"

"Don't." He pressed his eyes shut. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His traitorous body wouldn't stop vibrating with fear, no matter how much he wanted it too. He knew everyone on the bus was staring at him. He hated when everyone stared at him. It was okay when he was playing tennis, but not any other time. He didn't need them to look at his body.

It was his.

They weren't allowed to look at it.

"Echizen," Atobe said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. "Sit down. You had a nightmare."

Ryoma didn't want to sit. Reality was sinking in and hard and fast, and he wanted to die of humiliation. But the bus had stopped moving because he was standing, and he knew everyone was still staring at him. He opened his eyes, still shaking, and looked at Atobe. Atobe had a reassuring expression, and Ryoma stumbled back into his seat.

He tried to calm his breathing, but it still came out shaky and uneven.

Stupid. He was so stupid.

How could he have forgotten to take a Prazosin pill? He was so used to taking one before bed that it hadn't even occurred for him to take one on the bus. Naps weren't planned, and he just hadn't thought it through… stupid. So stupid. Ryoma couldn't look at Atobe, or anyone, so he just stared at his wine bottle.

The bus that was generally loud from chatter was silent.

Then Atobe's hand reached for the space between his neck and shoulder, and squeezed. Ryoma breathed out, and closed his eyes.

"You're getting better at this," he muttered.

"I was always better at it," Atobe said, but his voice was soft. "You get nightmares?"

Ryoma shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it.

"Is it about –"

"Yes," Ryoma said quickly. He didn't want Atobe to say what it was.

Atobe was silent, and Ryoma sunk into his seat. He hated himself sometimes. Most of the time, actually. The only time he liked himself was when he played tennis, because that was when he felt free and weightless. His therapist had talked to him about liking himself, but he considered his therapist pretty stupid. She gave him advice like think positive and be grateful and Ryoma wanted to scream at her that there was no reason for him to do any of those things.

But Atobe's shoulder squeeze was nice, and he hadn't left his hand from Ryoma's shoulder, which was also nice.

And he liked that Atobe didn't tell him to do stupid things like think positive.

He just gave him this reassuring look, the way Tezuka did when they were in a climatic match, and it relaxed him enough to not want to die.

"Why is there wine?" Ryoma finally asked tiredly.

"It's not wine," Atobe chuckled. "The bottle is just wine. There's actually iced lemonade inside."

Ryoma stared at him. "Really?"

"Really," Atobe confirmed.

Ryoma stared at Atobe – the slope of his neck, his nose, his dark blue eyes – and realized that the Hyotei captain was growing on him. He turned away, and fiddled with one of the mints, wondering how someone he was supposed to hate with a passionate rivalry had become somebody he could trust.

There wasn't much training done at the camp that day. It was boiling hot, and after touring them around the gigantic campground, the group of tennis players were shown their hotel rooms. Ryoma wasn't surprised when he found out he was sharing with Atobe. Ever since Atobe had declared he needed to protect Ryoma, he hadn't let Ryoma out of his sight. Even during the tour, he had stayed an annoying one foot away from him, eyes constantly boring into his head.

It had been endearing at first, but now it was just irritating.

Especially because they had a bodyguard spending the night in their room.

"What is he doing here?" Ryoma asked. A broad man in a sharp black uniform stood rigidly in front of their hotel room doorway, a gun in his belted waist and a Bluetooth in his ear.

"He's merely a bodyguard." Atobe lathered a night-time moisturizer on his body, already showered and dressed in a silky aqua blue robe. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and with the openness of the robe, Ryoma could see his defined collarbones, and a generous portion of his abs. Ryoma stared, before blinking and shaking his head.

"I don't need a bodyguard," Ryoma stated. "I can protect myself."

"Be rational." Atobe paused. "Maybe if you know you're safe, your nightmares will be less frequent."

"I have pills for that," Ryoma said.

"Natural remedies are always preferable," Atobe said snootily.

Ryoma couldn't stand him. Ignoring the bodyguard, and ignoring Atobe's weird cream-moisturizing, Ryoma headed into the shower. He peeled off his sweaty tennis clothes and stepped into cool water. There was something refreshing about taking a shower after a hot, summer day. The heat melted off of him, and Ryoma leaned his head against the shower wall, closing his eyes.

He had enjoyed himself today. Sometimes the rich people complained about stupid rich people things, but most people had been nice to him so far. Even after his embarrassing nightmare on the bus, no one had really… asked him about it. They pretended it didn't happen, which was just the way Ryoma wanted it.

And then there was Atobe.

Ryoma was on and off about Atobe. Echizen Ryoma liked simplicity, and Atobe was anything but. Atobe was complicated, in a way that Ryoma couldn't even begin to understand. He seemed to care about Ryoma, but he was always scoffing at him, calling him a disgrace or a middle-class brat. Was that supposed to be affectionate?

Not that they were expected to be affectionate, Ryoma mused, wrapping a towel around his waist. He shook out his damp hair, and grabbed some lotion.

They were supposed to be snarky with each other.

That was how it was meant to be.

But then Atobe would sometimes turn off the snark, and stare at him with this unwavering fondness, pink on his cheeks and warmth in his eyes.

It confused the hell out of Ryoma.

Did Atobe hate him or consider him a friend?

It was a question Ryoma was starting to think he would never know the answer to.

"Stupid Monkey King," Ryoma muttered to himself, stepping out of the bathroom. Steam rolled in from under the door, and his damp hair dripped water down his neck, lightly soaking the back of his shirt. He shook his hair out again, balling up his towel and tossing it into his duffel bag. He had half-expected the Monkey King to be staring at him – because that was all he had seemed to do throughout the whole day – but Atobe hadn't looked up when he'd come out of the bathroom.

He seemed to be absorbed in something. His laptop rested on his lap, and his head was bent over a manila folder.

"It's a tennis camp," Ryoma said. "Che. Laptops shouldn't even be allowed."

Atobe didn't say anything. He just squinted at the screen, before noting something down.

"What are you doing?" Ryoma asked.

Once again, he received no reply.

Tired of being ignored, Ryoma went over to the bedside, wondering what Atobe found so interesting anyway. He popped his head toward the laptop screen. Ryoma's expression froze when he realized what Atobe was reading.

"What are you doing?" He said angrily.

Atobe slammed his laptop with surprising force. "Were you eavesdropping?"

"I just wanted to see," Ryoma said. "Why the fuck were you searching that up?"

Atobe kept an iron grip on his laptop. "It's none of your business."

"It isn't? You were looking at legal rights and shit. About sex slavery. Tell me again it isn't my business."

Atobe just shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

He wouldn't? "Try me," Ryoma said. He tried to keep his anger coated with coolness, because he couldn't explode. Not again. It was happening too much lately for his liking, and he wanted to come back into grips with his personality.

Atobe chewed on his lower lip, as if contemplating the decision. Finally, he heaved a huge sigh. "You're going to be mad if I tell you."

"I'm mad anyway," Ryoma said.

Atobe snorted, but amended. "I'm making a case."

"Is this a homework assignment?" Ryoma said suspiciously.

"No." Atobe's eyes were light. He sighed. "I don't want Kon Nikolaj to coach our tennis team, but there isn't a way for me to stop him. Unless, of course, I can provide legal proof that he… well, he did what he did. So I was making a case. So I can get him in jail, or at least ensure that he won't be coaching the Hyotei tennis team."

Ryoma's stomach curled with dread. "That's not going to happen. He knows how to stay out of prison, Atobe."

"Not if the lawyer going up against him is hired from my father. He won't buckle under any sort of bribe."

Ryoma shook his head slowly. "You can't make a case. You don't even know anything about what happened." Ryoma swallowed. "And when there's a court trial, there are two sides. Who is Kon Nikolaj going to fight? You?"

Atobe bit his lip. "That's just it."

"What?"

Atobe wouldn't look him in the eye, and a bad feeling spread over Ryoma.

"No." Ryoma shook his head rapidly. "No way."

"You wouldn't have to do anything. The lawyer would gather the arguments. The lawyer would fight. You'd just have to answer a few question-"

"No!" Ryoma backed up against the wall, shaking his head harder, eyes wide. "I don't want to do it. It's over."

Atobe growled deep in his throat, frustration clouding his blue eyes. He slipped off the bed, and walked over to Ryoma, who only pressed himself further against the wall. "If you can win the court trial, he's in jail. His life is done. He won't bother you again." He stepped closer. "And most importantly, he won't be able to coach my tennis team."

"I don't care." Ryoma was not going to go through this again. Answering questions about what had happened in the original court case had been the hardest thing in the world, and the thought of repeating the process made him sick to his stomach. "I'm not doing it."

"Echizen-" Atobe was so close to him. Ryoma didn't know how he'd gotten so close. He was pressed up against the wall, Atobe's face inches from his own.

"No," Ryoma said. "I'm not doing it."

"You have to," Atobe said. His breath was warm, and smelled like peppermint gum. "I'm not risking Hyotei."

"That's all that matters, right? Poor Hyotei."

Atobe ran a frustrated hand through his hair, before planting it on the wall above Ryoma's head. Ryoma swallowed, because he had no idea how they had gotten in this rather compromising position. Still, Ryoma was too pissed to care about how good Atobe looked up close, and he definitely didn't care about how his scent of lavender shampoo was making his stomach go warm with butterflies.

"It's not just about Hyotei. Don't you want him to go to jail?" Atobe said, pleading in his voice.

"I don't want to go through that again."

"But it could end everything. You can't just keeping running away from him for the rest of your life."

Atobe had a point. But Ryoma didn't want to. He really didn't want to.

"It's one trial. It's a few questions." Atobe's voice had softened to a low hum. "I promise we'll win."

The promise sent unwanted hope through Ryoma. He didn't want to keep Kon around. Of course he didn't. But it had been hard enough when the court had decided that Kon was free to go in the last trial. He wasn't sure if he could hear another judge take Kon's side over his own. It hurt to know that people didn't believe what had happened to him had actually happened.

But here Atobe was, promising they would win. Promising that Kon would go to jail and everything would be over.

And for Ryoma, that was a dream he hadn't let himself want in a long time.

"Okay," Ryoma finally said. "Okay."

He was trembling with the weight of the word, but there was hope. There was hope that one day he would be able to live without looking over his shoulder, live without nightmares clogging his mind, live without touch sending his mind into overdrive, and live in a world where he finally felt safe.

That hope was worth it.

"Okay," Ryoma said again. He slipped under Atobe's arms, heading for the bedside. "Let's do it."