Cerebello Nervosa

Standard Disclaimers Apply.

A/N from hyperdude: Thanks again for your feedback! Apparently, Inui keeps data to beat Tezuka in canon. Sorry, we didn't know that. Then again, it is FANfiction (gotta love that super-convenient excuse).

A/N from Apple Snapple: I'd like to thank all of the readers out there who've given us awesome reviews/criticism. XD

We hope you guys enjoy chapter 5!!

He stood in front of the mirror, and tried to smile.

Kikumaru-senpai had a nice smile, he thought as he stubbornly tried to move the mouth muscles that simply wouldn't work for him. It was cute, he supposed, and comforting. If one was more poetic, one might say that it was the kind that brightened someone's day. Fuji senpai's smiles were nice too, especially the real ones. Otherwise, sometimes seeing a smiling face every day was just a nice thing to see, sort of like hot chocolate on a cold winter's night, or a nice day in the summer not made of scorching heat and heat waves rising off the asphalt.

Momo-senpai had the kind of smile that wanted to be everybody's friend, Inui had the diabolical one, and Kawamura just had the all-around good guy smile. Kaidoh's was soft and gentle, oddly suited to him though his personality was harsh and coarse. Buchou had a smile too, but it was always tiny, and it was usually one of satisfaction at having a job well done. Oishi-senpai's was warm and caring, suiting his persona as Seigaku's 'Mama.'

What sort of smile did he have?

Sunken cheeks, black circles under the eyes, limp black hair and pale, sickly skin. And he smiled at himself, the joker, the jester, the fool.

So bittersweet it was. He was burning all his bridges and sinking all his ships, blocking all his escape routes and caging himself in a never-ending labyrinth and he couldn't stop himself.

Tired. Exhausted. Lethargic. Languid. Phlegmatic.

He buried himself in the steam of hot water, told himself it was okay, told himself that this was fine, this was good, and it didn't matter that he was taking a shower at three in the morning with still some homework left to do, and that he needed to get to school at seven.

It didn't matter that he had to wake up so early, it didn't matter that he probably wouldn't be able to finish his homework today, and it didn't matter that he hadn't been able to smile for at least eight years.

None of it mattered.

--cerebello--

Tennis practice seemed to be a bit strained lately, although Echizen paid no attention to the differences in the courts. Most of the regulars were now a bit tense, but the first year and second years didn't notice any changes. They were the same old lot; annoying, loud, eager to show off their mediocre skills.

Echizen hated it. He hated their stupidity, hated how irritating they were. He wondered why they could smile so freely, why they were so happy in such a maddening world filled with despair. Nothing was good about being in this world, things were too monotonous, it was too easy to fall into oblivion.

He was already long gone, weeks ago. He just wanted that heady rush, that glorious happiness lifting him up just one more time in a tidal wave before he crashed back down, reality firmly clonking him in the back of his head and taking away everything he had. He hated how everyone could get that happiness so easily. Why couldn't he be happy too? Why couldn't he have friends, the real kind? Why couldn't he have a life, without tennis, just a normal twelve year old kid?

They didn't understand, and they didn't try to understand. There had been so many times, when he'd been so exhausted, so tired. So many times he just wanted to give up and cry and scream and pound at the walls that held him in and bleed himself out. He'd thought of suicide, of red-colored pills, blood-stained knives, hospital beds and funeral coffins. He'd thought of those ropes, those wheat-colored ropes that looked so harmless when in reality they hurt if one so much as touched them.

He didn't have the strength to do it. There had been so many open wounds and there were a multitude of times where there had been open-ended questions, unanswered actions, but no one ever said a word to him, even though he could see the question in everybody's eyes.

He wasn't strong enough. He needed them to ask for him; there wasn't any other way.

He couldn't drag himself out anymore, and he hated them all the more for pushing it all aside, forgetting it. It felt like betrayal, even though the practical side of his brain told them that his senpai couldn't fix something they didn't know was broken. He didn't want to stay in that dark place where nobody wanted him, and he didn't want to die. He wanted to scream at them to look at him, to take a really good look.

He couldn't do this on his own.

Ask. Ask. Ask what's wrong with me. Help me. Help me. Please?

Don't brush this aside. Where are your senpai when you need them? Where is the help you promised me? Aren't you always supposed to stand by me?

Bitter; they've all left you because you drove them away.

No one is going to come help you now.

And he can't do anything but lock himself up in the shrine at midnight, curled around his pillow, screaming, screaming, screaming, and he just wanted to go to sleep, and why wasn't anyone helping him?

--cerebello--

Echizen was slow in tennis that day. Last in laps, but Inui went easy and gave the Inui Juice to someone else, and his sleep-weary, tennis-sick eyes slid over the worried looks of his senpai, while his right hand massaged sore arm muscles from two in the morning. He was slow to react, and Momo actually won that day, a sure indication that something was wrong.

Still nobody asked.

When they changed in the locker room, no one asked Echizen how he had lost that weight, no one asked why his skin was translucent, no one asked why he hadn't spoken a single word during practice, and even though his senpai sent him worried looks, no one said a thing to him. Echizen trudged out the clubroom with dragging toes, and as he made his way back home, he felt his eyes burn.

Karupin twined around his legs as he walked to his room, not really conscious as he reached for the tennis racket propped up on the side of his bed. In sudden realization, he jerked his hand away, clutched it to his chest in a sort of horrified epiphany, backed away and ran to the bathroom. The door slammed loudly behind it as he propped himself up over the sink, breathing heavily. His hands shook, shocks traveling up his arms, making him weak.

Help me.

He choked on the unnamed sludge that came up to his throat, something thick, and pasty; the tears washed down his face as he realized what he had turned himself into while the bottle containing his mother's sleeping pills winked at him merrily from the half open cabinet-mirror. He only sobbed harder because he knew he couldn't do it. There wasn't anything he could do, because he couldn't let go of that feeling of happiness, couldn't forget his father's proud face as he beat down Yukimura at Nationals, couldn't forget the hugs he'd gotten and the cheers and that damned trophy, and he couldn't forget stupid, fucking tennis.

And just like that, Ryoma knew what to do.

--cerebello--

Tezuka Kunimitsu-senpai:

I regret to inform you that I can no longer uphold my position in the tennis club. My resignation form is enclosed.

Thank you.

--E.R.