Hey. I decided to finish this chapter even though it was little hard for me. Just feelings wise. Not easy to write child abuse. Anyways, this is officially a MomoRyo story. We'll meet people next chapter.

Warnings: Child abuse.

Ryoma was running late.

He had to be home at 4:00 on the dot. School ended at 3:30. It took twenty minutes, sometimes fifteen, to get home. He was always early. Always.

But his teacher had held him back to talk to him about his assignments. "You could do so much better." His teacher has said. And he could. But it wasn't like it mattered. He had four years to do this, to turn in homework, give presentations, take exams. He had four years. Even then, it still wouldn't matter. He wasn't allowed to leave.

You should probably hurry it up.

He glanced at his wrist then realized he didn't have his watch. Ugh. He really hated Mondays. The slaps of his shoes against the pavement was an interesting contrast to the rough beats of his heart. Nervous. Scared. He couldn't be late.

Then he heard, from somewhere behind him as he hit half way home, "Echizen, Ryoma."

Just keep going.

Ryoma stopped and took in pale skin and feminine features quickly before he shook his head. "Look, whatever you want I don't have time for it."

"I know." The boy said smoothly. Despite the fact that his eyes were closed Ryoma felt like he was being studied. "Say you'll come to tennis practice tomorrow."

Ryoma.

God, he hated tennis. Hated it. There were reasons, sure, but that was the bottom line. He could hardly remember the passion he'd felt for it two years ago. "I can't-"

He cut himself off because he really didn't have time for this. "Fine. But don't expect me to play."

Before he took off he heard the boy say, "I don't expect that at all."

He swung into the kitchen. His mother was looking up at the clock. Her eyes didn't meet his when she said, "Go to your room."

Ryoma snuck a glance. 4:10. He swallowed. "Mom."

"Ryoma."

She knew he hadn't been pleading. Complaining. Trying for anything. He had just needed the safety of her name on his tongue. The acknowledgement that even though she couldn't keep him safe, she was the one person who wanted to. But sometimes, God, he hated her for her weakness. He went upstairs.

He hadn't been late since seventh grade but he knew the process. You had to wait for the amount of time you'd been over. So he had ten minutes. He stared around his room. So clean, polished, blank. That was his life. Nothing, no one, could break through to this world. It wasn't allowed. He waited.

His father's footstep were resonant. They made him flinch but he steeled himself. Pain was important. It made you stronger. That was what his father had said whenever he led unto to how he was feeling. Ryoma's gaze found the floor when his father strode in.

The bed creaked and then eyes almost the same color of his were on him and they were disappointed. He was a disappointment. "So where were you, kid?"

"The teacher wanted to see me after."

"For forty minutes?" Amused. He sounded amused.

Ryoma shook his head. He had to tell the truth. Even the smallest things were things he could use. "No, sir. Some guy came up to me and started talking about joining a club."

"Really? And you spoke to him when you knew you needed to be home?"

"Yes, sir."

His father sighed. "Well, you're going to have to be punished. Take your shirt off and lie down on your stomach."

He was relieved. It could have been worse. There were knives, scissors, lighters, pieces of glass that his father kept in his drawer like they were something precious. Like they were his children. Ryoma pulled off his shirt and lay down on the top of his bed. He wanted to close eyes but he wasn't a kid. He didn't believe that shutting out reality would make it less real anymore.

The metal sound of a belt filtered through and he could feel the coldness of it against his skin. Then there was sharp rap on his lower back and he took a deep breath. Depending on how many he was going to get he was going to be sore in the morning.

After the second tap, he thought of things. Stupid things. The way his mother had always favorited Ryoga so plainly but never failed in telling him how much she loved him.

On the fourth one he winced but thought about summer and how he could watch kid's playing in the streets, pretend to be living their lives.

The seventh hit, Ryoma felt his skin tear. There was something pressing against his eyes but he wasn't going to cry, no. He thought of the way his brother used to smile at him even though everyday their were new marks, new scars. Not just on the skin.

He knew the tenth was going to be the last because it was the hardest. A tear leaked out at the deep pain. It slid unto his tongue just as heard his father leave. He closed his eyes because everything hurt too much.

Ryoma.

No. He wasn't going to- he didn't need any help. Fine. He was fine.

You should get some ice. It won't hurt as much tomorrow.

And he couldn't let anyone see. But he couldn't move either. He was tired. Really, really tired. His eyes drifted close. Maybe he'd dream.

Ryoma-

But he was already sliding into sleep.

Ugh. Rinko.