When you live in the same place for a long time you get tunnel vision. You might think you're getting the full picture but in reality, the sides are blurry, the details scratched out. The main picture, sure, it's there; but each scuff, each and every nick on the pavement, the taste of the wind, the scent of the hydrangeas by the verandah? Nothing. There's absolutely nothing.

XXX

His desk lamp flickers once, twice, thrice—then stops, submerging the room in pretentious darkness.

The clock reads 3:45 AM.

"U-Ugh . . ." Kuroko moans, hand flailing pathetically in the dark before it flops to the desk, dead. Drool pools on his psychology book (ironically opened up to the consequences of sleep deprivation) and half-lidded blue eyes read the words with increasing difficulty.

"Insomnia . . . bad . . . narcolepsy . . . sounds nice . . ."

From beyond the other edge of the room, his roommate snores, shaking the entire room as though two hands sprouted from his throat and started pushing against the walls. Kagami Taiga, his roommate, was a weird guy; he slept, ate, and practically breathed basketball, when he wasn't running away from Kuroko's pet Alaskan malamute or fighting with their next door neighbor Aomine.

He also, as it turned out, snored like a banshee; to the point where Kuroko couldn't get any sleep unless he went down the hall to his friend Kise's room, and even then he was lucky to catch even an hour of shut-eye. Mix that with his difficult classes (why, just why did he decide to take Calculus 3 and Ancient French Literature), basketball, eating, and studying, and he had an hour—no, no, more like a half-hour for sleep every night. Sometimes he didn't sleep at all. Or sometimes he fell asleep and woke up continuously throughout the night, screaming about giant textbooks floating behind him, baring sharp teeth as they threatened to eat him . . .

Suddenly, his alarm goes off, shattering the peaceful illusion of sleep he was trying so desperately to attain. He bangs his head against the desk once, twice, one more time—and turns his alarm off, debating on whether to throw the disgusting piece of machinery against the wall and destroy it for good.

"Damn . . ." he mutters, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Time to get up."

Every morning at four o'clock, he somehow shakes the lingering dredges of sleep from his person, ties on jogging shoes, and runs around the school, before practicing in the gym until seven, where he comes back, takes a shower, and goes to class. Then he sits through four painful hours of lessons, takes a half hour for lunch, then finishes the day off with calculus—before he heads to the gym and practices until he's sure his feet will fall off, and sweat coats the linoleum. Then its home—a dorm, actually—where he stays up till ungodly hours in the morning, attempting to complete his never-ending pile of work . . .

When his tennis shoes are good and secure, he slaps his face a few times, hoping the extra contact is enough to wake him up. It doesn't really help, but it makes him feel like he's doing something, so he doesn't really question it.

Long dark pants cover his pale legs and he slips a sweatshirt over his head. It's getting colder, winter approaching like an old haggard woman, and every morning becomes an even more intense struggle to leave the warmth of his bed—desk. But it doesn't bother him, not fully, partly because he knows he's doing this all for basketball. But some mornings, like this one . . .

The air nips at him, causing gooseflesh to form on his upper brow. He shivers a little, but steps out anyway, submerged in the night's dark embrace. Music blasts in his ears, some album Kagami forced on him by Granrodeo, and he admits that it's not bad, if not particularly good. The beat's fanatic, though, and fast-paced, and sets his blood rushing in the early morning.

For a while, he thinks of nothing, just the steady tap-tap-tap of his feet colliding with the concrete. He turns past the chemistry building, no doubt locked so early in the morning; the library, where the desks lining the windows glow under eerie candescence, some students resting their heads atop piles of books; past one of the few commons on campus, the one that sells the freshly baked cookies, where the first batch of cooks stumble in for the morning meal; and, finally, past the Eastern Dorms, where most of the university's freshmen live.

Though it's dark and barren (save for a few stragglers either running or returning) he finds a weird sense of solace here, most likely because at this moment, nobody's pressuring him to be anybody he's not. Here he's just another nameless face in the crowd, a nobody—completely and utterly invisible.

Just like high school, he thinks, and then frowns at his own sardonic thought. Yep, just like high school; for a whole three years, he was invisible to everyone—his teachers, his classmates, and his teammates. He didn't have many friends save for Ogiwara, whom he hadn't spoken to since the beginning of summer. As for everyone else . . .

But it's not all bad, he thinks, trying desperately to prove that pathetic voice wrong. He turns left a stop sign. Could be worse. Here I made some friends. Like Kagami-kun. Or Aomine-kun, and Kise-kun . . . or Murasakibara-kun from art history . . . and I guess Momoi-chan, though she doesn't think of me that way. He chuckles. So it's not entirely bad . . .

In the middle of the eastern dorms lies a fountain of a quasi-naked mermaid, swimming through bubbles like Ariel in The Little Mermaid. For a school so proud of its architecture program, it sure is a weird piece, completely out of place between the the clusters of red-brick buildings. But Kuroko always found a sort of eclectic beauty on campus, and this statue was no different. In times of inner turmoil, he came here, sat down, and just . . . breathed.

As he slowed his pace to a brisk walk, he realized he wasn't alone; at the edge of the fountain sat a young male, probably no older than himself, with shocking red hair. He didn't seem to notice Kuroko, but Kuroko was used to that, and took no offense. However, something seemed . . . off with the male—a weird aura, or . . . or something—so Kuroko sat away—as far away as he could without being too conspicuous.

The night was quiet, save for the rushing water of the fountain behind him. His own breathing echoed loudly in his ears, and it took a moment for his hammering heart to calm to a more manageable level. When he was sure he could continue, he turned his music back on and went on his way, like an ephemeral beauty in the night.

Little did he know that two carmine eyes were watching his every step until he disappeared from sight.

X

Whoever invented morning classes was the foulest scum of the earth, Kuroko decided, after a surprise quiz in both Psychology and Chemistry. Not to mention a lab due by noon today, which he hadn't known about, and his calculus homework due by three. Oh, and an exam in art history tomorrow too, to add insult to injury.

Shaking his head, he adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, taking another sip of bitter, burning coffee. He couldn't stand the stuff, honestly; he'd rather a vanilla milkshake any day, but the burn helped him focus after so many nights without sleep that's he's become unable to live without it. Smacking his lips together, he finishes the last bit of coffee before he throws away the cup, never breaking this impossible stride.

Lunchtime comes and goes, in a blur of people and colors, and Kuroko chugged his energy drink along with a limp salad drowned in Italian dressing. It was a disgusting meal, nothing like the yakitori his mother makes, but he wolfs it down, and even debates on getting seconds, only pausing as he passes a window, and takes a long look at himself.

Wait . . . did his stomach look . . . bigger?

Turning this way and that, he decided that yes, his stomach did indeed look bigger—and not in a good way. He usually wasn't one for such vain ideas, but here, at college, when he barely had time to sleep or eat or think, let alone somehow manage a 4.0 by the end of the semester, gaining weight was just another item on his list of shit. Did God have no pity? Did he not care?

Glancing around quickly, he slowly ducked down, pretending as though he dropped something—he doubted anyone would notice him anyway, but one could never be too certain, especially in a place so dominated by one's peers.

Ah. So not only did he gain weight, his skin was also pale—paler than it'd ever been—with small, microscopic bumps forming along his jaw. He gaped, and pushed at one, cringing at the unfamiliar pain—a pimple. For skin that had never broken out before, and for a body that remained lithe even when indulging in at least two milkshakes a day, his sudden departure from the norm left him dizzy.

Why couldn't things go right? Why, exactly, was he here again?

Oh, that's right; to get a college education. And fall into student debt and rip your hair out because finals and just cry and . . . He remembered reading something, back when he had free time, about how students went to school to be an unemployed college graduate, not an unemployed college dropout. At the time, he'd thought the quote funny, ironic even; but now it just made him tired, realizing how much changed between this him and that. No, he wanted to be neither; he simply wanted to somehow make a good living without feeling like he was on the verge of death in the process.

Sighing, he went to stand up, but cringed as pain shot through his legs. Great. They'd fallen asleep, and here he was, just sitting on the cafeteria's floor.

Fucking perfect.

"Of course . . ." he mutters, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. "Of course this would happen today, of all days . . ."

"Hey—are you . . . alright?"

Quickly Kuroko rubs his face, disposing of any and all traces of tears, and glanced up, regarding the person curiously. He was a short (though still taller than Kuroko, much to his chagrin) guy with hair the color of volcanic fire. His eyes, an equally shocking carmine, looked down at him not with concern, but with pity, scorn even—as though Kuroko was just a bug crawling across the floor, blocking his way in the way bugs know how.

"I'm fine . . ." Somehow, he thought staring the stranger straight in the eye would be bad, so he stared at a spot on the floor right between his hands. "Sorry for being in the way."

The guy doesn't say anything, but he doesn't go to move either; it's almost like he's waiting for Kuroko to do something . . . but what, Kuroko's not sure. Thinking that maybe the guy's just too proud to go around him, he grabs his backpack and stands up, being careful not to bump into the stranger. With his head bowed low, he mutters a quick sorry and makes his way towards the exit.

"Wait."

A simple, single word—and yet it was said with such ferocity, in such a domineering way, that Kuroko's body zinged to a standstill, almost acting of its own accord. He turns back around, and though he doesn't say anything, his eyes express his feelings clearly.

Confusion.

"I'm sorry . . . ?" There wasn't anything he could say here, in this situation—especially when faced with a terrifying red visage such as this man. Seeing how he wasn't going to budge, Kuroko asks, "Can I help you with something?"

"You're Kuroko Tetsuya?"

A little irked the guy ignored his question in lieu of one of his own, Kuroko breathed deeply, trying to control himself. "Answer my question—wait. How do you know my name?"

The guy just stares at him, completely silent.

Suddenly, it's all just too much; the stress, the weight, the pain, and now this guy? Did God really have it out for him?

He knew it was rude to take out his frustrations on this guy, but he just couldn't help it. "Look I don't know who you are, but I have a class to get to. So, if you wouldn't mind—"

"You play on Teikou's basketball team, right?"

Dumbfounded by the strange shift in conversation, Kuroko gapes. "Yes uh—yeah. I'm . . . well . . . yeah." He didn't want to say the secret threat that resided in his heart—the one where he acknowledged he wasn't very good at basketball, and that all his training might be for naught. Nor did he want to admit to a complete stranger that he—the one who'd been playing since elementary school—was on the third string, while Kagami, Aomine, and Kise shone on the first after only having started sometime in high school.

"I thought so," the redhead said, more to himself. "I've seen you around before. You have a very unique style of playing."

Oh.

Oh.

Kuroko's lower lip quivered, but he kept his emotions in check, being very careful to keep his voice as monotonous as possible. "Is that so? That's the first time someone's said that to me."

Back in high school, during his years as the unnoticeable shadow on the Seirin basketball team, people had made fun of him—bullied him, in fact, or at least according to Ogiwara.

He specifically remembered one time—he didn't know what year it was—when a third year girl came up to him and said his style was so unique. He'd taken it as a compliment, smiled even, acting as though the girl was a goddess incarnate, his own guardian angel. They'd started talking, and hanging out together—then one day, she invited him to the park. He didn't think anything of it—instead got incredibly that maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to get a good friend, one that wouldn't hate him or ignore him or ridicule him. He thought all these things, and yet . . .

When he'd arrived at the park, it was empty. Thinking that maybe she was running a little late, he waited—and waited—and waited—and waited until the sun peaked just over the trees, signaling the coming of night. And still he waited, even after sunset, even when the small voice in the back of his head said she probably wasn't coming.

And it was during this waiting that he met Haizaki Shougo.

Known as a delinquent throughout the school, Haizaki was a bully, through and through, one of the worst people you could ever meet on a cold, lonely night. So many rumors surrounded him, and not all of them were false—he beat up his grandmother when she refused to give him more money; he sold his little sister for drugs; he fought and fucked with guys, and not necessarily in that order; and he hated useless people, especially those who tried their best but never succeeded.

Kuroko was one such person, and Haizaki hated him for it. But it never went beyond a little name-calling, a couple punches after school—in fact, in some weird, masochistic way, Kuroko was almost glad someone was noticing him, finally, even if it was for the completely wrong reasons. And after a while, he'd gotten used to it, to the point where Haizaki and his cronies moved on to more reactive, fresh meat.

Well, until that night.

His shadow had towered over Kuroko, blocking out the pathetic illumination offered by the moon, and his grin was shit-eating. He cooed at Kuroko, mocking him; saying how sad that his little girlfriend didn't show, but then again, why would she? The more he talked, the more it seemed like he did something to her, and for that Kuroko felt an anger he never felt erupt in his chest.

Taking one glance up at Haizaki, he growled, "If you did anything to her . . ."

And that defiance, even such a small defiance, warranted not only a few punches, but a few kicks and elbows as well. He couldn't remember after a while, how long the body—no, bodies for there'd been more than one—beat into him, crushing every breath with a kick, punctuating every grunt of pain with laughter. He could barely block his face, pain exploding on his forearms; and even that small comfort was ripped away by one of them, holding his arms down while the others got his feet. He struggled, then, fear finally setting in; this was new. The beatings he could take; the ridicule, too. But this . . . ? What was Haizaki planning?

He shivered as Haizaki's breath danced in his ear, and his hand fondled his chest. "Bet you this feels good, huh, ya damn queer?"

Kuroko shook his head, letting out a pathetic whimper as a nipple was played with, and his chest was explored by a cold hand. Haizaki smirked, licking his neck, and Kuroko froze, aware of what was going to happen—or what was happening, as the horror sunk in, and he realized he was slowly, painfully, growing hard. Nobody had ever touched him like this before . . .

"I would think so," the man replied, rather haughtily. "It's . . . well, unique is the only good word for it. Seeing Kuroko's troubled face, his brow furrowed. "What's wrong? You don't look happy."

"Ah." Snapped out of his reverie, Kuroko backs up, only to stop when his body hit the wall behind him. Glancing back, he sees everything—the bags under his eyes, the deadness in them; the pimples on his chin and the stark white contrast of his skin—and he can't deal with it anymore. He can't take it.

Without even a glance in the other guy's direction, he just tucks his chin and runs.

And the guy keeps watching him, a smirk playing on his lips.

XXX

Author's notes:

Did I use my own college experiences to write this section?

Yes, yes I did.

And also a shout-out to all of you still reading this and still faving or reviewing or following. You guys are the world and I'm sorry the updates have been so sporadic. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter and can't wait to see you next time!