AN: This is a completely an alternate universe. And this is my second time writing a Prince of Tennis fanfic, the first in another account that shall remain nameless for the time-being. Anyways, I don't know if I wanted this to be yaoi, some part of me is alright but a bigger part is telling me that it will not sit well with my plot and story. This is a completely different Echizen Ryoma.

O.o.O

Chapter One

When he entered the premises of the school, he frowned as he continued to stroll by. The atmosphere was so. . .serene and it obviously grated on his already frayed nerves. The small lush gardens and shrubbery, and the green ambiance of the trees really gave the school a peaceful setting. But it still nagged at his mind as his fingers twitched ever so slightly and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from growling out loud.

There were chatters everywhere but they were muffled, as if the student body minded their words or manners. There were the occasional shouts and yelps, and even frustrated screams but even that was quickly silenced as if an unspoken regulation. The crisp environment was trifling but he forced himself not to be affected as he focused on his steps.

Left foot forward, right foot forward.

Outwardly, his gait was calm and exuded a little bit of disinterest. He didn't want everyone knowing that simply stepping foot in this institution was frankly distressing him. Or any schools in Japan right now, really. He knew that it could be mistaken for arrogance or idiotic overconfidence but people had the tendency to ignore someone they thought so low of, gradual disapproval that would lead to completely overlooking his presence. Though, it was also said that it could backfire and drain his social standing below negative levels–that might lead to general population malice against him and even worse, bullying.

He only just wanted to be able to go through his middle school years and survive without calling attention to himself. That wasn't such a hard thing, right? It would be much easier if he could ignore the tennis bags of other students–evidently a tennis club member–or the green balls being passed around or played with even at the corridors. He clenched his hands to stop them from trembling as he closed his eyes, he really needed to stop thinking about it.

It wouldn't do to escape just so he could fall back again.

With that thought in mind, he resolutely searched for his name in the notice board to find his class and homeroom. As he saw his name, under the 1-A class, he thought about how he was going to fair in this place. For some reason, his mother had chosen to place him here in Rikkai Daigaku Fuzoku. She had been rather adamant about it and had refused other schools in place of this–even if seeking out a house in the Kanagawa prefecture seemed almost impossible in the beginning until she got the large two-story house with a twenty-minute train ride away from Rikkaidai. He wouldn't have minded–well, he still would–if she gave him a valid reason.

The other thing that he minded was that, this school was supposed to be known for having the best tennis team who had won the National Tournament for the last two consecutive years. Just what the hell had she been thinking?

He had just barely quitted tennis five months ago. He was just starting to recover and she put him here? But even with other schools, it would have been a problem since only rare–if none–didn't house a tennis club of some sort. And he kind of wished that his cousin Nanako was younger so she could be his classmate, someone who could draw a line for him. He could do that himself but sometimes, even he wasn't sure about his actions anymore. How could he trust his own self when even his mother couldn't?

This was that man's fault–the reason he grew up to be this way, that he was this way.

As he reached that line of thought, he scowled. Even if he wasn't playing the sport anymore it still lingered within the recesses of his consciousness like some leech or bacteria. He couldn't fall back, not when he had gotten this far. Even if he would love to grab a racket and play like there was no tomorrow– he shuddered and closed his eyes. It was good during the beginning until he totally understood what he had been doing to himself.

I couldn't stop. . .

His shoulders tensed and he urged his feet to move. He forcibly took a deep breath to slow down his erratic breathing, he hadn't even notice that he was almost hyperventilating. He balled his fists in an attempt to stop his hands from shaking.

Hazel eyes glared ahead determinedly. He would get through this. If not for his mother, then god forbid, for his sanity.

He really needed it.

O.o.O

Hozomi-sensei had been the only one who had brought attention to him by praising his fluent grasp of English.

The others were polite but focused on their lessons. He even stayed awake the whole sessions just not to be put on any type of spotlight, whether good or bad. English had been bad enough since it appeared to have appealed to the girls who were now eyeing him curiously and maybe with a little bit of admiration. It should have been obvious that he would be adequate in the language since he grew up in America where it was common language. Yet, the female part of his class treated it as if it was some incredible talent–he really didn't want to know.

He hadn't tried to make conversations or acquaintances. What would be the use? All the things his classmates could talk about were some of the most inane things he basically paid no heed at all. And it made discussions rather awkward when he knew that he was an extremely socially-challenged individual. His fingers twitched at the thought as it brought back uncomfortable thoughts he'd rather forget about. Green, green, lob, smash–

Just as always, he forced himself to think of other things that would take his mind off that tangent–like, like. . .his annoying classmates. Hadn't been that the subject he had been mentally grouching and lamenting about?

He released a shaky sigh.

Good, it was good.

That thought was safe.

It wasn't until lunch time–as he ignored the imploring glances of his female classmates–that he understood why his mother had been so adamant about him attending Rikkaidai.

The door to their classroom burst open with a bang that made most of the people in the room jump in unexpected surprise. Ryoma looked up from the bento that Nanako had so thoughtfully prepared when he saw the person he least expected to see, let alone wanted to see. He didn't have to see himself to know that he had paled–feeling the cold rush of blood draining down his face in rapid success as wary hazel eyes met determined green ones.

"Oi, Echizen! Long time no see!" The person greeted with a wide grin, as if they just haven't seen each other those six months ago.

Though, for a person like Ryoma, time had been too short. He felt as if the days, weeks, months that had passed weren't enough. It wasn't long enough even after his mother pretended that everything was fine, he just knew that it wasn't. It wasn't long enough, since, he could still feel that same adrenaline pumping in his veins and it was like nothing had ever changed. Sure, he had more control of himself but he knew that it was just barely, for how long, he had no idea.

"Seaweed-head." He nodded to the now scowling individual.

"What have I told you about calling me that?" The person demanded petulantly, almost whining. Then as if he realized what Ryoma had been doing, his eyes narrowed as he pointed an accusing finger at the dark haired boy. "You, chibi! You weren't even going to tell me, were you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Kirihara." He stated flatly as he forced himself not to react outwardly, he suddenly understood that his mother had been this desperate.

Kirihara Akaya crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

"You arrived in Japan two months ago without telling me!" He complained with a growl. "If it wasn't for Rinko-san calling and telling us last night, I wouldn't even know!"

"Does it matter?" Ryoma questioned back snidely with a large hint of disinterest and desire to end the conversation that was quickly growing uncomfortable for him.

"Of course, it does!" A tick had developed at Kirihara's brow.

"Che," He smirked at the boy almost mockingly. "Mada mada, seaweed-head." Ryoma uttered a little derisively, hoping to provoke the other boy into leaving him the hell alone. In fact, his mother could join him. He didn't have the heart to be truly angry but there was still that simmering emotion of coldness–it bubbled sporadically every time he was reminded that even his mother didn't trust him anymore. But upon remembering why, she had the right and it still frustrated him.

How pathetic of him, even as sad as it was to admit.

But it seemed that Kirihara knew him better than he noticed–and simply grabbed a nearby chair and plopped down onto it across from Ryoma. A frown marred the older boy's face and his eyes were searching his face.

"You're doing better," He stated bluntly and a little softly, as if words just passed between two close friends–were they?–as he grinned almost conspiratorially. "And it's Kirihara-senpai to you now, chibi." It was added as an afterthought with an undertone of smugness.

Despite himself, Ryoma twitched at the nickname.

"I am," He responded quietly with a resolute glare. "And seaweed-senpai is as far as you can get or you can just make do with Kirihara." He then inserted as seriously as he could with a straight face.

Kirihara actually laughed at that.

"You really are doing better," He taunted with a hint of relief that made Ryoma wonder when the older boy started doubting him too, like everyone else did nowadays. "And Kirihara's just fine, I already had enough of Niou-senpai making fun of my hair." He whined as he grabbed a dark lock from his head as if to prove a point.

"Whatever," Ryoma grunted as he continued eating his lunch, suddenly hyperaware of the excited whispers and chatters that pointed towards him and Kirihara. His eyebrow twitched as the older boy grabbed a rice ball from his bento without asking for permission in the first place–even if he did, Ryoma wouldn't bother to share anyway.

He tried to act as though the other wasn't there.

It didn't work so well when he could feel those green eyes assessing him, reading him. He had met Kirihara Akaya almost two years ago. By then, the Kirihara family were just a visiting family in New York–a time when he had still been at his very worst. Kirihara was a childish and arrogant boy, something that hadn't really endeared him to Ryoma at all. And Ryoma's condition had still been at its peak, like a very distant nightmare. Back then, his parents still couldn't tell what was wrong with him–he had given all the signs, goddamnit–and had been submerged into their own ambitions to really understand. They had been worried, sure, and had even cried in frustration at times.

But it had been the stupid, childish older boy that he had so easily dismissed that figured it out in the end. Even though it happened to be by chance.

Akaya, being himself, had been too conceited and overconfident–and challenged Ryoma to a tennis match. Ryoma had underestimated the boy at first until he took him seriously when it was obvious that, at least, Akaya had the necessary skills to back up his words. Just not enough. Ryoma won, even crushed him with the ruthlessness he could only give through tennis, of course, where else? The kid had stalked him after that match, even at the face of his cold dismissal.

And someone finally noticed, but by then, Ryoma hadn't been sure anymore if it really mattered.

"What the hell? Is tennis all you ever do?"

The question had been sarcastically asked with obliviousness.

And Ryoma had answered it with the icy bluntness that he was known for.

"Yes."

His grip on his chopsticks visibly tightened as his mind reminisced on that frightening period of his life. Sometimes, it felt like he hadn't been doing better at all and sometimes, it appeared like he only got worse by pretending that he was improving. Because everywhere he looked, he seemed to be always reliving those moments. Always.

"Echizen," Kirihara snapped at him suddenly, his eyes narrowed indifferently. "It's over." The statement was uttered as if an absentminded reminder.

Hazel eyes stared at the older boy–and for once, he was able to ignore that urge.

And then, the world blurred as he gave a small tight smile.

"It is," His own words rang hollowly in his ears and Ryoma desperately hoped that he could believe them. That it was all over and would never surface again, that it had been a nightmare that could be taken care of with a shameless hug from his mother.

But it wasn't, it never was.

And he knew it.

Then the bell rang.

O.o.O

Ryoma had mulled his brief encounter with Kirihara during the afternoon classes. His mother had been really that desperate, she had sent him in a school where at least, one person knew about what really happened to him. A very personal one at that since Kirihara Akira, Akaya's father, had been one of his doctors before. The boy still acted the same, stupidly childish and arrogant, but he kept an eye on Ryoma now. He didn't even want to decipher what it meant.

He knew that the boy was now delegated into watching him but Kirihara had emphasized that it was because Ryoma was a friend and a kouhai. Not because their parents asked the older boy–"It's Kirihara-senpai to you now, chibi."–and it was just hard to forget the very person who was thoughtful enough to accompany him during sessions those months ago. Even if Kirihara was prone to complaints, whining, and endless boastings. Ryoma might be irritated or might not be as comfortable, but he remembered those times. He didn't cherish them but it was one of the few things in his past that he wasn't willing to push behind.

So, it wasn't such a surprised when a grumbling Kirihara was standing just outside the classroom, obviously waiting for him.

But the surprise had been the silver haired boy grinning beside him.

Ryoma had half a mind to just quickly blend in with the crowd and pretend that Kirihara wasn't lingering there because of him. But Ryoma hated crowds and try as he might, Kirihara and his not-so-little friend looked to be the lesser of the two evils.

He didn't approach them though, just stood there and stared. When green eyes saw him, they narrowed almost imperceptibly before Kirihara pounced on him, accosting him in a headlock.

"You were planning to ditch me, weren't you?" The older boy growled lightly and Ryoma grimaced at the uncanny ability of Kirihara in guessing his thoughts, even back in America, the boy was cunningly perceptive. Not that you could tell at first glance.

"I was until you saw me," He deadpanned as he tugged himself away from the other's grip.

"You ungrateful brat," Kirihara glowered at him until a hand pushed his head down into a parody of a bow. Ryoma just blinked as the silver haired boy earlier appeared beside Kirihara, grinning mischievously, blue eyes peering down at him with obvious interest.

Whether it was a good or bad thing, he didn't even want to know. But he didn't have a choice, now, did he?

"So, you're 'chibi'." The silver haired boy quoted jokingly but Ryoma wasn't impressed that Kirihara hadn't been that creative with a codename. Or maybe it had been intentional. "Kirihara excused himself from practice to see you, puri." He stated cheerfully as he ruffled the other boy's already messy hair.

"Niou-senpai!" Kirihara slapped the other's hand away, a scowl on his face.

The silver haired boy shrugged.

"What? It's true, puri! You even told Mura-buchou that 'chibi's' an impatient little freshman that needed your guidance." The boy–Niou–reminded in a voice that conveyed extreme amusement at the thought, especially as his eyes assessed the 'impatient little freshman'.

"You act more like that impatient individual, seaweed-head." Ryoma found himself uttering dryly, his lips twisted into a displeased frown. Before whirling around to walk away. "And I can see myself around just fine."

Meanwhile, Niou found himself doubled in laughter at what the freshman had just called his teammate.

Kirihara just caught up to Ryoma's strides.

"Oi, oi, I got out of team practice just so I could accompany you then you ignore me?" The older boy looked outraged, more annoyed even.

He would've appreciated it if he didn't know that Kirihara loved his mom's western cooking as much as the boy adored sushi and Yakiniku–which she would obviously prepare as soon as it was revealed who the current house guest was. Not that the statement wasn't genuine but Ryoma liked his Japanese cuisine just fine.

"I didn't ask you to," Ryoma pointed out as they reached the school grounds.

"But it's the thought!" Kirihara tried to argue in a whine as he crossed his arms, expression disgruntled and almost petulant. How childish.

Both of them were surprised, however, when Niou suddenly appeared between them as he slung each arm over their shoulders. They had momentarily forgotten about the silver haired boy and Ryoma tensed under the contact.

"Ne, ne, Kirihara, you just left me there and didn't even introduce me to your friend." Niou faked a sniffle, staring at his teammate with imploring, but still mischievous eyes. "Where are your manners, puri?" He told in mock-disappointment as he tightened his arm around the other's neck.

As intended, the dark haired boy blushed.

Before he scowled and cleared his throat in an attempt to save himself from total embarrassment.

"Echizen, this is Niou Masaharu-senpai, a third year." Kirihara gestured to each. "And Niou-senpai, this is Echizen Ryoma, a freshman and a friend I met in America two years ago." There was something steely in his voice, as if a warning that had been hinted–that he shouldn't ask more than what was given.

Whether Ryoma was grateful or not, even he couldn't tell.

"But a friend outside the team, Akaya-chan!" The silver haired boy had reverted to a nickname that made Ryoma smirk but was inwardly curious by what the older boy meant. "It's almost surreal, Mura-buchou would be proud, puri." He then turned to the smallest of their current group and grinned, blue eyes suddenly challenging. "Ne, do you play tennis?"

Ryoma stopped as his breath soundlessly hitched, his throat clamping up as he stared at the third year with wide eyes. Niou stared at him with furrowed brows, as if wondering what he had done wrong. But he knew that it wasn't the senpai's fault, it was just an honest inquiry. He was supposed to be better than this but the reaction was instant, it had been like a reflex and that was when he knew for sure that he was still living in a nightmare. It had been a while since someone asked him that question.

Of course, it should've been obvious that Kirihara would join the tennis club and be a regular. But somewhere in his mind wanted to deny and outright ignore it.

Just not now when it had been carelessly slapped on his face, like with reality.

"No, he doesn't play tennis, senpai." Kirihara quickly interjected, voice just the tiniest bit cold as he got out of Niou's hold and laid a hand on Ryoma's shoulder. "We'll be going now, Niou-senpai, Echizen's mother is expecting us before dinner." He then gave a small bow but it conveyed mockery and irritation. "Sayonara, senpai."

With that abrupt goodbye, Kirihara steered him outside of school and left an obviously speechless Niou Masaharu behind, as if already knowing where to go. His mother probably told him the address.

It wasn't until they were a considerable distance away from school that Ryoma felt himself trembling, his hands were quivering, his throat was dry, and his breathing heavier.

"It'll be fine," Kirihara tried to reassure him but the words had been uttered awkwardly and without conviction.

Ryoma could have laughed.

"No, Kirihara," He mumbled hoarsely. "It's not over, it's not."