Advertisment: I do not own Prince of Tennis, Takeshi Konomi does.

No Title

Tears were wetting his face. His eyes red from the endless hours spent crying. His voice lost from screaming. The golden orbs, once so full of life, were empty.

It was raining outside.

The room was cold and empty. He was sitting on the windowsill, his pale fingers following the water paths on the glass.

Again and again.

A newer ending circle.

All dreams shattered and gone. Blown away by the cold wind. Only the pain was still there.

He was lost. Lost into the world he created. Pushing everyone out, not allowing the warmth to come in.

He suddenly laughed. A sad laugh, wet from his tears and scarred with his regret. He was the reason for all the misfortune that happened to his friends and family.

So now he was alone. Far away, in this small house, where no one will look for him.

He stood up and went out of the room. The phone was ringing. No one ever called him. No one knew his number. He didn't want to be remembered.

He picked up the phone. His lips slowly spoke, not wanting to reveal the hidden loneliness his heart felt.



He slammed the phone shut. He looked at it with opened eyes. For the first time in five years his face and eyes showed emotions again. Surprise, fear, sadness, pain.


Why now?

It can't be?

The vice on the other side of the phone was too familiar. He thought that he had run away far enough. How did he found him? He was supposed to have forgotten him; he was supposed to hate him; he was supposed to never see him again.

The phone rang again. He stayed frozen and waited. Waited for the phone to stop ringing and for the one that was calling him to stop. His eyes caught the colorful picture on the shelf.

He stood up and went closer to the shelf. Ringing forgotten. The same pale hands that were stroking the cold glass were now holding the picture. The picture had captured a moment of him and the one who called, smiling. He was held in those strong, warm hands. He had felt safe there. Until, he had slapped him. It hurt; it hurt more than the hatred radiated from the others.

So he ran, ran away from it all. He ran away so no one would be in pain because of him again. Because he was scared from the never ending nightmares and refused to tell the truth to the one he loved the most.

It was better that way.

The ringing had stopped.

It was silent once again. The same suffocating silence. The same painful silence he was so used to.

He placed the picture back on the shelf and turned around only to find himself staring in the mirror. He hated that face he saw in it. He hated himself. He hated himself from the bottom of his heart but was too much of a coward to admit it.

The sudden sound of someone banging on his doors made him jump and flinch in fear.

That wasn't the lady that lives across the street. That wasn't someone that had gotten lost or confused addresses. No, that was someone he thought he will see again in his lifetime. He didn't want to open the door. He wanted to run away like all the other times. Run away and hide once again.

"Ryoma! I know you are in there! Open the door!"

It was him; the one he loved the most that was banging and calling for him.

He clutched his head and whispered a quiet:

"Go away!"

The banging and the sound of his voice didn't stop. He now said louder:

"Go away!"

The nose didn't stop. Tears fell on the floor. Now he practically screamed as loud as he could:

"Go away! Please, just go away!"

It stopped. His panting could be heard through the doors. A moment of trembling silence and then his doors were blasted open. He stood there panting and pinpointing him sitting on the floor, clutching his head and crying. Golden eyes looked up and he bit his lips. The tears didn't stop.

"Atobe." His lips formed the name of the person who now stood in front of him.


The silence was back again and the sound of raindrops washing away the dust from everything it touched was filling the cold house.

The seconds where like hours, long and suffering for him. He trembled and scooted away from the man that had just said his name.

The next thing he knew were the warm and strong hands pulling him close to the others wet and warm body.

He only cried more.

A/N: This made me, the author, cry…

My head came up with something and that something is this.