Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own.

Warning: Spoilers for entire series. Also, yaoi.

The day after that, Sena came home late.

Practice had been—exhausting. With the Dinosaurs match around the corner, Hiruma was driving everyone to the breaking point. And there was a certain tension, too, especially after that meeting with the manager of the Dinosaurs. He couldn't say that it was worry—after all, if Hiruma couldn't take care of himself, the rest of them were done for—but he couldn't say that it wasn't worry either. Even Mamo-nee looked concerned, these days, and Kurita-san had been looking nervous for a week.

The light at the front door was still on, though the house was dark. His mother and father were probably in bed, his mother lying there drowsing until she heard Sena come in. He'd called ahead to tell her he'd be in late, and she'd reminded him to turn off the kitchen light. Sena wondered if this was what it felt like to be a university student living at home, keeping late hours and being reminded to turn things off.

Sena was at the gate, lifting the latch, when he looked up to see Kongo Agon.

He nearly cried out in shock. Instead, his mouth only opened, and he stood there gaping at the tall figure walking toward him, in and out of the yellow streetlights.

"Kongo-san?" he said, a bit too loudly for that quiet street, and hated himself a little for the tremble in his voice.

Under his coat sleeves, Sena's hands had gone stiff and cold.

Kongo-san looked the same as he had the previous day. He was wearing his shades, though it was night, and he was alone. He walked slowly, deliberately, somewhat stiffly—was he drunk? Kongo Agon, drunk and wandering down Sena's neighborhood? Sena lived in residential area, nowhere near downtown or any clubs, bars, or wherever people like Kongo Agon spent their time. There wasn't even a terminal anywhere near.

Kongo-san was still wearing the same clothes as the night before.

Sena's hand was still on the gate, which was open now. He tried to breathe. Pathetic to be so afraid, right there in front of his house with his parents practically a wall away. Even if Kongo-san really was there for him—even if Kongo-san was coming at him now with every intention of breaking Sena's legs—and people didn't do that, not even people like Kongo Agon, things like that didn't happen at ten o'clock at night right in front of your own house, this wasn't a TV show or a movie—

Sena tensed, a breath away from throwing open the gate and rushing for the front door, and Kongo-san stopped.

Just more than an arm's length away, he stopped, his back to then nearest light, and stood there looking at Sena.

Somewhere close, a dog barked.

Sena was trying to breathe. Kongo-san, here, in front of his house, at ten o'clock at night, with no reason Sena could think of for him to be there other than—

"Kongo-san?" he said, then—questioningly, only slightly uncertainly. Sena tried to talk casually, normally, as he were only caught off guard by the unexpected appearance of someone he vaguely knew and not terrified. "A-are you all right?"

He couldn't see Kongo-san's face, which made the whole thing worse. Kongo-san was just a tall, faceless shape in front of him, and Sena was, for no reason he could see, thinking of the girl he'd seen with Kongo Agon the night before, the short girl with dark hair and dark eyes.

"Are you all right, Kongo-san?" he asked again, in almost a whisper.

No answer. He was so big, standing there, even bigger than Jyuumonji or Toganou or Kuroki, maybe bigger than Musashi. The streetlight was a yellow glare just over Kongo-san's head, which left Sena's eyes flinching away. Drunk, Kongo-san had to be drunk, even if high schoolers weren't supposed to drink, and Sena couldn't decide if the proper thing to do here would be to offer to call Kongo-san a taxi or—

Sena didn't see Kongo-san move. He didn't see the hand come toward his face, didn't even understand the sudden, hot surge of adrenaline until the back of his head hit the wall and the hand—fingers and thumb in a steel grip—caught his neck and jaw, shoving him back. The strap of his bag slipped from his hand and Sena made a high, sharp noise in the back of his throat at the palm pressing against his throat.

Kongo Agon leaned over him.

Sena gasped for air, both hands pulling uselessly at Kongo-san's one, and his wide eyes met the smooth surface of Agon's shades.

"Haaa," was the sound that came from Kongo-san's mouth, not quite speech, not a sigh.

Kongo-san's breath smelled of alcohol. From his clothes came the faint scent of a girl's perfume.

Sena knew this feeling. He'd felt it a hundred times before, at school, on the street. He was shaking with it, with the familiar expectation of violence, and it was as if nothing had changed at all in the past six months. This wasn't amefuto. This was just pain, for no reason other than he was smaller and weaker and had, this time, been unable to get away, had been stupid enough to think that this kind of thing was over and done with.

He didn't want to cry. But he couldn't help the tears that filled his eyes.

Nothing was different.

Kongo-san's face was so close. He'd stopped moving again, was just hanging over Sena, his face angled down into Sena's face, eyes concealed by the shades.

He was so very, very close.

"Please," Sena choked out. How badly would Agon hurt him? Would he still be able to go to practice in the morning? Could he shout for his parents, or would Agon choke him? "Kongo-san—please—"

Sena closed his eyes, shut them tight, but tears were escaping at the corners of his eyes and he waited for the first blow.

The hand left his neck.

Sena dropped to the ground, sucking in lungfuls of air, as if he'd been drowning.

"Trash," he heard above him, in a low, contemptuous voice.

Sena lifted his head, looked up through the tears burning his eyes.

Kongo Agon was walking away, back the way he had come. He moved efficiently, purposefully, not at all as if he were drunk.

Behind Sena, a light came on in the house.

"Sena?" someone called, a woman's voice—his mother. "Sena, is that you?"

Kongo-san was already down the street, turning a corner—he was gone. Sena's pulse was racing. He didn't understand what had just happened, didn't understand why Kongo-san would—would grab him by the neck, and then just walk away, why he would make such a threat and then just—not go through. He didn't—why would—what was—

He dragged a sleeve over his eyes.

"It's just me, Mom," he called back. His voice came out too hoarse, and he cleared it. "It's just me."

When Sena managed to get to his feet, he was still shaking, and had to wait another minute before picking up his bag and going in.