Note: My first Crush Gear fic so please be gentle. There has to be at least 50 things wrong with this fic, including the interaction and the place where it happens, but the scene has been boiling in my mind for a long time and I thought it's high time I should write it down before I write my other stuff.
The stereotypes on nationality they mention is not intended to offend anyone; rather, it is something what I think they, as two different people from different parts of the world, will probably mention to each other. It just shows that they can joke about their stereotypes because they both know they're not true. If anyone is offended, I'll take it down asap.
C&C's highly appreciated. Thanks.
Sketch
"When I die," he said suddenly, as if they were talking about the weather, "I'd like it to be soon."
"Typical Japanese," Harry Gamble responded, rolling his eyes, "always being morbidly fascinated with death."
London, England. In one of those posh restaurants filled with people who admire Crush Gear for its crude and uncivilized rules. At one corner, Harry could recognize one of Britain's famous news-reporter who was against the World Cup tournament and had scoffed that the sport "had no sense of discipline and grace; predictably an American-based game since only an American would think of it as a sport in the first place." Harry had, however, seen that particular news-reporter at the most expensive boxed seat at the Crush Gear World Cup Tournament.
"You're not listening to me," his companion retaliated, eyes twinkling. "Typical German, more interested in societal chaos than the person before you."
He had to smirk as he took another sip of his coffee.
London, England. It was raining outside that restaurant they were in; the faint pattering of rain against glass and roof blended with the soft murmur of people surrounding them. Not glancing at each other, nor at the other customers present in that room, the two boys brought their teacups against their lips to sip.
London, England. Home of the first stage of the Crush Gear Tournament. In this restaurant, two children sat beside the glass walls and stare into the streets where people in their black coats prepare their black umbrellas. Far away from home, they sipped their hot drinks and pretended to be adults, because sometimes it felt like they were adults.
But, Harry Gamble thought to himself, feeling the warm liquid settle in his stomach, that is not entirely true. We believe we are adults, but we are young and this moment shall live forever.
That was why he found it perversely amusing for his Oriental friend to speak of death while drinking coffee with too much cream and sugar and sitting on a lavish chair in a classy restaurant.
"Why would you think about it right now?" he asked his companion.
Yuuya Marino only shrugged and graced him a smile. "It felt appropriate." His English, the only language they can speak together, still had a hint of accent in an attempt to speak the unfamiliar language with its British twang.
"Appropriate?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"To speak of death," Yuuya gestured dismissively around him, "in this superficial restaurant with its superficial food and superficial coffee."
"And your superficial friend," Harry retorted.
"No." Yuuya smiled and shook his head. "You and I and the words we speak—those are the only things that are real."
"Interesting," Harry said. He was eleven years old and he felt like he should be able to respond to that declaration. He felt warm inside again and could not decide whether it was the coffee or the atmosphere. Or of Yuuya deciding that they were the only things that were real. "In any case, it's bad luck to think about that right now."
"Hmm..." Yuuya poured himself another cup of coffee. "I suppose. As I said, it felt strangely appropriate." He hesitated a while before dropping four lumps of sugar in his coffee and pouring almost half of the cream.
Harry watched, amused. He was eleven years old, the same age as Yuuya, and he drank his coffee black. "I suppose it is." He thought for a while. "I wouldn't expect for me to die for a very long time. I ask again: is it just your Japanese trait that makes you wish for death as early as now?"
"I don't know," Yuuya told him. He continued to smile but there was a light in his eyes that Harry knew appeared only during tournaments. "Maybe? I didn't think my origins had anything to do with it." After taking a bite of his doughnut, he turned again to the window where a woman had taken to standing and staring into the traffic.
"If you die," Harry thoughtfully said, "a lot of people will be sad."
"I know." And it was not said with pride; rather with heartfelt sorrow that Harry could not help wondering if Yuuya Marino was one of those people who carried the world in their shoulders. "I wouldn't want anyone to be sad."
"Then why would you want it?"
"I feel like I can only look forward to things that are happening now. There's nothing else."
"There are more challenges." Harry chose his words carefully. "Stronger people will come and you will have more people to fight with."
"I don't need to fight the strongest," Yuuya told him. "I don't need to become stronger, as long as I can fight you against you."
That warm thing in Harry's stomach spread to his chest and he decided it wasn't the coffee. "I think it's selfish," he said. He could not understand why his voice trembled.
"Is it?" Silence descended over them as Yuuya tapped his chin before finally nodding. "Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?"
"People need your guidance...that boy Takeshi needs all the help he can get. And your club has people...you have a brother...your parents will be traumatized." He swallowed and only managed to say, "Even I—"
"When I die," Yuuya said fiercely, "I want to change the world."
Harry shook his head and drank the rest of his coffee in an effort to calm himself from the angry words that threatened to bubble inside of him. He did not like becoming angry and there was no reason to become upset. They were eleven years old, at the borderline of adulthood, and what came out of their mouths were mere words that would sooner disappear into the air, unheard of by others and remembered only by themselves. No reason to get upset at all. "You can't change anything when you're dead."
"When I die," Yuuya said suddenly, looking into his eyes. There was that glint again in his eyes, the one that appears only during gear fights. "...When I die, what would you do?"
"I would mourn," Harry told him truthfully.
Another pause, as if Yuuya was expecting something more but Harry did not know what else he should be saying. So he met Yuuya's gaze, let their unwavering stares hold, until Yuuya looked away. He almost felt disappointed. "I'll get the check," he said in an effort to break the discomfort.
Silence descended over them as the waitress appeared and murmured her customary thanks while Harry settled the bill. Feeling a little awkward, they stood and Harry waved away the bills Yuuya offered for his half of the price. Making their way through the other customers, they took their respective things from the rack: Harry's coat and Yuuya's jacket, and the single umbrella Harry had brought because he knew Yuuya would somehow forget to bring his own.
On the sidewalk, away from the music and chandeliers and the people talking about nonsense, to the traffic and rain and people talking about more nonsense, Harry opened his umbrella and turned to Yuuya. "If I mourn for you," he told him, trying to explain, "it means I care."
Yuuya looked at him again, silently appraising his action, before he grinned. His hair stood in straight spikes over his head, seemingly uncaring in the rain. It made Harry remember they were young. "I know." He reached over and squeezed Harry's shoulder. "You know, I want to die before you so I won't have to mourn you."
"Japanese are so morbid," the blond boy repeated, again rolling his eyes.
"I would be sad," Yuuya told him, voice just above a whisper and almost unheard through the pattering of raindrops and peoples' footsteps, "if you died. I wouldn't want that."
Harry felt a lump in his throat and tried to explain again, that he, too, would be sad if Yuuya died; that they shouldn't speak of it again because there was still Brazil and the World Cup finals, and nothing will come of his death. So many people would mourn, people from different parts of the world, from Yuuya's own world that Harry was not a part of, people whom Harry have never heard of or will never meet. That Yuuya's parents would be grief-stricken and that Lilika would miss him. And that Harry, himself, would probably not know what to do.
But he was young and had no words, or had words but didn't think Yuuya would understand.
So he nodded to tell Yuuya he understood it in a way, and only replied, "I'll miss you, though."
"Thanks," Yuuya told him, smiling that childish smile he had. "It's selfish, but I'd like that."
London, England. It was raining when two eleven year old children ran through the rain under a single umbrella, jacket and coats flapping in the wind, to the direction of their hotel for their final packing preparations. They laughed a little, exhilaration replacing their foreboding. They were young, they were tough, and they would live forever.
Tomorrow, the destination was for Brazil. England will be left behind. The rain will be forgotten. The words they spoke will have all but disappeared.