Disclaimer: I continue to flaunt my utter lack of Beyblade ownership! Oh, and the first line of this fic is Nicolas Sebastien Chamfort's suicide note (1794). Obviously, I don't own that, either...
Author's Note: Well, here it is, at last! The sequel to 'Simulacrum'. This series, 'Perfect', is my attempt to give the much-tortured Tyson a happy ending of sorts...enjoy!
"And so I leave this world, where the heart must either break or turn to lead," would've been what he would have written on his own suicide note, had he bothered to pen one. They were not his own words, but, then again, when had he ever been known for his verbal eloquence?
Non-verbally, on the other hand, he had always been able to make the slightest movements convey volumes of meaning. A single twitch of his slate-gray eyebrow held more depth and complexity than any hour-long conversation could ever hope to achieve.
Unfortunately, this non-verbal communication trend of his never really became popular among humanity at large, so he was forced to endure cacophonous panoply of chattering voices every single day.
Well, until that night, that is.
Looking back, he found that the memories of the past few years blurred together like so much overdeveloped film.
After that glorious little brush with death at the supposedly tender age of thirteen, he had spent the next few years of his life in a coma. This, he reflected, was the best part of his life, so far.
Nothing more than an all-encompassing darkness and an overwhelming feeling of peace…
Occasionally, there were dreams, usually centered upon a bluenette boy with a ready grin, but these did not bother the sleeper, unduly.
After two years, however, he was jarred awake, by a television, of all things.
Some idiot had left the t.v. above his hospital bed on for hours on end and, eventually, a news bulletin managed to get through to the sleeper's fugue.
"…and here we see the two-time world champion of Beyblade, Tyson Kinomiya-"
A voice intruded.
And thus the sleeper was dragged back to the bleakness of the conscious realm by the one name that had ever meant anything to him, at all.
Dark eyes, roughly the color of dried blood, forced themselves to focus on the screen…
Then lips, chapped and white from years of disuse, moved, silently forming a name.
'Tyson?'