Disclaimer: Are the D-boys the main characters? No? Then I don't own anything.
Warnings: Yaoi, mention of rape and bad grammar.
Ghosts
And then, there was nothing.
No angry voices barking orders.
No beyblades crashing against each other.
No muffled cries of pain.
There was just silence, disturbed by none of the countless sounds of the Russian night. Not even the cold wind whispers could be heard.
Just silence. Cold and absolute silence.
But he fears this. Fears the void of sound.
There was none of this during the day, so he could pretend. Keep his mind busy for his own sanity. It was so easy…Bark the same orders, fight the same bladders, ignore the same cries.
Destroy. Win.
Every day all the same, again and again until he couldn't even remember when all this hell started. But he doesn't mind. During the day, he doesn't even care. Never.
Only during the day…
But night will always come, taking away all the things he did to remain busy. Taking the orders, the beyblades and the cries.
Taking the sounds. All of them.
Like now.
He couldn't pretend now. Couldn't turn a blind eye. His mind was now empty, just a big, quiet void. For now…
Until the ghosts came back. And they will, they always do.
Always at night.
They will make him remember, make he see his mother's face again, the moment she walked away from his life without a second thought. Without looking back. Then, his dad will come back, bringing with him the smell of cheap whisky, urine and blood. And soon enough he would be feeling the punches and the kicks, hearing the names his father used to call him. He would remember the coldness of the broken bottle against his hand, the boldness of his move, the moment the man stopped moving, throat cut open and bleeding all over him.
He shivers, curling in a small ball in the corner of the bed, praying for it to stop, for the ghosts to leave him alone. But it was hopeless, and he knew that too well.
Only two ghosts. So many to go…
Then he remembers the orders he barked in the morning, the punches he gave, the beyblades he destroyed. He remembers how easy he chose that other than a like in a frozen, nameless street.
He remembers his only friend, his eyes at that fateful moment, the clear but never heard whisper.
"It's too good to be true."
But he didn't care, not back then. He just wanted a bed, a ceiling, warm food. After so long in the streets, he thought he could handle anything. Worse, he truly believed he had to get out before freezing to death.
In the end, he could just pretend to handle. Just during the day.
And he is already frozen. More than any street will ever let him be.
But he isn't dead. Even if every night he wishes he was, his body keeps working. Breathing, beating. He was broken beyond repair, but his body insists with this two things. Will they ever be important again?
No, never. He is sure of it. Not with the ghosts around. They torture him every night so why make things easier? Why let him die?
And, as he realizes it once again, another ghost comes. The one that could easily stop the breathing and the beating, but will never let him die. The one that covered him with ice, layer after layer after layer, until not even the sun could make any difference.
The one that ripped him from his last shard of innocence. A shard he fought hard to keep. But it made no difference, the ghost took it anyway. The ghost touched and scratched and bit until that small, little shard was torn and broken, spread in too many pieces for him to ever put it together again. But by then, it wasn't enough, and he knew that.
He begged…
The red-eyed ghost ripped him apart.
And there was nothing anyone could do. Cause it was night and the ghosts rule in the night. So he just woke up the next morning, and pretended like any other day. Nothing matters during the day.
He shivers, fighting back the tears. That was all in the past. Nobody witnessed that, nobody heard him crying and begging. Nobody saw the marks. Even now, nobody realized some of his scars weren't made on the lab.
Nobody….but one.
The one who stood up for him. The only one who dared fight back, who dared take the fall for him. It does not matter how high, that one always took it, over and over. Even against the red-eyed ghost. His one and only friend always found a way to be in the middle. To protect. To shield.
To bring noise to his night.
Cause noise means life, warmth…Noise means with….
But this gift was also a curse. His friend, the vessel of the worse and most powerful ghost. And just as he won his fight against the tears they came back, burning his eyes until he just want to close them and forget.
Only he couldn't. Cause this ghost was special, stronger. This ghost was the most feared.
And it's all his fault.
Cause he didn't thought his life could get any worse. He thought nothing else could be important, treasured. He was wrong. Oh, so wrong.
Those eyes still mattered back then and they still do, now more than ever. Which is a nice way to say this ghost hurts him deeply, like no other, nor even the red-eyed one. It was to say he was happy and sad, all the same. Scared this ghost will never leave, and more than content in admitting so.
Cause this ghost, the last one…is his friend.
The fear came from those eyes, the way they lost a spark every day. No, not lost. Taken.
Ripped.
Until all that was left was dull. No emotions, no sign of life. Just the last whispers of old memories, the unspoken promise to always fight back, always take the fall. No matter if those eyes could feel or not, a promise is a promise. Always will be always until the end of time and beyond, if needed be.
And the boy knows he needs it. More than anything else. The bed, the ceiling, the food, the orders, the punches, the scars, the memories, the tears and the ghosts.
He. Needs. It.
But more important that this raw prove of devotion, the boy needs the last spark. The only one his friend has left. The one that was given to him every night.
A spark in the form of arms that never crush, even if they could easily do so. In the form of lips that aren't cold, just not fully warm.
The spark that came with that tiny bit of color in his dull world.
A sound cuts the silence. Footsteps!
He cleans up the best he can and closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep. The door was opened then closed, locked from the inside. Silence struggles to take over again, to give the ghosts power once more. But the boy won't allow it, not this time.
He opens his eyes and sits in the bed, staring at his friend, sitting in the very same position in the other side of the room.
- Why? – he asks, whispering the world like so many times before, so the silence won't reign again. His friend was covered in cuts and bruises, once pale skin now a mix of angry shades of purple and dry blood. But the whole mess was from this nigh, and this night only. How many more would his friend get? Would they even be able to count?
How long until the last spark was lost too?
- You know why, Tala. – the friend's answer was also a whisper, soft almost fragile, like his owner didn't bother to put the right amount of energy in it.
Slowly, Tala got up from the bed, moving like the scared child that deep down he knew he was. Each step made a quiet sound, keeping the ghosts away, setting him free at least for a little while. He neared his fried, eyes locked in dull ones for dear life. With all the care his trembling body could manage, he climbed into his friend's lap, knees on either side of the hip to not add any weight to the beaten body.
- I'm sorry. – Tala whispered, small hands grasping broad shoulders softly.
- You shouldn't be. It was my choice.
Logic. Pure straight thought without silly distractions such as emotions.
If only things were that simple.
- The mistake was mine. You took my fall again. – Tala insisted.
The other boy didn't replay. He couldn't. To understand this he needed to feel, something that was slowly getting out of reach. He remembers the promise they made, but could barely feel why he made it in the first place. Day by day it was just the things he needed to do, the things he remembers how to do.
And, right now, he knows what he has to do for the small redhead on his lap.
Lips touched slowly, giving Tala all the time in the world to draw back, even if he never would. Why should he? His friend's lips weren't warm, but they weren't cold either. The kiss wasn't rough and bloody and demanding but gentle, almost unsure. Just like the strong arms that now envelop his small body. The shield, the guardian.
The friend that still cared, still felt. Even if only this.
Even if just for this night.
The kiss ended just as it started. Tala smiled shyly, running the tips of his fingers over the other's lips, careful not to re-open the cut the red-eyed ghost had put there.
- One day, I'll pay you back. – Tala said, as the two of them slowly lied down in the bed, arranging their bodies with minimum effort.
- I don't understand.
- I know. But it doesn't matter.
- If you say so. – dull eyes closed, the boy fast asleep after so many hours of training and pain.
- I do. I'll set us free. – Tala smiled once more, snuggling on the strong chest, easily finding the right spot.
Cause Tala didn't like the night and the many ghosts the silence brings back to life. But that didn't mean he liked the barked orders, the beyblades crashing or the muffled cries of pain. No, he didn't like that either.
Day or night, in the end it was all the same. None were life and warmth and with.
Just this…The spark only he could receive. His every night gift and eternal curse, soft whisper erasing all the rest.
Thump -thump, thump-thump, thump-thump...
- I'll free you, Bryan. Just haunt me a little longer.