Disclaimer: I hate these things because if you don't know that I don't own Beyblade then you're an idiot.

Notes: don't you just looooooove BryanxYuri. It almost kills me with joy…

Bryan POV

I am Yours.

Three words that manage to make my heart thud, and my hands tremble. Always on the tip of my tongue but I will never say them.

They could easily slip out, swimming in the forefront of my mind as they always are when I look at him. At his hair, which is a red so burning it rivals fresh, pooling blood. And his eyes, blue and cold, striking; they always make me struggle to keep these words within as they train so precisely on me.

Some say I have cold eyes. But they're wrong—my eyes aren't cold. In fact, my eyes aren't anything. Dead, lifeless: that's what I see when I look into the reflection of my own grey irises. So flat I sometimes wonder if I'm looking at a corpse.

But his are so icy they send chills down your spine and yet somehow, somehow, they're full of life. Full of mischief when he's in the mood, full of rage when he is angry. And when he looks at me they are full of something I can't discern and I find my lips attempting to form words I desperately hold back.

I had known him for a long time, almost for my whole life. I have only one memory, now, of myself before he came along. And when we met, I could vividly remember my shock at his mop of crimson hair, scorching against the bitter Russian landscape and the grey-cut walls of the abbey. In my mind's eye, now, everything melts into a dreary grey not unlike my eyes against his hair in these harsh memories. Memories that I do not want to remember—times when there seemed to have been no sun. Times that felt like being buried into a colourless grave; it is not surprising that, to the saturated memories stifled within, his hair is isolated, flaming and raw. It was, and still is, breathtaking. I always wanted to run my fingers through the strands, just to be certain of their solid existence, but I never dared.

Back when we were in the abbey, he would look at me, sometimes mockingly as I considered his hair, and I, the most feared beyblader, would inwardly shrink back. And then he would turn away, and I'd remain standing against grey walls. His form would disappear around a dark corner, beautiful, untouchable.

Throughout the years we've known each other, we progressed. At first we were nothing. Then we became teammates. And now I could say that we are something as close to friends as we could actually get. And all this time, my perception of him grew, changed, and mutated.

God, I hate that word. Mutation. In my mind it is automatically translated into dark stretches of pain, and blood, and silence. The thirst I have felt that no water could quell as I underwent experiment after another to be stripped of my very conscience and morph into the ultimate blader. The ultimate fighter, emotionless, mechanic, invincible.

I think he believes it, as they all do. That the experiments that have failed on him were a success at my expense. That I have morphed into a creature with not a cell of humanity, of emotions.

But he's wrong, like they all are.

I often feel dead inside, I will admit. But the words that rise up on my throat so very often are solid proof to denounce that, stinging me with such determined venom.

I'm yours, my mind would whisper, and I would find myself with a bloodied fist and a mirror shattered to jagged, indiscernible pieces. He will never understand how I came to feel about him, or perhaps how I felt about him all along, since the first glimpse of his fiery hair.

He will never know.

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