This isn't the first Beyblade story I've ever submitted but it is the only good one. My other multichapter got deleted because I wanted to fix it but then my computer crashed and I lost it. But that's meaningless dribble. First and foremost:

WARNING: this story has a really insane pairing that probably would never work even if I really, really, REALLY wanted it to. I doubt many people would agree either. Story contains mature content, yaoi and false accusations. May also feature OOCness.

Despite that, I'm still proud to call the first KaixOliver!!(there isn't another one on this site, is there?)

Due to holidays and the fact that most of this story is prewritten, the chapters will come up pretty fast.

Disclaimer: I don't own Beyblade or the characters.

Part 1

Oliver Polanski stormed through the streets of Paris in a rage so hot that the innocent bystanders were afraid to walk close to him. Once he felt he was far enough from his own estate he found a restaurant owned by his family and let himself in with no reservation. He sat down at a table for two and ordered a bottle of wine. The waitress was so shocked when he stated that he didn't care what she gave him that she almost knocked over an inexpensive pot on the way to the kitchen. He sighed dismally and put his head in his hands. He was glad he'd put himself in such a location. It was one of the most secluded tables at the restaurant and was covered well by indoor plants that flowered magnificently with good care. It was rather romantic.

All of a sudden Oliver wished he'd gone to sit somewhere else.

The waitress returned with a bottle of wine and a delicate glass for him. He didn't even bother a glimpse at the label and waved the waitress away. He poured it himself and downed three quarters of it in one fell swig.

"Hm… a rosé," he murmured. He finished the rest of it off anyway.

That night had been the most terrible night he'd ever experienced in his life. He'd honestly never felt so insulted and disrespected – by one of his own team mates nonetheless! Johnny McGregor had taken him out on a date all day. It started out perfect. After breakfast they'd driven out to the countryside to see a horse jumping show and then had lunch at a vineyard where Oliver was so impressed by the quality of champagne that he called his father on the way home and told him to order from that particular vineyard from now on. They spent the rest of the afternoon in Paris. They watched a movie and visited a beyblade training centre for a friendly match then dinner was at a quaint bistro by a calm waterway. Oliver had been completely giddy by the time dinner was over and had already drunk more wine in a day than he normally would in a week. Johnny took him back to the Polanski estate and Oliver invited him in.

There, Oliver believed, is where he made the first mistake of the evening.

He led Johnny upstairs and showed him to his bedroom. That was Oliver's second mistake that evening. Johnny was a smooth talker and in what now seemed like no time at all he had Oliver lying beneath him shirtless and was just starting to strip himself. Oliver was still under the influence and totally lost in the moment as Johnny started to touch him in ways he had never been touched before. Of course, he'd realised upon his fifteenth birthday that he was partial to both sexes (and that would make him bisexual) and he was almost seventeen now, yet this still didn't feel right to the Frenchman. He started to push away when Johnny began to kiss down his neck.

"Johnny, stop," Oliver gasped, suppressing a moan when Johnny reached a sensitive spot where his clavicles met.

"Why?"

"If you want this you have to let me know," Oliver panted, pushing weakly, "if you love me."

"Pardon?" said Johnny, but he didn't let up with his ministrations.

"I said: 'let me know if you love me'. Do you love me, Johnny?"

"Love has nothing to do with sex," Johnny muttered absentmindedly.

Oliver bristled and suddenly felt sober. He pushed Johnny off him and slid off the bed to collect his clothes on the floor. Johnny stared at him with his mouth agape as Oliver redressed and straightened his clothes as much as he could before marching out of his room and leaving the mansion.

And that's what led him to where he was now. He'd finished the rosé and had asked the waitress for something a little bit richer. She'd brought back a thick red wine that looked like blood. He wasn't wary of the time. While he thought he'd been gradually taking glass after glass of his alcoholic beverage over a long period of time he'd actually drunk most of it in ten minutes. The alcohol was making him feel even more depressed. His self-esteem was steadily lowering itself to the bottom rung as he thought about Johnny's statement, but what was he to expect from a Brit? The French called it "Making Love"; the Brits called it "Fucking". He wondered how the hell he'd fallen for someone so vulgar.

He realised his second bottle was empty and asked the same waitress to bring him another bottle picked at random. As he did so he didn't notice a large stream of people walk in escorted by an old man in a suit. They took their seats at two long tables reserved for them and started talking animatedly all at once causing a cacophonous din in the previously quiet restaurant. Oliver growled as the teens – they did appear to be in the adolescent age – raised the decibels even though their supervisors tried to keep them quiet. Didn't any of them know how to act in a restaurant? They were scaring away the other patrons. When his second red wine arrived he downed two glasses in thirty seconds.

The waiters finally got to the loud tables and instead of quietening they got even louder, the rudest ones called down the table.

"I'd like everything on this page of the menu!"

"I wanna try frog legs!"

"Hey, do your cooks take requests? All of your soup looks weak."

"I don't want to eat anything weird."

"Hey, waiter, can you tell me which fork I'm supposed to use first?"

"I don't want to see any alcohol at this table, is that clear boys? No wine, thank-you."

"I don't care what I get to drink as long as I can eat a steak."

Oliver massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Just for the sake of being polite he wouldn't normally think of insulting other patrons for his own personal reasons but he was too drunk right now to be polite.

"Hey, you feral idiots!" he screamed, leaping out of his seat and pointing at them. They all stopped and turned to him in surprise. And he was obviously too drunk to recognise any of them. "You have no fucking idea where you are, do you? What makes you think you can come in here and act like bratty children in a playground? The other patrons are trying to enjoy their meals so shut your fat, fucking mouths and get over yourselves."

The waitress returned to collect his bottles and dropped one in shock at the extremely rude and out-of-character outburst. "Um… Monsieur Polanski?"

"You know where to charge it." He stormed out of the restaurant even angrier than he'd been when he got there.

The two large tables just stared at him as he left. At least now they were quiet.

"Wasn't that Oliver?"

Oliver returned to his estate and instructed the servants not to let anyone see him for the rest of the night and maybe the next day, depending on his mood. He retired to his bedroom straight away and let himself fall onto the slightly messy covers. He didn't bother to take a shower or change out of his daywear; he just curled up on top of the sheets and stared at his balcony's tall glass doors and the brilliant lights of Paris. The door creaked open, making Oliver wince.

"I told everyone to leave me alone!" Oliver snapped, turning around to glare at the person in the doorway. They half hid behind the door at his tone. Oliver blinked. He hadn't counted on Johnny still being here. Of course, Johnny was also upper-class and powerful and he had the influence (and definitely the gall) to tell any and all servants to stick it where the sun doesn't shine if he desperately wanted to see Oliver.

"Oliver… I'm sorry," he muttered but Oliver hardly heard him.

"What do you want?" growled Oliver. "You were supposed to leave!"

"I just wanted to apologise for what I said," Johnny explained, "and what I tried to do to you. I should have realised that you felt differently."

"Even if you apologise I'm not going to forgive you," Oliver huffed.

"Fine then, don't. It seems it didn't really matter that much to me at all but I didn't really want to hurt you and I don't want to hurt you again."

"You can't do any more damage that what you've already done but if you really don't want to hurt me again then go home!"

"But we're still friends, right?"

"We could be… but at the moment, I think you're a moronic dickhead."

Johnny sighed. "Okay, I'll just see you next week then."

Johnny shut the door and quietly retreated. Oliver lay on his back and stared at the overhang of his bed. 'See you next week'? What was going to happen next week? Through all of the excitement Oliver had completely forgotten something and now he didn't have any way of remembering it. He decided to forget about it for now and go to sleep. He had a feeling the next morning was not going to be a good one.

His hunch served him right the next day. Oliver felt crappier than he had been the previous night. He had a splitting headache and only bothered to get up at one stage to run to his bathroom and throw up in the sink. After that he spent the rest of the morning lying on his bathroom tiles. The cold tiles felt really nice on his temple.

"Oliver? What are you doing on the bathroom floor?"

Oliver groaned. Who the hell did that person think they were? "I thought I'd told everyone to leave me alone! I wasn't too drunk last night to forget it."

"I thought you were better than that."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Why don't you take a good look at me?"

Oliver lifted his head off the floor and stared at the person in his bathroom doorway. He barely recognised spiky blue hair and a white scarf. "Kai Hiwatari?"

"That would be my name."

"Figures that you would be the only one with enough brains to climb through my bedroom window rather than stand at the front doors arguing with the staff."

"I thought Johnny was the man when it came to sarcastic jokes," Kai said.

"Well, I'm not in a good mood!" Oliver shouted. He put his head back down on the tiles when his own voice stabbed him in the brain.

"You look like you need some help."

Oliver was about to protest but Kai suddenly lifted him up. The abrupt shift made him dizzy. "Ooh… I think I'm going to vomit again."

"Vomit on me and I'll throw you out the window," Kai growled softly.

He laid Oliver on his bed gently and stripped him of his daywear from the previous day. Oliver tried to push him away but the last few remnants of the hangover got in the way and Kai simply wouldn't take refusal as an acceptable answer. As Kai rummaged through his drawers looking for comfortable sleepwear Oliver stared at the bed's overhang contemplating a question he felt needed to be asked.

"Why are you here anyway?"

Kai glanced at him through the corner of his eye. "The Eurasia Cup… a new tournament that someone high and mighty proposed to BBA – I think it was Robert's father. Mr. Dickenson deemed it a good idea and planned everything. The first leg of the tournament begins here in Paris next week. I'm still not certain about the rules but I'm sure that should be explained to us in due time."

"Oh," Oliver muttered, "That's what I forgot about…"

Kai found a set of royal blue cotton pyjamas and helped Oliver into them. Oliver frowned at the help. He hadn't had anyone help him get dressed since he was six. He was only hung-over, it wasn't like he'd struck his head and become disabled. When Kai attempted to do up his buttons Oliver grabbed his wrists. Kai raised an eyebrow.

"What's this now? You got something in mind?"

Oliver blushed. "You pervert! I'm doing up my buttons by myself."

Kai smirked. "Or you could always leave them undone…"

Oliver gasped and went to slap Kai in the face but he caught the hand coming towards him. "Why are you doing this?"

"I just wanted to help. You seemed upset and you were quite drunk. I was the only one with enough sense to follow you and make sure you got home alright."

"If you care so much then why are you trying to seduce me?" Oliver snapped back, trying to steal his hand back but Kai wouldn't let it go.

"Maybe I feel something," Kai said, licking his lips. "It could be that you're very attractive, or that you're very talented… or maybe it's something metaphysical about you that I think I really like." Kai felt himself starting to heat up. He instinctively got between Oliver's legs and leaned down to his head to breathe in his scent. The pure smell of Oliver's hair with no traces of shampoo or conditioner further enticed him. He turned to face Oliver eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose, smirking at the wide and bewildered look in his eyes. "You've got the cutest nose I've ever seen."

Oliver's pretty face scrunched up like a toddler about to have a tantrum. "And you thought a comment like that was going to get you in my pants?" Oliver kicked Kai in the crotch. Kai doubled over and hit Oliver in the nose with his forehead. "Ouch! You clumsy idiot!"

"That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't kicked me in the balls!"

"I can't believe you had the gall to break in here and try to seduce me right after the worst night of my life!"

"How was I supposed to know that it was the worst night of your life?"

"Have you ever known me to get drunk enough to insult my patrons."

"No," Kai replied quickly. "But it did turn me on a little."

Oliver delivered another kick to Kai's sensitive area. "Is sex all you ever think about?"

Kai winced but managed to force out a reply: "Of course not but it's a bit hard not to in your presence."

Without giving Kai's testicles time to recover, Oliver kicked him again. "You dirty hog! Get out of my estate!"

Kai made his move, pretending to be getting off the bed he put one knee up Oliver's crotch. The move made Oliver gasp in surprise. He tried to assault Kai again but this time Kai had himself covered. He growled and tried to slap him again. Kai grabbed his wrist. The other hand flew out of nowhere and Kai grabbed that one too, leaving his genital area unprotected and allowed Oliver to kick him again. Kai bit back a cry of pain and leaned forward, pinning Oliver's hands to his pillow while trying to steady himself. He pushed his knee further up Oliver's crotch, getting a loud exclamation from the Frenchman and it wasn't the kind a person in his awkward position wanted to hear.

"Help! Help!" Oliver screamed, feigning complete terror. "Someone help me! I think he's trying to rape me!"

"Master Oliver!"

A servant who was passing by burst through the door followed by others who'd heard the scream. Kai didn't need to be in their shoes to know that this position wasn't a good one to be found in with the heir to the Polanski fortune, especially since he'd broken into the manor. Two male servants pounced on him and tore him away from their master. A female servant was on the phone straight away calling the police and another was on a walkie talkie informing the grounds security of the situation. Kai looked over to Oliver who was shakily trying to button up his pyjama shirt with that 'scared, innocent and naïve victim' act up. Kai demonstrated his superior physical strength to throw off the servants holding him down and dashed for the balcony. He jumped over the rail, shimmied down the nearby drainpipe and made a daring break for it across the unguarded lawn. By the time the grounds security had made it halfway across the lawn Kai was already over the fence and running like the Hell Hounds were on his heels.

A maid sat down beside Oliver and hugged him, offering soothing words and gentle backrubs to calm him down. Oliver looked dreadfully shaken and mentally scarred but on the inside he was pointing and laughing at Kai. That hopefully would teach him not to mess with the Polanski.

Who knew Oliver could be so evil?

I've got a few glossary points to add here:

1- That part where I wrote "the French call it 'making love', the Brits call it 'fucking', " I'm not sure how true it is but I heard it from my mother while she was giving me the birds and the bees spiel. Yeah... I still don't know how we went from talking about puberty to talking about alternative names for sexual intercourse.

2- For some reason a lot of people seem to think Oliver's surname is Les Desmonde. I'm pretty sure it's Polanski. I'm just saying so that people don't try to tell me it's wrong. That's the way it's written all over official sites and on wikipedia.

Also, just because it's a cool fact: according to my French-speaking friend, 'Shut your mouth' is the worst insult you can throw at a French person. 'Shut your fat mouth' is even worse than that. If you wanna know how to say that in French, it's: fermer votre grosse bouche. Don't say it to an actual Frenchman, though, you might find yourself in a very bad position.

There is another chapter coming up soon. In the meantime, R&R pleez!