Disclaimer: I take no credit whatsoever for any element of this piece pertaining to Beyblade: including characters, setting, etc, etc… It belongs, and rightfully so, to its creator – Aoki Takao.
The People with Wings
By: Dixon Oriole
A tall, slim blonde answered the door on his third knock. Her extremely long hair was bound in a high ponytail; a fray of bangs left loose to half-shield large, brown eyes. Those eyes were narrowed curiously at him, not exactly welcoming, but he didn't get a lot of welcoming in general. She gazed through the outer glass, and he gazed impassively back. Eventually the protective pane was allowed to open about two inches. "Hello."
He cracked a smile for the older girl's benefit and his probable best interests. "I'm here to see Gar—"
"I recognize you," she interrupted, scrutinizing stare flying up and down his lithe body before hovering over the tattoos that decorated the pale line of his jaw. "You're a beyblader. I've seen you in the newspaper." Satisfied with this conclusion, the young woman turned partially away, glancing inside the sunny, mute recesses of the large house she shared with two of her brothers.
He tried again, "Garland…"
She paused a moment, steadily smirked, and nodded. "He's home," here the female spent a time considering what to do about it, watching him as if to determine whether the somber lad was a danger or not. "Come on in," she finally stated, smooth voice resolute, and swung the second door wide for his well-deserved entry.
"Sorry about giving you a hard time; we get some weird visitors poking around here. I guess you're not a fan though, huh?" Garland's elder sister amicably continued, allowing the quiet youth to follow her graceful hips as she hoofed towards the training room across the cool, lightly painted building. "Don't answer that, I know you're not," she laughed dryly, for whatever reason finding that quite the joke. Maybe they did get some strange visitors after all.
But he wasn't strange. This was merely the first instance of he and Garland meeting on either's designated turf, and it had taken him a time just to agree – but he'd prepared, and when confronted by the overbearing sibling, had not felt immediately uncomfortable. In all actuality the blader was about as at ease as he was ever capable of being… He found something about the home – all open windows and decks and cool air and cleanliness – agreeable.
It was still a relief when she said he didn't have to reply. No quick thinking would have made whatever he came up with even a little polite, conversation hardly his forte. Nevertheless, she deserved something more than the most rudimentary –
"Here we are," the girl broke into his thought process once again, spinning on heel and presenting with an outstretched arm another closed door, this one penitentiary gray in color.
"Oh…" He looked warily at the expectant scene, "Thank you," and reached for the brushed steel knob, feeling the mechanism within relent to his grip and offer a business-like click.
"No problem. Garland was inside beating stuff up the last time I saw him, and once he goes in there – well, he doesn't come out fast. It'll do him good to have some company." The sister beamed at him impishly and began to move off down the hallway, hair swaying behind like a silken banner. "If you need anything, just ask. My name's Kylie." And she was gone.
The teenager waited for a reinstated silence to become complete, rocking on his heels as if to test whether the carpeted floor had any undesirable creeks. Finally it was time, and he casually slid inwards through a gap that a bulkier boy could not have managed. It took but a moment to absorb the entirety of Garland's training chamber: a wide, bright space stocked with the usual muscle building mechanisms and martial arts accessories…
And of course the beydish. Usual, shining red, resting in the corner without a speck of dust stationary upon it. He found it hard to believe that the thing could withstand its owner's impressive power when at work. Speaking of the proprietor, his location remained something of a mystery. Apparently someone had been about at recent, what with the slowly spinning punching bag (200 pounds, perhaps) and sweaty hand-towel discarded on a very geometric end table (sitting next to the equally mathematical sofa, against the wall opposite the mirrors).
The visitor stared at himself in the glass a moment before settling to lean against the doorframe and allow his garnet eyes to slide shut. As sight receded, sound began to make up the difference, alerting him to the quiet, but unmistakable hiss of running water from another room off to the side and the shift of two moving feet. There was a slight intake of breath in either pain or surprise from the other living individual, and he quickly readied for the immediate flinging open of the bathroom by shoving off of his resting place and squaring strong shoulders. It was much like expecting a blow.
Predictably, Garland made his appearance, looking not directly at the other person but instead around the training area, almost as though he'd misplaced something. His right hand busily wrapped the left in white tape, creating the characteristic look of a street fighter or boxer on this young blader. It wasn't an unjustified image.
"Have you seen my…" the lightly accented words rolled, forgoing all formal salutation, and yet the statement never concluded – for quickly, Garland realized his "friend" could not have been there long, and so could not know a damn thing. An inappropriate question. Meeting the narrowed gaze of the other with an air of stifled amusement, he began again, "Kai. Spar with me," and still did not include any usual greeting.
"Why?" the younger, shorter boy he'd addressed warily answered, taking note of the C-Bolt youngest's already bruised fists.
"Why not? I've been a fighter for as long as I've been a beyblader – I can tell who can handle themselves and who can't," stiff fingers raked through long, light blue locks, before busily tying them up into a ponytail not unlike his older sister's, "so you should trust my assessments. You'll lose… but that's no reason not to spar with me. Maybe you'll learn something." The fingers flexed, egging on circulation.
Kai was not watching the subtle smile crackle over the stern lips of his concomitant, having instead taken on that bored air of old, and it did not permit him to humor the inconsequential surroundings. His eyes had closed, he was leaning. "Tyson really did change you, didn't he? The Garland I knew before that fight wouldn't speak so lightly of failure," a soft, incredulous snort, "We had that in common."
"You're afraid!" the Apollon bearer triumphantly accused, brown eye's alight with mischievous intent as he swabbed the back of his neck with the recently reacquired hand towel. "I guess your judgment for it at present is commendable. The Kai I knew wouldn't have thrown any caution to the wind when facing indomitable obstacles."
"Indomitable? You know, Garland, you've said I couldn't do things before. And… I went and did them anyway. What does that say about your judgment?" It would have been simple to overlook the humor inflecting the phoenix bearer's monotone.
"Ha. So come on then, try me." The muscular boy backed steadily away into the clearer area of the training room onto a floor mat that would more or less buffer hard falls. He slid easily into a fighting stance and began to playfully shift his weight from bare foot to bare foot, waiting for the shorter teenager across the room to respond positively.
"I don't see the point," the young Hiwitari sullenly explained. "I'll just end up hurting you, you'll get mad, and I'll get mad, and then I'll leave." He painstakingly shrugged, having long since come to terms with the fact that that exact cycle of events was how his existence worked… from sparring to beyblading to living.
"You can't hurt me," Garland firmly reassured, pausing in his dance to throw the towel on his shoulder out of the way and take two steps towards Kai, mouth twitching with a barely contained simper. "And you won't leave mad, I promise," he added as something of a compassionate afterthought.
The characteristic, ruddy glare of the boy at the wall probed the other's smooth composure for some time, seeking cracks on the surface that spoke of lies. Yet he found none, and so offered a bemused sigh, carefully unwrapping and dropping the long white scarf protecting his neck to the floor at his feet. It audibly thunked, being woven with lead, and was soon stifled by the untidy clothes of Kai's jacket, gloves, and socks as the teenager methodically stripped to his more flexible layers.
"Changed your mind?" Garland crooned, circling gracefully as his compatriot casually padded out onto the mat to meet him, placing himself squarely in no visible fighting stance, inviting the gryphon bearer to take the first move.
"I want to see if you were telling the truth," the Hiwitari stated evenly.
Author's Notes: Pointless. But if I wished to continue it, it would need a plot. As I've said and will continue to say, I can't do plot.
Regardless, I like the finished product. It was spurned, I suppose, from watching the Kai-Garland interaction in BEGA, before the tournament and before he had his ass handed to him by Brooklyn. They weren't on such terrible terms then, and I don't think those terms could have been any worse afterwards.
I wonder what would happen if Kai ran into Brooklyn, considering he's living in that house with Garland these days? How explosive. And now, as I remember the title, seems like an easy task to involve Brooklyn in this venture... though I was only referring to Suzaku and Appolon (who can be classified as a gryphon, I expect). Uhg, have I set myself up?
Oh, as a last note, if you aren't aware, Kylie is actually one of Garland's sisters. The younger of the two, I think – the tennis player or the golfer… he mentions her in one episode. The blonde versus blue hair in their family must be a sex-linked gene, don't you think?