Title: Winternest, Chapter One.
Summary: What should have been a serious accident turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. He just doesn't realize it yet.
Warnings: Honestly, if you don't see where this headed then I'll be forced to attack you with a mackerel. Eventual shounen-ai. Don't like, then kindly don't read it. Thank you! And other standard warnings apply; a bit of pain here, some nonsense there and probably sneezing, too.
Disclaimer: Do you really think I own Beyblade? Surely you jest! Admittedly, I do in my fondest dreams. But we won't venture off there...
Authoress notes: First story, eep. Not truly expecting a lot to come out of this, but I'm determined to finish it anyway, if only to amuse myself and prevent a certain someone locking me up in a dungeon somewhere for wimping out. XD Not much else to say about it, so I'll be shutting up now. Oh, and reviews are nice, but I won't demand them. :)
On with the show!
Stormy grey clouds littered the previously blue sky, blocking out the sun and darkening what little light there was to begin with. Not surprisingly, a heavy sheet of rain accompanied the ever darkening clouds, drenching anyone or anything unlucky enough to be caught in the dreaded weather. It had been snowing earlier, though that wasn't evident now, the rain clearing the streets and pathways of the fluffy, white substance. Compared to the rain, the snow was tolerable. And much more welcome than the sudden downpour.
Robert muttered under his breath about having the worst luck, drawing his arms and coat around himself tighter in an attempt to keep himself warm. No such luck. He cursed again, this time wishing all the known evils on the tanned, wool-lined jacket for not providing enough warmth or being water resistant. Vowing to take a pair of scissors to it before tossing it away, he hurried along the deserted street.
The small town had become desolate once the torrent of rain decided to present itself. The streets were deserted, the stores all locked up; there were no vehicles, not a soul out and about. Not even the stray animals he had seen were dumb enough to venture out into the blasphemous weather. No one was that dumb.
No one, of course, except himself.
At the sight of a clear, blue sky, Robert had deemed it worthy enough to leave his confines and stroll around for a while. Being cooped up in a small motel room wasn't exactly healthy, and he needed to become familiar with the layout of the town. It was meant to be a perfect, quiet day for him. And it was.
… That is, until the clear sky disappeared and gave way to foreboding darkness. To make matters worse, he subsequently forgot his way back to the motel. And that was when things had turned sour. Apart from the whole 'saturated' part, he had also become acquainted with the cement pathway, having slipped in an inconvenient puddle which left a rather annoying stain on his good pants.
His courtly manners momentarily forgotten, he cursed himself. He had come to this place to get away from his problems, not encounter more of them.
The streetlights flickered, threatening to go out at any moment. It did little to light the pathway, which had become eerily dark all of a sudden, the lack of natural light not helping the situation. The rain continued to pour down, unrelenting and before long the drains and the very streets themselves would become flooded.
Coming to a crossroads, Robert paused. He pushed his soaking hair out of his eyes and tried to read the signs that indicated which street were which, but to no avail. He looked left, and then right. The streetlights continued to flicker while he debated which direction to head in.
Sighing, he chose to ignore the signs and continued heading north, or what he thought was north. Out of habit, he checked both ways again just to make sure there was no traffic. A low, cynical laugh escaped his throat as he realized how idiotic the gesture was.
No one was blockheaded enough to come out here, vehicle or no, he reminded himself.
Hesitating, Robert took a step onto the flooded street. It wasn't until he was about half way across the slippery road when a loud, indignant screeching noise resonated throughout the air. It caused Robert to pause and sharply turn in the direction of the sound.
It had all happened so fast, the horror never got a chance to register in his mind. He stood, dumbly, eyes locked on the speeding vehicle heading in his direction, the bright headlights blinding him, paralyzing him. The car screeched again, the brakes this time, as it spun out of control. The brakes did little to slow the car, or prevent it from following its deadly path, much to the dismay of the driver.
He couldn't think. He couldn't react. He just stood there, the rain stinging his face to the point of numbness. Whether frozen from panic, fear or just the sheer cold, it made no difference. His fate had been decided, in the form of a speeding, out of control car.
I'm sorry, was Robert's last coherent thought before everything went black.
… A silhouette…
No.
It was a veil…
A veil of white clouded the small confines of what appeared to be a tiny room. Something around the room buzzed lowly, though where it was coming from was indistinguishable. The room was empty. There was nothing; no furniture, no life, and certainly nothing that should be emitting such an annoying noise.
A light, brighter than that of the white walls, suddenly engulfed the room. But this was no ordinary light; it was painful. It burnt. It singed every inch of the enclosure. The noise ceased, giving way to the unbearable heat that seemed to drag him down, down into the snowy depths, consuming, eating away at him…
Robert sat up in a rush, only to have the familiar, burning sensation shoot through his left leg. Groaning in agony, he let his body fall back onto the bed he was currently occupying.
… Bed?!
Looking around in alarm, he realized with a start there wasn't much to look at. He was in a room, that much he knew. Apart from the bed, the only other furniture set up was a dusty, old bedside table which held nothing of particular interest. The curtains were drawn tightly across the window, successfully keeping out the sun, whether it was daytime or not. Paint peeled off the walls in random places, just begging for another coat of the gross, cream coloured substance. A musty scent hung noticeably in the air though, where it came from, he deigned to know.
The room fell nicely into the category of 'run down shack'. And even then, that was too good a title for it.
Robert opened his mouth to call for help, but decided it was pointless. He hardly had the strength to lift his head, let alone start howling like a werewolf. So he sat, patiently, mulling over the thoughts that were swimming in his head. Most of them kept reminding him of the pain he was in, but he politely shut them away.
He wondered briefly how he came to be in this shabby, old room. That was the one question that irked him; he certainly didn't remember passing out here, and he certainly didn't remember his motel room looking like this.
Frowning, he shook his head clear. The more he thought about it, the more chance he had of getting a headache.
The room was eerily quiet, a notion that made him even more uncomfortable. He removed his hands from under the covers where they had been, happily enveloped in warmth (and not the painful, burning kind) and eyed them curiously. There were no marks, nothing out of the ordinary,
… Except for the red cuffs of the berry wine coloured blouse he was currently wearing. Frowning again, he realized with a start that his entire attire had been changed. No longer was he wearing the cursed jacket and its lack of warmth, nor was he wearing the nice pants he had so carelessly fallen over him, both of which were soaked through ten times over.
Soaked…? Yes, that's right. It was raining last night wasn't it?
Unnerved, and more than a little bit confused, he tried to divert his attention to something else, something less… unnerving. But the questions were nagging at him, prodding at his thoughts and unfortunately, there was nothing in the boring room he could give his full and undivided attention to. He frowned, yet again; when it occurred to him someone would have gone to some trouble to actually change his clothes.
"Oh, my," He muttered, turning his dark, crimson gaze to the bedside table. He was hoping there would be some sort of clue as to who his host was, but remembered the table was baron, and shifted his eyes back to the covers. They were red, as well.
Robert winced as he shifted his position, trying in vain to get more comfortable. The movement only reminded him of the hot, white pain he had felt earlier but somehow the pain seemed magnified now that he was aware of it. That depressed him somewhat. It was one problem to be stuck in a rundown hotel room with not even so much as a newspaper to keep him company, but it was another to be in barely bearable pain, with a temporary case of amnesia of the previous night's occurrences to throw into the mix, with no damned pain killers.
If anyone ever accused him of being moody over a few pain killers, Robert would steadfastly deny it.
Before he could drown in self-pity, a noise that sounded suspiciously like scuffling feet alerted him to another presence. Yes, he was sure of it. Something else, something alive, was in the house. He contemplated calling out again, but found there was no need.
The doorknob to this particular room turned noisily, and the door was suddenly shoved open. In sauntered a rather smug looking stranger, who promptly folded his arms across his chest, leaning his weight against the door frame.
No – not a stranger at all.
"Well, well," the not-so stranger said, smug smile still plastered on his face. "How is his lordling feeling? I thought you were a goner for sure. Ironic that the sorry sod I happened to plow down turned out to be you, of all people."
The irony was lost on Robert, but the shock of who stood before him wasn't. That silver-grey mane was unmistakable, the superior grin he wore, indistinguishable. And the hollow depths of his eyes… incomparable. No one had eyes like him, no one.
Robert continued to stare at the young man in shock, mouth agape, finding it difficult to form a coherent sentence. Of all the people it could have been and of all the people it could not have been… The man who stood before him wasn't even a contender on either list.
"Bryan Kuznetsov?!"