Timeline
Summary: A brief one shot on the past and the present of Garland and Brooklyn's relationship. He was still that ruined boy on the cold, chilling sidewalk with a beyblade in his hand and an empty heart. A little angsty.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything; the characters here belong to their God and maker, what's his face
Warnings: Mild swearing, mature content, brief sexual content
A/N: Another kudos one shot to the underappreciated Garland/Brooklyn. Because they are too hot to ignore. There is angst!Brooklyn, I just love putting the guy through hell, and even some angst!Garland.
--
Timeline
When Brooklyn was six years old, he'd beaten every single kid on their block in beyblading.
It wasn't necessarily his fault, he just had a sort of power the other children and opponents didn't understand. It didn't matter who stood up, as long as their blade went into the dish, Zeus would knock them out in a matter of seconds. Children of all ages and sizes tried to go up against the neighbourhood legend, the most powerful blader of all, and would go home with tears in their eyes.
Brooklyn hadn't understood what the big deal was, he was just better than them at beyblading, "Come on, you guys, who wants to battle?" He had said; face lighting up with a smile, approaching a group of children, some still waiting to be called home for dinner.
A young boy, laden with childish cruelty, had turned him down rudely. "No thanks," he had said coldly, two years Brooklyn's senior, "We don't play with the likes of you."
Brooklyn had been a little confused, what was 'the likes of him'? "What are you talking about?"
"I mean," The other boy had said, "People like you who don't blade, you're…you're-you're possessed! You're not a blader! By your stupid bit beast, that's why you don't lose!"
An irrational explanation, but they were young children, cruel and defiant, and Brooklyn had believed them. Believed that he was in reality, 'possessed' and that he really wasn't a blader. That moment, when Brooklyn was six years old, he had faced what many feared to face in their lifetime: rejection.
The other children had been pleased with what their alpha male had come up with. A chorus of "yeah" and "he's right!" followed his words. Then, the mood had suddenly shifted, a flick of a switch, a turn of a knob.
"Hey, it's that Siebald kid!" One had shouted.
"Yeah, he'll beat Brooklyn, he's unbeatable!" Funny how 'that Siebald kid' who had never been beaten before, was treated so much better than Brooklyn, who had never been beaten before either.
A dark skinned boy with short, silver hair and wide, gray eyes had approached them hesitantly but confidently.
"Garland!" The leader of the group had demanded, "Battle Brooklyn. None of us have beaten him yet."
Garland, six as well, had looked at Brooklyn with awe and admiration in his eyes, "Wow, you've never been beaten yet? You must be good!"
Brooklyn had been flattered, nobody had ever said those words to him before and it felt good to be praised. "Thanks," he had whispered, suddenly shy to the other boy's brilliant smile with a hint of crooked front teeth and bright, exuberant eyes.
"Just battle!" The group had become restless, "Go Garland!"
The silver haired boy had shot Brooklyn an apologetic smile, something that sent his mind racing. He had been nice to Brooklyn; nobody was ever nice to him. They just saw him as another obstacle to overcome. But not Garland. Never Garland. Brooklyn's own naïve heart had fluttered at the possibilities.
"Three, two, one," The boys had chanted, excited at the chances of somebody finally putting the neighbourhood legend and freak in his place, "Let it rip!"
"Go Apollon!" Garland had yelled, his little boy excitement almost contagious. Brooklyn had felt a little giddy then, actually enjoying himself for once in his life.
But then, sure enough, Apollon had been knocked out of the dish in minutes. It would be a lie to say that Brooklyn hadn't been scared. Finally, there was a boy who liked him enough to battle him, and now he'd probably lost all that.
But one look at Garland's face and Brooklyn had known he was wrong. The smile was blinding as the other boy went to pick up his blade. Brooklyn had felt his spirits lift and the corners of his mouth do the same as Zeus flew back into his hand.
He had been, however, discouraged, when he heard that the boys had started chanting again.
"Freak! Freak! Freak! Freak…"
It had gone on forever. Brooklyn could not remember another time that had lasted so long, digging into his nerves and embedding itself into his bones so all he would remember was the steady, staccato hum of that one word. Garland had looked confused at first, and then shock registered in his face when the boys had pushed Brooklyn over and kicked sand in his face.
"Let's get out of here, come on Garland!" The leader had said angrily, dragging the young boy with him.
Brooklyn had lain on the ground, panting and spitting sand out of mouth, refusing to cry. He would never cry.
And the boys had dragged Garland away with them, but Brooklyn could never forget the look of regret settling on his young, flawless face.
--
Ten years later, Brooklyn has grown to be a much stronger person, carefully constructed strains of control and a cocky, self assured demeanor. After joining the BEGA league, Brooklyn still charmed many, including the little aqua haired pop star of their team. Ming Ming adored him, Mystel admired him, Crusher respected him. Garland infuriated him.
Garland infuriated him.
Always around Garland did Brooklyn's tenuous, delicate strains of self control snap. He knew the other boy, taller and kinder, had the same charming exterior Brooklyn owned. He possessed the gentlemanly old fashioned persona that delighted flustered, giddy women. His beyblading skills were exceptional, possibly the best Brooklyn has ever seen. Garland's smile was a taunt, a mocking curve proving that he was born higher status than him. His touch was nothing but a tease, heavily articulated and unconsciously stimulating.
Sociopath or not, Brooklyn just couldn't find it in himself to hate Garland. So he settled for the next best thing: he craved Garland. Obsessed and pined over him so much the silver haired boy was smothered in warmth. Brooklyn became somebody Garland saw first thing in the morning and last thing at night, whether he liked it or not, Brooklyn was bound to be there.
"Looks like Hiro's doing a fair bit of training on you," Garland commented, leaning back against his chair.
Brooklyn scoffed and didn't reply, just looked out the window. He was trying to think of another way to overcome Garland's senses with his passion when the dark skinned blader spoke again.
"Do you honestly believe in all this professional beyblading crap?"
A little surprised at the question, and annoyed that it wasn't about him, Brooklyn turned towards the dark skinned boy. His profile was sharp in the moonlight, half lidded eyes, long, dark lashes, a straight nose and soft, supple lips. He hated it. "I don't care."
"Really," Garland sounded amused, "Because I remember when I was a kid battling was just for fun." He looked at Brooklyn intently and raised a fine eyebrow, "Weren't you the same?"
Brooklyn felt the satisfaction of the punch as soon as the other blader's nose started bleeding heavily. He pulled back the urge to throw another one and tilted Garland's chin up with two slender fingers, "I must admit," he breathed, knowing full well that Garland knew what he was like as a kid, "I wasn't the same."
--
Three nights later, Garland followed through with the routine of Brooklyn's urge, the insatiable, intoxicating surges of need. Their bodies were coated in sweat, the scent of skin and hatred heavy in the air. Garland's hair was untied; ribbons of silver cascading down like a silky waterfall, flowing over Brooklyn's bare shoulders, Garland's smooth back. The pulse of energy thrummed in their veins, hot, needy pants of breaths tumbling out of their greedy lips. His blunt fingernails and hands scrabbled for purchase on the other boy's smooth, dark back, leaving red welts in their wake as Garland chuckled and whispered, huskily, smoothly, "Whoa, easy there, tiger." as he came helplessly undone.
--
Two weeks later, Brooklyn lost his first battle. He'd ripped apart the stadium in doing so, all sense of reason gone. The carefully constructed web of control, ripped apart around Garland was now completely destroyed. The anger, hate and fire over the years had finally been blown apart, gate thrown open like an open exhibition.
Confused and disoriented, Brooklyn let himself go, insanity at his fingertips and terror in the back of his mind. At that moment, Brooklyn faced what most faced in their lifetime, something he'd never faced before: loss.
Soon, in the final beybattle, the power he'd once known Zeus to have came to slowly take over him. And he became his worst nightmare, the one he said he never was: possessed by his blade. He was still the ruined boy on the cold, chilling sidewalk, with a beyblade in his hand and a heavy heart. The same boy who learned at a young age that the world was a cruel and heartless place.
The demons started coming at him, chants of "Freak" and "Possessed" ringing through his head. He was six, being pushed around by the boys who rejected him. He was seven, forced to skip two grades because of his brilliance. He was eight, crying as his mother left the house again; convinced his father was out there when he died so long ago. He was nine, winning another literature award as his fifth article was published in the newspaper. He was fourteen, a straight A student with honors. He was seventeen, a blurry mess, he was twenty, a faded photograph, he was twenty five, he was dead, dead, he was dead.
He was sixteen years old, fighting Tyson Granger, feeling lonelier than ever. Tyson had the world behind him. Who did he have? It only occurred to him that there was one person Brooklyn knew "the world" didn't include. Someone "the universe" didn't even include.
He had Garland. For Brooklyn, he would always have Garland.
--
Two days later, Brooklyn was pronounced mentally unstable by the doctors.
Ming Ming sat at the corner of his bed, her eyes damp and wide with tears. "Poor Brooklyn!" She whispered, "Poor, poor Brooklyn! Don't worry, I'll take care of you! I promise you'll never have to go through all that again!"
Brooklyn sighed wearily, "Ming Ming, forget about it. I'm fine."
"Nu-uh!" The pop star shook her head, "I'll help you through all this!"
"I don't need your help."
"Brooklyn," Mystel interrupted, "BEGA's down."
Another sigh, "I know."
The blonde shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Brooklyn noticed the bright, defiant blue gaze sweep over his face familiarly, "Where are we supposed to go?"
"Home." Crusher rumbled out. The giant seemed finally at peace after so long, "We can finally go home."
A voice spoke up from the shadows of the hospital room, "Not a bad idea Crusher," it was heavy with sarcasm, "But what about the ones who don't have a home?"
The BEGA league fell silent, put in their place. They knew who didn't have a home. The lonely, sick boy on the hospital bed, tangled in white sheets. Brooklyn didn't look like himself anymore. The usually cocky, arrogant smile was now changed to a weary look of resignation. His sharp, beautiful teal blue eyes were dulled, hazy and unclear. Even his bright mass of pumpkin colored hair had fallen slightly limp, an unconscious mess atop his head, wispy bangs falling into his face.
Slowly, one by one, the teammates left Brooklyn's bedside. He didn't care at all; they weren't people he would ever give a damn about. When he was sure they'd all left, he leaned back against the pillows and sighed.
"There's still one home you can still have," Garland said, sitting down on the bed beside him. Brooklyn ignored him. "You realize my house has tons of rooms."
Brooklyn did realize. Garland's family had a roomy mansion, almost always empty because his siblings were off at one tournament or another. He knew Garland got lonely often. "Right…" He drawled, closing his eyes, "And?"
"Don't make me spell it out, Brooklyn," Garland said, exasperated, "You know you're welcome."
Brooklyn cracked open a teal eye, "And I didn't even say thank you, yet." He said sarcastically.
"Fine," Garland closed his eyes, "Don't come."
"I have to go back to my mom."
"No you don't," Garland said firmly, coldly, "Your mother doesn't need you. She's in the institution; she doesn't need you putting more stress on her. She just got better." This time, he dodged the punch Brooklyn threw, gripping his fist tightly in his own long fingers.
"She needs me," Brooklyn hissed.
"Oh Brooklyn," Garland sighed, "Who needs who? She needs you or do you need her?"
Brooklyn didn't answer.
"She's still convinced your father is with her. Let me say it again, Brook, schizophrenic." He rubbed his eyes, "How do I make you understand? Nobody loves you, Brooklyn. She doesn't love you, you have no family. Who loves you? Who really loves you?" Brooklyn couldn't meet the kind eyes sweeping over his body, "You know who, don't you?"
"And what about them?" Brooklyn knew he was taking his chances, but if he could get through to his mother he could get anything done. They could finally live the life he'd planned long ago, with the pet rabbits, birds and butterflies in a little house by the sea. They could finally run away from this mess.
--
One year later, Garland looks out the window at Brooklyn playing in his garden. He's grown stronger and taller. His eyes are now bright and sharp, and his smile is full and exuberant. The time he spends beyblading has been getting him better each and every day. He still tends to ignore visitors, following Garland like a tail, but is generally more tolerant and a better person to be around.
Garland hangs up his towel and shakes his hair out a little, stray droplets catching on the windowsill. He strolls out into the empty hallway towards the garden. Grabbing the bag of birdseeds settled on the table, he slips on his sneakers halfway and pushes the door open, sunlight hitting him with warmth.
Brooklyn looks up, a chickadee on his fingertips, "Don't startle her," he warns as he sees Garland approach him.
"I'm not exactly vibrating the ground, am I?" Garland smirks, pouring some birdseed in his hand and offering it to the little bird, "Did you take your meds today?"
Brooklyn nods as the chickadee flies off, "I thought I told you not to scare her off."
"Well sorry," Garland scoffs, "Not my fault she doesn't like people who offer her food." He notices the rabbit curled against Brooklyn's side, "Hey, cute. Can I touch it?"
"No," Brooklyn bats his hands away, annoyed, "You'll just kill it."
"You know," Garland mutters, grabbing Brooklyn's jaw and tilting his head up to look at him, "I'm not a sadist."
Brooklyn shrugs, "You could be," he says as his words are muffled by the other boy's lips. He pulls away teasingly.
"What?" Garland grumbles, "Not in front of the 'kids'?"
Scoffing, Brooklyn turns back to the little rabbit, "I think I like him more." Before he can say another word, however, a strong hand is gripping his jaw open and slipping a tiny pill into his mouth. His noises of protest are muted by another kiss; hot, wet and open, Garland's tongue tenderly forcing the pill down his throat. When he's finally released, he's breathless, charmed and angry.
"You can't fool me that easily, Brooklyn," Garland grins lazily and Brooklyn wants to punch him, "I know you didn't take your meds today."
"Aren't you so proud of yourself," Brooklyn says, rolling his eyes, "Is this the future as you foretold it?"
"No." Garland is suddenly serious, tilting Brooklyn's head up to stare him in the eyes, "No foretelling, neither of us are goddamn fortune tellers. Okay? No more."
Brooklyn wants to say no, just to spite him. But one glance at the other blader's face he shrugs and turns away.
"The pills help, don't they?" Garland asks softly, "No more nightmares."
The nightmares. Monstrous, torturous creatures that are never talked about. When Brooklyn wakes up screaming in cold sweat, it's always an avoided subject over coffee the next morning. But now, sleeping beside Garland, the dreams have taken a brief hiatus, and Brooklyn no longer sees the flashbacks, terror running down his spine. But it's not because of the pills. It's never because of the pills.
Brooklyn shrugs, "Yeah, thanks to the pills, no more nightmares." He tucks his head into Garland's neck and breathes in the musky, familiar scent. There's no need to tell him. He already knows.
Because eleven years ago, Brooklyn fell in love.
--
End
Hmm, not as angsty as I would've liked it, but I didn't want to go over-the-top. I hope that provided at least a good read, and would appreciate it if you reviewed!