Author: Neiize

Disclaimer: I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the storyline and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

Warning: Language

Author's Notes: It seems that plot ideas keep popping into my head around the time intervals of 1-6 A.M., which is not the best thing for my sleeping cycles. Alas, If it's a good idea, it cannot be ignored. Reviews would be very kindly appreciated, as it is one of the only things that keep me going.

Here we go...

The One Where It All Starts

Five reasons why this guy is the hottest thing I've ever seen:
1.) Those eyes. My God, I've never seen blood red eyes in my life. He's not wearing contacts, either. You can tell, because there isn't that fake look to it. You'd think it'd be creepy, but it's endearing on him.
2.) Hair the colour of morning doves. Its grey, but not the look-at-me-I'm-more-mature-than-I-actually-look-so-I-decided-to-take-my-grandfather's-hair-tips kind of look. More like the natural, flawless colour of a shiny new nickel. Or kinky handcuffs. Whatever floats your boat.
3.) Butt. 'Nough said.
4.) He's frowning, and it just makes him that much more delectable. A smile has no place on those perfect, thin lips. They're pink. God, they're pink, pure bright pink. In this decade that's as rare as a talented Disney star.
5.) He's holding my Mocha Cappuccino in his hand, and it looks a notch less delectable than he does. That just gives him another point.

Score? 1,000,001/10.

"Sir?" He asks, sounding completely bored.

"Hmmmmm?" I drone. He pulled me out of my train of thought, the train's conductor of course being him, in his birthday suit.

"Your coffee,"

"What about it?" I ask, sounding completely out of it.

He sighs, trying not to look frustrated in front of a customer. One obviously lacking in the noggin department, but still a customer. "Take it."

"Oh," I say, sounding like I get it.

Pause.

"Oh! My coffee! Finally. God, service here is horrible," I joke.

He looks at me like he wants to splash the scalding drink onto my face.

"Uh," I stammer. Rebound, Kon, rebound! Aim for smart and sophisticated. Say something witty.

"Hey, did you see that ugly Volvo parked outside? It looks like the backside of Sarah Jessica Parker's ass. Those things should be outlawed."

"That's my car."

I cock an eyebrow. Minus one point for the pug ugly car. "Really?"

"No. Please take your coffee, sir." He's grinding his teeth now. Shiny, white teeth. Yum.

"Wait, it's not your car? Why'd you say it was? I thought I offended you! You could have given me some warning that you had a twisted sense of humor, or something."

"Sir, just please-"

"What kind of music do you like?" I try again. "I really-"

"Are you mentally retarded?" He blurts, losing all patience.

I gawked at him for half a second at him. So, it seems like his polite, hot, tempting, hot, sexy, hot, little coffee-worker boy look was all a façade.

I start to respond, but then I realize that there's an angry guy standing behind me with a hardhat, a tool belt, an upper body the size of Chicago, and a heavy looking hammer in said tool belt, clicking his tongue like his life depended on it.

Even though he has this expression on his face like he wants to kill me, he looks like the patient type. Well, he looks like the ugly type, but one could hope. He'll understand if I ask him to wait a couple of minutes, won't he?

"Hey, asshole, could you hurry the hell up? I've eaten kids bigger than you for just bumping into me, let alone you pissing me off by standing there like a dumbass."

Me thinks he's not the understanding type.

"Sorry," I grumble, scrapping the idea. I grab my cappuccino quickly and stalk out, but not before catching a little smile on Hotty McHott Hott's adorably pink lips. I wondered if he found my awkward bumbling cute, or if he was just happy that I was getting out of the place before he had to clean up the drool that was bound to let loose if I had stared at him for ten seconds longer.

I cringe when the cold air of a New York winter hit my face. You'd think I'd be used to that whole shock of how wickedly cold it is in mid-North America in December, but no. It's like I came here from Jamaica on a ray of sunshine and crack. I wrapped my arms around my Popsicle of a torso while I head straight towards the bus stop that was a few steps away from me. No idea where it's going, but it's going, which was the point.

I walk into the little bus hedge, catching the eye of the only woman sitting on the bench. I sit next to her, nursing my cappuccino. Good mocha. But what the hell was up with the sizes? Tall, grandé? I'm sorry, I don't speak coffee; the last time I checked, it was an inanimate object, and did not need its own language and serving sizes. Stupid Americans.

While I down the rest of my drink, I realize that I didn't pay for it. I stop drinking quickly, imaging the displeased look that would cross Hotty McHott Hott's face when he realized he was a few bucks short.

"Ha! I'm so stealth!" I yell too loudly, big smile plastered onto my face.

The woman sitting beside me suddenly twitches like someone punched her. She turns her wide eyes to stare at me, looking all scared.

I bite my tongue, resisting the temptation to laugh. Then I continue drinking my coffee as if nothing had happened, as if she was the insane one, not me. Keep telling yourself that, Ray.

I rub my forehead; trying to get my fingers to magically turn into liquid Advil so I could mush the sucker into my head like there was no tomorrow isn't quite working as well as I hoped it would. I dropped my hands and stared at the empty Starbucks cup.

There was something hard prodding my thigh, and I dipped my hand into my jean pocket to see what it was. Sweet! My iPod. Thought I left the thing back home, along with the rest of my life.

I quickly found and selected Reptilia by The Strokes and listened to the fast paced song with a sense of familiarity. I remember the days when I could sit in my nice, warm, cozy home, Facebook stalk people with this song streaming through my big, expensive iPod speakers while I took a huge sip of a French vanilla coffee from Tim Hortons, not Starbucks. I'd be pissed that this coffee is way too overpriced if I had actually paid for it.

Anyways. Back to me.

So, let me just get this off my chest before we start getting all chummy with each other.

I'm gay.

I know what you're thinking: You're gay! No way! I would have never suspected!

Har, har. And Ashlee Simpson is a talented singer in your world, isn't she?

Let me just explain the extent of this now. Simply put, I'm gay as a daffodil. Well, not stereotypically. I don't like chick flicks, I don't talk with an a lisp and the tone of someone who just inhaled a tank full of helium, I don't cry when I break a nail, and I don't attend gay pride parades with nothing but a rainbow-coloured G-string.

I'm more like one of those normal gay guys who doesn't flaunt it by wearing thongs and a butt plug out into public. I'm pretty well-rounded, except when I see guys like Hotty. Then my brain kinda just melts into a seeping mush of prepubescent teenage girl.

Back to me. Gay, gay, gay. Gayer than a cocktail made out of actual cocks. As you can tell I'm not quite bummed out by this fact, as I've come to accept it over the course of my nineteen years. My parents, on the other hand, were a bit more than "bummed". Try homicidal. Try disbelieving. Try antagonizing. Try angry to the point of actually becoming purple, which is quite a feat for us yellow people.

I don't really want to go into detail about how the whole fiasco went down, so here's a transcript of the events:

RAY: Mom, dad? Can I talk to you a minute? It's kinda… really, really, life-alteringly important.
MOM: What's wrong, sweetheart?
RAY: Well….
DAD: C'mon, son. Spit it out.
RAY: I just… I don't know how to… Oh, God.
MOM: What is this about, Raymond?
DAD: If it's about the broken vase in the basement, we already know. We took a hundred from your account to pay for it. No harm, no foul.
RAY: Because a broken vase is life-alteringly important, Dad.
DAD: Hey. Watch the mouth.
RAY: Sorry. I'm just nervous.
MOM: I'm worried, dear. You're sweating, and you look so pale.
DAD: He always looks pale.
MOM: That's true. Poor little baby's white as a ghost. We should take him to some sort of tanning salon, something.
DAD: Lin, the boy's not a fag.
RAY: Actually, you'd be surprised.

And I'm pretty sure you can imagine what went down next, but let me fill you in on just one little piece of the puzzle: they must have seized my whole bank account with the amount of artifacts my dad clobbered after he finally believed my confession, and my mom, being the effeminate woman that she is, tried to perk up the situation by mumbling "I've always wanted a daughter," between my Dad's shouting of "GET OUT, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE YOU FAG!" And so, I was out the door before I got to see the most recent thing my Dad smashed to bits.

And, you know, being kicked out for being gay isn't something I really wanted stapled onto my social life or university application when I wrote in the field of "residence", so I kind of just took off. Out of the country, as a matter of fact. I lived in Canada, years ago, before the dawn of time. Okay, three days ago, but whatever. I'm the dramatic type.

What's worse? New York sucks donkey balls. It's dirty everywhere, everything is too expensive even with the recent rise of the Canadian dollar, and there's about 3.2 hobos for every block (I did the math on the bus). Besides the encounter of the boy I have so rightly decided to nickname Hotty, it's been pretty horrible.

Another man enters the little bus booth I've been sitting in and takes a seat beside me. I shift a bit as to give him more room, and pull my legs up to my chest. I start flipping through my songs, don't find anything that fits my mood, and replay Reptilia. I sigh a little louder than necessary, and the balding jackass turns and gives me a glare worse than Hotty had been giving me, and he looked like he was about to stick a knife through my heart. This guy must have a portable shovel in his ugly Jansport backpack to finish the job.

"Do you mind?" He asks.

My incredibly annoying habit of breathing must be ticking him off.

"Sorry," I grumble for the second time today.

I know what you're thinking, again, because I'm a mind reader. How am I a mind reader? I'm Asian. But anyways, you're thinking, Ray, seriously, just go back home and talk with your folks. I'm sure they'll understand.

Har, har. You're a big fan of Ashlee, am I right?

I can't go back because you, my friend, have never met my parents. My mom? Sure, I could sit down, have a nice talk, and tell her how I feel. She'd welcome me back with open arms.

My old man? Ha. He's this hardcore Jesus lover that would thank God if he took a shit on his face, rather then punch him in the gut like any sane person would. He's been to millions of those anti-gay protests, sends snooty glares to the lesbian couple that comes to the hospital to get ultrasounds every month, and even has a bunch of those "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" bumper stickers. Stupid hate monger.

In fact, my Dad has told me on several occasions he would have become a priest if his Dad didn't object and hadn't pushed him into medicine.

And I would have told them sooner if my dad wasn't pushing hate on me. Funny how things work out.

I look up and see the man and the woman sitting on my opposite ends stand up, and I pull out both earbuds from my ears.

The bus had finally arrived, after approximately half an hour. Back home, the bus stops had digital clocks that told you when each bus was coming, and it was usually no longer than 15 minute intervals between each arrival.

Someone get the Americans an LED screen, for Christ's sake.

I walked into the bus, and after the other two paid up, it was my turn. I dug one hand into my pocket and pulled out an American five. Oh God, the whole process of getting my money exchanged was somewhere between excruciatingly annoying and funny. The attendant was some Mexican lady with an accent stronger than Arnold Schwarzenegger. She was speaking English to me, and the whole time she mistook me for Mexican and started speaking her native tongue. And you know how she said 'it's a'? Izza. I died of laughter. Good times.

I looked at the bus driver. Stocky, mid 30's, grumpy. Hey there, sunshine.

"Is this enough?" I ask.

"It's 3 bucks, kid. I don't got any change for ya."

I don't got any change for ya. I can feel my I.Q. lowering by the second.

"Keep the change," I say hesitantly. I only have two hundred on me, and so far I'd blown fifty getting here.

"Whatever you say, kid." He grabs the five from me and sticks it in the money slot.

I start walking over to the back to find a more private seat. The front isn't crowded, but the rear end of the bus is nearly deserted (ha, I said rear end). When I take my seat I only keep one earphone in so I can be aware of all the creeps around me. Don't want to get "accidently" stabbed. Health care isn't free here.

I sit there for about a minute, concentrating on the song I've been listening to for the past 5 minutes, when the bus pulls into this street that looks the epitome of the word "hell hole". Even being so far from the ground, you could see this huge rat squirm its way through a water pipe and into a sewer.

God, isn't New York supposed to be glamorous and upscale? Whoever the hell interpreted this piece of crap as 'the place to be' deserves multiple foots up his ass.

Oh, my God. Is it normal for there to be a limp body strewn on the streets?

I smiled a bit when, coincidently, the next lyric of Reptilia reflected exactly what I was thinking:

This world is not for you.

I was still staring out the window, looking at old abandoned houses with wooden planks nailed onto their windows, when I saw this not-so-crappy looking motel. It's not like I could quite afford a stay at the Hilton, so I guess I should settle with whatever comes my way.

I reach up to pull the yellow cord that signaled a stop to the bus driver, but didn't find one. What the hell? They can't even afford to put a wire on this bus? That extra two bucks I coughed up should fucking cover it!

I stood up suddenly, waving my hands in the air, shouting, "STOP!"

A few of the passengers looked at me with bored expressions, like this was normal. The others didn't even twitch.

"Hey! I said stop! Stop the bus!"

Silence.

"Fucking cunts," I griped.

It's funny how it's not so quiet anymore.

"What the hell did you just say?" Asks the same douche from the bus stop, unibrow wiggling like a worm. The other passengers were looking at me with expressions ranging from disapproving to irritated.

I ignored him and walked to the front of the bus. The driver had stopped for the light, and I could walk back to the motel quickly.

"I'm talking to you, punk!"

I turned around, just about ready to snap. "Fuck off."

He stood up for his seat, wobbling slightly even though the bus was at a dead stop. I giggled. He got madder. "What's so funny, assmunch?!"

Shit. I'm considering the odds of winning if I got into a fight, and I don't really think I could take on Rob Reiner here alone. "I sai-"

That's when the tired looking driver opened the front opening to the bus, and said, "Just get outta this here place, kid."

Even though I wanted to slap him for butchering the English language, I walked a bit too quickly towards the door and muttered a quick "thanks" when he was close enough to hear. He nodded, and I jumped off the vehicle and onto the gritty pavement.

As the bus drove away, I inhaled the dirty air deeply and started choking. Wonderful. Even breathing is a threat to your health here.

I turned around and walked back to where I saw the motel. Jesus Christ, this place is like one of those scenes you see in the movie where those drive-by shootings always happen and the innocent little kid minding his own business always gets hit and dies and no one cares because who the hell is he, anyways? The movie wasn't even about him.

I started fast walking, feeling my heart beat faster. I made it back to the motel quickly and stepped inside, expecting to feel a sense of security.

It's hard to feel secure when you walk into a robbery.

"Put your hands up!", the masked thief yelled, a gun in his hand, which besides my iPod has to be the most sophisticated piece of technology I've seen in this country so far.

I wasn't sure whether or not to put my arms up, simply because I had just walked in, and the robber had his back to me; it's not like such a welcoming place like this would have a the jingle of a bell to signal entrance, so I could safely say that my coming in had gone unnoticed to the douche with the gun.

But what was I supposed to do? I'm not exactly the heroic type, as most people who scream when a fly is within a two meter radius aren't. But, I'm pretty sure if I ran somewhere for help, I wouldn't find anyone with a cell phone and all the houses are pretty much empty in these here parts (God help me, I'm talking like them).

"Gimme all the money, lady!" The robber yelled, pointing the gun towards the receptionist. I knew she had noticed me because her bright blue eyes had flicked to me for a fraction of a second, so I guessed she didn't look at me now for help because she didn't want the thief to kill me. Probably, she was expecting me to do something unselfish and noble.

Wonderful. Now I have to break character to please people.

When I took a step forward to somehow help, I felt the quick spasm of fear that was missing when I first walked in shoot up my veins, and I froze in my spot. Everything suddenly fell into place. Oh my God, it's a robbery. He has a fucking gun! Don't fucking move, he'll kill you! Shit, shit, shit! I'm going to die in fucking America!

I watched with horror as the front desk lady pulled out a few rolled up bills of cash from under the table she was sitting at. I gulped. The second he's done with her he's going to turn around and see me. Then what do I do? What will he do?

I wanted to move, to run the hell out of the door I was a few steps away from and never look back. But I couldn't move. I was lodged in my place, frozen with fear. I was surprised he didn't hear my fucking heart pop out of my chest and fall to the ground.The robber looked through the few measly wads of cash he had received. "That's all?"

The receptionist nods.

"What the fuck!" He yells, throwing the money to the floor. "This gun cost more than that!"

He starts pacing, and that's when he notices me standing there, practically shitting my pants. He raises his gun and points it right at me. I feel like screaming, but my throat is so dry I can't even swallow, let alone work up a good yell.

He looks me up and down before he talks. "Whatcha doin' here, rich boy? Get lost?"

I stare, too scared to say a word.

"Gimme all your money, kid. Mommy and Daddy can't help you now," He sneers.

Remind me, why is America the place to 'live the dream'?

"I only have one hundred fifty," I say honestly. I'm surprised that I can even talk. My voice cracked on the last word.

"For fuck's sake," He says, sounding frustrated. Poor, poor gun wielding maniac. Can't even make a good living these days. Then he walks towards me, and presses the gun to my temple. The receptionist brings her hands to cover her mouth, holding back a sob. "How do I know you're not lying?"

I ignore him. "I have an iPod," I say. On the inside I'm having a stroke, but on the outside I look as calm as calm can be. "You can have that and the money. Just leave me and the woman alone."

He punches me in the gut, and I hunch over. I hear a loud scream from the back, and the douche beside me yells "Shut up! Shut up, you bitch!" to the defenseless woman. I'm angry, but then again I'm scared for my life. I bite back my cries of pain, still hunched over.

"Don't fucking make any deals with me, pretty boy, you got that?" He says. I guess people don't take very kindly to iPods in this country.

I nod.

He sighs loudly, as if having to deal with a tough decision. Kill everyone, or take the profit and leave? His brain must be working a mile a minute.

"Cough it up, pageant queen."

I resist scoffing at the insult and pull out my iPod from one pocket and the money from the other. I hold them up, my hands shaking. My gut still hurts from the blow. He takes both quickly and runs out the door.

I'm still shaking when I fall to my knees, breathing heavily. My eyes are wide, as if I just witnessed something horribly indecent, like child birth. Well, I did just witness a robbery. That's got to count for something.

I can hear the woman receptionist crying, and then I hear heels clacking towards me. I look up. She's pretty tall, or maybe I just think that 'cause I'm on the floor.

I pull myself up on my feet. She smiles halfheartedly, tears still streaming down her face. "Are you alright, dear?"

I feel a fault line break in my heart, and I let out a tear I had been saving for later. Her voice just reminded me of how much I miss my Mom. "Yeah."

"Oh, sweetie." She says in that damn voice, which causes a few more tears to spill over. She runs back to her desk and brings back a box of tissues, which I decline, my masculinity stepping in. I wipe away the tears quickly.

"I…" I pause, before I was sure I could trust myself to speak. "I need a room."

"A room?" She asks, before her mind makes the connection to the words. "Oh, a room. Of course, dear. Right this way."

I follow her as she walks back to the desk with the box of tissues in hand. Then she stops, seeing the money the robber had thrown on the floor. I shiver, thinking of the bastard.

She bends over to pick up the three wads of cash. "It's no where near enough what you had to give up, but it's still something," she says quietly, like she was talking to herself. She walks over and hands me the money. "Take it. You saved my life."

My parents (God, what I would do to see them again) have always taught me to never except gifts when not necessary. Just a basic rule of manners in the Kon household. But I feel my basic struggle to live kick in, and I take the cash without a second thought. "Thanks."

She smiles, this time meaning it. For Christ's sake. She smiles like my Mom, too. "Don't mention it, darling. Now let's get you settled in, shall we?"

I wait as she types a few things into her Jurassic-period computer. I notice the mangled up tissues on the desk, with mascara and eyeliner and that scrapped streaked all over them. I grind my teeth, getting mad at the douche that made me look like a wimp, and scared the kind woman into tears.

Although I'm not the bravest guy, I feel kinda like a pussy for just standing there, giving my shit away to some piece of crap that probably couldn't even spell 'gun' let alone know how to shoot one. But then again, I feel like I did the right thing, because even if I did something witty or brave I'd probably be in a morgue right now. Oh, what a life I live. Picking fights with poor bus passengers one hour, and pleading with insane gunmen the next. The thrills just never stop.

"Name?" She asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Ray Kon."

"Age?"

"Nineteen." I answer. I wait for her to punch it all in. She types pretty slow.

"Alrighty sweetie, you're good to go. These are your keys," –she points to a ratty set of rusted keys- ", and the washroom in just down the hall. You're on the second floor. You're welcome to take the elevator if you'd like."

Wow. An elevator. I didn't even think they'd have one of those here.

I thank her again and start walking towards the crusty looking buttons on the far wall that are I assume are for the elevator when I stop and turn around.

"Oh, I forgot to pay you," I say, flipping through the bills. There's around a hundred bucks, all in tens.

"Don't worry about it." she dismisses.

I look at her. "….Seriously?"

Another point of manners in the Kon household: nothing is for free, even free samples at Costco. If it's not yours, you don't take it. I feel like I'm committing a crime here.

She smiles at me. "Sweetheart, you saved both of our lives. This is the very least I could do. Now, enjoy your free ride and go get settled in." She looks me up and down before adding jokingly, "Don't forgot to unpack."

I smile at the corny joke. "Thank you. Again."

"No problem, darling."

So then I run from the awkward moment and press the spider-web encrusted button. The door opens with a creak, and gets stuck halfway through. I roll my eyes and squeeze in, pressing the '2' button.

As I stand there in the crappy ass elevator with not even some music to take my mind of things, I realize how hungry I am and that I really need to take a shit. God, what in fuck's name is that smell? It's like a cross between a bean-induced fart and a dead… something. I can't even think properly anymore. There's probably mercury is the air. I'm dying. I'm going insane.

The elevator suddenly jerks to a stop, and I cling onto nothing for support, meaning I fall straight onto my ass. I look around, and the lights in the little box go off, leaving me as blind as a fucking bat.

"Fan-fucking-tastic." I say.

Suddenly, I see the boy back in the coffee shop in my head, too tired to be thinking dirty and flirtatious thoughts. It's funny how I started the day just like any other, waking up in my big, cozy, king size bed, and most likely ending it off in a two-bit bed frame, no mattress involved (I'm psychic, remember?).

And then I hear something snap, and half of the elevator goes down in a tilt. I slide down with it, stopping only when I hit the wall.

Welcome to the freedom land, Kon.

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