I own nothing.
a/n I was an apologetic crack shipper when I was 11. I'm 21 right now. Nothing much has changed apart from adding an 'un' before apologetic.
Two things, I've not watched beyblade in years. I've just used the wiki to supplement my knowledge of things. If you happen to notice anything, terms that happen to be non-canon, it's because I'm just writing my own story using the creator's characters. This is AU.
Second thing is, I don't usually write for beyblade. Beyblade is fun. I'm not. We make an awkward conversation. This isn't the kind of romance you guys might be expecting. But I'm not a romance person but I try. Also, I always come back to edit!
Also, Brooklyn's character is inspired by hoplessanimeromantic's Healing and Redemption. Kuudos to that work!
I hope you enjoy, regardless.
.
.
.
She snuck into in the background of a newspaper clipping about the BBA revolutions. She doesn't smile. Her eyes are fixed on something to the left of the camera.
He doesn't think much of whatever she stares at, or even her.
Commentary about Tyson and Kai—and their momentous rise to victory and to the BBA Revolutions and their staggering defeat of the BEGA super team—gets under his skin. He reads half-way and glances at the section below it.
This article is about him. They confiscated his bit-chip. They flashed a picture of him with dark circles, messy hair-do and ripped jackets.
"With sincerest apologies," He tells the press and their flashing lights and microphones stuffed under his chin and their relentless questions. "It's my responsibility towards my fans to maintain the image of beyblading. I publicly condemn Boris and his actions towards harming public peace for the sake of gain. And therefore, I step down from beyblading, lest I cause further harm."
Because that's what Mr. Dickenson calls, "a responsible thing to do" for his younger, doe-eyed, eager-faced, chirpy fans holding little replicas of his Zeus beyblade and with disappointed faces. He's sorry. He's just a boy. He's not the pillar of perfection. He's just a boy with a beyblade.
He mentions nothing of BBA's head or Dickenson's reminder.
Brooklyn glances once more at the picture of the BBA Revolutions. The happy, rambunctious and dynamic duo with the addition of a girl in the background. She's not like them, and she ruins the picture.
He flips the page to do the crossword puzzle.
.
.
.
Nearly a year later, the world championships buzz and clatter in the beyblading world. Garland invites him to return from whatever he's been doing.
Brooklyn shrugs. He could warm a bench and throw around some tips. A willful reminder of BEGA's wrath, perhaps. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and waits for Crusher taxi to arrive. Garland and Mystel relax behind him on the couches. Ming ming texts beside him.
"He's going to be late," she calls out to Garland. Mystel doesn't care. He averts his eyes. "He's stuck in traffic."
"Well…" Garland sighs, "we're stuck then I guess. I was kind of hoping this would get cleared out quickly."
Brooklyn pulls his hood over his hair and as a team pass him by.
Then she walks in.
She is all efficiency, bluntness and energy, all in a slender gait, blue-blouse, a pencil skirt, make-up and pinned up hair. What was her name? She's their manager, isn't she?
They aren't that much different.
Most people don't notice these things. Most people pass her by, because they are so busy. He doesn't know what attracts him. Her heels click in rhythm, she dances around bustling people and their large cases in the crowded hotel lobby. She flicks up her sunglasses. It's all so smooth, so rhythmic and easy.
"Checking in for the Blade-breakers." She says. "Hiromi Tachibana. I called to make a reservation, four rooms."
And then she waits. And he watches. The receptionist fumbles with the phone receiver. Then she hands her the book and gold pen. She signs in swiftly with a smooth, easy twist of her pen.
And while this happens, she moves her thumb across the screen of her cell-phone, checks something and frowns.
Most people don't notice her, but most people aren't him. They notice the team that comes after her. And people, despite their busy schedules, pause, look, register the Bladebreakers. They returned to their old name (Ming Ming mentioned to them on their way here. Felt like it fit more of their identity, or something).
Mystel rolls off his seat so he can see them better. Garland stops tapping his foot on the silvery surface of the hotel floor. Ming Ming looks up from her phone.
"Yo, looks like the Bladebreakers are here."
His eyes are still on her though.
She flicks her sunglasses down, takes the bundle of key cards from the receptionist and turns down towards the hallway leading into the lounge, away from the euphoria and applause. She moves past him, and she leaves behind a trail of elegant lavender that tickles on his senses.
It unnerves him.
.
.
.
As a child, he remembers moths. They dance around city lamps and are bathed with the incandescent glow.
That's what she reminds him of. A lamp. That's what he feels like he's like in front of her. A moth. She's got this easy smile and this easy look. He wants to be like that. That's when he thinks when he sees her later. She sits in the lounge, leafs through one of the local entertainment magazines and leans on her hand. Then she looks up and at him, and doesn't flinch. He does.
He's just waiting for Garland to finish complaining to the receptionist about the cold shower, so they could go train or sight-see. Depends on Garland—if Garland was feeling rested.
He has decided to start opening up more to the people around him.
"Hello." She smiles at him.
"Hi." He replies back. It's rude to stare, Brooky. "I'm sorry." He adds silkily.
"Brooklyn right?"
"Yes."
"I'm Hiromi."
"I know." He charms her with a pleasant look, a slouch and a hand in her direction. She takes it. "I know—from the Blade-breakers, right?"
"You know of me?"
She gives his hand a soft and pert shake. Her hands are cold. He shivers as she pulls away.
"Yes." He says.
"Well." She glances away. "Hardly anyone remembers me. That's nice."
"Nice?" He asks her.
And she gives him a genuine smile.
"That you bothered to know who I am."
Good grief. Her smile makes him want to…evaporate. It's just her name. It's just something he wishes that people would remember instead of—Takao or Kai.
"I…" He breathes. "It's no trouble."
And that's when he feels eyes on his back. He turns to see Kai Hiwatari on the opposite end of the room. The same Kai Hiwatari who he's put into the hospital. The same Kai who hates him—who drove him half insane and left grasping at the straws of the fabric of his imperfect reality—he doesn't hate Kai.
Don't get him twisted. He hates Kai but…he's probably the only one. Kai makes him feel all twisty inside.
He stepped back and leaves without another word.
.
.
.
She's recurrent and he sees her with the rest of the team.
She's in the backwashes of their conversation, the guiding voice and the map for their day—smoothly interrupting Takao when he says something. Today, her hair is down in elegant curls. It reaches her shoulder-blades complete with a bomber jacket and a black vest. She's also wearing a plaid skirt.
She catches his gaze.
He tries to look away but ultimately fails. So he looks back and she's smiling at him.
Then he catches Kai looking back at the two of them—first at her and then at him. Kai lets his gaze linger on him slightly before turning to her. He catches the words on his lips.
"Hilary."
"Mhmm?" She turns to him.
And Kai's eyes flicker to him with a challenge. He feels vines in his chest and they constrict his air. He turns away as Garland and Ming Ming enter the room, bickering bitterly about what they want to do.
"Brooklyn?" Ming Ming calls him.
He doesn't want to give Kai the satisfaction of having won anything, even if he's no longer a beyblader.
"Yeah?" He chokes out.
"You alright?"
He shakes his head.
"Let's get out of here. I hate being in public."
His team nods. He pulls his hood over his head, but he doesn't miss Ming Ming's glance at Garland.
.
.
.
The next few days are easier. Training, sleep, training, sleep.
Then, after exiting the local gym that's reserved for the Bladebreakers, he sees her alone, waiting by one of the pillars of the training gym. She stares out at the rain.
They are a block away from the hotel. There's a forecasted thunderstorm and this is the beginnings of it. She wears her earphones and he hears a buzz. She wears a crop-top, high waist jeans and a sling shoulder bag. She turns to look at him.
"Remember to use your umbrella," she says. "If you mind getting wet."
And then she winks at him. He laughs.
"Oh—thanks for the reminder." He swings open his umbrella. "What are you doing out in this rain?" He asks her.
"I was trying to get home after the practice." She indicates the cooler beside her feet along with the folded towels. "But well, I don't have an umbrella."
"Where's your team?"
"They went back early. I stayed back to clean up. Where's yours?"
"They went back early." He echoes and she laughs. "You're really dedicated."
"It's in my job description." She smiles. "I'm getting paid."
"Oh."
"It's not all that bad." She tells him. He didn't ask if it was. "Some people beyblade, some people like the spotlight—I like the background. I like managing things and making everyone's life easier." She's justifying herself? "I don't beyblade…" She sighs. "I don't know why people care so much if I do. It's like I CAN'T be of help if I don't."
"It's okay if you don't." He tells her. "I mean it just means your world's not all about spinning tops."
She laughs and laughs at that and he wonders why he hears breaking glass in her voice. She grabs the pillar with her fingernails and pulls at the cement and grins at him.
"I'm just a lowly manager who gets paid. Nothing more."
"Controlling the affairs of your team for their convenience… sounds difficult. That's amazing."
She looks up, and at him—regarding him like he's just told her that she's won a prize. He wants to slink away. It's bright. He's just a moth that flutters around her. The light is supposed to be impartial to him. He blinks.
"It's therapeutic. Control is, isn't it?" She asks him then.
He doesn't know what to say about that. It's so sudden. But then he realizes immediately that she's talking about herself. He's not a stranger to the area so he thinks he could apply his input.
"Cathartic," he corrects her. "Feels deceptively cathartic."
"Right," she says. She's watching him, with quiet crimson eyes. "Right, cathartic. You might be right about that. It can be stressful for some people but for me it's like I'm getting my life in order."
"You need balance not control."
And she laughs hysterically again.
"But the world is imbalanced, like insensitive teammates, like hurtful people, like irritating things and like being left behind all the time—like the way Tyson thinks he's invincible…that pig-head. I want control. I'm sick of balance. I just want to let loose sometimes, you know?" She tacks the word on the end like distasteful food.
He doesn't say anything at first. But he defends Takao. Takao is someone important to him.
"He's not like that."
"You don't know him. I bring out the wors—sorry, I'm blabbing. This is unprofessional and you don't need to hear my personal affairs." She clenches her fist. "Sorry, I had an argument with him."
And just like that, her switch is back on again. She flickers and he blinks. Then he realises what's happening.
"I may…know what you are talking about but I don't want to assume. Instead, I'll ask, is there anything I can do?"
"Like I want to take a nice walk and not have to look at tomorrow's schedule, check in on them or make sure they get their dinner delivered to their bedrooms." She laughs. "You're sweeter than I've heard. I'm just going to nap after this. I'll get over it by morning."
She pats his shoulder.
He almost flinches. She pulls away.
Control is not therapeutic. Control is not cathartic. It's a coping mechanism when you lose. He's tasted failure and he never thought he'd hate the after-taste. It's like watching those little boys with purple Zeus look-a-likes, looking heartbroken at the news he delivered.
He reads a lot.
"Want to walk back?" She breaks his thoughts. She's holding out a palm in the receding rain. She curls her fingers around a drop. She curls it into a tight fist.
He sends her a look.
She nods towards his umbrella.
"If you don't mind walking me back."
And feels stupid before nodding and flipping it open. It springs out—against the cool night rain. He holds it out for her. She mentions something about him being a perfect gentleman. He replies that she's only mistaken. He's being courteous.
"Sometimes," She tells him. "Sometimes that's all someone needs. Someone who's kind and considerate enough to share an umbrella and some tasteful humor."
He laughs.
"If holding out an umbrella makes me kind, then what does—" He glances at her cooler, a bundle of towels and her beaming smile. "—your consideration make you."
"A manager."
He doesn't think he's kind either. Tyson's kind. He's not. But he doesn't say anything, because he's never done something like this for someone else. It's nice. She's happy. He's surprised at himself.
And for a second, it's like she's forgotten about her loss with Tyson.
.
.
.
They ace the preliminaries.
Rookies are easily beaten when you've almostbeaten the best. But perhaps, Brooklyn thinks, as he watches Crusher congratulate his opposing team despite their loss, perhaps they'll get stronger. And someday, these rookies will beat them. The thrill of watching that match still runs through his veins. He loves it.
The stadium lights are bright, too bright.
"Yeah." Garland responds. "I suppose so. We ain't invincible. We're just here to have fun."
"There's always someone stronger."
"Boris said he would make us the strongest team." Garland said, he flickers his eyes towards him. "He was wrong, wasn't he?"
"Hah." He meets Dickenson's glance and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. Can't control everything."
.
.
.
He sees her again. She approaches him casually. And that's a first for him. People usually don't approach him casually—due to his fuck-off aura or smug desire to see them crushed. He's not like this. The past six months humble him.
He doesn't think he should still be forgiven for all those times.
"Do you want to sight-see?" She asks him. "With me?" She adds.
"Aren't you helping the blade-breakers?" He asks her, uncertainly.
"They are in bed." She says. "Today's the day-off. Everyone gets a day off on our team to just unwind and relax." She doesn't sound relaxed. "Tyson's idea."
"Uh…" Brooklyn begins. He stares down at his waffles.
She pauses.
"This is not like me at all." She tells him then, pinching the bridge of her nose like she's wiping off her crinkles of irritation. "I'm sorry, I'll leave. Please forget I said anything."
She turns.
He catches her wrist. She freezes.
After all, he's got nowhere to be. So why the hell not? He's always done whatever he wanted.
"No," He tells her. "Let's go sightseeing."
And for once, in the past six-months, since the fall of BEGA and his dying career and all the people who he's ruined beyblading for—he thinks he should at least allow himself this much. He should forgive himself a tiny bit for what he's done.
"Okay." Her face brightens. "Eat up."
She pulls the seat beside him and waits and starts to talk.
.
.
.
She knows things, little itty bitty facts about the place they are in.
"There's a wax museum nearby. You can pose with yourself."
He chuckles and tugs his cap and sunglasses over his head.
"I've always wanted to pose with myself. Do they actually have a statue of me there?"
"They had one of Tyson."
"Do you want to see the museum? There might be cursed tombs in there—ooh how exciting." She asks him. He nods slowly. Then her eyes stray away and brighten. "Oohh—that's fluffy cotton candy! We need to totally have some!"
She drags him along. He doesn't order.
"You are such a child." He laughs at her, as she digs into the cotton, pink cloud. She approves of it.
"I've never had this as a child, you know. I was a dentist's only child. I got sugar-free candy—and it's not candy at all. There was a special stool for me when I was three. I learned to floss when I was five." She tells him. She pulls out a large piece from it and holds it out in front of him. "Cotton candy?"
"If I say—"
She pouts.
"—yes…"
Her eyes brighten. He takes the piece from her hand, brushes her fingers and then places the soft pink fuzz into his mouth. He pauses. It's sweet. It's crackling lightly in his mouth—into sugar.
"It's good." He tells her.
She flashes him a smile, with sugar teeth and all. He notices something else, she has dimples.
"I'm so happy you like it."
And words evaporate like cotton candy. How could anyone be so imperfectly perfect?
.
.
.
He's had a few friends in his life.
They weren't much talkers though—apart from Tyson. He's never properly talks to Tyson—so maybe she's right—he doesn't know Tyson. He leans on the railing of the shore-front trail and stares into the deep blue lake. And just when he thinks that they've run out of all the things to talk about, she begins.
"We fought again." She said.
He switches over to look at her. She's gripping the railing overlooking the waves.
"Tyson and I, I mean—this is as bad as it used to be when I first joined." She tells him. "I'm stubborn as hell. He's even worse."
She lets out a shuddering sigh.
"Neither of us back-down and Kai took his side this time."
She's thrown all the pieces in front of him. He puts it all together.
"You left their practice."
She stares across the horizon.
"I have issues with my employers, I guess." She said. "I'm part of—" She makes quote marks around the words. "—'Tyson's friends.' That was great when I was fourteen. But friends and employees don't mix. It just doesn't work. I feel like a fucking mom. I like managing the team—I really do. But sometimes it feels like I'm as appreciated as the wall when I'm a mom—slash friend…thing…ugh."
The breeze from the lake-front ripples through his hair.
He waits.
"It's like—I'm managing a bunch of literal five year olds. Look, I'm not trying to rant about them. All I need them to do is cooperate with me sometimes."
"Like?"
"Tyson thinks practice is fun. He's such a child. I get what he means about the fun of a challenge. But it gets ridiculous when he—fuck—gets all pig-headed about winning against Kai. They both hog the practice area. Then they start trash-talking each other. I hate that."
"So Kai took his side this time? Why does that make you upset."
"Because Kai thinks I'm being too…uptight. This is coming from the man of ice himself."
Brooklyn lets out a short laugh. It somewhat feels great to hear that about Kai. And Brooklyn thinks about the fun of the challenge of winning against a strong beyblader. He feels like that sometimes with his team.
"What do you want instead?" He asks her.
"Max and Ray and Daichi need to practice as well. Kenny needs to record their stats." She replied. "He needs to fight against them as well. We need their beyblades in tip-top shape. Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one worried if one of their beyblades ends up being scrap during a match." She's counting off her fingers. "Like okay—listen—there's more to the sport than…whatever the hell he spouts about having fun…he knows this. He taught me this himself…what the hell do I know? I'm just the stupid mom-friend manager thing."
"Don't sell yourself short." He tells her. "You know a lot about the sport." Her face brightens. "So what happened today?" He asks her.
She paused. "It was my fault."
"Why?"
"I said somethings that really can't be taken back. It's my fault." She repeats. "It's my paranoia of losing."
And then he thinks again.
There are so many things that could go wrong during a beyblade match. Boris used to manage their affairs—or he had people underneath him. Several people actually, managing towels, keeping them hydrated and practiced. But there was a team. She's a oneperson team—surrounded by boys who loved the sport more than their lives.
"Control is okay when people listen, isn't it?" He asks her, his words are surprisingly eloquent. "But if they don't—you end up being a bother. That's not simple—then it becomes an issue. Then you have control issues."
And it hits close to home. She clenches the railing and watches the waves. He looks away. He hears her choke a sob.
"You mean—the bitch not a bother." She grits out.
He gets it. Strong language is often associated with strong emotions. Another coping mechanism when everything inside you feels like it's going to spill out.
"Sometimes." He tells her gently. "Sometimes, you just got to let it go. Trust Tyson." He adds. "And sometimes, we all make mistakes. You just got to let yourself go."
"I want to…"
"Then let's do it." He suggests. "I hear there's an amusement park nearby. You like rollercoasters?"
She gives him a sniff. He thinks he's a hypocrite.
"Yes." She says, wiping the tears away with the flesh of her palm.
.
.
.
By the time they get back, it's late. Her cheeks are flushed and he's laughed his throat scratchy. They rode so many roller-coasters, and she grabs his arm and pulls at it.
"Do we have to go back? I don't think anyone would care."
She's wrong. He thinks of Kai who always seems to be looking out for her. She's appreciated more than she knows.
"I think," He pauses, watching Hiro waiting in the lobby area with an agitated Tyson. "You should have called them."
She sighs. He freezes as they look in their direction. Brooklyn doesn't know how he should feel about Hiro. The man is domineering, terrifying—and one of those few people who made him sweat for a change—now another remnant of his awful past.
He's also one of those people who he wants to forget.
"I'll deal with it." Hilary sighs. Tyson and Hiro stare at them. Its not hostile, but its not harmless either. He can sense the tension reserved for her.
"Just leave, the Kinomiya brothers are more trouble than they are worth," she adds. She maintains their gaze. "I don't want to get you caught in this."
"Are you sure?"
"Very. You being here complicates things for them." She says. "Tyson may be your friend, so he can'tsay anything. I know him though—he'll say something about me abandoningthe team or some garbage. And do you really want to open a can of worms with Hiro?"
Can of worms, he thinks dryly. As in his former coach, who simply used him as a tool to test his younger brother, who was easily accepted back into BBA. He, on the other hand, was thrown to the dogs. She seems to know this. She knows him. He doesn't know how to feel about that.
"Brooklyn," she adds gently. "Please."
"Right." He steps away.
"See you." She says as they begin walking towards the two of them.
"Kay." He scratches the back of his head. "I hope everything is okay."
"By the by." She says softly. Tyson and Hiro are closing in. "I had fun today. Thanks."
"Me too," He says. And then he adds, "Thanks."
She smiles, then takes a deep breath, folds her arms and looks in front.
And from a distance, on the other end of the lobby—he watches as Tyson and Hiro talk to her. Hilary maintains her calm. Then she pauses. Hiro flickers his gaze over to Brooklyn. Tyson does as well. His eyes are on Hilary. She looks at him. She shakes her head. Hiro turns back to look at her with narrowed and calculating eyes.
Leave.
So he does and trusts her to smooth thing ever.
.
.
.
And he meets her days later over breakfast where she fills him in. They aren't the only ones in the room. The White Tigers have been giving them strange looks. Hilary indulges in her croissant. He sips his tea. To both of them, being together isn't really that big of a stretch.
People from other teams interact all the time. So what's so weird about the manager of a Bladebreakers team and one of the former notorious beybladers of Team BEGA. Brooklyn decides that it doesn't bother Hilary.
It shouldn't bother him either.
"They are fine." She tells him. "They were upset because I was out so late. They didn't know that I was with you—which I think is an unfair judgement. You should have heard them, 'We just care for you and Brooklyn's not exactly…stable.' I told them that they knew nothing about you. That got them more upset. They think I was feeding you information. It's like—" She pauses. "—It's like they think you don't talk about anything but beyblading."
"It's nice that they care for you." He adds dryly.
"I have a curfew." Hilary raises a brow. "Hiro set a curfew for me."
"Because you are underage and underneath his custody?" Brooklyn added helpfully.
"I'm seventeen! He can't do this to me."
"Technically—"
"I've been such a responsible person," she despairs. "But it's like—they control my life."
"Ah. Control issues. " He snickers. She grins. And it's a joke. It's up in the air and she's no longer irritated and she leans on her palms and grins at him.
"Shush carrot top."
He laughs hard. She watches him.
"Penny for your thoughts?" He asks her. There's a twinkle in her eyes.
And the thing about Hilary Tachibana is that she was unrepentantly blunt.
"You should smile more." She murmured. "You're gorgeous. You've got gorgeous hair. And eyes. That orange and blue—it makes for a pretty combination. I'm so—" She blows a strand of hair from her eyes. "—jealous." She smiles at him.
He's never felt such a punch of irony in his life. She's resting her cheek on her hands. From the corner of his eyes he feels the White Tigers send them anotherlook.
See, he doesn't know how to tell her that she's beautifulwithout eating his words.
Then her phone buzzes and it breaks the stillness.
"That's my alarm." She says. "Time to wake people up."
And she sits up. Then she pauses.
"Hey Brooklyn."
"Yeah?"
"Do you still beyblade?"
He freezes.
"If you don't feel like answering—just say no." She says. "Wouldyou like to beyblade in the tournament if you could?"
And she's watched that dreaded interview too, he thinks. These are pointless questions. He wants to beyblade. He wants to feel the euphoria, the exhilaration of a challenge and he wants to win again. He wants a second chance at everything and he wants to try. He's not trustworthy—that's what Mr. Dickenson tells him.
"Would you trust me to beyblade against your team, Hilary?" He asks her, lifting his plate smoothly and leaving her watching his back. He doesn't wait for her answer. He knows she'll say nice and kind things because she's a nice person. "I must take my leave."
"Okay, have a nice day..." She says instead.
"See you around then." He adds.
"Sure."
But he doesn't deserve that kindness anymore. Her cellphone alarm beeps again as he's leaving the dining hall.
.
.
.
He hasn't seen her in a week and a half.
He also gets a hand-written apology from the head of BBA and an opportunity concerning him beyblading withthe association. He's allowed to participatein the tournament. He reads it over and over. It's been six months. Six long months of distrust, of constant fear, of pain. He's never received Zeus back.
And there's a tiny box in which there is a bit-chip of his former bitbeast. His fingers ghost the opening of the box.
"No way." Ming ming hollers. "No way."
She clutches his shirt, blubbers and makes him smile in pain. Her nails dig into the flesh of his arm. He's trying to tell her to stop hurting him—it doesn't work. So he resorts to letting her cling to his arm and sob relentlessly into his shoulder. He gets it. He'd be crying too if he wasn't so numb.
"I can't believe it. They got you in." She bawls. Shortly after, Mystel and Crusher enter the room to the scene. "Guys! Guys! He can now beybattle. Brooklyn can beybattle. BBA let him off the hook!"
Or someone pulled the strings, Brooklyn thinks numbly.
And they both look like lightning struck the ground in front of him. Crusher then yells. He jumps up and down.
"Brooklyn—yes! Brooklyn is back!" He tells Brooklyn. "We're getting right to practice. Right now."
.
.
.
The response is immediate.
Garland runs him through the ground with matches. His entire team are buzzing about creating a good, working beyblade for him—and he's not averted to the idea. They would peruse the parts-store, find a better core, working on it together. And then—
"And then," Mystel adds with a grin. "We'll introduce him."
"We'll introduce him." Garland repeats. "Oh man—Brooklyn isn't this so exciting?"
He's nervous as hell. What the hell are they talking about? He feels like he's sweating underneath his clothes.
"This is terrifying."
"It is." Ming Ming giggles. "You know what would be better? If we introduce him against the Bladebreakers. Payback is a bitch."
And then she pauses. They all pause. He stares at the ground of the empty training gym. It's one in the morning. There's an empty box of pizza filled with crust pieces. He sighs, and leans back.
"Its okay," He says. "You don't have to pit me against them if you don't trust me."
And he watches as they all flinch.
"It's not that…"
"They are fun to play against." He adds. "I know it."
"Brooklyn." Ming Ming looks at him, with guilt in her eyes. "I just want your first match to mean something to you."
"We can do it." Garland interrupts them. He pierces Brooklyn with a look. "We can go up against the Bladebreakers. We'll get you up to speed. You can do it. You can take my spot against Kai."
"I…" Mystel erupts into a fit of laughter. "Hype. Yes. Make it happen. Don't chicken out, Brooklyn!"
"You can't chicken out." Garland adds with a smile. "Because we believe in you."
And he thinks of her. And the last thing he asked her.
.
.
.
And a week and a half turns into two weeks. The finals are approaching and he's trains secretly a lot. But rumors are floating around about his apparent return. One night he returns to the hotel lobby with a damp towel against his neck. He's just trying to get to his room so he can have a shower and a good night's sleep.
Someone steps in his way. It's a group of people who were participating in the tournament today. They lost against The Bladebreakers.
He pauses.
"So Brooklyn," The rookie blader wrings an arm around his neck. "I heard you are allowed to beyblade in the finals?"
He's usually always with someone. Whether it's Crusher, Garland, Ming Ming or even the ever elusive Mystel. He's never alone like this. Being alone makes him antsy because he doesn't know how to behave in front of other beybladers. He's scared he'll say the wrong thing.
He's scared he'll be framed badly by the press. And they are everywhere. They know things. There's a lot of people who don't like him.
Like this guy.
"Cat got your tongue?"
He doesn't want to ruin all the work that his team has put into him.
"Uh." He begins. "Can you please let me go?"
"Why?" The man asks him, hoarsely. "Scared? Do you actually remember me?"
He pauses.
"Do you remember that guy who you intentionally destroyed in one of the practices all the way back in BEGA?"
His insides turn to ice as he twists his head to look at the man. There's malicious intent in his eyes, and anger, and hate and bitterness—all the emotions he's familiar with. There's also this sense that this is not going to end up prettily. He breathes. The man's team is snickering.
"That's right," The man whispers. "Take deep breaths boy. Now, tell us the truth." The man pauses for effect. "Are you—or are you not allowed to beyblade again?"
He crushes his arm hold over him. Brooklyn smells the scent of noxious deodorant. He could punch the guy out. But he closes his eyes and thinks of his team. He's never felt so helpless before in his life. He feels his insides twist. He wants to just let loose. Let his anger, his resentment, his humiliation go—
And right then, someone speaks behind him.
"I think you should let him go." It's soft, feminine and has a drawl to it. "Before I call security."
And the man flinches like he's been burned. He draws his arm from around Brooklyn's shoulders and he turns around. Brooklyn does as well. And they both see her. She's got her arms folded.
"And you are?"
"None of your business."
His friends, sounding very much like Hyenas, cackle out. "She's that manager of the Bladebreakers."
The situation looks tetchy.
"It's rude to talk about someone in third person when they are right in front of you." She sighs.
"Shut up bitch."
And that was the final straw, Brooklyn whirls around. He draws back his arm. But before he can continue—someone is holding his wrist back. He turns around to see Kai.
And for a second everything is still.
"Do this and your record will go down to the drain." Kai tells him. He looks over his shoulder at the team. "Clear out." He sounds out.
"Or what?"
"I'll call security." Hilary said simply. They turn their attention back to her. "I have security on speed dial." She drops her voice a beat. "—I'll use every connection I have against you. You won't be able to beyblade competitively."
She sighs.
"He's in—" She gestures over his shoulder. "—by the way. But that's not the issue. You said you were part of BEGA. While the president's pardon has been extended to those of BEGA, I don't think he'll excuse this—" She points at the distance between him and Brooklyn. "—or your coarse language." Her eyes glint. "I'm a manager. I would know."
The men regard her. And Brooklyn sees the face of her professionalism—a manager of world-class beybladers with books and tactics up in her brain. Cold precision, careful calculation and mastered emotions against her teammate's opponents.
"What's wrong?' She asks. "Cat got your tongue? You should be grateful that I'm so…forgiving."
"Okay." The man says, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes are locked with Hilary. Her gaze is unflinching. "Okay then—move out boys."
And they retreat. He spares Brooklyn a look.
"We'll meet again."
"I'm sure." Brooklyn says. "Over the beybattle stadium—I hope."
And he smiles instead. "I hope I give you a decent game, this time around."
The man looks taken aback.
"Carl." He sounds out. "Carl of the Ice Dragons. Look out for me."
"Sure." Brooklyn says. He'll remember it.
They leave like that. He hears Kai speak to Hilary.
"You should have let me talk. They looked dangerous."
"I'm dangerous." Hilary winks at him. "Geez captain, I'm just kidding—stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" Kai asks her, giving her a stern look. "Don't be silly. You should have really let me handle that. They were upset because they lost to me."
"And risk getting you in trouble?" She asks softly. "I could handle it."
Brooklyn is just observing their easy dynamic.
"I'm sure." Kai says. "I also sure that Brooklyn handled that well."
Brooklyn pauses.
"Yeah…" and then he adds, "Thanks."
"Kai needs to go to bed." Hilary winks again at him. "I'm sure?"
"After all," Kai drawls. "She's got this little curfew incident so I had to stay back with her so she won't go running off or as Tyson puts it, 'fraternizing with the enemy.'" He gives her a significant look.
She rolls her eyes. And Brooklyn laughs at that.
Kai's stares at him. People all around them are watching them. And he catches sight of the one of the teams around the corner. They flinch at his look. He doesn't mean any harm. It's that girl with the pink hair and goggles who catches his gaze and blushes. She turns and leaves.
Then Kai scratches the back of his neck.
"Kai, go to bed already." Hilary pinches his shoulder, playfully. "I'm not going to get into trouble, I'll be up in a few minutes—we um…we just need to talk."
"I doubt it." Kai says, but he's already making to leave.
"Hey!"
Kai then looks at him.
"See you." He says with a light smile. He's ignoring Hilary's pout. "I would definitely enjoy that rematch." He adds.
And Brooklyn freezes. Kai's already walking away.
"Yes!" He calls out. "G-good night!"
"Night Kai!" Hilary sings, cupping the side of her mouth like Kai didn't just drop a bomb on him. "Sorry if I kept you up past your bed-time!"
"Try not to sneak out," he calls back. "Tyson will be after your hide."
And Brooklyn realizes, that he's not even angry at Kai. It might just have to do with Hilary being present. She tends to put him at ease, he realizes. But then again, he thinks, he's excited to fight against Kai.
There's an unreadable look in her eyes.
"You look happier." She says.
"You guys know." He says.
"Of course we do." Hilary said, regarding her red fingernails—matching her outfit of a leather jacket, pumps and jeans. It's followed by a red shirt underneath. He strays his eyes away from her nails and looks at her face. It's unreadable, again.
But what does he know?
"We know a lot of things." Hilary says. "Of what goes on in BBA. I have connections."
Someone loosened the strings for him. Someone appealed for him.
"No…way." He swallows. "You guys…you didn't."
"Tyson raised hell for you." She says. "He's got this annoying habit of demanding things with his pig-headed stubbornness." She adds. "It be quite fatal when taken in copious amounts."
"And what's your part in it?"
"I just might have backed him up."
He widens his eyes. She's regarding him shyly. She lets herself breathe in.
"I mean…" She pauses, blushing. "It's not very hard to let things slip. Oops."
She runs around, doing favors for people she cares about. She's just a nice person. He doesn't deserve this kindness. Tyson is a kind guy.
"Kai, Hiro and Max might have also interfered." She says. "But you aren't supposed to know about this." She lifts a finger to her red lips. "Oops."
He wants to cry.
"Why?" He breathes. "Why would you guys do so much for me?"
Lights aren't partial towards moths. Why is she partial towards him? He's that poor boy who was just too good at everything—except himself. Lights just exist. Moths gravitate towards them. The light could burn them. Lights exist and are too bright and too beautiful.
"Because." She says warmly. "Because sometimes I think, our entire team knows what messing up badly is like. We forgive each other."
He widens his eyes.
"Also," she says. "If you've learned anything about me in the past few weeks. It's that I have an unswerving loyalty to my work." She says. "I am loyal to my boys. I personally manage their fitness, diets and even exercise regiments."
Her eyes are twinkling.
"So I trust them." She mentions. "And I trust them to give you one of the greatest challenges you will ever face."
.
.
.
His match against Kai was exhilarating.
Unfortunately, Kai was good, and leagues ahead of him with all the preparation and practice.
There's nothing dramatic enough about the match to mention.
The crowd was roaring and he could see people call out his name. People were starting to accept him. He's surprised. He's lost but it doesn't matter. He sees Tyson vaults over towards their team, over the bey-stadium. He fist-bumps him.
"Yo—I want to see you back here next year. I want to see you winning." The capped teen tells him with the biggest grin ever. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Brooklyn says. "We'll be back to challenge you guys."
And his blood his still pumping from that match. The stadium lights are shining on his smile.
.
And the tournament ends on a happier note.
But perhaps, the moment for him would have been when they were leaving. He sees her again, leaning against the receptionist's desk. She's waiting. He walks up to her.
"All set?"
"Of course." She pushes up her sunglasses. "You?"
"Yeah." He tells her. He's going to miss her. This had been nice…but he's never good at labeling things. He doesn't want to suggest, insinuate anything—because they are leaving. And they both will be on two separate ends of the globe. She's too far away to clean up things.
He's still learning clean up.
And he's never been good at saying goodbye.
She's silent. Then she talks again when the receptionist's phone rings again.
"Do you have a cell-phone?"
"I don't." He says. "Sorry."
"What age…nevermind—um excuse me." She reaches over the desk and grabs a yellow sticky note. And she writes down her number, and her email address. "Contact information." She says.
And then with a wink she mentions.
"Personal."
He swears that people behind them are staring. He hears something of 'D-DID YOU SEE THAT? Brooklyn actually got a number from a girl'—which could have been attributed to a certain bluenette pop-singer. He doesn't know why his team are there. Shouldn't they be somewhere else? Anywhere but here—
She then steps up to him, tip toes on her heels and plants a soft kiss on his cheek.
"Till next year—or sooner I hope." She breathes.
He found himself embracing her warmly. He wraps his arms around her, tightly. The receptionist is watching on, awkwardly. Someone's whooping behind him, another is whistling (probably Crusher and Mystel from the slap of high-fives and the laughter that follows). There's too much attention on them. There's a buzz of excitement of 'oooh look at that!' and 'how cute!'. She doesn't seem bothered at all. He probably shouldn't bother either.
So he doesn't. He's just thinking of the smell of fresh lavender.
"Thank you." He whispers. "And see you soon."
He runs a hand through her soft curls.
.
.
.
.
As Hilary enters the coach-bus, followed by the members of the Bladebreakers. Their faces are laughable.
"Who knew." Kenny whispers.
"Who indeed." Ray says.
"Clearly," Kai drawls. "You all don't look hard enough."
"Awwh." Tyson coos and makes kissy faces at her. "That's so cuteee."
Hilary reigns in her temper to show him cute. She's too full of butterflies and the she can still feel the imprint of his earring against her cheek and his hands holding her together. She breathes out.
"Remind me why I manage you idiots, again?"
"Because you love us." Max offers helpfully.
A beat.
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Maxie."
"Hey!"
She takes a seat beside the window and pulls out a travel pillow. She watches as they pass by the lakeshore front. And she thinks, the light of the sun hitting the blue of the surface reminds her of him. And his smile. She can't stop the wide grin. She turns to Kai who is seated beside her. He's watching her with a raised eyebrow.
"I hope." She brings her travel pillow to her face. "You can excuse me."
He puts in his earphones and snorts.
And she squeals into the pillow.
Thanks for reading!