Prologue
Ken glared at the crisp, cream-colored, and blank page sitting smugly on his desk. It was taunting him to let the fine tip of his Parker glide its surface.
The soccer player moved, as if to scribble...something...anything...only to find himself slumping back to his chair before the pen made so much as a blot on the immaculate sheet.
"This is stupid," he muttered, letting out an irritated huff. Indeed, it was absurd, if one thought about it. Further contemplation, and one may call it ironically laughable.
Siberian, who could so effortlessly slash men's throats, cowers at the mockeries of a hardbound journal.
In his defense, of course it must be taken into consideration that it was the first time that he had even thought about keeping a diary.
He winced at the term. "Diary" sounded so...girly. It reminded him of scented paper and those little locks with their little keys. They were all the rage back in his school days, and many of the girls carried them around. Naturally, the guys would always try to "borrow" them.
The brunette grinned evilly at the memory. The locks were pretty easy to open, so he had his share of reading through many of these memoirs. It was not rare that some girls gushed about the exploits of Hidaka Ken at the field. He had always been a soccer star, and the fact that he hadn't looked bad helped, too. One of his "fans" even wrote a highly graphic and explicit fantasy involving him, leather and wax...
Ken just cringed at the thought. Granted, it was a very well-written piece, but those kinks didn't really sit well with him. He covered his ears, as if willing those familiar words out of his brain.
"Focus, Hidaka." He had resolved to write at least one entry before the day ends. He glanced at the radio alarm clock on the bedside table. The red numbers blinked.
"Six o'clock! Kuso..."
He stood from his seat, rubbing his numb ass. Four hours had passed, and for what? Engaging in a staring contest with an inanimate object.
He was definitely pathetic.
And who would've thought that he, clumsy and klutzy Ken, of all people...could be so... anal about something this trivial.
He was like...like Ran, for chrissakes!
The young man blew the bangs out of his eyes, lips curling upward. When Aya- chan woke up, the Weiss leader gradually became less and less stoic. The proverbial ice façade melted a bit everyday. His smiles became more frequent. Sure, they were not the kawaii, Omi-like beams, not like those naughty smirks of Youji's, and certainly not close to Ken's goofy grins. Ran's were elegant --- they were the kinds that did not quite reach the eyes, but were undoubtedly genuine.
Why would he not be happy, after all? His imouto was alive and well, she's going to school like a normal teenage girl, and they had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. But he chose to remain here, working with pansies.
The other Weiss members had been baffled by this detail, although they all kept mum about it...probably fearing that he would leave because he wouldn't have any reason to stay. Ran's the type who'd do just that, and even if none of them would admit it out loud, the Abyssinian had become more than just a colleague.
Besides, they had learned to love the Ran's imouto. All of them had gotten quite close to Aya-chan. She's a chatty and friendly girl.
"A bit arrogant, too, I might add," Ken laughed.
She often brings schoolmates to the Koneko to brag about her oniisans, who were incidentally, all bishounens. Of course, the four simply let her indulge in this habit. Youji would sometimes even give her a peck on the cheek for good measure. The other fans just looked on with both envy and admiration.
The common picture brought the frustrated assassin back to the task at hand. Aya-chan had gifted him with the...journal...well, just because she wanted to.
"It reminded me of you," Aya-chan had said to the surprised brunette, "Put everything into paper." And she handed him the dark green, hardback...diary. It wasn't extravagant. A simple soccer ball engraved in silver at the bottom right corner was worth some attention, though.
He didn't know why he's having such a hard time, really. The process was all very simple for a motor-mouth like him. And it's not like he didn't talk with himself often. On the contrary, he would frequently be engaged in a heated debate with himself.
That scared him sometimes.
At long last, he clicked his silver Parker and graced the paper with a legible scrawl. His head was bowed down, shadow almost obstructing the light from the lamp save for a sliver.
/June 7, 2004/
The date's always a good starting point. What next? The brunette wasn't certainly writing down a "Dear Diary" on the next line. Puhleeaze.
"Dear Journal?" The young man stuck his tongue out in distaste. Corny.
He tapped the pen against the wood, creating a rhythm as he listed down names in his mind.
"Dear Ken...," he rolled the words off his tongue. It would be logical to address it to himself, but he felt something bizarre about the whole notion.
He wanted something akin to a listening ear. He wanted someone who could help him with his burdens, albeit in his illusions.
"Dear Ran..."
Siberian blushed. He quickly scrapped the thought as he consciously chuckled at himself.
There were many things that he can't confide with his friends as of now, and these "friends" included Youji and Omi.
He randomly picked out names, for the lack of better ideas.
Aya-chan?
"Too young."
Momoe-san?
"Too old."
Kase?
"Umm...no..."
Farfarello.
"You gotta be kidding."
He needed a friend, one who had similar interests so that he could identify with him, so that he could tell him about his day and he'd listen earnestly as he rambled. He needed someone who wouldn't judge him, and who wouldn't be frightened at his lifestyle.
Fat chance. Who wouldn't be terrified of a bugnuk-wielding assassin?
But then again, all he needed was an epitome of a close buddy. Words of advice aren't necessary.
Just someone to whom he could pour his heart out, even if he couldn't understand a word he said.
And it dawned on him.
Ken searched for his pen, which conveniently chose this time to disappear. Finding the mischievous Parker under piles of paper, he scrambled to his chair and carefully wrote down the two words which would begin it all.
/Dear Beckham.../
TBC?
