A/N: Early upload since I'm away this weekend. Happy almost weekend! :3

Chapter Two: Choices to Make

"...What?" Enrique spluttered. "He... when?"

"On Tuesday, apparently," Johnny said, casting his stormy gaze back out of the window and towards the grounds. "And judging by your reaction, he hadn't told you either."

Enrique reeled a little at the news. For four days Robert had been dealing with this bereavement alone, apparently unable to tell even his closest friends? For some reason this fact shocked the blonde, making him feel as though he'd somehow failed as a friend. "When did you find out?" he asked slowly.

"Yesterday, when Oliver told me."

"And when did he find out?" Enrique asked. He felt a somewhat like a whiny little child, asking so many questions like this, but some part of him needed to know.

"He was there," Johnny said shortly.

Enrique blinked.

"What?!" As childish as it seemed, Enrique felt a little betrayed. Sure, he felt for Robert's loss - of course he did - and he could kind of understand the lack of communication on the eagle-eyed teen's part but... Oliver? They told each other everything. "Why didn't he say anything?"

"Look," Johnny said, pushing himself off the wall and pacing around the room again. "That's not really what we should be worrying about. What's important now is Robert. He's not well."

Enrique felt his irritation slip off his face, replaced by concern. "Why, what's wrong with him. I mean, besides the obvious..."

Johnny shrugged his heavy shoulders. "He's just... not coping, I think. He's kind of withdrawn himself away. I couldn't even get him on the phone when I tried to call. Gustav wouldn't let me get any closer." Johnny sat back down opposite Enrique at this point and leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, the envelope between his hands, fidgeting. "All he'd say is that since Robert has inherited his father's estate and business, he was just too busy to talk. He also said that Robert needed time to deal with things 'in his own way'."

"Well, I guess I can understand that..." Enrique said slowly. After all, his father's death was still very recent. It must have come as quite a shock. And then to have so much responsibility falling on his shoulders... Enrique wasn't sure how he'd react if he were in Robert's shoes. He didn't even know anything about his father's business. His father was never really around long enough to tell him. But if he just suddenly disappeared altogether, then... well. He didn't really want to think about it.

"I don't agree," Johnny said shortly. "Fair enough, it's not an easy thing to deal with, but he's walling himself up inside his little castle, I can tell. And that's not good. And you know what he's like Enrique," the teen stressed, throwing a hand up in the air in frustration, before slouching back on the couch and folding his arms. "If he doesn't feel like he can talk to us now, then I can almost guarantee it won't get easier with time. The longer he leaves something, the less likely he is to get back to it. That's just the way he is."

Enrique sighed. Johnny was right, of course, but what could they do about it? You can't exactly just muscle in on someone's grief and tell them how to handle it. "Alright then, so what do you propose we do?"

"Simple. We convince him to join the tournament with us."

Enrique gaped, almost certain that his jaw had hit the exquisitely plush Persian rug that lay beneath the coffee table. He was sure it wasn't an attractive look at all, and he was secretly glad that none of the girls were in the room to witness his face. But, to be honest, he was almost too stunned to care. He'd entirely forgotten about the tournament in the wake of Johnny's bad news, and for him to bring it up now seemed... well, very insensitive actually.

Johnny really was uncouth.

"Are you kidding me?" Enrique gasped, his voice about three octaves higher than normal.

Johnny's brow furrowed. "No," he stated.

Enrique laughed with disbelief at his friend's cluelessness. "Johnny, what on earth makes you think that idea is anything but a multi-track train-wreck waiting to happen?"

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Because one, it means that he stays connected with his friends; and two, because it'll give him something to focus on -"

"I think he's got plenty to focus on right now -"

"Besides his father's death and all the work that comes with it." Johnny finished, resolute. "Come on Enrique, he loves beyblading! The competition, the superiority – you've seen the way he struts around Olympia Stadium. If we don't do something soon, he's gonna bury himself away in all his grief and his work and his responsibility, and he'll lose himself in it. And then we'll lose him."

"Yeah... you're right," Enrique conceded. "But I still don't think this tournament is the right way to go about it. I mean, at the end of the day Johnny, it is just a game..."

"Exactly," Johnny said, triumphantly. "And we're lucky that it came around just in time. Robert's a damn workaholic. He needs to know that there's nothing wrong with taking some time off. That there's no reason that he still can't just blow off some steam and enjoy himself from time to time. And," he added, "if we get to kick a few Bladebreaker asses along the way, then more fun for us."

The blonde scowled accusingly. "You're not gonna leave until I agree, are you?"

"Nope."

Enrique groaned. "Oh, fine! What do you want me to do, then? You obviously need me for something, otherwise you would have just done it yourself, instead of wasting your time here."

Johnny smirked. "You're not as dumb as you look. I'm really proud of you, 'Rique," he sniggered.

"Shut up."

Johnny then sat up again and leaned his weight forward on his knees once more. He looked the blue-eyed teen in the eye seriously. "I want you to phone him."

Enrique blinked. "... Is that all?"

"Yeah," the red-head shrugged. "He's already brushed me off, but you're a different story entirely. You're annoying, persistent, insensitive -"

"Hey!"

"In all the right ways, of course," Johnny amended with a smirk. "So, you're going to call, and you're going to find a way to get through to Robert. Just... be your annoying old self." Enrique just sat there, thinking for a moment. Of course, Johnny didn't have the patience to just wait around, so he continued with an expectant "well?"

"Alright, alright, I'll do it... Hey, Piddlesworth!" Enrique called over his shoulder. Enrique began rehearsing how exactly he was going to persuade Robert to join them in the tournament while he waited for his butler to arrive. Soon enough, he came through the door and inquired what it was the young master required. "Hey, could you please get Robert on the phone for me, there's something Johnny and I need to ask him about."

"Of course, Master Enrique." Piddlesworth departed the room momentarily before returning with a leather-bound address book. From his sprawled out position on the couch, Johnny rolled his eyes and muttered something about Enrique being too idle to lift a finger as Piddlesworth dialed the Jurgen household telephone number for him. He then handed Enrique the telephone, and left the room. The dialing tone rang several times before it was picked up at the other end.

– Good afternoon, Jurgen private-line. –

"Hey, Gustav! It's me, Enrique."

– Hello Young Master Enrique, how may I be of assistance? –

"Well, I was wondering if I might speak to Robert, actually. There's something really important I need to ask him." Johnny rolled his eyes as he listened in on Enrique's side of the conversation. He couldn't quite decide if Enrique was actually an idiot or just playing the part, but either way it was working for him.

– I'm awfully sorry, Master Enrique, but Master Robert is very busy at the minute. Might I take a message? –

"Not really, no. It's really very important you see, and I need to speak to Robert personally. I understand he's busy, Gustav, but if he won't speak to me now, I'll just keep ringing until he does," he said petulantly. Enrique could hear the sound of Gustav speaking rather apologetically in the background and, not two minutes later, there was a voice at the receiver again - this time, it was Robert.

– What it is, Enrique? –

Enrique winced slightly at the sound. Brief and clipped, in typical Robert style, but there was also something else. He sounded tired, and strained. He remembered the recent death of Robert's father, and how he now had the management of his whole estate and family business resting on his shoulders. Suddenly the idea of phoning up about a tournament seemed very insensitive. Especially since he'd used such a childish threat to get through to him. Curse Johnny for putting him in this situation in the first place. He should do his own dirty work. It was with much less determination that he said into the receiver, "Hey... Robert. How're you doing?"

There was silence.

"Look, I er, I know it's not really a good time, but… I've got a letter from the BBA and I was wondering if you'd gotten one too?"

More silence.

"About… er, about the tournament?"

– ...Is Jonathon with you? –

Busted. "Umm, yeah, he's right here.."

– Well, I shall tell you the same thing that Gustav told him. That I am sorry, but I am incredibly busy right now, and will be for some time. Therefore there is simply no way I can be a part of this. –

Enrique suddenly felt very small, and very guilty for hassling Robert. "Yeah, sorry man. It's just, I thought, maybe –"

– However, if you, Jonathon and Oliver wish to take part, then I have no objections. I may have been captain of our team, but that was merely under a one-off circumstance. If you find someone else you think good enough to enter the tournament with you in my stead, I will bear no resentment. –

"Oh, well um, okay then. Thanks" he said, with a glance over to Johnny, "I guess we'll think about it."

– Well. If there is nothing else, then, I shall say goodbye. –

"Oh, Robert, wait!" A quick glance at Johnny told Enrique that he was not impressed with his performance. Enrique was torn between stepping up his game, and being sensitive to Robert's situation. The latter feeling won. "I.. I'm sorry to hear about your father. Listen, if there's anything I can do…" he trailed of awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say, but feeling as though he should at least say something

– ...Thank you. Good luck in the tournament. –

Then he hung up the receiver with a click.

"That was pathetic," Johnny said.

"Well, sorry, but I don't seem to recall you having much success with him either. That wasn't easy, you know. He sounds really... tired."

"...So what did he say?"

"Just that he's too busy and can't do it," the blonde replied, looking pensive. "He also said that he doesn't mind if we enter, we'll just have to find someone else to take his place."

"Pfft, yeah, like who? Can you think of anyone, because I can't." Johnny scoffed.

Enrique thought hard for a while, acquiring that spaced out look that he always got whenever he thought too hard. "Well, we're going to have to think of someone. If you're serious about the tournament and we really can't convince Robert, then we'll at least have to have someone else to fall back on."

"I still think we should try again."

"What, you're suggesting I call back?" Enrique accused with a skeptical eyebrow, wiggling the phone around aggressively.

"No, of course not," Johnny said defensively, rolling his eyes. "I just don't think we should give up on him yet."

"Okay. But let's give him a break for a while. Couple of weeks, maybe..." the blonde murmured thoughtfully, absently curling a lock around his middle finger. "And then we'll go visit him, and take Oliver as well. We'll be much less easier to brush off if we're all stood on his ugly marble doorstep. Yeah?"

Johnny huffed, slouched back in his seat, and admitted defeat for now. "Fine," he said with folded arms.

"Great. But for the mean time, we should probably weigh up our other options. Any ideas?"

"Nope."

"How about that Vaughan girl from Wales -"

"Absolutely not!" Johnny declared, launching forwards, suddenly animated.

Enrique chuckled at his teammate's reaction. Eyes wide, hands balled into fists, Scottish accent almost slipping into place, as it always did when he lost his composure. "Why? What's wrong with her?"

Johnny cussed, shaking his head. "Just trust me on this one. That girl's off limits. She's absolutely bat-shit insane. She cannae join this team, never in a million years. No."

Enrique laughed. Okay, now this was sure to be interesting. There were about a dozen different scenarios running through his mind now to explain why Johnny seemed to be so... fearful of this girl. Enrique hadn't even gotten as far as opening his mouth to press further when Johnny glared at him.

"Drop it," Johnny warned.

Enrique's eyes creased with laughter, and he held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine, okay then. Okay, um, what about the champion from Spain?"

"Who... Fernandez? I don't know a lot about him..."

"Or maybe the guy from Holland? Dough... Dew, Don or something?"

"What, like the coffee?" Johnny sniggered. "Dreyer, I think his name is. Douwe van Dreyer. Nah, I've heard he fixes his rounds. Pays off his opponents or something."

"Does he really? That dirty cheat," Enrique replied with an air of scandal. He felt ever so slightly like a gossiping old woman. It wasn't something he'd admit to, but he'd looked up to the Dutch blader a little. His battle record was remarkable. Now he knew why.

"Yeah, and we don't want him ruining our name -"

"No of course not -"

"And we don't want just anybody taking Robert's place, anyway. I'd rather it be someone we at least know..." Johnny said slowly.

The two proceeded to twiddle their thumbs in thought.

Well this was embarrassing, Enrique thought, that their pool of options would run dry so quickly. This wasn't nearly as easy as he thought it would be – especially since Johnny hadn't volunteered any suggestions of his own. In truth, it was a tall order indeed to find a replacement for Robert - he was just too good of a player. And it was no secret that they had more friends outside of the beystadium than in it. That was just the nature of competition. In fact, besides the three young men who had called themselves Majestics in their battle against the Bladebreakers, Enrique didn't have any other friends who beybladed.

"Hey," Enrique said suddenly, remembering something. "What about that girl you used to face off with in the British regionals? She was good."

"...Who, Rachel?"

"Yeah! That's the one -"

"- Nope." Johnny dismissed his idea without even a second thought. "She doesn't blade anymore."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, you know, after what happened? I think I told you."

"Oh – yeah, that's right, I remember now. But... but that was a while ago. She should be fine, right?" Enrique's voice had taken on that slightly whiny sound like it always did when he was trying to reason with someone. But faced with Johnny's sour, unhelpful face, whiny was the best he could manage. It seemed that somehow the tables had turned, and it was now Enrique who was trying to convince Johnny to compete.

"I dunno. Plus, she's probably terrible at it by now," Johnny replied with annoyance, "especially if she hasn't picked up a blade since then. Three years is a long time."

"You're right, three years is a long time, so she should be fine with it. And what other options do we have, anyway? I don't hear you coming forward with anything."

Johnny was about to bite back when Piddlesworth entered the room again. "Master Enrique, your Math tutor has arrived."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks Piddlesworth. Just give us a minute." He bowed stiffly and left the room.

"She won't do it, Enrique," Johnny continued. "I don't even know where she is," he muttered. "Last I heard she was prancing around Vienna or something with her stupid, poncy cam -"

"Look," Enrique said, standing up from the sofa and putting his hands on his hips, "do you or don't you want to battle in this tournament?"

"Yes, I do –"

"Well then we're going to need a fourth blader. I'll work on Oliver," he said, pointing to himself as he began to walk towards the window, "because I know him best. And you can work on Rachel, because, well, because I've never even met her. All you have to do is phone her and try."

Johnny looked at him as though he were going to refuse, just on sheer principle of Enrique of all people giving him orders. But he didn't, he just folded his arms and looked away, saying, "Fine. But if it doesn't work –"

"Then we'll just have to think of someone else. But for now, we'll just have to work with what we've got. Okay?"

"Sure, whatever."

"Great!" said Enrique with a flourish. "Now, come over here and help me with this window," he said as he tried to budge it open.

Johnny, smirking as he realized what the blonde was up to, rolled his eyes and helped him push the window up. "No wonder you're so thick, ditching all your classes like this."

"Its street-smarts versus book-smarts my friend," replied Enrique, also smirking. "It's why I get all the ladies, and you - arghh, ouch – hey!" the blonde called out as Johnny shoved Enrique out of the way in response to his comment. The redhead climbed through the window and dropped neatly down into the grounds. Fortunately, they were only on the second floor.

Piddlesworth, hearing the sounds of their scuffle, came into the room and was met with the sight of Enrique half-way through the window, one leg outside and one inside. "Bfmprbh, Master Enrique! I really must protest!"

Immediately, Enrique dropped himself from the ledge and landed in a rather clumsy heap to the left of Johnny, who smirked at the Italian's incompetence. Piddlesworth dashed to the window, only to Johnny standing there looking up at him with his hands in his pockets, grinning, and shrugging somewhat apologetically. Behind him, Enrique had picked himself up and was now running towards the gates.

"Sorry Piddlesworth, gotta run!"

"Fucking – get out of the way."

Bryan cussed as he opened the door to his house and tripped over the mail lying on the ground. He unceremoniously swatted the brown paper parcel and letters off to the side with his boot before sparing a moment to glare in the direction of the living room. He then stalked up the stairs towards his bedroom, paying no more attention whatsoever to the man that lay sprawled out on the couch, or to the number of empty beer bottles that lay at his feet.

As soon as Bryan entered his room, he closed the door and fastened the chain lock that he'd fitted within a week of his moving in. If he was going to live with the bastard, he sure as hell wasn't going to have him encroach on his personal space. The less he had to see of his father, the better. Father, he thought venomously, he's not even fit to be called a man.

Without further ado, Bryan dropped his heavy rucksack onto the floor, kicked off his boots and threw himself onto the bed, opening his laptop. He then began searching the wifi lines for someone's internet he could leech off. Soon enough, he found that Mr. and Mrs. please no more grindcore at 3am from across the street had an open line. Bryan smirked at the feeling that someone was trying to tell him something. He didn't even like grindcore if he was completely honest. It was too loud even for his taste, just a little too much like noise than actual music. He only played it because it pissed his father off more than anything else he listened to. Particularly if it was played at three o'clock in the morning. He swiftly connected himself up to the wifi without any apology, and signed into messenger. But no one of interest was online, so he cast his mind upon other matters.

Thinking about his Math paper that was due in for Friday, Bryan turned his eyes to the rucksack on the floor, which, by the way is where pretty much everything else in Bryan's room happened to be kept – shoes, books, clothes, the lot. In fact, the only things that that weren't situated in what should have been a walking area was his laptop computer, which normally lay on his bad and which he'd paid for using a sum of money Mr. Dickenson gave him before he left him in America; his guitar, which he'd worked his ass off for the past year so he could buy; and his blade and launcher, which were resting on the shelf along with a pile of CD's and his beat-up stereo. The walls were plastered with posters of various rock and grunge bands, and the room smelt distinctly of smoke. It was a habit he'd picked up in the Abbey when he'd turned 13. As long as they won their matches and performed their military drills to perfection, Boris didn't give two shits about what the boys in his Abbey got up to in their spare time, and if that involved the older kids sneaking out and bringing in alcohol and cigarettes then so be it.

Dismissing the math paper for another time, Bryan got up off his bed and shuffled across his small room towards his stereo player. Sorting out the Foo Fighters album he'd borrowed from Kyle last week, he set it on play and turned the music up to a decent enough level. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Taking a cigarette out, he it and took a drag before depositing the lighter and the pack back into his pocket. He then opened his window wide and leaned out of it for a smoke.

"OI - what'd'you think you're fucking playing at?!" Bryan turned around disinterestedly toward the muffled shouting behind his bedroom door. His only response was to narrow his eyes defiantly at the door and take another drag of his cigarette. The door was suddenly forced forward as the person behind it tried to open it – however, since Bryan had left the chain on the lock, it only opened a mere three inches, greatly angering the person behind it. He glared at Bryan from between the gap and threatened menacingly, "I swear to God, Bryan, you better turn that shit down before I –"

The specifics of his threat were drowned out as Bryan responded by turning the music up. Turning back around again to lean out of the window, he thoroughly ignored a final pounding on the door from the man who looked nothing like him. Bryan's father was tall, with muddy brown hair and dark, empty eyes. He, with his pale purple/grey hair and light grey eyes looked nothing like him – and for this he was truly grateful for. He didn't need a visual reminder of the bastard every time he saw his own reflection.

Bitterly, he snubbed out the stub of his cigarette and flicked out of the window. He stayed there staring outside for a few moments with an unreadable expression on his face, before reaching down to the draws under his bed and taking out a letter. He slumped down on to his bed and surveyed the letter for what must have been the twentieth time that week.

Bryan didn't know why, but the letter from the BBA had taken him completely by surprise. It wasn't because he hadn't seen his team mates since the World Championships – Tala's new-found parents were ridiculously understanding and generous, (a trait which Tala and Ian, who was somehow living with them too, never failed to exploit) and they'd even paid for Bryan to come over and visit him last Christmas. Spencer had come down from his Aunt's in St. Petersburg for a weekend and made their little group complete. During his time over there, he'd realized just how well the pair had it made. The couple's kindness was really rubbing off on Tala and Ian. The red-headed captain was still as arrogant and bossy as ever, always ready with a quick remark or snarky comment, but Bryan noticed it was always more in a joking manner than a cold one. Ian was an annoying little runt as always, but he, too, seemed lighter – happier. They both did.

His hesitation had nothing to do with the fact that he didn't want to blade, either. Fuck knows he'd jump at the chance to battle someone worth his time, but the truth was there just no one in his neighborhood good enough for him to even glance sideways at. And that wasn't him being cocky - it was just the truth. One didn't endure years of rigorous, back-breaking training at the hands of a power-crazy fucker just to be on par with the average teenage rookie. So as he sat down on his bed staring at the letter, Bryan tried to think about just what it was that was holding him back.

He was snapped out of his reverie at the sight of a tiny little arm snaking its way around the gap in his bedroom door, its chubby little fingers stretching up and reaching for the chain. Bryan quickly leapt up off his bed and turned his music down to background-level noise, before striding over to the door and letting the chain off the catch to let the small boy in.

He looked up at Bryan with big, round, olive coloured eyes and beamed at him. "Hey, Bryan!"

Bryan raised his eyebrows at the child's enthusiasm and said, "Hey, kid." He then shuffled the boy into the room and closed the door again, putting the chain on the catch once more.

He watched as his kid brother waded his way around the mess on his floor and hitched himself up on his bed to take a seat. Bryan flopped himself down on the bed next to him, and the child giggled as his elder brother's weight caused him to bounce on the bed. "So. Tyler," he said, roughly ruffling his ash-brown hair. "What's up?"

"Nothin'. What's up wiv' you?"

"Nothing," he replied, leaning back and folding his arms.

"Cool." Bryan smirked as he saw Tyler leaning back and folding his arms too.

After the Abbey was closed down and Bryan was told they'd found his father, and was going to have to live with it, he was furious. As far as he was concerned, the man was a waste of space. When he was growing up the man was always drunk, and always threatening he and his mother. When Bryan tried to get in the way and make his father stop bullying her, he'd hit him. And she just stood there.

He still remembers what she looks like, just. She had soft, cropped lilac hair, and sparkling blue eyes. Blue, not grey - Bryan wasn't sure where he got his eyes from.

One day, she disappeared. He came back from school one day and all her clothes were gone, and she wasn't there. Then his father got even worse. He was always shouting at him and threatening him. Just the very sight of Bryan was enough to make the man fly into a rage. It was his fault, he said, that she left. The only thing he'd wanted was torn to pieces, and it was all his fault.

Bryan spent most of his childhood avoiding the stupid man. He hated him, because he was bigger than him. He was scary, and he always smelled of alcohol. He hated him because he made his mother leave. And he hated her because she left. Bryan shrunk further and further into himself, never letting anyone in because they'd only hurt him too. If he didn't care about them, then it wouldn't hurt if they didn't care about him, either.

When he was eight years old, he ran away from home one night and found himself in front of the huge wooden doors of the Abbey. He wanted to be somewhere else and do something else other than dodge his father's careless words and fists. He wanted to be strong so that no one could hurt him anymore.

So he trained. And trained.

He became stronger. Ruthless. He met other boys at the Abbey who became his comrades, and he knew that they would fight for him as long as he would fight for them – they were in this together. He didn't know if he could call them his friends, but they weren't his enemies. And they weren't his father.

He didn't know if he agreed with Boris' plans for them or not. He knew that there was more to the Abbey than a mere orphanage turned beyblade academy, they all did. They were being trained to become soldiers. Soldiers that would keep order in Boris' New World. Soldiers that would terrorize all the families out there, regardless of whether they were happy or not.

Bryan didn't know if he really wanted to be one of these soldiers. He didn't know if he wanted to be the one tearing happy families apart. He knew what it was like to be scared. But Bryan also knew that soldiers are strong. Boris had given them a purpose and, as long as they didn't fail that purpose, nothing bad would happen to him, and he would become stronger.

But he did fail. They all did. And then he was separated from the young men he'd fought for and with, and sent away to live with the father he hated.

He'd moved to Michigan soon after Bryan ran away, apparently. He didn't even bother looking for him. He was from America originally, and only moved to Russia to be with his mother in the first place. The woman who left them both.

When Bryan arrived at the airport, there was no one there to greet him. He had to call a cab on his own, and he paid for it with the money Dickenson gave him. He would've been grateful to the old man, but it was him who sent him there in the first place.

When he arrived at the house, he was surprised to see that his father had gotten himself a new woman. She was blonde and pretty, and had a little boy of no more than three bouncing on her hip. He looked just like her. It was she who showed him where he'd be sleeping, his father didn't even give him the time of day. But they seemed happy enough.

It didn't take long, though, before the arguments and threats became common place in the house. Bryan's very presence in the house was enough to rile the older man. Kate pitied him for the indifferent, and often aggressive way his father treated him, and often tried to speak in his defense. Bryan didn't need anyone to fight for him, he was bigger now, and strong enough to appreciate the gesture. Until she left, too.

It was some months after Bryan had moved in. The arguments, fist fights between the two men, and threats got increasingly worse, until the point where she just couldn't take it anymore. She'd threatened to leave and take Tyler, and even Bryan if he wanted, with her - a battle ground was no place for a child to grow up in. Bryan had never seen his bastard of a father so mad before. Tyler was his son, and nobody was fucking going to take him away.

Bryan came home from school that day to the sounds of shouting, screaming and crying, and he opened the front door to a scene that was all too familiar. That sorry excuse for a man was knocking his wife about, and she was desperately trying to defend little Tyler from the sight of it by using her own body as a shield. Just like his own mother tried, once.

Bryan saw red. He never could stand men who beat women. They were fragile and weak. Men should be protecting them, not raising their fists to them.

He pulled his father off her and the fight erupted into an all out brawl. For every punch his father gave he returned with equal measure. Until his father smashed a beer bottle into his face. Then he saw black.

He woke up the next day in the exact same place, covered with his own blood and sore all over. His father was sitting in the arm-chair with his head in his hands. Tyler was curled up in the corner of the room, sleeping, with tear-stained cheeks. Kate was gone.

Ever since that day, Bryan made it his personal mission to make sure that Tyler had someone to look out for him. This little boy would not have the same upbringing that he suffered. The bastard was never outrightly abusive towards the little boy like he was with his first-born, but he was negligent. And so he had been caring for the child ever since.

Bryan was snapped swiftly out of his thoughts and brought to the present by the sensation of little hands tugging something from his own, bigger hands. He was absentmindedly tracing the scar that ran down from his left cheek to his jaw, courtesy of his father's beer bottle, and Tyler, taking advantage of his elder brother's distraction was attempting to hijack the letter that was in Bryan's hands – the letter that had been taking his attention away from him for the past couple of weeks.

"Hey," he said gruffly, "what're you trying to do?" He might've been acting the role of his caregiver for the past year, but Bryan still had little more the patience of a pea.

"I'm try'na read the letter!" Tyler whined.

"Pfft," Bryan scoffed, "Ty, you can't read yet." He rolled his eyes internally at himself. He was teasing a four year old. He needed to get a life.

"I can too!" Tyler replied, and shot his elder brother a very Bryan-worthy glare.

Bryan raised his eyebrows and decided to humour him. "Okay then," he said, handing him the letter, "go ahead."

He watched in slight amusement as his kid brother tried to make sense of all the letters on the page, his little face screwing up in concentration. He looked more like his father than Bryan did. His brown hair was the same, as was the shape of his eyes. But he had all of Kate's softness in his young face, and her kindness too. " … I can't do it," he muttered, giving up after a few moments and pouting. "What z'it say?"

Bryan smiled a rare and genuine smile as he took the letter back. "It's from the BBA. It's about beyblading." He explained briefly.

Tyler's eyes lit up at that. Bryan knew the kid loved blading, and he was always asking him to teach him. And he did. He brought him a junior beyblade set for Christmas, and even let him launch Falborg a couple of times. After he'd taken the bit out, of course. Releasing a bit-beast powered blade before you're ready is dangerous business. "Ree~eally?" he drawled. He was so American, Bryan thought. "What else does'it say?"

"Apparently there's a gonna be a tournament this summer. The letter's asking me if I want to go and fight in it with my team," he said.

"Wiv' your friends that you went to see at Christmus?" Tyler asked, with eyes that sparkled with such intensity for a four year old.

"Yeah, those guys."

Then came the explosion.

"Way coooool~~!" Tyler was bursting with excitement, bouncing up and down on the bed. Bryan swiftly closed and laptop and placed it on the floor, lest his kid brother's foot should go through the screen. "Hey Bry~, aw'you gonna go? Pleeease do it! Will it be on the tee-vee?"

"Urgh, I dunno, maybe. Shit, Tyler, sit down. Look," he said, grabbing the child by the shoulders and ceasing his bouncing, "if I go, it means you'll be left alone with dad for a while."

At these words, Tyler's face fell for just a moment, but then he brightened it up again, hardly missing a beat. But Bryan still caught it. "That's okay! I can look'after myself!" he said, beaming. " 'Nd you miss your friends too, dont'cha Bry." He said, suddenly getting serious. Bryan was once again taken aback by this kid's maturity. "It'snot nice being lonely."

If he was honest with himself, the reason Bryan was hesitating about this tournament is because he didn't want to leave his brother alone with their prick of a father. Physically, he knew Tyler would be fine. He was in no danger of abuse, but he couldn't be certain that he'd get all the attention he needed. Not that Bryan himself always managed this, but hell, at least he tried. And looking into the eyes of this little boy, that were full of admiration and expectation for him, he found himself backing down. Tyler was looking at him like he was his hero, and Bryan just couldn't let him down.

He was going to have to make a couple of phone calls.

He looked at the little analogue clock on his stereo display. Just past four o'clock. Moscow was nine hours in front of Michigan, which meant that it was about one in the morning over there. Whatever, he was going to call anyway. Tala's parents did say he could call anytime.

"Oi, kid, get your shoes on," Bryan ordered, giving him a little shove off the bed. He started rummaging around his room for his wallet and keys. And another pack of fags.

"Whyy? Where we goin'?" Tyler asked, watching as his brother started picking up shirts off the floor, looked underneath them, scowled, then dumped it back before moving to the next one.

"Over to Kyle's – I need to use his pho –"

"Kyle's? Yessss! Cann I play on his Wiiii?!" he asked excitably.

"Err, sure yeah, whatever. Just hurry up." He then moved over to undo the chain as he remembered it was too high for him to reach.

After he found his wallet and keys, he left his room, locked it, and went downstairs where he found Tyler sitting on the bottom step struggling with his laces. He bent down quickly to help him, and then scooped him up to carry him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The pair set off down the sidewalk, bickering between themselves over who was going to kick whose ass at Mario Kart once they got to Kyle's.

A/N: Are you still here? Yeah?

Cool. Well yeah, that was a bit of a long one. This is more or less the chapter length you can be expecting (sorry!). A few changes were made in this chapter, mostly I've tweaked dialogue to try and make it feel a but more natural. You may have noticed I've given Johnny a bit of an accent - it's here to stay. ;)

I also wanted to make Robert more consequential, in hindsight I felt as though I brushed him off a little, previously. Rest assured, he has his part to play and you will be seeing more of him in a few chapter's time. :3

Bryan is unchanged, naturally. :)

As always, let me know what you think!
Peace and love,

~ Indie