Notes: Ah, yes. I keep looking for Ozuma/Joseph fics and I have only found one, ONE! Injustice, I tell you! Injustice! And because the reviewers on a certain fic on mine were apparently very eager for that pairing (guys, write some too! -whimper- Onegai?) I decided to get this very long one-shot out before working any further on that particular fic. You can always call it a Saint-Shields' prequel to 'Homecomings.'
It was actually a series of short word-drabbles at first; I put them together for this. Ph33r my linking skillz...which are not so great, judging by the fic's jumpy-aroundness. And if you're still reading this, the yaoi content is very little. Practically nonexistent, in fact. But it's there if you look. XD Onward, my faithful readers! -cracks whip-
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Home.
Joseph is Joseph, no matter his tough talk and swaggering mannerisms. And Joseph always, always, always is the one who remembers where the Saint Shields came from.
He remembers it every morning-time he looks out the window of wherever they've chosen to crash for the night. That's where it used to stretch below him, heavy living emerald tapestry. For a moment it all comes back, the odd chirping whistles that used to wake him. The feel of smooth-worn wood under his fingertips. The scent of life and forest that carried with it the tantalizing promise of adventure.
His 'team' – gang of old companions is more like it – carry those same memories in a way that is not quite normal. He sees it, everyone sees it, in their unnatural eyes, the same crystalline softness as his memories.
But only Ozuma's can make him back away from them in fearful respect, because they still have that tantalizing wildness preserved all these years. Only Ozuma's would make him feel giddy and weak-kneed, and yet make him want to run, run as though their owner's primeval Bitbeast were at his heels.
Joseph, of course, doesn't look too deeply into it. He was never much for philosophy or significant feelings, anyway.
But they're there. That's what matters.
That's why his leader has always been able to call him back, no matter where he goes.
Friendships.
He also remembers the first time he met the enigmatic boy, the boy who would be his captain in days to come. It had happened on a day like any other in the crèche where the young ones of the tribe were kept; school and play, play and school. It had been made significant because there had suddenly been another child, sitting in the back, away from the rest.
He hadn't known then. Not yet. Gossip he was too young to understand had yet to reach his ears, and besides, 'tribal leaders' and 'ancient missions' meant very little to a five-year-old in any case. Neither did 'ostracism' – which sadly, the older kids, those about to reach the mysterious teenage years, did know.
So out of thirty-something youngsters, only three had approached this new person. (Actually, it was only Joseph at first, but where he went his older sister went, and where Merriam went Dunga usually followed. It was one of those things that just happens.)
And young Ozuma had been…well, not exactly ecstatic, but he'd been nice. And he'd taken Dunga's crude language in stride, and he'd never minded that Merriam was a girl, although they were of the age when the opposite sexes were supposed to be utterly repellent to each other. Unless they were your sister, bigger and older and wiser, and you were glad to have them backing you even if you'd never admit it. But that didn't exactly count.
Anyway, he'd been pretty cool to talk to. Joseph didn't know much about what lay beyond the village and the endless-seeming expanses of forest that surrounded it. Ozuma didn't mind letting him sit and listen, with the more than occasional interruption, as he gave him his first taste of life outside the borders of a wooden wall. They wouldn't realize how he'd acquired it (the wisdom of the future leader's teachers) until years later, when a bond had been forged that couldn't be broken by something so petty.
He's been asked about the day they'd been bound as a group for the good of their people. And until now, he's still trying to figure out the answer. There were just too many.
Oaths.
Joseph is used to people staring at his eyes, at Merriam's, at Dunga's, and longest of all at Ozuma's. He keeps that memory dulled and buried deep, but it still comes up in his dreams sometimes. Especially when people frown and turn away, repulsed by something they'll probably never witness, much less understand.
He and his sister's eyes had been storm-grey once; Dunga's coppery to match his hot temper; Ozuma's black and depthless, calculating as a cat's. Come to think of it, their leader's hair hadn't used to have the blood-colored streak dividing it as well, it had been thick and wild and dark; ordinary. Colors had changed on a single day full of burning torches and chanting priests, the odd topsy-turvy jumble of temple wall-carvings and nervous fire running through his veins. There had been words he didn't know and prayers he couldn't fathom, which left the four of them shivering and exhilarated and horrified all at once.
The holy Beasts had revealed themselves that day; there was no other way to describe it. It was an experience so painful that Joseph did not think of it. So profound that he could not, could never speak of it. So joyous that words died trying to describe it on paper.
The only image he allowed himself was of a pale, strong hand, Ozuma's hand, clasping his own and pulling him upright. The other boy's voice, low and strong in his ears as he lay curled and gasping like a newborn on the cold stones, cutting through the crimson mist.
"We've done it…remember? Just like we promised. We've done it."
Understandings.
Stand up, Joseph.
Don't cry. Big boys don't cry. What would Merriam think? She's probably given you worse, way worse than this on one of her bad days, when you teased her too much and got your well-deserved ouches.
Stand up and stifle a cry of pain, because something in your foot grated just now and the floor is going to meet your face in a very personal way…no. Catch yourself with one hand, bite your lip until the blood comes, but don't cry. Okay, maybe Merriam has nothing on this after all. But it's still no excuse…
"Joseph?"
You go stiff and wince as the muscles in your shoulder remind you they've been bruised. Not him…you don't want him to be seeing you like this, helpless, weak and laid low by a bunch of snotrags for shooting your mouth off like you always do. Jeez. Sensitive dumbasses. Pick at their pride a little and they're on you like flies. Big, nasty, painful flies.
"Whaddya want, man?" He doesn't move, and you try again, yes-- leaning against the cool stone of the wall for support, you can finally meet his gaze, with one eye, anyway, the other one's swelling shut already. "Y'here to lecture me about the dangers of bullying again?"
"No." His face flashes something indefinable; you catch it, it slips and it's gone again. But that's the boy you know, standing there proud and cold as usual. Nothing's any different between you two except maybe some scrapes. And whatever the hell they did to your foot.
"Then what? Coz if Merriam's looking for me again, you can just tell her to-"
"Do you want revenge?"
Eh?!? What kind of a question is that? You place your injured foot down, careful, careful, yes, one hand on the wall for support, always for support, and take a step nearer to him. You answer honestly, like always, the brutal truth that's gotten you in trouble so many times you're infamous for your big mouth. "'Ch. That's just dumb, Ozuma. 'Course I want to get them back too, you know? Only thing is, I'd rather just have them not start swinging in the first place. Why? Y'want to help me with that now?"
Well, how were you supposed to know he was going to smirk like that? Funny how what makes other people mad just amuses the guy. Hnph.
"Maybe."
And he turns and walks away, leaving you with the thread of 'What was that all about?' chasing itself in your head, and the contemplation of how exactly you're supposed to haul your sorry ass home.
Cryptic.
Truth to tell…when the worst times of his life came along, they usually tended to occur when his captain was watching. Scrapes and scoldings, humiliation, the occasional defeat; Joseph is not invincible, after all.
He knew it had been stupid, Ozuma knew it was stupid, wasn't that enough for one day? It was a terrible practice – screwed-up launch, getting beaten around by Flash Leopard for a full minute before being able to maneuver at all, so Joseph had gotten too worked up over his bad performance to call Vanishing Moot properly. And then the two Bitbeasts would hit the dish at exactly the wrong angle… not only was Moot blasted to kingdom come, but had to slice up his Beyblader in the process.
So now his arm hurt like a bitch, Moot's blade lying half-shattered at his feet. He fought the urge to step on it. His Beast deserved better than that, even if it (along with the rest of the world) seemed to see him as an accidental punching bag.
Just to put the icing on the cake, a light rain had begun to fall. It wasn't the refreshing kind you get in the middle of summer either, but an icy, almost sticky drizzle that made his skin itch and the bleeding slashes sting. Joseph stared downwards, damp green bangs partially obscuring his view of the other boy who stood across the dish.
"That…really sucked."
It wasn't so much the words. Ozuma's tone of voice wasn't even close to mocking. In fact, it was the way he said it – so casual, so matter-of-fact, that had Joseph snarl something incoherent and jump him over the ruined dish.
Not surprisingly, the older boy caught his attack and easily countered it. It never worked, and so while Joseph sat where he'd been dropped, fuming, his captain rummaged in a pocket for a stray roll of bandage, wondering how to lighten the mood. The way things were between them these days, they went through first-aid material like Dunga went through fast food.
Ancient.
"In the days before the first of our ancestors lived, land, sea, and air alike were dominated by all manner of mystical beasts and beings. Some were shaped like the humans of today, some were like to beasts that we see even now, and many were wondrous creatures that will never again exist within this world. Joseph."
"These beautiful gods – for with their powers they could be no less – have long since been absent from this world, having departed for a stronger one which could handle their raw might without coming nearly to an end, as ours had done. Only the minds of humans, humans with the proper abilities to undertake the immense task, could open the doors into this wild world and make it possible for their patrons to once again be made manifest, if only for a brief moment in time…your turn, Merriam."
"Ummm…where are we? Right…signs of those who we now know as Bitbeasts were left and preserved all over the world. In later days, when the tribes of man – Ozuma, you pig, what happened to the women? - wandered the land, these signs were found and many Beasts were worshipped as patrons of different peoples, different cultures. Mightiest among these were the Holy Four; who lived and loved and fought in the land we now call China. No one knows what their true names are, but as the ages passed they were named Gembu the Dark Warrior, patron of earth, Byakko the Snow-White Tiger, patron of storm, Suzaku the Vermilion Phoenix, patron of fire, and the Blue Dragon Sohryu, patron of the winds and seas. Dunga?"
"Over time, as man grew ever closer to resurrecting the Holy Beasts, there was a rising of fear that the power would be used for wicked purposes, as in some cases it was. Half a century ago, part of Suzaku was torn from its mother form…now known as Dranzer, and warped in darkness to create a being of pure rage…the feared and fabled Black Dranzer, which surfaced not even a month before today. In the hands of ignorant children, the might of the Holy Four who are now Dragoon, Dranzer, Drigger and Draciel is a dangerous weapon and a tantalizing target."
"Reasons like these are why the order of the Saint Shields was formed," Ozuma continued, voice hard. "The four Beings of our tribe have helped us protect humans and Bitbeasts from each other, passed down to those worthy of a leopard's speed, a mammoth's strength, the fierceness of the shark and the wild fury of the ape. It is our duty not to disappoint them, and to seal the Holy Four, so that their power will forever be their own."
"No offense, but if you were trying for a fairytale, that royally sucked, Ozuma."
"'khen Dais'ain chieharu kasa![1]" The leader of the Saint-Shields declared, turning his back on Joseph.
"Ooo, deep," he teased. "S'okay, we're here, we've already beaten each of them at least once. So maybe we'll be able to seal the Four and cart ourselves home, report mission successful, yadda yadda, hail the heroes!"
"You've been badly influenced, little brother." And she couldn't help but smile.
Stirrings.
"You like Merriam, don't you."
The question catches Ozuma by surprise, blood-ebony hair suddenly visible from the other side of the fridge as he straightens. The room they are staying in for the Championships is comfortable, but it is rather cramped when it comes to housing the entire team. Dunga has chosen to scout out the rest of the hotel and see if anything looks suspicious; the only female of their group has taken over the single washroom. The sound of water running is very loud. They are, essentially, alone, and Joseph can have his confrontation in peace.
"What makes you think that…?" Calm, so calm and collected, almost toneless. Nervous, in other words.
A sardonic snort shows the green-haired blader's opinion of his tone as he reclines, one leg kicking at the nearby armchair. "Aww, c'mon! You're looking at her all the time, and your face!" He carefully doesn't laugh, because The Leader Has A Temper [2.] "You either want to kiss her or kill her, and I don't think you want to kill her…so come clean, huh?"
Ozuma closes the refrigerator even more carefully than usual, and strides out of the room without another word. Joseph gets a look at his expression before the door slams, a fleeting impression of angry frustration that wipes the humor right out of his system.
"What the…"
"…hell was that about?" His sister is standing in the open washroom, clad in a heavy plush robe and toweling her hair.
Joseph refuses to tell her, because he doesn't know himself. But he intends to find out soon enough.
owari.
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[1] – We must know our enemies to defeat them!
[2] – Saint Shield Rule # 3, topped by Merriam Is Homicidal Once A Month, and Dunga Doesn't Pull His Punches. # 4 is Joseph Is A Bloody Sneak.
More notes: Okay, I'm happier. XD Between the many, many weeks of writing the beginning and ending of this fic, I found more Ozuma/Joseph being posted! -squeals in glee- Keep it up, people!
The last scene is one that happens in Homecomings, yes. This fic turned out both longer and shorter than expected…maa, I don't think I put closure in here –anywhere-. It's all drabble, drabble, drabble. I was trying for some fluff at the end, but muffed it…
Booyaka. S'about time to work on Deceptions too. R&R, people!