A Padded Bed
By Evil Cheese of Doom
Chapter One
Summer Frostbite
Boris Kusznetskov watched Yuri training with some boy whose name he did not know, or at least didn't care to recall. Dmitriy or something. It didn't matter. He stared at the whirling beyblades, and snorted in derision. Yuri had deliberately mis-launched his blade so that the brat had a chance of winning. Yuri never did anything like this. Unless he was in one of his "they're the team after us, they need to be strong" moments. Boosting their confidence by taking down one's strength would not help; nobody ever did that in any serious competition, unless they were purposefully throwing the results.
He sniffed the sweet summer air and sneezed. It held a certain something, though had it not been filtered through air conditioning, or he could actually nasally inhale, it would have been sweeter. He shook his head. Too many therapy sessions. Maybe a walk would get rid of these stupid thoughts. After he showed a few brats what it meant to be strong, anyway. Boris glanced at the ceiling and studied its dark surface. Dark, smooth, fearless and strong. That was what he needed to be. He sneezed again.
Great. A cold in the middle of summer. Just what he needed. Boris blew his nose as Dmitriy attacked Yuri with all his strength, Wolborg knocking a chip out of the dish. Throwing up his arms in shock, he smeared the contents of the handkerchief over his face. Dammit. He wiped it off with one hand, saw the blood and pinched the bridge of his nose. How had he managed to break his nose without noticing?
Yuri's beyblade flew out of the dish. Boris stood up, staring at his captain. "You're out of practice. Beaten by a novice who was sent to become a monk." Whether that was true or not he didn't care. If he pissed off Yuri then he'd be satisfied.
He did not get satisfaction; Yuri's skin remained pale and refused to turn the same colour as Mao's hair. Shrugging, Boris pulled out Falborg's blade. "Anyone?" he offered. Recruits' feet shuffled, novices muttered to each other. Finally, Dmitriy or whatever he was called stepped forward and faced Boris over the dish.
The referee began to count down. Dmitry and Boris clicked their blades onto the ripcords. Boris couldn't feel the sharper edges. Damn. Need to hone it again with that stupid machine.
The two boys released on command, blades spinning into the dish.
"Falborg! Now!"
Dmitriy was slow to defend, but somehow his bey stayed inside the stadium, dancing on the edge for half a second before it skated back down. Boris stayed in defense; no point in summoning Falborg to kick the arse of some kid who didn't have a bitbeast.
He saw his second window, as the novice began his attack again. One side of the attack ring was slightly heavier than the others, thus curving the path of the beyblade. Brave move, Boris thought grudgingly. It's a good ploy, but if somebody else spotted his advantage and went for it then BAM! He'd be worse off than Kon, the year Japan took the world title. Striking that side would either flip it completely or do nothing; the opposite side would probably just change the spin slightly.
The other side rode just slightly higher... he aimed for that in the blind hope that it would bring on a victory. Why was a novice so tough? Ohhh, he was wearing the fire badge... My bad, he thought sourly. Rookie turns out to be post-grad. It doesn't matter. He'll go down anyway.
He was proven right by the flying blade. Dmitriy or Darin or whatever caught it by his fingertips; Boris caught his straight. Skills really matter, he thought proudly. It actually didn't hurt when I caught Falborg. Not that it ever hurts, or that I would worry about the pain. Pain is irrelevant and weak.
"Good game," Dmitriy smiled brightly and stretched out a hand. Boris merely stared at him. "Do what you prefer then," Darin or Dmitriy muttered and withdrew his arm. Falborg was returned to his pouch and Boris to his seat. He flexed his hand, which seemed to have gone dead.
Why does it feel frozen? he wondered. It isn't even cold outside... what's wrong with the stupid hand? It feels like it's been in a bucket of water for hours. I am not complaining. I am stating. And what I am stating is discomfort. Or lack thereof. Which I should not be thinking about. Damn, I'm going insane.
Glancing at his palm, he discovered cuts and scrapes from Falborg's spin. Why didn't it hurt? he wondered. Who cares... can Sergei beat a novice? Or will he be nice and weak like Yura?
Putting pain and lack thereof from his mind, he watched the match commence.
Sergei opened a bottle of soft drink, staring into its greenish depths before beginning to drink. Yuri leant over Ivan to collect his own bottle and accidentally kicked Ivan's bottle over. "Hey," Ivan growled. "I had almost a full bottle."
Yuri grinned; if Sergei hadn't picked the drinks himself he would have thought his captain had been drinking alcohol. "Aw, Vanya; don' cwy, pedaw! Yura'll share with you!"
"You're high," Ivan declared flatly. "I'm not drinking out of anything you've spat in first. Just get off my lap and I'll be fine."
Yuri snorted and dropped a bottle into the long-nosed boy's hand, returning to his own place. "Sergei," Ivan hissed, "Did you spike this?"
"Was it open?" Not waiting for a reply, Sergei muttered, "Exactly."
The boys stared into the wall, which didn't stare back due to its distinctive lack of eyes. Only drunks notice that walls have no eyes of their own; everyone else just mutters 'stoners' if the subject comes up and looks at something more interesting than nonexistant optic organs on a structure designed to hold up the ceiling, be decorated with various objects and stop the wind getting in.
Finally, Boris slunk off alone to sleep because he was sick of Yuri playing Giancarlo-Max, to the accompaniment of Yuri and Ivan arguing about some thing that sugar-high boys talk about. Better than sugar-high girls in miniskirts, anyway. He shuddered at the memory and didn't even notice that he'd jammed his hand in the door until he couldn't keep walking.
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