Title: Trust
Fandom: Bakuten Shoot! (Beyblade)
Pairing: Yuriy x Boris
Authoress: Ladyfiction
Theme: #005 Oil, Sex/One's Nature Magic,#019 Resting one's head on a person's lap, #033 Punishment
Rating: T
AN/Warnings: None

-Trust-

The halls seemed almost eerily quiet as he walked down the darkened paths. The stairs descended lower and underground. The deeper he forcedly traveled, the more somber the surrounds felt.

The Abbey and the last chamber, nothing short of an oppressed dungeon, rested the walls of solitary confinement. He shivered. Even the most fearless of men would feel a twinge of cowardice. He swallowed hard. No matter how many times he ensued the downward passage, things never went easier. Each time proved as challenging. His footsteps, hollow, chilled his skin. They echoed from all sides, pounding in his ears. The keys dangling from the hoop jangled, crashing metal against metal.

Soon, he would arrive. Just around the next corner, the door awaited him. A few more steps and the keyhole did as well, waiting for it's unlocking. As it slowly did, the prisoner stared up at the door intensely, through the obscure darkness.

It opened and a new noise rang through the silent atmosphere. The hinges squeaked, lacking in oil. The rust made him shove harder and a minute later, having bared that pitched resonation, almost hesitantly, he called in.

''Boris.'' It was the first time he had ever had to call out that name unlike his fellow teammates; he was the newbie of the bunch.

A grunt was the reply. At least he was still breathing.

He reached into his pocket and struck a match against the wall. The flames engulfed the tip and lit up his countenance as it followed him towards the captive. Silver eyes could not focus on the brightness and closed them shut. It had been so long since he seen light.

Whoever it was thought, he was ready for it.

His body did not tense when the presence approached him. He was just waiting for that haunting voice to mock and jeer him. His head fell forward as his dirty lavender locks pressed to his sweat skin. All sense of pain had been lost to him now.

''Boris.'' The figure crouched before him...and that voice...it was different. He could trace no malice, or cruelty.

It was not him.

Something warm lifted his chin up and his eyes blinked open, meeting the fiery light. Then, the matching crimson strands, like embers of the flames revealed a young face, like his own, looking at him warmly like the fire. He could not help it and let out a sigh of relief, hoarse from his throat.

It was not him, but his new captain, Yuriy.

''How was your first 24 down here?'' The redhead asked.

''Hell.''

Boris' face was a mess. There was dirt smudged against his cheeks, hair greasy and just as filthy. The room was humid, horribly so and the scent was laced with swat. He was on his knees and shackled, cuffed at his ankles. A few links of chain, thick stainless steal bound him to the wall. His wrists moreover endured the same fate, chaining him to the cement. The minimal freedom meant he could not move. This was cruelty at its best.

Yuriy had himself spent a dozen nights in the same position. If you kept your back straight, the immense pain of your body weight dwelled in the spinal cord, or in the knees, bare and vehemently bruising. To relieve the agony, shifting, meant your shoulder had to slump forward, leaving all the pressure on the wrists, keeping you up.

Balcov called it endurance to increase the body's stamina and resistance. They thought it as but punishment, brutal and merciless, like the creator of it himself.

Boris was the newest Abbey child and shown the ropes fast. He was an acquisition the others new little to nothing about. His caretakers, rumored doctors and scientists left him in the manipulative hands of their master before they...mysteriously disappeared.

Young, powerful and riddled with potential, he lacked in discipline, greatly. Balcov was more then willing to show him the consequences for disobedience. There was a large interest shown in his abilities but his sharp tongue needed reprimanding. Theirs to mold, he would prove to be a formidable opponent when they were complete but his sardonic comments and witty phrases were not welcomed within the abysmal sanctuary.

Yuriy undid the first shackle and the left arm, numb, fell limp, slumping against his body. After the next side, he supported his whole upper chest on his lap, a face resting atop his thigh. That is how it always was. No one faired any better through their times of discipline. They all admitted to their weaknesses and strived to conquer them.

All he had to do was lay there, rest in relief from the stress and let his captain rub his back. He would dismiss the massage in any other circumstance but the fingers, soothing the knots and tension could not be passed up.

''You'll be in pain for at least a week, this helps for the first night.''

The was vulnerability at its purest but Boris, fought it back. No amount of agony coursing through him could cease his arms from pushing upwards and teeth gritting. He sat up and stared evenly into the marine depths, lit from the flaming torch. His breaths were labored and deep, and then exhaled in a pathetic hiss.

The darkness veiled his proud smirk that graced his lips as his hands began to undo the shackles adorning the others ankles.

Now, he just needed to stand.

Yuriy stood bemused before him.

''Need a hand, tough boy?'' He offered his palm and reluctantly, it was clasped with another.

With a pull and a first kneecap snapping, he braced Boris' smaller stature again. Slowly, he pushed him up against the cold wall and awaited the next leg to bend straight. Lilac eyebrows frowned deeply. Yuriy even winced when the popping sound resonated sickeningly throughout the entire room. He pulled back to look at the contorted face, pained but slipping into relief. For a second, he swore the newcomer looked innocent and lost.

Boris sighed. The tension had finally subsided. It was so intense for that longest eternity that crimson essence, tangy, coppery, disgusted his taste buds. A streak of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, the drops rolling down his chin. He had bit his lip, suppressing a yell from daring to escape.

Yuriy dropped the torch and his fingers brushed the mess away. The flames all extinguished. They stood in the dark, pressed together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Boris felt utterly pitiful. This was his absolute low. Never again would he let it happen. His captain was his post for support and he was not sure if dependence in such a place kept you alive. However, through his darkest hours, he would need help, all of their aid.

Would it hurt that much the next time he was forced to accept these offering hands when the ones from the past only inflicted more pain? Something wet ran along the skin of his cheek and suddenly, a warm sensation stopped the trail. Had he really shed a sole tear? Yuriy kissed it away, that first slip. Now, he hit rock bottom.

Not even one doctor or a malice psychologist had ever seen him cry. Not after all those years. He shuddered at the hot breath in his ear.

''You can only cry once here.'' Yuriy whispered slowly. ''Or they win...''

He nodded. Only once could he and now, never again.

Then, he wondered while his thoughts were as low as his spirit, when had his captain cried.


The hours grew later, one passed and another neared. In the stairs, all sense of time faded. It was simply called eternity. By the top, the last grueling step of assistance, arms around his waist and encouraging words, it ended.

''Curse if it hurts.'' Yuriy told him.

A second later, the worst swears he had ever heard spoken riddled the air.

He snapped. Boris let out every curse he knew.

The walls played tunes of echoing obscenities.

When they came down the last hall before the dorms, each halted on instinct. None of the doors opened as they crept by until the last closed entrance, the team room. They made it. Darkness greeted them until a dim lamp lit, in the corner. Two faces looked at them. Everything suddenly felt better then.

Boris dropped onto the bed and his eyes soon felt heavy. The burden aching his muscles dissipated. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. All he could hear was a voice as his silver orbs shut. It was barely audible. But, it was persistent.

The repeated word became louder. Was that his name?

Eyes blinked open, unwillingly, hazed and blurred. Aqua depths now as cold as ice, laced with an arctic feel only rivaled by the storms themselves, glared down at him.

''Get up.'' He commanded.

That was the real captain Boris knew.

Hands pushed him to sit up.

Yuriy settled down behind him. Fingers still squeezed the tense muscles, making them wince but the bits of pain dispersed as a soothing heat and massaging friction left his eyelids drooping. It started slow but just enough for his muscles to sink deeper into relaxation.

Then, a small click disturbed his reluctant reverie that he indulged in. He blinked as newly dampened hands slid slickly over his collarbone.

''It's nature's magic.'' His voice was quiet in the stillness. ''An oil that will help tomorrow's performance.'' There was a brief silence as the substance was further spread over him.

''I want competition.''

He would have protested against the palms roaming down his bareback but the oil began to heat the bruised ligaments and nothing had even felt better.

''Next time, talk to me and not him. He's not worth your breath.''

When he was done, Boris was lost to the world, smothered in exhaustion and looming fatigue. He passed out within minutes. Yuriy laid him down and sighed. He had to take care of his team, in such a desolate place. They were all individuals meshed together, hand picked for a team like no other. The hardest lesson they would learn was trust.

Too much made you weak. But not enough would kill you.

Willing to admit it or not, they all needed each to the end, until hell froze over.

-EndE-