A/N: KaiTaka is kinda new territory for me seeing as I've only done one other fic on it, and it was a oneshot…but after meeting Glay and Ranma in person at AN06 this year, I was compelled to go out on a limb and finish this story for them. So this is for those two magnificent writers/artists, because they were even more awesome in person.

Disclaimer: Beyblade is © Aoki Takao

I don't talk much because I don't need to. It isn't necessary for me to express my thoughts in words because I am capable of making my meaning perfectly clear through my actions. That's why I'm here now.

That's why I paint.

I've spent so much of my time becoming the silent, cold bastard that everyone sees to protect myself...but I don't think anyone will ever realize how far from the truth that is to my personality. The truth is, silence scares me.

I like the silence when I am thinking because of the peace. It is so much easier to sift through the bullshit that way. But sometimes I need to hear noise. I need to hear Tyson whining about my training programs, and I need to hear Rei and Max calling out to their blades. Hell, even Kenny's frantic typing can be satisfying. That way I hear and see the emotions right in front of me...it makes life real.

And it's easier to paint that way.

'Painting without emotion,' he told me. 'Is like writing a story without a plot...it won't make any sense.' Then he laughed, saying that he guessed it didn't matter in my case, because I don't make sense anyway. My lips twitch at the memory...he was the only one who could make me smile back then.

We all needed a way out; every single, one of us. A way out of our training, the hard, cold rooms, the damp hallways, our lives even. He knew, and he told me.

Of course, he never painted like I did. He used to tell me stories all of the time, spending hours writing them down as he did. They were mostly about two best friends, if I remember correctly, and how they always stuck together to beat the bad guys in the end and save their other friends. They were amazing to listen to...he had a gift with words. At the time, I hadn't known that it was his way of finding a ray of light in our childhood nightmares.

He taught me that----how to let all the darkness from your life drip out onto the paper, how to escape the shadows by imprisoning them in beautifully intricate thoughts and ideas, whether they may be in words or pictures. I owe him so much for giving me that chance...that, freedom.

But, back then I wasn't sure how that freedom would come. I couldn't write like he could, but I loved listening to music. Emotions are so strong when accompanied by instruments, and beats and tunes. When I shut my eyes and let the lyrics fill me...bliss. I found that I could walk away from my dark room for a few minutes and forget everything that was bothering me. No one could hurt me.

'Did you find it yet?' he asked one night, referring to my "calling" as he like to put it. I had shrugged, not really sure. But when I told him about the way that I felt when I listened to music, his eyes glittered with mischief, and he told me to stay put. I did as I was told, but when I think about it, if I had known what he was going to do I would have probably tried to stop him. Of course, I'm grateful for his risk now.

When he came back, he was carrying a thick book, and I realized immediately that it came from our tutor's storage room. It was an extra, leather bound, filled with layers and layers of soft white paper. It was as big as a textbook, and just as thick.

'Put it back,' I had commanded. Whatever he'd had in mind then I hadn't wanted to know. But he just smiled as he sat down besides me on his bed and took out the black pen he used to write his stories and poems with.

I was horrified. If the book was ever found missing, Voltaire would kill us, and then Boris would find a way to bring us back so he could kill us too. For some reason though, the rush of his rebellion excited me at the same time, so I made no move to stop him from his diligent task.

He opened the cover, and I remember him writing on the inside of it in his long, flowing letters, reading his work out loud, word-by-word.

'This book belongs to The Phoenix, Kai Hiwatari; to do whatever he so chooses to do with it. And I, Tala Ivanov, will do whatever it takes to protect the bearer of this book and the tome itself. Because within these pages lies the rebirth of the great firebird...his heart, his soul, his mind and his body alike.'

He had paused then, as if unsure of whether to continue or not. And still after a few long moments, all he could think of was,

'To Kai,

-Tala'

We still joke about that. He tells me there should have been more, and I tell him that I would have dubbed him 'asshole', because it would have made me cry. It doesn't happen often, but I was on the verge of tears that night. Because, in that book he handed me peace, and my second chance...my rebirth.

Of course, I couldn't paint back then. But I always had a pencil with me, the book safely tucked away during our training. And everyday, as soon as we returned to our rooms, I had something new to sketch in it. He used to tell me that I was hopeless, but then I'd remind him of the fifty or so, notebooks he had piled up under the beds in our dorm. He was just as hopeless as I was. So I'd sketch, and he'd write, and even though we had been pretty hopeless, I can honestly say that it was worth it. Because then, we had been happy; so even now that it's all over, now that the nightmare has finally ended, I still sketch. And I paint.

He taught me that once I learned to express myself, my dreams would never be lost. So I keep dreaming, for him.

That's why I paint.

A/N: Okay, so this seems irrelevant to KaiTaka, but I promise you there's a point. I have this thing about clichés and so I'm trying something new here—which is why I'm posting the first chapter along with this prologue so that it makes some kind of sense. In anycase, I hope you enjoyed!