Title: Restless Nights
Author: Rhea R. Rin
Rating: T
Summary: Takao was a very good person; too good he ends up being chased, too good he ends up increasing the number of people that lived in his house, too good he ends up as a... MATCHMAKER!?
Warnings: Did you pay respects for Takao? Oops, he's alive.
Disclaimer: Beyblade and all its characters belong to Aoki Takao. Any non-canon characters found in this story are mine and are not to be touched. I write for the sole purpose of entertainment and definitely do not make any money with this.
Chapter 2: [Vivid]
On a count of one to ten, there were three times Takao thought he was close to dying. Three times, where there was a general misconception that his long list of friends was evidence of his non-existent empathy. While, to some extent, he did understand some of his friends' troubles and often felt and perceived how much they had went through, Takao believed that being empathetic was closely related to being perceptive. He would have to be perceptive to fully analyze the situation and act upon it. Of course, after his few years of living, he could safely say that he lacked the necessary intellect to properly conduct his behaviour to gather adequate information.
In other words, he could be called an imbecile that never knew when and where to shut up. While there were times when he misplaced a word or times when he couldn't decipher the little things others hinted (the list of shenanigans he had fallen into were many), he wasn't going on in a rant with a detailed explanation about how he got in to it and how he saved himself, or an elongated theses on how dangerous his short life was. As unprofessional as it was, he figured it was plainly dumb in itself to mention one, relatively small but horrifying incident. It was rather short-lived, a small pickle no one knew of, but, so far, it had been the only one that made him think his heart was next to dysfunctional. That incident, (after three shudders and a large heave) was when he called Suzaku a chicken…
As they say, the rest was history.
In comparative accounts, whatever that happened just about some time ago was merely, an eerily similar genocide.
Scratch that, it was a one-sided annihilation.
(There was a screeching gasp on his part when he finally figured out what the big wide box Hiromi said about was…)
It was Death itself! The final boss, by all copyright limits, was far too scary!
"Kinomiya."
The single word had escaped his lips, one that still sent shivers down his spine. The word itself was considered unnecessary; it was cruel enough that Kai had transformed into a raging flamethrower emitting all fire and smoke from the depths of hell. Moreover, his stats were considerably lower than Kai's; a single dune that paled in comparison to a huge mountain. For a fleeting moment, Takao thought he was an ant running away from the stampeding, humongous feet.
His plight was enough to make a grown man cry…
It is destiny. This is fate. Accept it. The old librarian's voice loomed over his mind. He supposed it was one way to blame fate for his disquiets.
On a more intriguing matter, he finalized this must also be a time for writing a will. Jot down a wish that would be carried on by the next generation, effectively ruining their lives by encouraging them to venture in for a journey of a thousand days and a thousand nights, their sole purpose to figure out the meaning behind Takao's will…
He imagined them ending up in a dead end; long, pillar-like stones surrounding them, creepers dangling off lethargically. Then his ghost would emerge with the perfect capsizing troll-smile and a mischievous grin, voice breaking into a singsong: Boo yeah! I fooled y'all… imma gonna show ye hell!
Cough, cough.
It was necessary that one must stick to civilized strands of dignity.
It was also necessary that one must stick to his own work. So, with a humbleness that rivalled none, Takao slipped back to the topic at hand.
Where was he again? Ah, yes. His will. Here it was: 'While life was short and… and… something, I had always wished I could've lived a little longer. There is a horror story I want to write and I need a few more comics to finish my yearly collection. Damn it, this thing's hard. How come they say long lengthy speeches in the movies?'
'…I have been champion for three years now; my last match with Brooklyn had rendered the stadium useless and a tournament would most likely not be hosted this year. So please, my last and final wish is to live a few years more to... complete the record of 'five-time championship'… and… and… and then what?'
Oh, he wished people put pastries instead of flowers on his grave. He couldn't eat flowers in this life. What made others think he could eat them as a ghost?
.
After several minutes of thinking and pastry-fantasizing, Takao returned to the actual matter at hand. As he looked at the mirror, at his eye painted black by a brain-seizing punch, he thought he was almost dead. Dying.
He had looked so handsome before…
A lone tear fell down the crestfallen cheek.
…
"It would heal in a few days…," he heard Hiromi say, "Quit that yapping!"
Good ol' Takao sprang back to life. After a second of trepid imagination, wherein he said bye-bye to all his pastries and a short moment thereafter in which time he took the liberty of saying "I am not yapping!" he reverted to reality at last. Besides, Japan's trend was along the line of cheerful roles that got drunk in reality-initiated troubles.
For Takao, about seventy percent of his troubles were just him dreaming.
"Ahem. Ahem," he cleared his throat, bringing in attention to himself rather than the little not so manly tear that had trickled towards the floor before.
Back in to the situation where he had met his miserable demise; his strategy turned out to be a prenatal failure. He had overlooked the credibility factor. His troops had suffered great losses. He was almost close to obliteration! He had never faced such a dilemma before…
His role as the captain was being questioned at last.
While everything else plummeted down faster than an incoming bullet, he took it upon himself to bring it all together. It was a responsibility he had to fulfil, as per his promise to his dear Hiromi. And for the same reason, the blood and the gore, the clashes of flashy swords and the many dead soldiers, he considered that all of it as a necessary part of the sacrifice. Blood had boiled into tears when he fulfilled his mission. He was able to reignite his plan of bringing the enemy home… by entering into a negotiation…
Since he had, give or take, lost the battle…
He shook his head. At least, for now, he would have to return back to earth. His monologue seemed long, but in reality, it was a long unwinding thirty minutes that consumed time indefinitely and made the rest of the occupants wonder if he'd actually died from staring up at the ceiling. As a wise man once said, "When you gaze too much into the Heaven, the Heaven gazes back at you."
Which was sad since they were out of original ideas to decorate his coffin. If the corpse looked bad, at least the coffin must look good.
"Ahem. Ahem," Takao, once again, forced himself awake. It was high time he put them out of their lonely misery (since it was already established that he was a good captain). "Twenty one July. Lake Izunuma-Uchinuma, Miyagi Prefecture."
A terse silence followed, which made Hiromi take matters into her own hands. And shoot him a glare, just in case.
"Since the stadium is pretty much wrecked and holding a tournament this year would be a fool's play… chances we would meet with the others are next to null. The next year, we would all start going to uni and it's going to be even more difficult." Takao opened his mouth to say something, but Hiromi shooed him down.
"And our instable relations from ten different countries makes our case even worse…That's why we need to create an opportunity for meet-ups," she looked around see if there was anyone who couldn't follow. Kai was indifferent. Kyoujou listened. Takao kept poking his head as if there was some confusion; she ignored it, mainly because she knew it would be largely dumb gibberish. And she wasn't close enough to know what Hitoshi thought.
Main point was, she and Takao wanted to visit the lake. Others' opinions were a subsidiary matter that did not matter. It was a lesson they had learnt hereditarily, a lesson taught by Takao's beloved father and brother: If there was somewhere you wished to go, blame it on anything else but you.
For instance, you could even blame it on archaeology.
Or just plain bonding.
If they had to be honest, then, according to the economics of triviality and tomfoolery, quantity had always prevailed over quality. Nobody opens a box to check if the cookies are good. They buy the box so that all the cookies ultimately reach their graveyard …and then visit the exorcist because the graveyard was fully loaded. Yep, as said before, quantity prevailed over anything else.
In that sense, whether others want to accompany or not was not really a problem, two was also a number they liked but it would be a double bonus if they came.
.
"But that's months later," Kyoujou pointed it out. Takao grinned nevertheless.
"Kyoujou, have you ever heard of capitalism? Unfortunately, I have become its greatest believer. I like to gather," he thought about the large collection of comics he had stored. He had to finish it up before fate actually heeded to his wish.
At the strange looks he received from the opposition party, he folded his arms smugly. Haters gonna hate, but he didn't know what communism meant. Literally.
He rubbed his hands together, "Any objections?" It was a rhetorical question. He wasn't going to budge from his seat anyway. Nor was he going to give up his prize. But for formalities' sake, he supposed the question was a required precondition necessary for public image. Did he ever mention that he wasn't an empath? Then here it was: he lacked the necessary intellect to correctly observe his surroundings and perceive everyone's feelings. He wouldn't know what they thought anyways. And for the same reason, when silence reigned objectively, Takao took it in positive note. "So I'll just go pack up."
"It's still months away," Hiromi stated. The others nodded.
"I'll still pack up. The early bird gets the worm." And the bird set out to hunt at midnight.
~•••~
At the strong resonance of bloom, the parting flowers and cherry blossoming, it was hard not to cringe at Takao's fashion choices. The adjacent walls had worn out to a murky yellow, accentuated sharply by the brown tiles, and the frames, in a strange contrast, were a silvery white. The only blindingly painful view about the picture was the sakura-themed shoji door that looked, for about a million years, out of place.
As if reading his mind, Takao immediately stepped into defensive, sprouting out the parade of words that explained the colour-disaster.
"Dad bought it at a ¥100 shop."
"That's a bit cheap," Kai clicked his tongue; he'd supposed all those designs would sum up to be a little less than thousand…
The thought was ceased after a loud thud was heard when Takao plopped down the mattresses. With a grace that rivalled the rhesus monkey, Takao threw himself between the covers, monopolizing all the gold for himself.
Save one blanket. He was kind enough to give proper charity.
And just like that, even before he knew it, Takao was sound asleep. On normal circumstances, it ignited a sense of ridicule in Kai, which usually ended up with him contemplating on his wayward past and his less than inspirational self. In the end, it would be at least two hours before Kai too, (after three shudders and a large heave of blatant self-disrespect) would meet the same fate. It was sometimes amusing to think it was just the same process all over again.
And another amusing fact? Apparently, to Kai's and to the electric doors fitted with censors' dismay, Takao couldn't guarantee a charity when it came to individual spatial recognition. As a strident mouth snored next to Kai's ear and a position too close for comfort, he jolted unwillingly, his senses becoming too conscious of his surroundings. It put him off by and large; the awful quietness and wary airs of the night was something he was used to, but it didn't make the experience any better. Kinomiya had refrained from using cooling devices in the winter and understandably, there was a multitude of Siberian stillness that swarmed through the otherwise zealous house. Often, he felt that his own breath was too loud, which was quickly accompanied by him silencing himself from the strange first-hand embarrassment. Diving deeper into the mattress, his mind raced as he figured that the next morning would be a big hassle; he would have to get out of here before his drool on the breakfast table would become a nightmare come true.
.
After a brief play of mental table tennis, Kai chose for a change of place. If Takao's natural senses curved towards hugging the wall twelve hours by seven, the best counter-combat would be to let it be. He got up silently, grimacing at the bitter sight of his own doing; but alas, he would have to beat the iron while it was still hot.
Annoying part being that this iron kept cuddling up to him while it was still hot.
Kai turned, on his way to a different spot, and saw something he never thought he would find in this house, or this room, at least. A faded white that could be easily missed, its tiny head poking out shyly and its stealth bar on several levels up, a bone lay humbly at a corner.
"…not asking." Seriously, not asking!
It seemed the room was haunted by some kind of bone.
.
The door creaked as it slid open. He took a moment to express his distaste on the various problems associated with odd colour combinations. Snarl still plastered, his bitter mood unwavering, he proceeded with the departure. A loud rasp from the god of sleep signaled the closing of the door. Feeling rather weary, he made his journey to the other room, pillow tucked under his arm.
(His mood further plummeted when the other room also had a strange colour combination.)
He took hold of the handle. He could feel the dust that had more or less stuck to it, leaving the surface rough with a sandpaper effect. The door grated displeasingly; upon which Kai could tell that the door was quite old, but not used often. A sharp breeze of wind hit him as soon as the disobedient object surrendered.
Damn it. The window was open…
He threw the pillow into the void. The air around was cold. His feet cramped from the ice underneath. The hairs on his nape stuck out like icicles. He condemned the idiocy of man to let in more cold to the icy tundra. Displeased, he closed in towards the offending source, a strange thought forming as he closed it shut.
The sound of the sheets shuffling broke him out of it.
Ah, the other Kinomiya was here…
…which meant a trip to fetch his blanket was now included in the necessary list. It wasn't that he had forgotten his existence. It was just that the effect he had on his surroundings inclined towards the stealth factor—which made Kai not to think about him in general. Once again dissatisfied, he switched attention back to the window. As the wind no longer barricaded him anymore, the scene felt foreign. Like a piece of meat that went stale. He had even forgotten what he had been thinking of. Tsk.
But as the stars shone like little lilies across the horizon, tiny spots of light sticking out like sore thumbs, he admitted that the view from here …it was nice.
He frowned, rubbing his fingertips for the friction.
That was cringe.
~•••~
His feet stroked together. His hands were wrapped around something soft. His knees bundled together. There was something over his ears that kept him warm. A luscious fabric swiped across his cheek every now and then. It wasn't until he was fully awake did Kai realize that he was practically buried under a quilt—which was nice. He liked warm things.
He looked around. The room was brightly illuminated. The window was shut to his pleasure. The mattress he had used last night was folded into a corner, with no trace of prior use. While the crisp, morning air was still as cozy as ever, a part of him wanted to leave the room to somewhere dim. The increase in brightness in this room was blindness-worthy.
With a loud sigh, he arranged the bed, preparing for another shot at the world's daily schedules. The only thing that he looked forward to this day, or any other day on that matter, was the whirring of the ever-so soothing coffee maker. It was enough motivation for the pointless trek to the kitchen door.
With that on mind, Kai left the scene, promising himself that after achieving his reward of the day, he would flee. Although the dojo hit more close to home than his own residence, there were times when the place was unsuitable for the healthy-minded. Not to mention the strange habit the house took on the past year; it'd crumble to pieces the moment a greater variation of force was applied, unhappily wrecking the already wrecked house. As an added misfortune, it denoted that it was hazardous to go around beyblading about it anymore. A safer option would be to place a sign ahead: 'Hurdles and incoming boulders ahead. Make sure to learn kendo for a better survival experiences.'
.
After finalizing that he had nothing to do in the midst of a residential area, he had wandered around the streets for some time; the obvious plotless-ness of the day was killing him.
He had loitered on the top of a roof, but left when the air turned colder.
When he had returned later on, he had been asked to help with dinner. But after a burned saucepan, three broken plates and a near destruction of the silverware (and a happy disclosure that Kai knew nothing more than coffee), it was established that Kai and Takao were hereby, banned from cooking.
He felt rather sloppy when he plopped down the mattress that night.
"You don't need to break your back by sleeping on the floor."
Instinctively, his hand reached out to feel his lower spine, contextually feeling it until he remembered he wasn't an old man. Kai frowned at the older man; it was hypocritical to refer the young as old.
Hitoshi shrugged. "Might be a culture difference…"
Before anything else could be said, or heard, Kai dug in to the bed. It was common sense that there was no profit in fawning over a floor when you were offered a bed. And the quilt… it was the second best thing in Kai's life. (Coffee, obviously took first place.)
Hitoshi took the liberty of completing his sentence, "…here, in this block, we call people with graying hair as old."
A tousled head turned towards him in a flash. Anger was evident in his glare. 'Amusement' was not written on his face. But it was only fuelling the other.
Hitoshi waved his hand lightly in an attempt to dismiss it off as a joke. A pregnant pause followed, in which time they stared at each other fruitlessly. Since rewards were negligible, they returned to doing whatever they were doing… before Hitoshi found something to comment on. "You make strange faces at times," he smirked.
There was a hesitation on Kai's part; with a pulsating need to check the authenticity of the statement. "You were supposed to be the one hiding your face here… would be a nice quirk to have when I unleash Dranzer on you." If there wasn't a leash on retaliation or consistent threatening, one must make full use of it. That was the essence of mankind, taught by a famous Hiwatari.
Hitoshi waved it off again, "That was long for your standards… feeling lovely?"
"…whatever."
~•••~
As much as Kai hated mornings, it seemed that mornings hated him back too. For once, it was proved that the feeling was mutual.
The very first sign of it was hinted when Kai felt, and later saw, the blue strands stacked against his face. The erupting ire and the blatant disrespect weren't the only things he felt then. He felt, for the first time, the tangible result of his sinking reputation; driven to the rock-bottom by the fact that his leniency policies weren't updated since last year. It was due time to bring out the whip to set matters straight…
The second sign of mutual displeasure was thrown square into his face when soon after, he noticed the barely existent space between them.
They were closer than a millimetre.
A sting of foreboding prickled him. A part of him shook his head at himself; this outcome was nothing more than the result of his negligence. Yesterday had gone well; but there was never a guarantee that the next day would follow the same suit.
At the very least, all he had to do was to kick him out of the bed…
.
It was said that when a person failed to reach a rational, logical answer to a situation, there was always a common route they followed. At the end of the route lied the most overused answer they could unimaginably come up with: This must be a dream.
As Kai helped himself up and shoved the intruding male away, drawing a few chuckles from Hitoshi and a loud snore from Takao, he wished that this nonsense be put to a stop. Because it was too ridiculous to even be a dream.
Chapter 3: [Proximity]
