A/N: Content warning for a mature scene at the end of the chapter.
It's been ages and I'm terribly sorry. I did not want to write a beybattle and put it off until I found a way around it. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for keeping up with this story.
This chapter marks the start of the Serbian Arc.
-x-x-x-
Ruthless Drag Race
Belgrade felt very safe and welcoming but had an underlying edgy vibe. The graffiti and crumbling facades only added to the aesthetic. The architecture was a crass blend of elaborately decorated baroque structures, and glass coated modern buildings. Reminiscent of Moscow but with Mediterranean roots. On our way to the hotel our bus passed through New Belgrade where the constructions zones were divided into separate blocks, each of which had a different architectural style. It was creative and colourful, anything goes atmosphere.
We shared a moment of discomfort when Bryce gleefully informed us that this neighbourhood had been erected after the NATO bombings. I hoped his enthusiasm stemmed from his pride at being able to recite these facts and not some darker side I had yet to unveil.
Hotel Jugoslavija itself was a sight to behold. A behemoth of socialist construction with a pillared atrium. The brutalist concrete structure stretched almost a kilometre juxtaposing the serene parkscape it was contained in.
Eager to justify his position as Team Manager, Bryce outdid himself booking the rooms. From our private suite, we had a pristine view of the Danube and the guzzling activity that came along with it. Cruise vessels with raucous rooftops bars were banked along the river, pipe-smoking geezers mellowly raking in their fishing nets onto the pier, and along the embankment, excited young Beybladers engaged in such heated battles that they carved grooves into the grass.
The locals took great pride in hosting the world championship and we were received warmly. Being an infamous same-sex couple Wyatt and I expected some degree of harassment, so made sure not to show our affection in public. We were made a fool of when people only stopped us to wish me luck on my upcoming fight.
"It must be a remnant of soviet era conduct. I won't butt into your affairs as long as you stay out of mine." I explained to Wyatt, in whom I could sense the disappointment over being robbed a chance to get defensive.
Sure, I enjoyed a good fight, but Wyatt thrived on combat. Without a common enemy to unite against, we seemed directionless as we wandered along. Freed from our constraints we let ourselves be guided by whatever caught our interest and followed the bridge to the picturesque old town. The city was built along a winding slope, so we got a decent amount of exercise in by exploring cobblestone alleys. Despite the hot sun burning down on us, there was a shade provided by plentiful trees and colourful cloth awnings protruding from eateries. It was a well-structured city. Every street had at least one cafe or bar, and there kiosks selling refrigerated drinks on each corner, much like the vending machines throughout Japan.
We spotted a casino with flashy lights and glassy mirror interior that we got to enter without being carded. Tired of card games, which were the standard activity in the dorms whenever the TV signal was wailing, we played a few rounds on the slots. I started with 100 RSD in and ended up with 7 RSD. But the perky young girl manning the counter served us a free coffee so it was a fair trade. She looked at me strangely when I tried to cash my winnings, which were roughly the equivalent of 7 cents. Wyatt actually won a fair amount, which we wanted to spend on Serbian cigarettes but the kiosk owner, a frail babushka wearing a head scarf tied under her chin, gifted them to us instead. Not speaking a word of English, she flashed a toothless smile and proudly gestured at the Championship merch she was selling. Confused, Wyatt kept holding the money out to her.
"You're being rude. They are a gift." I informed him.
He scrutinised the stand, with its chipping green paint and the poorly patched hole in the roof and frowned.
"But she can use the money more than I do."
"You are hurting her pride by implying her livelihood depends on one pack of cigarettes."
Embarrassed, Wyatt thanked her instead, in Japanese because according to his flimsy reasoning "It sounds Eastern. I panicked, ok?".
Like Switzerland, Serbia had been one of those countries not yet hit by the wave of indoor smoking bans that was currently sweeping Europe, and we got to enjoy the cosy vibe of sitting in a clouded taverna.
"When we get our own place we should be a smoker house." I decided.
"Naturally." Wyatt agreed. "Do you still want to move to France?"
"Not so sure. I like this place too. It's a lot less crowded than Paris and just as pretty." Paris had its run down alleyways too, though they seemed to have less character.
"It's alright. France has a more varied cuisine though."
He was right. Most Serbian meals we spotted on the menu were some form of meat with a side of potato.
"But they sure seem to love Russians here."
Wyatt nodded towards a splendid graffiti picturing the NATO forces as faceless figures in gas masks approaching in massive tanks, that were being slayed by a single heroic Russian lad with an AK 47. It was perversely reminiscent of David and Goliath.
"What? Surprised you're not always pictured as the good guys? I thought you were well travelled."
"Yeah, but not to places like this."
Had he always been this condescending or did I only just notice? Was Enrique rubbing off on him?
"Better get used to it, it's going be all you can afford once you emancipate yourself. You acted like the lady at the kiosk was poor but you hold nothing to your name."
Wyatt remained pensive for the rest of the afternoon while I silently scolded myself. Why did I get so emotional in my responses to him? I too was a rich brat that could be brought down a peg or two, instead I was putting him down. It was not fair to expect a higher standard of him than of myself.
-x-x-x-
In the evening, all contestants were expected at the stadium for the grand opening ceremony signalling the start of the Serbian Tournament. The tribune was crammed with excitement, every team was assembled. I kept to myself in the back while Wyatt was almost hanging off the railing, convinced those extra centimetres would make all the difference. They did not, I could tell from my cosy pillar that nobody had entered the court yet. The real action took place on this balcony. Tonight was the first time the participants from A and B Block were united, so imagine my confusion when I did not spot Yuri's team anywhere.
"Where are the Russians?" Johnny asked, as though reading my thoughts. "I was looking forward to finally squaring off against them."
We were allowed to mingle, yet my teammates were all huddled up together, clinging to their prosecco-filled plastic flutes, afraid the working class might rub off on them. I got satisfaction out of observing concrete dust crumble into Johnny's glass, and him unknowingly drinking it.
"Why would they be here? They are not competing this year." Robert said, as though he expected us to be privy to this information.
Oliver was aghast. Being the most modest one on the team, he was the only one to admit that other beybladers could actually defeat us.
"Mon dieu! How could they did not qualify? They are Eastern Europe's strongest team. There is no way we could have made it this far had we been entered in B block." He said in his charming accent.
"They lacked the funds. That's why the tournament is taking place in Serbia. The Organisers were confident they had the flagship team this year and invested big time."
"Did it pay off?"
"We will see. The Serbs are scheduled to perform a practise match tonight."
That piqued my interest.
"Against whom?"
Robert rolled his eyes. "Did none of you read the itinerary? Against one of the Bladebreakers."
Naturally that would mean against Takao. My heart melted when I pictured him spinning about the locker room, telling everyone how amped up he was. How could his most annoying qualities be what I remembered most fondly?
"What is their name?" Oliver butted in.
"They are called the Drag Racers."
Wyatt snorted. I nudged my elbow in his side.
"It must be them right there." Enrique said, guiding our attention towards a group dressed in flamboyant jester outfits fitted with decadent golden detailing.
"No, that's the Spanish team. F Dynasty."
"I've never seen them before, they look poor."
"The team name Drag Racers has nothing to do with gay culture. It is a reference to their members: Drago, Dragan and Dragana." Bryce clarified, making Enrique blush at the notion that he was in tune with gay culture.
"Are they related?"
"No. Those are just popular names in Serbia."
"Are you sure those are not the only names in Serbia?" Wyatt remarked.
The gawdy Abba music stopped abruptly and the super-trooper lights converged at the entrance gate. I held my breath, ready to make first contact with these famed beybladers that had knocked the Demolition Boys off their throne, when in marched...
Takao.
Okay, DJ was introducing the guest first. How polite.
Takao waved at the audience shouting at them in Serbian. The crowd roared. When had he taken the time to learn their language? Now that I thought about it, he had always brought forth that extra effort to fully immerse himself in local culture. It was a given that he would learn a few words, copy their mannerisms, and even brave their signature dishes.
I cheered for him, much like a proud parent.
"What's gotten into you? I've never seen you this emotive before." Oliver said, making Enrique choke on his drink.
"I did." He announced smugly.
"You keep quiet or I'll tell everyone your parents were not related." I threatened him.
Before he could tell everyone I knew the story of how he popped by cherry with a cherry popsicle, the drums rolled, signalling the lights to dart to the other side of the arena, where they illuminated the gate opposite of the one Takao had just entered.
DJ's voice echoed through the stadium.
"Everyone welcome Belgrade's hometown hero: Drago."
The applause erupted into disorienting screaming, people rose from their seats, raising flags and chanting his name. I clung my hands to the railing and leaned over it just like I had judged Wyatt for doing. Then I saw it. A beast of a man breaking through the dense smoke. First thing I noticed was his erect nipples. Drago had elected to forgo a shirt and appear in nothing more than an unbuttoned vest. And trousers of course. Sadly. Camo pants to be exact. Despite the heat emanating from his sex pack, he was rocking an ushanka hat.
Fearing I might have been caught sneering at another man, I swiftly turned away, catching Wyatt knowingly smirk at me. Behind him, Enrique licked his lips.
"What he's wearing is called a štofani. It's a traditional vest, typically made from velvet or wool. I recognise it from the display at the Ethnographic museum." Bryce enlightened us.
"Bro, you don't have to pretend you're straight anymore."
"I'm literally pointing out the fashion!" Bryce protested. "If that's not gay then neither is Top Gun."
"Okay, that's fair."
"Shush. The match is about to start." Robert reprimanded them.
-x-x-x-
I was no fan of show matches, considering them a waste of time. While they gave an impression of blading style, they were by no means an accurate reflection of skill, as it was considered foolish to show your cards in a performance battle. I still observed it closely, in case one of them slipped up, but it was a chore. They were terribly dull. Like someone had sucked all the tension and stakes out of a battle. Only if appearance mattered more than winning, like it had for Boris, would a contestant show claws. It was still deemed bad mannered. Therefore, neither blader went too hard tonight. The match looked to be concluding in Takao's favour when seemingly out of nowhere he tensed up, clutched his behind, and dropped to the floor.
"Did he just shit himself?" Michael asked brashly. I was starting to think his volume control was non-existent.
"No." I insisted.
He absolutely had.
"Oh no, Takao! I told you not to overindulge yourself before a fight."
The Chief's voice trilled across the field, loud enough for everyone to hear, inevitably closing the door on any plausible deniability.
Enrique reflexively pressed both hands to his nose and mouth.
"Mamma Mia! Disgusting."
I rolled my eyes at him, feeling compelled to defend my friend. "You can't even smell anything from here, prima donna."
"I don't expect you to be bothered, considering what you do in public restrooms."
Luckily the reference was obtuse enough that no one who was not there had any clue what he was on about.
Michael was wandering over to me, pensively twirling his neckbeard.
"It's almost like a strategy the Russian team would use, Hiwatari. Strange, don't you think?"
"Not if you consider his diet." Oliver sneered.
Naturally I did not want to admit it but the conspiracy nut had a point. While there was nothing odd about Takao's bowels giving in, the only person not visibly confused by the ordeal was Drago. Us Slavs were trained to withhold our emotions which could make us appear unreactive, but any blader would have shown hesitation when so unexpectedly gaining the upper hand. He knew just the moment to slide in and attack, as though he had anticipated it. It was remarkable. I swore to observe him more closely, which incidentally gave me an excuse to keep staring at his nipples. How fortunate.
Michael caught me looking.
"Christ, are all of you homos?"
Oliver crinkled his nose and crossed his arms.
"Non. I simply cannot believe his fashion choices. Ringarde." He said with a voice dripping in disgust.
Enrique puffed his chest and gave him a very performative hetero smack on the back of his head.
"That's not helping your case, Oli."
"You were also staring." Michael remarked.
"I was just looking at what they were looking at. If there is anyone, I want to score with it's that yummy Chiquita over there."
"You want to fuck a banana?"
Leave it to Enrique to make a dick joke while declaring his heteronormity.
"No, no! Her. The Spanish broad."
While I had not picked up on his natural flamboyance last year, hearing him talk straight just seemed disingenuous now. Even Michael was not buying it, and that reality dawned on Enrique.
"Come on Oli, be my wingman." He heckled, and yank him by the sleeve, pushing him in front of him like a shield, until he bumped into the Spanish contestant. She turned around confused.
Startled, all Oliver could bring himself to say was: "I'm engaged."
Enrique rubbed his forehead in frustration.
"You are the worst wingman."
He gestured at Michael, making big Italian hand movement to signal him to come over. He obediently trotted over.
"Are you doing this to prove you're not gay?"
Enrique pursed his lips and violently shoved him away. His aggression was more than just playful.
"Okay. You are the worst. Leave! Robert?"
Robert staid put and simply remarked that Enrique was "well bred". Unfortunately, the girl was still in hearing range. If she had any sense, she would have taken this as a warning and been appalled. However, she chuckled softly and flirtatiously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Is this some new hustle?"
"It is if it's working."
"I'm Julia."
"And I'll be your Romeo. Pleasure to meet you." He bent down on one knee and kissed the back of her hand. His eyelashes fluttering as he gazed up at her.
"How charming." She lulled, clasping her hands together. "Hey Raul. Come on over here and meet Enrique. He's trying to hit on me."
I had to grin. He had found his match after all.
An embarrassed looking boy with sunken eyes waddled over as like he was her loyal henchman.
"Please don't."
Enrique, unsure how to take her boyfriend's lack of enthusiasm, kept holding on to her palm until Julia herself jerked it out of his grasp.
"Try that again and my brother will beat you bloody."
Enrique assessed the threat, from the oversized clown hat down to the pointed shoes, before announcing he was willing to take the risk. The kid, blushing profusely, muttered something undiscernible. Julia took it upon herself to slap Enrique, forcing his grimace to contort in as the shockwave rippled through his chubby cheeks. Content with herself, she roughly pretzeled her arm into her brothers then dragged him away, gently scolding him like an overbearing mother.
"You gotta stop being such a pansy, Raul."
"Sis, why do you always have to pick fights?" He squeaked.
Dumbfounded, Enrique gazed after her. He brought a trembling hand to his cheek, surprised by the heat.
"Wow."
Bryce knelt down next to him.
"Are you okay? Do you need an ice pack?"
What Enrique needed was to get his head checked as he was still smiling. He stretched his arms out to the sky and festively proclaimed:
"Holy Madonna, I'm in love."
Bryce's face fell into itself as his heart shattered into a million pieces.
-x-x-x-
Finally, the time had come. I was alone with my husband in our shared suite, overlooking the city drenched in moonlight. The setting was incredibly romantic. Too bad my ass refused to cooperate.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Barely." I lied. Taking a dump had felt like giving birth to a grown bison.
"You don't have to act tough for me."
"It's fine, I've got cortisone salve." I insisted, and showed him the tube, then realised in horror how incredibly unsexy that came off. Miraculously, that did not put him off. He scooted closer, even plucked the buttcream out of my hands.
"Want me to apply it?" He asked playfully.
My heart was beating out of my chest, working overtime to pump the blood to my hardening penis. Wyatt did not need me to vocalise my answer, he could read it off my face.
"Take your pants off."
I melted. He was so sexy when he got bossy like that.
"Good boy. Your underwear too."
He was ogling my hard-on with a prospective grin on his lips.
By the time I stripped off my briefs, a droplet of precum had formed at the tip. He greedily licked it clean, making my spine shiver. Oh God. If his tongue could make me lose it then what would his cock do to me? I wanted him to rip apart my insides, chemical burn be damned. Greedy hands clenched my cheeks and forcefully pushed me into him, resulting in me hitting the back of his throat. A throaty moan emerged from somewhere deep down. I quivered.
"Stop."
He looked up at me in confusion.
"Am I doing it wrong?"
"I want to save my load." I clarified. I thought it would sound a little more elegant than begging him to fuck me.
He chuckled. "Naughty. As you wish, show me that crisp ass of yours."
Waddling around on my tip toes, I turned my back to him. Wyatt gasped, making me smile proudly. Bet he had never seen such a pale butthole before.
"What the fuck Kai, your ass looks like the mouth of Mt Vesuvius."
"You can still stick it in."
"No way, it looks like it's about to erupt."
"At least dig your finger in it when you apply the salve." I bargained.
He shrugged.
"I mean, it's for medical purposes."
Exactly!
He applied a gratuitous amount, smearing it all around, though avoiding the hole. His finger lingered on for a while, and he repeatedly asked me if I was certain.
"Don't make me beg."
The moment he pushed inside, my body contorted, and I could not repress the embarrassing sound that emerged from deep inside me.
Wyatt quickly retracted.
"This was a bad idea."
"No, it wasn't."
"You're bleeding."
Can't argue with that. Wetness came trickling down. I had to clamp a towel between my legs to make it stop. As much as I hated it, just like Takao earlier in the evening, I had to admit defeat. Feeling like I had let Wyatt down, I proposed a dull compromise.
"How about we get undressed and sleep next to each other."
"Sounds safe to me."
Safe? Jesus. This is what it had come to. We were teenagers approaching the sexual act with the caution of people that needed diapers and bed pans.