A/N: Here is a proper Kyatt chapter for all my readers who have been patiently waiting for one. Yes, this pairing is still relevant. And it's as sickeningly sweet and toxic as ever. Engage in moderation. Just like drugs.

-x-x-x-

Kyatt 4ever?

"Hiwatari, you're up." Robert told me in that brisk tone he prided himself with, that turned anything he said into an order.

Next to him stood Oliver who was for once not sucking on a cigarette or twirling his over-styled hair. Instead I was permitted a rare peak behind the mask. He was looking rather adorable, with both hands pressed to his mouth, giggling relentlessly.

"Why is it again that you don't want to compete against Fishel Bernstein? Enlighten us." He taunted him with glee.

Robert's brass clad arms made a clunking sound when he crossed them in front of his chest plate.

"You know why!"

"Are you sure you want to miss out? I hear him and his bitbeast Valkyrie are a storm to be reconned with."

"There are certain things a German cannot do." Robert stated with iron determination.

"Is that your generational guilt bleeding through?"

"Oliver, why don't we end this discussion now, considering you will surrender anyway. Sooner rather than later."

"It's not me throwing in the white flag. My conscience is clear."

I ignored their bickering. As long as they did not make me dress in Russian chainmail I could not care less. I never understood the European tendency to rework historical baggage. Hopefully, the introduction of the unified currency politicians were gushing about would bring some unity.

Not saying Japan's way of repressing generational trauma was the way to go, but it seemed to create less conflict. Maybe the solution was not to talk about things. As long as one did not address them directly, one would not make progress, for better or worse. Right now I wanted to keep my life in limbo, so mortified was I of the changes to come. Never had my life been so rich. I had it all, a doting father, a committed husband, a thriving athletic career. For years I had longed to reach this level of fulfilment, but once here, strained from maintaining stability, I could not even enjoy my view from the top.

My worst fear was confirmed when Wyatt never showed up to watch my beybattle.

I almost lost to Fishel. My beyblading was embarrassing. In fact, the only reason I won was because the poor fella was all mixed up. Michael had cornered him before the battle and tried to make him admit that Auschwitz was not real. I was forced to regurgitate some theories about Osama Bin Laden being none other than dead comedian Chris Farley in drag, which unsurprisingly intrigued him enough to allow Fishel to slip out from under his grip. From there on, I fought my match on autopilot, fully expecting to find Wyatt cheering for me in the crowd once I turned around, victorious.

He fell asleep, he claimed, and gave a lacklustre apology. I was not even sure I believed him. Deprived even of the comfort of telling myself he cared, as he never asked how it went. Of course I had won, but that was beside the point. I had lost something much more valuable.

Something was horribly broken between us, and I was emotionally whiplashed by how fast it had happened. One day we were a united front, fondling each other's genitals in public places, and now we acted like a married couple. An actual married couple. Dull, and irritated by each other. Not like passionate fantasy we both envisioned when we signed the documents in Windsor.

I recognised this pattern. Having seen my dad cycle through it.

His affection was either all on and overbearing, or distant, practically non-existent. He switched seemingly at random. I had done my best to pinpoint a pattern, even charted my observations in a notebook. It is merely child instinct to seek order to the chaos that we are growing into. The uncertainty was scraping the limits of my young brain's understanding. When I was about 11 years old I finally collected the courage to ask him.

"What goes through your mind when you stop loving me?"

He had denied it. Saying I was imagining it. That it was an adult thing.

Adults, however, tend to underestimate how emotionally aware children are. Their instinct surpasses that of their grown peers even, as they haven't been gaslit into questioning the instinctive vibes they pick up on.

There was something wrong with me that allowed me to deem this feeble, unstable love as normal. How was I supposed to date a healthy individual when any other form of love seemed fraudulent to me? The issue with coming from a dysfunctional family was that any relationship that made me feel "like coming home" was one I should be running from. Humans are creatures of habit, therefore I sought the comfort of familiar surroundings. Looking back, I had sensed the danger of getting involved with Wyatt way back when we first met. His manic, unpredictable nature had drawn me to him. As the saying goes: better the devil you know.

Just like Max I had grown to associate love with loss. Anything more certain was bound to overwhelm me. I was married but my commitment for Wyatt had not felt eternal when we made it. More like being carried away in the moment, by Wyatts emotions, rather than my own.

How did I always end up so passive in my relationships? I put up with anything, really.

Funny how it was hard to motivate me to care but once I did I would cling.

Wyatt was looking gaunt. He sat on the edge of the bed, his demeanour that of a prisoner waiting for his sentence to be carried out.

"It's not a regular thing, I only did it to see if I still feel."

"Don't quote Nine Inch Nails at me, emo prince." I said, hopeful my wordplay would loosen the tension. It did not.

"Only if you admit you want to fuck me like an animal." He replied dryly.

Lunacy. Where was he getting that idea from?

I cupped my fingers around his slim forearm, taking particular care to be gentle around his freshly hurt skin.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but I think it would do you well. I'm not thinking any less of you for it. I just wish to understand."

Up until now, I had believed only girls cut themselves. Proved how little I knew.

I knew nothing about cutting or why people did it? Other that it meant they were depressed. Was Wyatt depressed? Was I making him depressed?

"There is something wrong with my mind. I lack clarity." He was trembling. "I did not notice it until now. But seeing how manic Bryce is acting, that's not him."

"What if it is, and he's just been too afraid to explore it?"

"I'm concerned about my brother."

"He's just having fun." I dismissed him.

"He isn't the fun type. While other kids wanted to be astronauts or fireman he dreamt of being an accountant. He was six. He used Dad's old calculator and spent all day punching fictitious earnings into it. His reasons were sound too. Upwards mobility and Workplace security. What kind of child has this kind of understanding of consequences? That's why I owe it to him to stop him before he does something he will regret."

Little did we know it was already too late.

"You spend a lot of time together." Wyatt suddenly said in an accusatory way.

It was true I enjoyed being around him.

"He has the same energy as you did when we first met."

That eclectic energy I had found myself so drawn too.

"I think that is the problem."

"Is it really, if one is having a good time?"

"It doesn't last. That is the problem. It's followed by regret."

"Is that what you are currently going through?"

He bowed his head in shame. "I feel like I'm coming down from Molly. That's why I have not been bothering you with my problems. I know my emotions aren't real."

I huddled closer, it still did not seem the right moment to take him in my arms, as much as I wished to do so. I desperately wanted my embrace to make him feel safe. Longed for a fantasy in which my mere touch could whisk him away and make him feel at home.

"They are real to you." I said, not sure what he was getting at but doing my best to be supportive.

Wyatt crouched, clutching his hair at his temples, he was shaking his head violently, until I laid a hand on his shoulder, easing him to a stop.

"These emotions are not genuinely mine. Chemicals are hijacking my brain. My feelings feel false. As though I'm am both in my body and outside looking on, judging myself. Everything feels distant, like I'm sensing it through a fog. There is an invisible wall. At the same to me I feel trapped in my mind. Like a Matryoshka doll in a flesh cage. And it's not me that everything is happening to. Or who is feeling things. I'm held hostage by my mental illness and I don't know what the terms of release are. I don't think there is a release and that terrifies me. My best option is to dive into it and let go of control."

I wanted to let him rant, allow him the release, but that last comment sparked my anxiety.

"What does that mean exactly? In the context of you being depressed."

"Are you asking if I'm gonna kill myself."

That word sent chills down my spine.

"Yes."

"Not now. I'm still fighting it. But I don't know. Maybe eventually I will just give up."

That scared me more than anything. I had never thought of a mental illness as a dangerous diagnosis. Not like cancer or HIV. In reality, it could be equally as terminal.

"I can't lose you. It would break me." I protested selfishly.

Wyatt, unimpressed, turned his back to me.

"I can't make any promises."

"For once, stop acting like a coward and be direct!" I challenged him, though regretting the words as soon as I had shouted them.

What was I thinking? I was nowhere near stable enough to accept honesty.

"I think we should get an annulment."

The words cut deep. Blood was draining me at rapid pace, leaving me lightheaded. I felt as though someone had pulled the plug and my heart, soul and everything else flushed down the sink. In an instant my guts had been gripped, wrenched, sapped. My emotions now a distant past, the only feeling I could make sense of was sickness.

The scenario I had feared more than anything else had come to fruition. I barely even heard the words Wyatt followed his sinister prophecy up with:

"I still want to be with you. But as your boyfriend. No need for us to take ourselves this seriously. I just want a mellow, low stakes relationship. Something that leaves us feeling refreshed not drowning in expectations."

"If that's what you want." I said agreeably.

In my anxiety induced scenarios, I had always pictured myself fighting for us. But now, that I was living the moment, my own lack of initiative surprised me. Wyatt probingly inched closer, a timid hand outstretched, reaching for my forearm, as though trying to soften the emotional blow with physical closeness. I retreated instinctively. No longer did I feel affection, but anger that was, now unrestrained, morphing into hatred.

He had rejected me.

He had to pay.

He no longer deserved to feel loved.

He should hurt just like I was hurting.

-x-x-x-

Wandering the corridors aimlessly, my desperation eventually let me to Judy's room. Having lost Wyatt, I needed my father's approval. It was essential, like the air to breathe. I saw no other way of functioning.

There was no immediate reaction when I knocked. Music was pulsating through the door and when I put my ear to the wood I could make out the croaking of Billy Ray Cyrus. Blocking it out, I heard faint shuffling noises and whispers. A few moments later my father yanked open the door, clad in nothing but a pair of cowboy boots and a gun holster. His crotch was covered with a wide brimmed hat, leaving little to the imagination. Behind him on the bed laid Judy outstretched, wearing nothing but a confederate flag bikini, humbly covering herself with sheets.

"Gross. You could have just told me you're having sex." I said.

"I thought you were planning on the same thing."

"No, I actually listened to your advice."

"Well, that's stupid of you."

"Right."

An air of silence hung between us. Then Dad whistled a crude melody. I kept staring at him expectantly.

"Mind if I get back to it then?" He asked.

I wanted to plead with him, but not in front of my friend's mom!

"Do what you must but for the love of God, don't tell me!"

"That's my boy! You're the best wingman." He tried to fist bump me, flashing me his schlong in the process. Classy.

"I'm not touching your hand."

"That's fair." He did finger guns instead. "Yippie Kai-yay, motherfucker!"

"You're the motherfucker."

He nodded slowly, smirking at me in that gross way.

"I sure am."

Ew.

"Use protection." I urged him.

The last thing I needed right now was him splitting his attention across multiple children when he could not even there for me.

Something had evidently gone wrong in my mental development. As a 16-year-old I should be pushing my father away. My childhood experiences made me a prime candidate for attachment problems. I resented the mould I was made to fit.

Enough with the moaning. Time to get real. To fall back to the one person I could rely on. Myself. How frustrating that every time I opened up and got comfortable depending on people I was punished for my weakness. Life was playing a sadistic game of cat and mouse with me. If only it was consistent I would know, but it kept luring me with a false home.

Wouldn't it be nice to have a relationship with your dad, Kai? How about a significant other? A husband? He even comes with a family.

My legs picked up speed, and soon I found myself darting away from the hotel. I could not figuratively outrun my problems, but I could physically get away. My blood got pumping and thoughts were spinning.

There was comfort in the fact that my mother, whoever she might be, cared for me. It was better to have her not be in my life, that way she could remain a construct of my imagination who would never disappoint me. If only that relentless voice in the back of my head stopped nagging me: She is someone even your father knew to cut out of your life! If someone with judgement as piss-poor as him knew to avoid her there had to be something off. He had thought he was giving me mercy, but I was driving myself crazy, painting nightmare scenarios. Keeping me in the dark was torture.

My heart was pounding out of my ribcage, each consecutive beat further closing off my airways. I gasped. How long had I been running? It did not matter, I had to keep going. Only once I blacked out, I could be free.

The mystery provided a welcome distraction. As long as I did not know my mother, I could project whatever I wanted.

It had to have been drugs. She had gotten my dad hooked on something, and he had been going off to rehab every time he disappeared. The longer I wallowed in that fantasy the more appealing it became. It allowed for a reality in which he had not been avoiding me.

No. Drugs were not something Dad would be ashamed of. He was proud of his experiences, boasted about them even.

This wasn't fucking fair. I was a fool and everyone I loved was taking the piss.

Had Wyatt ever even been serious about me or was I nothing more than a shiny toy he grew tired of?

I drove my hand into a brick wall, scuffing up my knuckles. Dull paint pounded through my hand as blood ran down my arm, soaking my glove in its entirety. I watched the purple turn a grimy brown, mesmerised. Welcoming the physical hurt, to relieve me from my anguish, giving myself to it, as though I was sacrificing myself to a merciful god.

But it was Takao's voice that broke through my confinement.

"Hey Kai, fancy seeing you in a dodgy alley, who would have guessed."

He was just the person I wanted to see, needed to see. Someone pure hearted and self-sacrificial.

"Takao." I said. Then reached for my Beyblade, propping it onto my launcher. "Let's have a battle."

He walked on. Chin low.

"Not interested." He said monotonously.

I discharged my Beyblade at him, blocking his way. Whatever it was he was going through, we both needed this.

"Don't be a coward. I've seen the opponents you've been up against. You could use some training against someone who can stand his ground."

"I want to be alone." His voice was firm, yet tired, as through his spirit had its energy drained by my presence.

This was not like him. Takao was an emotional person, but he did not bottle things up, he expressed whatever was on his mind.

"Getting off on your own victimhood won't make you feel any better." I advised him as myself.

"Right, I forgot you have a PhD in Misery."

"Yes, trust the expert."

I sent Dranzer darting ahead, blocking his footpath. Frustration flashed across Takao's face, which then softened to anticipation. A playful smirk curled his lips. Finally, he reached for his belt.

"I'm going to leave you in tears, Hiwatari." He hollered at me as he launched his Dragoon, dragging his ripcord so violently that it sent sparks through the air.

It was a battle with no purpose other than to let out our own frustration. Takao snuck some moves that would have been illegal in any official fight, slamming into a streetlamp, drowning himself in oil, then charging at me as a fireball. He was lucky Kenny did not see him harming his precious Beyblade.

Especially after I smashed his attack ring with a sneaky covert manoeuvre, coming at him from the shadows behind a dumpster. Scaring the literal crap out of a gutter rat in the process.

The battle ended when we both dropped down to our knees in exhaustion.

Tyson was the first to collapse onto the cobble stones, soaking his sleeve in a puddle, which he subsequently wiped across his forehead.

"Where did you hide all that enthusiasm?" He asked, panting with every word.

"I tapped into my anger reserves."

"They're a bottomless pit, I'm sure."

"They make a North Sea oilfield look miniscule in comparison. I've got fuel for 50 years."

He laughed. "I always suspected you're a robot."

"Nah, I'm a demon. I run on disappointment."

The sad reality was that the more pleased I was with my life, the worse my battle skills. I was not meant to be happy.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Takao asked.

I did, I wanted so badly to tell him how much I missed our team. That I had made a grave mistake leaving them and how me attending the wine mixer, despite my best intentions, had set in motion a snowball effect that catapulted everyone into misery.

But it would not be fair on him. How could I ask him to comfort me on a decision that had hurt him. Takao, like me, was too aware when he was someone's second choice. He took it personally.

I shook my head.

Wrong move. I had hurt him gravely.

"Me neither." He claimed.

Keeping his back to me, he plucked Dragoon off the street. Taking his time, he affectionately blew the dust of the top and carefully polished it with his wet sleeve. When he turned back around to face me, his cheerful grin was contorted into a scowl.

"Why would I talk to you, Kai? We're really not that close."