FicWad

I have pictures inside my head as I sit here and watch with a detached amusement a boistrious boy (for one could not call him a man) whom I have been chosen by. He is one who chooses his friends. Indeed, because he has many doesn't mean he does not choose them. I like to think that none of them, myself included, actually expect to be chosen.

The pictures inside my head flow, come and go as they choose. Usually it is only in times of physical anguish that I am so contimplative and philisophical. Perhaps since physical pain and physical joy have the same effect on me, they are in essense the same. Those pictures inside my head are memories, memories of joy and of yesterday.

His hand was hard and callused, as was most beyblader's that I had seen or touched before. The gloves on his hand was worn and conformed perfectly to the shape of his appendage. It surprised me a little, because he looked so soft. Obviously his hands told of his real strength, that I had been witness to. When he smiles at you, it is hard not to smile back, because that smile is such a promise.

"I don't hate you," he had said.

We met face to face for the first time outside of the stadium in a hotel party that was attempting to be chic and upper-class while it's attendants were revelers in the entire sense of the word. I didn't want to be there, all I was doing was a bit of self-mutilation. It wasn't physical, it was mental and spiritual. It was better to be here, playing host, playing at the big, bad, evil antagonist, than to be there and feeling the brunt of Voltaire and Balkov's wrath. I was only preparing myself for it later, this clensing ritual before the full finale. I wanted to convince myself that I was lower than them, so I wouldn't have to despair so much.

"I know you were probably forced into most of all that stuff. Kai told us about it."

I winced a little and regreted it. I couldn't still that cynical voice in my head saying bah. Pity. He obviously doesn't care about us. It's just pity.

"Yuri."

And his earnestness was obvious in his face, and the way he clasped my hand.

"Yuri," he repeated, and then: "You don't have to stay with them. You can come with us, back to Japan, or to the states or wherever. They don't own you."

"You couldn't understand."

The words were out of my lips before I even bothered to concider his offer properly. It was still restering in my brain. Go? Away from Russia, to Japan? With him?

But the movements outside of my brain were different from those within it's confines.
He sighed and said my name again. "Yuri."

I was looking away, across the room, to where Kai was sitting and talking to a 'blader with long black hair and a feline face. He was smiling, just a little, and he looked a little wine-flushed. But over-all, he looked... content.

I turned back to him, who was looking at me with those earnest, honest blue eyes.

"Please give me your hand," he said. The cynical voice says /You already have taken it/, but I knew. He continued: "Let me help you save yourself."

I blinked. Well. There was a new one. Help me save myself. The words still resonate.

Their simplicity and originality was enough to make me trust him, if only a little bit.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I think I can do that."

I was smiling, if only a little bit.

Only a little bit at a time.

The grin surprised me at it's joy on his face, and I wondered that everyone who met him was struck by this.

He dragged me around by the hand for the rest of the night, introducing me to people, including that black-haired chinese tiger who had such bravery to beat Boris' furious winds.

No one dared to hiss at me with him pulling me around everywhere, but I could see it in their faces and gazes. It was all too obvious that he was one of a very small number in that room who did not hate me. Kai didn't, although I could tell he certainly didn't like me. I didn't like him either, but we would have to at least tolerate each other for his sake.

I was ordered a room at the hotel for that night, so it seemed as though my separation from Balkov's Abby would be immidiate. It would be better that way.

He walked me to my room. When we stood there, he held my hand, as he had for most of the night. I was still getting used to it, it's roughness and childishness when he took it a step further, tugging me closer to him.

"You know you can always just talk to me, okay?"

I nodded, as his eyes searched mine. And then he tugged me a little closer and placed a soft, childish kiss on my slightly curved lips.

He gave me a hesitant smile, squeezed my hand and then let go, walking down the hallway to the elevator, choosing to take the stairs. My fingers went to my lips in wonder of that intimite touch, and now, when I think of it, they do the same.

So, these images dance in my head as I sit with my head on my hand and watch him eat and talk and gesture all over the place in his loud way. I know I'm smiling a little, and so is everyone sitting at his table, because it's impossible not to smile when he's around.