Chapter Text
Loud bursts of applause flooded into his ears. Cheers from beybladers and fans alike tingled through his skin. Adrenaline rushed through him like crazy. His fingers trembled slightly as he took hold of the mighty trophy.
World Champion. Fifth time.
His teeth dug into his quivering lips.
Who would have thought that an average-joe like him would become a five-time reigning champion?
Maybe Max, who happily waved a banner that read 'Taka, that was great,' almost as if he had already predicted the winner of the match. Or it could even be the DJ who looked like he was stuck in a sense of déjà vu.
But not him. Yes, Takao had been on a roll of bagging the championship title ever since he had made his debut. But five times? In a row?
He himself had considered it impossible.
Just about some years ago, he had been a nine or ten year old nobody who had lived by aimlessly, with about no dreams or desires to get by with. He was, by and large, your typical teenager; sometimes lying by the sunshine or stealing fresh takoyaki from the nearby store. Grades weren't a priority for him. He had no ambition to do anything with life. His school life wasn't role model-worthy either. He woke up, ate, played and slept. His life as a human was a tedious, pedestrian cycle.
There had been nothing he deemed special about him.
But that was before beyblade was introduced.
He still remembered the first time he held those little pieces of metal stuck together and launched his first attempt into the air. His aim had been bad and his hands were untrained; there was no way he had won his first match.
But that strange gut feeling he had felt when he first launched it? It was extraordinary. The sparks that surged through his fingertips, the strange heat that filled his chest, the feeling of life itself flooding into every inch of his body? It was breathtaking.
And he wanted to feel it again.
Even before he knew it, his hands had picked up the fallen beyblade.
It was the start of a new cycle. One that wasn’t droning and compelling. One that actually made him feel rejuvenated. For once, a cycle held a positive meaning for him.
His fingers caressed the weight disk.
He could already tell; Beyblade had become a welcoming part of his life. It was a bright spot amidst his dull, dreary repetitive life. To him, Beyblade was like the heart of a jigsaw. If he couldn't find that one missing piece, his life was incomplete. A total waste.
Which had brought him to the whole point of beyblading as a career.
A goofy grin was soon plastered on his face. His heart bubbled happily. Pieces of confetti were stuck in his hair. Crowds ran to greet him. Without fail, it was the best day of his life.
He may not have thought he would reach this far, he may have started becoming old for this sport too, but one thing was clear. Beyblade would forever be a part of his life. Along with Seiryuu, the friends he had made through it, the smiles he had because of it. Each and everything the wonderful sport had gifted him; it was all a part of his life, and just as precious, if not more. Honestly, was there anything else that could outdo this sport? Was there anything else that could replace this happiness?
None.
He held the trophy high up for everyone to see. Takao Kinomiya, world champion. Remember it. He'll be soon holding the title of 'The Ten Time Champion'.
"You rocked it, buddy!"
"As expected of Takao!"
"That last move was so cool. Literally blew everything up!"
Amidst all the beybladers and fans, Takao laughed happily.
Yes, life was easy.
.
"Bullshit." Takao swore as he uncorked another bottle.
Time had a habit of passing rather quickly. If he thought about it, how old was he right now? Fifty? Forty? He had even lost track of his own birthday. Heck, he didn’t even know what day it was today.
Not that he cared about the dates. Did it signify anything? Was there any true meaning to remembering dates when all you cared about was to get through another day of your life? For him, it only denoted the passing of yet another day, and a start of another yesterday. He believed there was no need for him to actually keep track of the same days repeating all over.
His calloused fingers rubbed the rim of the bottle.
"World champion, my ass," he mumbled, utterly displeased, as he took a huge gulp from the bottle, "They don't even care right now…"
He hiccupped involuntarily. Several bottles of beer rested next to his feet, taking up all the place on his barely existent floor. His legs ached from sitting for so long. His back felt heavy and another movement on his part would most likely result in inherent back pain. A hiccup escaped his throat. Dark circles lined his drooping eyes. His hands itched irritably. Ugh.
Being a five-time champion had been great. People had flocked towards him the moment he stepped out of the house. He had been even more popular at school. The principal had even presented an honorary speech for him. Of course, life had been beautiful, but hard. Countless reporters wanted to interview him; he had been invited to a lot of talk shows. It was also the period of his life where he was too hectic to keep tabs on his friends.
But the next tournament? The tournament after that? Takao's downfall had been imminent. He had lost all his fame, his popularity, his success, his… everything.
What had he become now? An unemployed old sot who was lucky enough to shelter himself. His only companions were the bottles of sake that decorated his house. His only source of income was the charity he received from the nearby church. His only clothes were hand-me-downs from a kind neighbour. To think he once said that life was easy.
"The next tournament, they said." He chugged away the last of his bottles. His head pounded painfully. Several images from his superior past were clouding his head. And he didn’t know why. “It was legit trash.”
It was nerve-wracking to just think about the past. And on this cold night, his heart felt even colder.
"You have become pitiful."
Within the recesses of his self-inflicted pain, he heard Dragoon’s host, the voice in itself sobering him up. A blinding blue light irradiated through the otherwise dim room and a faint, familiar whiff in the air materialized before him.
"S-Seiryuu?" The first emotion he felt was pain. The second emotion that waved through him was foreign, an odd mixture of familiarity and strangeness. His fist clenched tightly. It had been so long since he had had a decent conversation with the dragon.
His lips quivered. For some reason, the air felt ominous. The less than cheerful atmosphere cried like a bad omen.
His throat felt dry.
"Kinomiya Takao, your will is tainted," were the first words that were heard. It was raw and aching. The fact was an open secret; he knew it already, they knew it already, everyone had known it, but it hurt to hear it from Seiryuu, his most trusted companion. The nausea eating him, he brought his trembling hands towards himself, scourging away for any support from his own limbs. "I believe that there is nothing that could heal a corrupted heart.”
The one in question paused. Was his heart corrupted? He believed not; if he were to list, there were several others who he could call corrupted without restraint, so many people in this large world to say they were defiled at heart. But him? Was Seiryuu implying that his fall was not over yet? After so many hardships, after so much pain, after so much remorse, he believed there was no way he was still falling.
He had already reached rock-bottom.
A deep exhalation, one that suspiciously sounded like a sigh, left the dragon.
“You had been strong. You were a person who would charge ahead at any obstacles head-on. You had a will that was unique from other men. Perhaps, it was that trait that made you unique. It is hard to think that you have collapsed to such a state.”
Takao’s eyes locked on to his feet. There was a bad taste in his mouth. It was particularly sour.
“It had been a pleasant time with you.”
“Huh?” Eyes still not daring to look at the dragon in the eye and his feet nudging the liquor bottles away, his body jerked unconsciously as the revelation took him by surprise.
Seiryuu's use of past tense was heartbreaking. Even more agonizing was the implied double meaning. Was Seiryuu also going to leave him now? His teeth clenched. What about him? Was he left to live here, in this shabby place, all by himself?
His stare shifted from feet to straight ahead; his gaze locking on to a small cupboard. A familiar blue beyblade, placed next to a photo frame, shined brightly.
Silence followed, thick and sturdy.
"I have become old." As if to prove it true, the dragon rattled his tail closer to Takao, allowing him to substantiate the veracity for himself. The light emanated by the tail was dim, the colour pale and the once sharp, metallic plates seemed as if they were withering away. The tip had even acquired a black hue.
"I believe I would only last for a few more years, if I were to be conservative."
And this time, Takao actually looked at Seiryuu's eyes.
And the exhausted, haggard pair looked back.
Was it possible to feel more constricted and caged than he already was? The present situation kept answering in the affirmative. And it suffocated him deeply.
"What happens when a sacred beast dies?"
Seiryuu didn't reply. Instead, it was another question that popped out of the dragon: "Kinomiya Takao, do you wish to live?"
A bitter expression plastered on his face, mind studying his accommodation, Takao swallowed. If he considered his small, shabby 'house', the dripping ceiling, his unemployment, his ragged clothes, his less than pleasant neighbourhood, the complete loneliness in his life… The answer was obvious. It was no.
Yet, as he opened his mouth, the words that came out of it were the complete opposite: "I want to live."
And it was filled with a determination and passion he never knew he had within.
Takao wanted to beat himself right then and there. To him, this was digging his own grave. To his hidden, long-forgotten, withered self, this was freedom. His own discretion. His life.
A faint glow rose in his eyes that betrayed the rest of his mind. The mahogany gaze, the one that sang resolution, was fixed on the divine.
It was a small movement, so small that he barely noticed, but nevertheless, he saw the corners of Seiryuu's jaw twitch upwards; that it looked like some sort of bitter smile.
"If that is what you wish, then so be it." The said resolution wavered, panic striking in as he felt Seiryuu’s energy condensing and yet, paradoxically, leave simultaneously. "Then I believe this is where we part ways."
Takao flinched nervously. "S-Seiryuu—!"
The dragon's essence disintegrated, tiny orbs of light scattering away like fireflies; Takao leaned closer, desperate to grasp at least a small portion of the dragon. This was heart wrenching. It was aggravating; there was a rising hunch that this would be the last he would ever see of the ancient spirit. A string of curses then filled the room, fingers gnawing away for any remnants of the Azure Dragon. His eyes burned. He could've been crying. Seiryuu's last words rang through his ears.
"I have grown quite fond of you."
He hugged himself, curling up into a ball. The air around grew colder by the second. He wanted to shrink away, wither away from this world. There was no one around who’d search for him, no one around who’d come looking for him. There was no point in living here anymore.
He just, wanted to leave.
It felt right at the moment. Everyone he loved left, everyone he hated stayed. If he was loved as they had once said, he too, could rightfully leave.
Moments passed by as he sank deeper in his own misery, Seiryuu’s parting still heavy on him. At some point of time he could not refer to, he had fetched Dragoon instinctively, its bit chip still shining like a wayward torch, the only illumination in the blacked-out night.
Though weary, it made him feel reassured.
.
In contrast to the somber night, the next day was a perfectly bright morning. Light shone through the curtains deftly, leaving a brightly illuminated room and white brandishing walls; it was a pleasant scene. It definitely did help his heartache; it was a flawlessly nice day—except that no day in his life was this bright. Physically and figuratively.
His eyes glued to the ceiling. A frown might have marred his face.
White ceiling. A golden chandelier. Beautiful furnishings. It wasn't his dwelling. It wasn't an asylum either.
Short fingers moved up to what was supposed to be his face. No facial hair. No wrinkles either. It was the precious skin of youth.
He pinched his cheeks. It was somewhat chubby. And yes, it hurt.
Takao breathed in deeply. One moment he had been cursing away at everything, at Seiryuu, at his life, the next moment he was at an expensive five star hotel. Did he pass out some time? Or worse, was he kidnapped? But that didn't explain his sudden change in features.
With another long inhalation, a strange do-or-die inspiration hitting him, he screamed, "I'VE GONE MAD!" There was a part of him that wanted to scream it all day long. According to him, this was a tedious nightmare, if nightmares had undergone a mutation to add a twinge of hurt for every physical abuse.
"Ty…," a child-like voice yawned. "I know you are having the best time of your life but did you have to—” the voice paused, a yawn incoming, “—scream everyone awake?"
Ignoring the obligation to reply, Takao inspected the source. Blonde hair. Freckled face. Familiar person.
His heart almost skipped a beat. It couldn’t be…
"Ah… I am so tired… Can’t manage a good morning." The next speaker stretched awkwardly, long black hair sticking out like little porcupines.
"Bad dream, Takao?" A short boy, with his brown hair covering his upper face, was the next to chime in. With about five familiar faces in the room, their figures young and healthy, it was obvious what had happened. He was back in the past. Seiryuu had sent him back to the past.
And strangely, he felt languid.
"Who is it? What is it? Where is it?" A short brunette had thrown open the door, one hand clutching a baseball bat for self-defense. "Is it a thief? Assassin? Hitman?"
"Relax, Hiromi, Takao's just gone mad," Max waved, suppressing another yawn. Kai scoffed.
Hiromi pulled a face at Takao, her contours stretching into a grimace. 'He was already mad' was heard in the background.
Meanwhile, Max who had been grinning at Rei's jet-lagged form, turned to Takao, a small question at the tips of his tongue—
"Wha—? Taka! Are you crying?" At this, several pairs of eyes shot to a hunched Takao. For them, it was perhaps, sudden and without reason; they would not have believed that someone who had been just crowned a legend, a five-time champion, would fall into despair within the limits of a day. It was just, strange from their perspective.
But Takao couldn't give them the 'I'm fine' card.
As for him, his teardrops were falling on the sheets. His hands closed in to his mouth, a futile attempt to muffle his down-pouring sobs. His hunched back kept drawing concern from the rest of the team. But even when they came closer to inspect, he couldn't control it. He wanted to tell them that he was fine, that they were fine, and it was all a big, bad, dream. He tried opening his mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. He tried stopping the tears, but his eyes wouldn't listen. His whole body no longer complied with his will. It was as if his hidden, long-forgotten, withered self was sprung back to life. It was as if the ‘old’ him was taking control.
In the end, there was only one thought stuck in his weary mind. He was back in the past. Seiryuu had sent him back to the past. What about Seiryuu? What was he supposed to do?
He shook vehemently.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," was mumbled all over.