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There's a plot somewhere, and it'll happen the moment you won't expect.
You'll find the chapters in italian (my beloved language) and in english.
It's funny writing it, so it's time to show you my love for theese assholes.
Thank you, whoever will spend time on this!
Chocolate_
The predictability of the umpredictable - La prevedibilitĂ degli imprevisti (4923 words) by Chocolate_senpai
Chapters: ?
Fandom: Bakuten Shoot Beyblade
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Characters: BBA Team | BladeBreakers, White Tigers (Bakuten Shoot Beyblade), PPB Team | All Starz, Borg | Demolition Boys, F-Sangre | F-Dynasty, BEGA | Justice Five, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Sex
Summary:
…
«The camping trip…» Yuriy didn't seem convinced. He pointed a finger at Sergej: «…the association meeting, when—»
«Don't pretend you don't remember,» he crossed his arms, looking even more massive, «you even marked it on the calendar.»
«We don't have a calendar.»
«You threw it away a week ago.»
«No. No, I threw away last year's.»
«It was this year's, you checked before throwing it out. Yuriy—» he cut him off, raising a hand to keep the floor, «you know perfectly well about the camping trip; you've known all spring, you've been dreading this moment—»
«I haven't dreaded anything,» he interrupted him, his spite huffed into the nearly empty mug. «It was simply done against my will.»
…
It was wonderful to retrace this path.
I realize that I have never stopped walking with them and, for once, I'm glad not to see the end of the journey.
Outside there was a nice spring breeze blowing.
Rose patted her purse contentedly: «I want to bring them to the kids» she announced, satisfied.
«What classes do you have?»
«Two seconds. And one third»
«They'll be happy»
«Confetti are better than essay grades»
«The essay…» Ivan crunched sugared almonds «what's the prompt?»
«Talk about yourself. How do you expect your future life to be»
«At twelve years old they already know?»
«Did we know?»
«Yes» Boris answered automatically, but he immediately wanted to retract. «Well…no. Maybe»
«We knew what others wanted from us»
«You can't remember how young you were» Rose tapped Ivan on the head. «Seventeen years have passed, it's a sea of time to grow and I still don't know where I'll end up»
«You're working in a school»
The van rented by Kai -a spaceship equipped with every technology existing in the world- started up silently. The guys threw themselves inside as if they were afraid of being reached by yet another sermon from the priest.
«Isn't that what you wanted?»
«Oh yes. It was worth spilling blood on the competitions»
«That's why you left Beyblade»
«I left Bey because I'm not capable»
«You never liked it» Yuriy scolded her as he could do with smart students who don't apply. «We were teaching you»
She huddled between blue tulle and crossed arms: «I'm - not - capable»
«Will you be there in August?»
She answered without even waiting for the end of the question: «of course I'll be there»
Sergej seemed to relax the mountain of shoulders in jacket and shirt. He smeared himself better on the seat, letting his eyes wander along the panorama blurred by the crazy speed with which Kai was escaping.
«A piece would be missing without you»
Rose blushed. She beamed; then -sneakily- took Ser by the arm, slipping a hand under his bicep. Then she did the same with Ivan.
And she felt safe.
«Thanks»
For being here, she would have liked to add.
For never having left me.
For having smiled and cried with me in the bad and the good, in the sweet and the bitter.
They had adopted a red kitten and raised it, cuddled it and said goodbye when it was the end. They had fought a thousand tournaments -defeated and won countless times- and when she studied they listened to her, and when they trained she watched them.
Rose basked in that moment of sweetness. She closed her eyes and smiled like an idiot.
Then Boris fired, completely out of context:
«good!»Â
He clapped his hands, rolling up his shirt sleeves:
«what do we do for lunch?»
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He raised his purple gaze on her, ready to smirk at puffed-red cheecks and watery eyes.
But Kai was so wrong. And he realized all of a sudden that he had stepped onto a shit.
Dead serious skies were glaring at him, ready to war. Rose clenched her teeth:
<don't you dare> she repeated, looking fierce and -so unusual for her- goddamn scary.
Kai waisted a minute of his precious time without being aware of how much he was looking at her. He asked himself if he really had ever seen how Rose -standing proudly in front of the Russian team in the opposite side of the stadium- was tailored to be with them.
With that four crazy forces of nature.
Then, she pointed a finger at him like a loaded gun, whispering heavy and so cold that words could have burned down the arena:
<You stole that line from the guy with the blue triangles on his face>
Yuriy laughed in his own way: he narrowed his eyes, barely creasing the corners of his lips. You couldn't ask for more from him in the morning.
Suddenly Rose revealed: <I solved it>
The captain pricked up his eyes and ears, stopping the coffee cup midway to his lips. A satisfied little smirk had formed on her mouth, and she seemed to be waiting for something. A question; a request for an explanation.
Yuriy kept the tension high for a very long minute before giving in:
<…ok. What->
<Oats>
Rose spilled her secret in an instant - she couldn't wait for that. She jumped down from the stool she was clinging to, running to rummage in the only kitchen cupboard no one ever opened: the one with cereals and legumes.
<You damned ones> she rifled through packages of spelt and lentils, shifting bags and pouches <you waged war on my diet, but I->
<-you shit every day because you eat cardboard?>
<It's not cardboard. If you know how to cook it>
<Ah> Ivanov swallowed the last sip of coffee. <Even plastic is good if you fry it>
<No frying, it doesn't fit the->
<-nutritional values> he finished the sentence - another of the things Rose repeated nonstop. He eyed her - bundled up in her koala pajamas and climbing into the pantry; his lips pulled into another hidden smile.
<Here»
From who knows which hole in the ochre-yellow kitchenette she popped out cocoa, honey, and chocolate, plus a huge bag of protein powder. Yuriy pointed to it with a nod: <where was that hidden?>
 <If I'm not careful Ser gobbles them up>Â
She measured everything with a scale and cups, mixing and calculating like a mad chemist. She drowned it all in a bowl with tap water, and the consistency of the mixture made Yuriy shudder.
<It's sludge>
<I have to cook it>
<It'll turn into clay>
<Clay with cocoa and chocolate> she grinned slyly, slapping it all into the microwave. <Everything's better with chocolate>
After the 40 longest seconds of his life, Ivanov found a bowl of brownish mud with a cocoa aroma under his nose; Rose placed a square of chocolate on top - the only vaguely inviting element.
<…mh> was the monosyllabic comment. She huffed.
<Come ooon>Â
<Look> Yuriy picked up the spoon; his icy blue eyes darted to her in a silent death threat <I'm eating it. But if I don't see the bathroom…>Â
<You will. Trust me>Â
<That's exactly what I don't usually do>Â
<This is the solution to the world's constipation>Â
<Mh> he stirred the mixture in the bowl. <Mh> he repeated.Â
Then -with the right reluctance of someone about to swallow cooked cardboard with cocoa and honey- he ate his breakfast under Rose's satisfied gaze.
And that day was remembered as the one when Yuriy Ivanov defeated constipation.
<I need a smile. Teeth and face wrinkles> Ivan put away the camera. <Not a "pose">
<Is just...> fingers get entangled in fluffy hair. Rose puffed out her cheeks. <...i'm never comfortable seeing me smile. I don't like my teeth>
<Come here>
Ivan didn't wait: one second later his goggles were already on her head, secured between her messy space buns. He looked proudly at his masterpiece.
<They suits you! None will notice your teeth with those goddamn big things on you head. Now> he grabbed the camera with both hands, searching for the right angle like the greatest photographer of the public park <...would you, miss Primerose, show me your teeth?>
She giggled, feeling her cheeks turn red and her head -unexpectedly- lighter under the heavy crown.
Rose didn't notice when it happened; but she heard the Camera click, and saw Ivan's victorious smile.
He looked at her back, lost in connecting every mark, every scratch, every mole into an invisible design—a story that only he knew how to read
<You» he whispered just under his lips—eyes still wandering over the white skin—<you have a ton of scars»
Rose would have wanted to pull on her shirt quickly, but it was hard to get her head through the high neck on the first try. She murmured something with closed lips. The response wasn’t enough: a cold jolt ran up to the base of her neck when she felt the light touch of two fingers brushing her left shoulder blade.
Boris didn’t stop.
<This one here»
He pinched the skin just a bit, reddening the edges of that thin milky white groove. Rose let her muscles vibrate, chasing away ambiguous sensations; she finally went to cover her back with the just-ironed shirt. Boris stopped her, pushing away the fabric that was desperately trying to get into place.
<When—>
<You know when>
He unleashed one of his crooked smiles, the ones that shattered everyone’s nerves. He felt Rose trying to wriggle out of his grip on the poor shirt: <let go, Bobo»
<I’m not a dog>
<Come oooon>
She huffed and puffed her cheeks, and Boris could guess the girl’s face even without seeing it. He smiled—straighter, less predatory.
<I remember it> he straightened her shirt; he untangled her hair from the grip of the high neck, tying it into the only braid that someone—go figure who—had taught him to make. <When it happened>
<Memento»
The braid stopped halfway.
<…what?»
<I read it in a—>
<—book> the boy finished the sentence—he could hear Rose repeat it every morning. <And what is it?»
«Monitum»
<…aha?»
She felt like smiling. <Have you ever thought about the possibilities that can come from expanding your personal vocabulary?»
<The "monitum”> Boris insisted, undoing and redoing the braid a bit randomly just to keep brushing her hair <explain it well»
<The memory of a reproach. Of a lesson. Like: memento mori»
«"Mori" like blackberries in italian, or like boys with dark hair?»
A slap reached him with effort on the leg; Rose dislocated an arm to hit him, but it was worth it. <Blackberries is "more" in italian! "Mori" means to die! It’s latin, a verb that» she sighed <…let’s leave it. I wouldn’t know how to explain it»
<Ouch> Boris leaned over her, resting his chin on her shoulder <someone hasn’t studied»
Rose pinched his nose, then his cheek.
<I don’t like Latin. Never learned it»
<Mh. Why…» he breathed in her ear, suddenly more serious <…should you remember something like that?»
The small scar throbbed on her back as if it were still fresh. Nothing was left but a faded mark on the white skin—hidden, lying in wait invisibly. Rose stiffened as if wanting to scratch her collarbone on the shirt; the bone snapped involuntarily, the muscle tensed.
<We were…> an old memory drew itself on the kitchen wall, behind the open box of cookies and the pots to wash. <…we were all together. And…>
The white fingers stretched backward searching for the boy's tousled hair, tangling in the grayish lilac.
<…and it all ended there. And then, it began»
Boris closed his eyes, letting himself be lulled by the caresses. <The first championship…>
<And the last, in some way»
<The last bad one»
She lolled her head backward: her ear brushed Boris’s cheek; she let herself slide until she rested her head on his shoulder.
She smiled without holding back, tickled by that memento she always carried with her.
<The next day I slammed my back against the doorframe> she admitted.
<I remember. I told you. You were half-asleep and you tried to pass through the wall to get out of your room»
<It was> she scratched his head like he was a cat, lost in the memory of that absurd day: the first after the Monastery. The first alone. The first without fear of anything.Â
<It was the first scar that he didn’t make. It’s mine. All mine»
<…it was me who put the band-aid on you?»
She nodded. She strained for a moment to remember, furrowing her eyebrows on her blue little eyes.
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«…I promise to be true to you always, in joy and in sorrow, in health and in sickness, and to love you and honor you…»
<What would you promise?>
The atmosphere shattered: the cold sunset reflected by the stained glass windows dissolved into the fog of incense, the soft glow of the candles was blown away by the icy wind of the strange question.
The sweet words of the newlyweds became a distant sound.
She stretched the tail of her eyes to the neighbor on the pew: if there was a creative way to slouch in a church, Boris had found it.
For a moment, ice-green eyes darted curiously over Rose's sky-blue ones. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips; then Boris whispered again:
<It's demanding. Promising something»
<It's demanding to keep it»
Stoic, statuesque in his composure, Sergej joined the whispers without taking his eyes off the happy couple at the altar.
<Everyone's good at pulling the trigger. But» he tilted his head toward Rose, leaning over her <the aim?>
<You practice»
<Mh. Not enough»
<It's in our nature» Boris pointed an invisible gun at the back of the little old lady sitting in front of him. He closed one eye; took aim. <You have to be born good at shooting». He lowered his hand. Shrugged his shoulders and settled into a more composed pose.
<Or at spinning a beyblade. Or at keeping a promise. It's the same»
<You promised not to pour tuna oil down the sink»
From the pew behind, someone insinuated into the conversation—a thin and vaguely venomous tongue. Ivan lifted the hymnal from his face—he'd been using it as a sleep mask: <now the drain is disgusting. Asshole»
Boris huffed: <Distrustful»
<Hypocrite»
<Viper»
<Harpie»
The pale hand of an impartial judge snatched the hymnal from Ivan's claws, whacking him and Boris on the head like they were two mosquitoes: the smack echoed through the nave in rhythm with the Gloria refrain. Yuriy rolled his eyes toward the frescoes of the Saints, invoking them one by one.
<You two» he hissed <promised to pretend to be interested». The rolled-up hymnal pointed at the two newlyweds; the captain whispered: <they're getting married! For fuck's sake»
<Promises are lasting a lifetime!»
Boris got another whack from the hymnal.
<Take an example. Yours last five minutes. Maybe»
<Liar»
<And what is» from behind Ivan leaned toward Boris, hovering over him with the pungent musk cologne he'd worn—reluctantly—for the occasion <the promise you've kept the longest?»
<Not to burp in the morning»
All eyes rolled silently toward the answer whispered by Yuriy's pew neighbor. Kai elegantly hid a yawn behind his hand, letting a glint of ruby cufflink shine through.
<You're not-doing it» he noted, marveling at himself for complimenting that contraption of crooked grins and unspoken death threats.
Boris's eyebrows had shot to the ceiling.
«…are you okay?»
<I'm trying to be objective»
<You must have something to atone for» Yuriy didn't ask; he was sure.
<To him?> Kai jolted into a silent laugh. <Not in this lifetime»
Ivan flopped back onto the pew, huffing: <it's not the first bullshit you say, anyway…»
<Ah» even Sergej's eyes flew to the little angels holding up the columns <if we had to measure our worth by bullshit…»
«You all promised me a lot»
The team left the debate hanging. Yet another sacred hymn stopped as if to make room for the words whispered at the edge of thin lips. Rosemary tucked away a stray lock from her messy braid; she pinned it behind the earpiece of her glasses, hiding in the gesture her too-red cheeks and the scab from the pimple she'd scratched.
She smiled.
«Ser promised to do stretching with me every day»
<I knew you were here»
Her small hands froze on the keys.
In front of her, on the old piano, lay a couple of sheets.
<And these?>
Sergej brushed them with his fingers: the notes faded into the dimness and the yellowed paper.
<I found them. It's a beautiful music»
She resumed playing calmly, pressing the keys as lightly as possible.
He watched her, one ear tuned to the hallway and one to the instrument, and without realizing it he had closed his eyelids; and without wanting to, he had picked up the thread of an old dream.
<Try it yourself»
Sergej opened his eyes, meeting the smile of the blonde girl. She patted the rectangular stool, inviting him to sit right beside her.
<Do you know how to read music?>
He let out a laugh. How could he?
<No. No, Rose, i dont'»
<I'll teach you!»
Her left hand and his right stumbled—slowly—over the white and black keys. Without hurry, hand in hand in their Imperfect sweetness.
<Yu promised me» she smoothed the blue tulle skirt <to have breakfast>Â
<Everything's fine»
Yuriy slowly peeled himself from the wall. He didn't have time to take a step: his vision blurred, his legs buckled. The threat of the floor rushed at him.
But the impact didn't come.
Two slender yet solid arms encircled him, sure and steady. He slowly opened his eyes.
<I've got you»
Rosemary had grabbed him. A one-meter-tall kid—smaller than him—was holding him up.
He wanted to stand right away, but the dizziness prevented it. Without realizing, he gripped her arms tighter.
She lowered her face to his, touching his forehead with her own. She pulled back almost immediately.
<You have a fever»
He gasped disjointed words between wakefulness and sleep, kicking with his pride to free himself from the sensation of sweetness—of a soft embrace—that filled that moment.
<Have you eaten?>
He hissed something through his teeth, starting a laborious speech he decided not to finish. He had no energy; not to contradict her. He shook his head slowly, defeated.
<I'll give you some chocolate»
<No-> he sighed <no. No» He stopped that helping attempt before the Monk really sent them all to fuck off. <We need to->
A pungent smell crept under his nose. He opened his eyes to a small colored foil wrapper and the scent of bittersweet sugar.
Rose smiled under her mustache.
<Personal stash. Consider it an honor.»
<Ivvi» finally her eyes vibrated—quick, sweet—behind her shoulder, accompanied by a smile of joyful embarrassment <promised to be gentler right after waking up»
<Why don't you know how to use the beyblade?>
No answer. He cursed under his breath, swallowing more curses than he wanted to hurl. Then he spat into the darkness:
<Who gave you that?>
Still silence. Ivan grabbed the girl by the shoulders, squeezed and shook.
<Well!? Don't you have a fucking tongue?>
<I—» the whisper rose from her throat swollen with tears. She kept her eyes down on the blue launcher clutched in her small fist. «…I'm not good at it» she huffed.
He almost wanted to slap her twice. He let go of her shoulders. Sighed, disheartened by the uselessness of what he was doing.
<That's pretty obvious»
Ivan kept watching her. Small; trembling. Without wasting more time he snatched the launcher from her hands, adjusted the bey better. He handed it back, then positioned himself on the opposite side of the bey stadium.
<Come on» he cracked his neck. <I'll show you how it's done»
The girl's eyes lit up.
<But->
<Fuck—are we wasting more time? Come on!»
She sniffed. Wiped her tears with her sleeve and mimicked Ivan's stance.
She lowered her already faint voice: <Kai promised to always send his location when he's not with us»
<If you do it like this…»
She took his hand by surprise, interlocking her small fingers with Kai's. He stiffened instantly.
<Don't->
<Let me»
There was no one. He was sure—the gym was empty when he entered and stayed that way all evening. He shrugged off the feeling of being watched in every damn corner of that underground hole. He nodded at his hand tied to Rose's.
<What is this supposed to be?>
<A pact»
The phalanges interlocked in a Greek key pattern, a little frame where she held him tight, firm. Safe. Kai lightened the mood with a huff and a quirk of his lips.
<Now we have to say a formula and summon a demon?>
<No. Now we're bound»
She whispered it in the dimness like a true ritual; squeezed his fingers, letting Kai's dig into her palm.
<Now» she smiled at him victoriously, happily, a bit more serene than she had been that morning <we'll feel when you need us, and you'll feel when we need you»
He couldn't deny a shiver down his spine. He chased it away, hiding his flushed cheeks with a glance at the ceiling.
<I call this a curse»
<I call it friendship»
She stopped. Stayed silent, wringing her hands for a bit before adding:
<Bobo promised to put on a band-aid every time he gets hurt»
<Why aren't you afraid?>
She said nothing. The silence went to his head, clenched his fists and raised his voice.
<I—he asked me to do it and- look! Look at what i did! Why the hell do you->
<I know you wouldn't»
<But I did! I->
Boris loomed over her and was ready to growl, to scare to death that frightened little pup who—good lord—had nothing to do with the Monastery.
Then, small white fingers tightened on his iron fist, on his cracked knuckles and scars.
<You gave me your band-aids» she nodded at the cut on his leg: the small bandage stubbornly stitched the skin. And she looked at Boris with disarming sincerity, and with the sweetest word's caress she whispered:
<thank you»
Rosemary's hands tingled gently on her right ear earrings -five pearcings so different in colors and shapes.
She felt the safe touch of known hands on her shoulders, on her hair.
And wispered, under the soft light of unspoken promises:
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