Author's Note: Well, not even I can write drabbles forever. This morbid little piece clocks in at just over 1,000 words. Perhaps 'huzzahs' are in order?

Anyway, this fic is rated R for cussing, vague shonen-ai themes and character death. The pairing is Tyson/Kai, but only if you squint.

The song is "Slit Wrist Theory" by 36 Crazy Fists and, as you might have surmised, I own neither it nor Beyblade. The lyrics are in italics.

The method for suicide used here is highly effective, though I don't suggest that anyone try it. Suicide is not painless, people. If you really think life sucks that much, just go on the internet and write pseudo-gothic poetry like the rest of us.

Please read and review.

Dr. SilverRose

"With the absence of eye, I can start to bleed again..."

It's finally over and Kai can relax.

The end of the World Tournament brought not only victory against insurmountable odds, but also a series of conclusions.

An end to responsibility…

An end to the madness and guilt…

And now, alone in this room, Kai would also find an end to himself.

"With the color of hearts it seems like you wear right thin…"

Eyes shut against the raw, intemperate tube light above the bathroom mirror; the events of the last few weeks play back in Kai's head. The memories are random, fleeting.

He sees triumph and failure.

Utter betrayal and complete loyalty.

He remembers the alien sensation of caring and friendship and with those sensations come the inerasable image of the bright eyed blunette, Tyson.

In the end, Tyson was the one he stayed alive for.

"And as it falls from your mouth, it seems like you
needed it more…"

When the ice wore thin and threatened to break beneath his feet, it was Tyson who held out a hand to him and told him that everything would be okay.

"Well I can still ask for more, I will still ask for more..."

Of course, everything wasn't okay. It never was.

The others might call him pessimistic, but Kai only saw himself as the truest of realists. Life sucked and, for some people, it sucked even more.

No one ever agreed with him, though, and they would all try to get close to him, love him…

Just like Tyson.

"Get the fuck out, stay the fuck out
It makes me sick (I'm alright)…"

But Kai had pushed him away, just like everyone else.

It was all he knew how to do.

That, and be perfect.

But he had failed at that.

He'd be damned if he allowed himself to fail at anything else.

"Slit wrist theory, stains us all..."

Now opening his eyes, he looks into the cracked surface of the bathroom mirror. A hollow, pale face looks back at him. The inhumanly hued eyes and the outré markings that grace his cheeks only serve to throw his tired visage further into harsh relief.

His fingers curl tightly along the sink's basin until the knuckles turn white.

Behind him, the taupe tub continues to fill with lukewarm water, spilling carelessly like the tears he is not shedding.

Tonight it will all be over.

He will die. And he will do it right.

"Lace me up, lace me up
I'm still looking for these angels in the snow…"

Another memory, less disturbing than the rest, comes to him as he strips down to his pants and stands in the chilly bathroom. In his memory, it is just before the final battle and he and Tyson are practicing in the snow.

It is just the two of them and Kai thinks that, in that moment, he is the closet to happiness that he will ever be.

Then the others come and the moment is over.

"Lace me up, lace me up
I'm still looking for these angels in the snow…"

Now he slides into the bath, fingers groping blindly for the knife which he has honed to brittle brightness just for this purpose.

Little Emo kids who write about suicide always imagine that a single, flawless line across the wrist will suffice. They couldn't be more wrong.

Kai, who must always do things perfectly, even in such macabre situations, knows exactly how to go about killing himself.

First arm: His grip on the knife does not falter for a second as he scores deep, even cuts along the 'bracelet' of his wrist. Then he turns the blade and drags it down, down in a straight line, all the way to his elbow.

It hurts, but that is immaterial.

Kai has never been afraid of pain.

"It seems like a runaround
Words that won't matter…"

That night, before this whole ignominy began, Kai had tried to speak to Tyson; tried to impart something…anything, to the one person he had deigned to consider a friend.

Words failed him, though, and he had to be content with a stammered: "Thank you."

Tyson didn't understand what he was being thanked for, but Kai honestly hadn't expected him to.

It just had to be said.

"And as it falls from your mouth it seems like you
needed it more…"

If he was less focused, or maybe just younger, he could view this act as a form of defiance and rebellion.

He entertains the notion as he starts, less coordinated now, on the other arm.

One slash: "Take that, Boris."

Two slashes: "And you, Grandfather."

The third slash is the one that drags all the way down his arm like a drunken snake and he whispers, smiling: "And you, too, Tyson. Always you."

"And I will color you all red; I will color you all...red"

But this is not revenge, this is merely a cessation, and Kai is aware enough to realize that. He holds both arms up to the light, throwing the bloodied knife away from him, grinning dissonantly as it skitters across the tiled floor.

His arms look like fucked up crosses and if he holds them up, they are Christian. If he lowers them, they are Satanic.

Death, it seems, has a strange sense of humor.

He submerges both arms underwater; watching as the water slowly begins to turn pink.

Dying in pink water. How ignoble.

The door to the bathroom, he notices, is slightly ajar. He can still call out for help. Tyson would come running.

He knows this for a fact.

Kai doesn't say a word.

"Get the fuck out, stay the fuck out
it makes me sick (I'm alright)
slit wrist theory, stains us all..."

The world is going black so he closes his eyes, again and forces himself to relax, for once.

He deserves a little peace. After all, he's earned it.

"Lace me up, lace me up
I'm still looking for these angels in the snow…
Lace me up, lace me up
I'm still looking for these angels in the snow…"

As the world twirls away like so much drain water, Kai imagines he hears Tyson's voice, asking him, ever fainter: "Why?"

And, as always, he doesn't know what to say. He never did.

"Braided conversation"

Arms wrap around him, holding him close as if trying to bring him some last measure of affection and warmth. Kai has never been warm, before, and he finds that he likes it.

"Why?"

Dream-Tyson actually expects an answer, it seems, so Kai tries to speak. Tyson was the only person he never wanted to disappoint.

"Get the fuck out, stay the fuck out
it makes me sick (I'm alright)
slit wrist theory, stains us all..."

"Because I wasn't perfect." He manages to say. He feels he owes Tyson that much.

"And caved the fuck in, and bashed the fuck in, it's so old
Slit wrist theory, stains us all..."

Finally, the world is gone and the warmth is gone and, with one last vision of the blunette boy who dared to care, it's over.

Kai smiles.

"Lace me up, lace me up
I'm still looking for these angels in the snow…
Lace me up, lace me up
I'm still looking for these angels in the snow…"

And now, as he rides along in the back of the ambulance, with the paramedics shouting things in a language he will never even begin to understand, Tyson holds on to Kai's cold, limp fingers, squeezing them until he hears them break.

"You were perfect to me."

"Lace me up..."

And in the end, that was all that mattered.