Title: He's not you.

Rating: Teen.

Pairings: Kai/Takao, Takao/Brooklyn, Kai/?

Disclaimer: Bakuten Shoot Beyblade and all its characters belong to Takao Aoki

Warnings: Angst.

Author's Note: Triangles, squares, things that aren't lines. I don't like things that aren't lines, but this idea hit me pretty hard and I was absolutely... drawn to writing it.

Another intentionally chaotic short pseudo-story, more like a drabble.

HE'S NOT YOU.

First person: Takao.

They say time will fix all your problems, heal all your wounds, and that over time everything will be just fine.

Whoever they are, they are horrible liars and horrible frauds.

I used to think it would be alright you know? Even when it hurt the most knowing I could never have you. I did everything to move on, I saw other people, I sought therapy, emotional support, help, I did everything. Most would say I did everything right. I learned to cope, I learned to live without you. That was a challenge you know, learning to live without you. When so much of my life revolved around you, when so much of what you did meant the world to me. I moved on accepting reluctantly we'd never be anything more than friends. A friendship that had become so strained by my feelings, a friendship falling apart..

I'd even been fooled into thinking I'd found love in another. We had platonic chemistry everyone said, we acted like we were practically married. Our lives were in contrast and yet we were identical and we fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. He made me happy all the time, I enjoyed his company, I enjoyed his time, but no matter how much I loved him and how great the chemistry was, I was never in love with him.

Why?

Because he's not you.

I used to be able to count all the moments and minutes and days that crept by where I still had that pain in my chest when I saw you, it eventually got to the point that it didn't matter if you were alone or with her, it still ached. The mere sight of your crimson eyes made my heart sink into my stomach, the bile eating away at it. I used to be able to count every moment jealousy gnawed away at my very soul when your eyes met with hers and you gave her that smile, that smile that should have been for me. I wanted to scream while my world fell apart and you. You were none the wiser, oblivious, unaware, ignorant, infuriating.

I used to be able to count all the seconds that ticked by that we'd just sit alone in the grass watching the sky, the moments I cherished the most important, but you ruined those moments when you told me the news, when you told me about her. Perhaps it was almost sick satisfaction for me when I told you I was involved with the man who'd almost taken your life, that we were in love, but you didn't get angry, you smiled and so genuinely told me you were happy for me, the years had melted your facade, she had melted your facade, and I counted desperately all the moments you'd throw an insult at me nonchalantly preying for those days to come back, even as I fell asleep in another mans arms.

Eventually I realized that I had lost count.

Because he's not you.

I used to think I loved him, we used to get along, but then the picturesque relationship we shared melted away into chaos, into spite, into disdain. I found myself hating his presence, I found myself detesting his existence. I wanted to hurt him, I enjoyed hurting him, he enjoyed hurting me, it was terrible and twisted and hopeless and wrong. People were as jealous of us as they were you but it was a lie, a lie, a lie. Our external perfection was just like the mask you used to carry, the mask you used to wear.

I used to think I was happy with him, I had given him everything I had even when it fell apart but in the end it never really worked out. He was so apathetic to the world, so serene, perhaps it was my own blindness, or perhaps my own blatant neglect that hadn't noticed the signs, or perhaps there had never really been any signs. But while other people paid their respects they whispered at how stoic I seemed, how frigid I had become.

Not even as they put his casket in the ground did I cry.

Because he's not you.

You were the only person who didn't distance yourself from me, the only person who didn't speculate that I'd killed him you know. The only person who offered a genuine hand and consoled me, even if it was in that silent way as we'd almost reverted to our teen years laying in the grass carefree. I was almost smug at the idea that I was taking so much of your time away from her, but the smugness always flitted away and my heart would plummet back down to my stomach because you always went home to her, never came home with me.

And that summer evening when you said it I must have finally lost it because the serenity was shattered with the mention of a wedding and as if I'd been programmed to kill on command, I'd launched myself at you, red, the only colour I could see, the colour of your eyes, and it had taken everything you had to subdue me, to restrain me to get away from me, and I remember when you snapped out demanding and explanation, demanding an answer and all I could scream was

"HE WASN'T YOU."

They say time will fix all your problems, heal all your wounds, and that over time everything will be just fine.

Whoever they are, they are horrible liars and horrible frauds.

Angst, yep, etc, blegh.

I need to get some motivation to write something HAPPY.

But this story struck me because I can relate in a way to it.

The story is intended to be a chaotic mess, that's not me having some neurological issue that needs to be assessed.