A/N: Woo~ This one looks a bit bland. And is confusing. It sort of takes after the second short... aaaand it gets kinda cheesy in some parts. I was watching ...uh, SuJu while I was writing so please forgive me. LOL Creative title is creative!

Separation

They never thought there would come a day when the garden parties would end.

Neither Oliver nor Enrique were particularly concerned over not being able to eat chicken sandwiches together. For two such boys who valued the culinary arts, they also firmly believed that any meal wasn't complete without proper companionship.

They were young then. Both of them had been busy with beyblade, competing and winning. Their friendship had strengthened to something akin to steel during their days together. Even after the third world championships, even as Oliver became increasingly engrossed in managing his restaurant and Enrique with his home studies, they still met and talked and laughed as if growing up was a billion miles away.

Perhaps they themselves were the very reason why they had not seen the inevitable coming. Who were they kidding? Beyblade had gone out of season. Johnny and Robert were in universities. Kai had gone back to Russia. Rei was back in his village (and was gearing up for a marriage for Pete's sake). Tyson was being groomed to be the Kinomiya's heir and the All Stars Training Facility was funding renovations for a gymnasium...with a swimming pool!

It was the folly of the rich, to perceive stable futures whilst surrounded by luxury from pockets not of their own.

Enrique and Oliver realized what was coming to them when they were seventeen.

“What did your father say?” the Frenchman asked.

“I'll be attending medical school in America,” his best friend replied quietly.

The pair's last meeting was in one of the Giancarlo heir's numerous flower gardens littering his villa's vast courtyard. The cakes and the blooms were pretty but neither of the two had the heart to appreciate any sort of beauty at such a time.

“It's a small world,” Oliver said, feeling hopeful. “I'd be able to visit, right?”

Enrique smiled wanly, absently stirring his tiny cup of coffee and staring at the cream as it swirled into the brown. “My tita won't like it,” he said. “Father told her to keep a strict watch on me to make sure I finish on time, with honors no less. He says he'd forgive me about the huge sporting break I took but now, it's back to business.”

Oliver sighed heavily and toyed with his half-eaten cheesecake. His best friend had a point. Even if he'd love to visit, so bad, Enrique during the time they'd be apart, he himself would be too busy.

As if hearing his thoughts, Enrique returned the question, more out of formality than curiosity. After all, the Italian had a vague idea of what Oliver's decision already was. “And you, Oli? What are you going to do?”

“I'm staying to manage the restaurant.” Spot on.

They shared an uneasy silence.

After being friends for so long, having had endless days filled with laughter, neither of them were able to reconcile with the idea of being apart. Even just a continent. Sure, they had the money and the resources to get just about whatever they wanted in life, but that money had to come from somewhere. And as Majestics, as nobles, as royals, as the heirs of their families, they had to keep the code their ancestors had sworn their blood to; a code of honor, discipline and hard work. They said it was the only way one could enjoy the fruits of one's labor.

Neither Oliver nor Enrique knew how long they wouldn't be able to see each other after the other left.

An overwhelming tide of emotion swept through the French boy, making his stomach drop and his shoulders shake. Oliver placed his hands on his lap to steady himself. He couldn't bear to look Enrique in the eye.

“Please email. Or write...or anything...” he said quietly.

It was Enrique's turn to sigh. With gentleness, he took one of his best friend's shaking hands and pressed the soft knuckles to his lips. Oliver's flushed face and eyes shining with unshed tears turned to look at him in surprise.

“I'm not going to do that,” said the Italian. “It's going to make me want to come back.” His voice was steady, though both knew how much it hurt to even be in the garden, having such a conversation over mockeries like cakes and flowers.

“I want to get this over with, so I can come back as soon as possible,” Enrique continued. “Save all of yourself for me.”

Oliver closed his eyes to steel himself. The skin his best friend kissed was slowly burning. “You aren't fair at all...” he whispered, before finally releasing his frustrations. “Enrique, Enrique, please don't go...don't leave...”

“I will see you, I will see you...” Enrique reassured, like a healing chant to counter Oliver's pleas. “Please wait for me, Oliver.”

The French boy opened his eyes at the request. He longed to rip that smile off the Italian's face if only to know how the other really felt. It wasn't fair for him, to be the only one to cry. No one had asked Enrique to be strong for the both of them. No one...

“Please wait for me.” The blond's voice was shaking. “Buy a house. Invest in an apartment. La campagne ou la grande ville, I don't care. We'll live together in Paris, close to your restaurant. I'll set up a pharmacy and we'll live together...we'll live together...”

“Enrique?”

“We'll break away from this. We won't have to do what they tell us anymore...”

“Enrique!”

“I'll stay once I come back. I'll stay for good, but right now, I've got to do this—!”

“Enrique!”

“I want to be with you so bad!”

He started crying, and Oliver, for the lack of anything better to say to console him, cried along. His flight was in two days.

- - - -

America wasn't far, to be honest. What was long were the early mornings, the late nights before going to be and the weekends spent wondering and longing. Every time a plane roared by in the sky, Oliver would momentarily stop cooking in the restaurant's kitchen to gaze outside the window, if only to painfully remind himself to wait.

He felt the years pulling at his heart, to anticipate the day he'd walk down Champs-Élysées and see someone he knew but not quite, all doctor-y and professional, calling him by a name he thought he had lost to a faraway candy-colored childhood.

”Oli?"

END.

A/N: ...holy crud. Absolutely horrible. *goes off to hide under a rock* Um...what would the readers like me to do? Please include in your review. (Oh nooooes. I RHYME. D:)