Every Smut Has A Story

That Invisible Screen

2008-05-14T13:25:02Z

That Invisible Screen
Rating: G
Genre: GEN. Yes. I wrote gen.
Author's Notes: Life is a game.

You watch as your knee gets shot by what looks like an M4A1 carbine; not a graze, for you can see bits and pieces of flesh and blood fly out in all directions, painting the pixellated concrete of Azerbaijan. Something explodes, just to define the moment. You hear yourself yell in excruciating pain, clutching what is left of your right leg, and fall without grace. The floor looks cold and damp when your body sprawls into a pitiful heap, and the world becomes heavy. The Chief shouts through your headset, a recorded message repeated ten Game Overs before your death began. Now is the right time to die; yet there is no pain, only the minute feel of your eyes twitching. Something roars overhead.

You switch the computer off.

*

Life is a game. Sometimes you take a walk, which turns into a run, because your neighbour is heading towards the same direction and you just don’t like the idea of him going first. Your friend shares her achievements, eyes shining, and you keep silent. Later, in your room of boxes and books and scraps of ripped paper, you’ll write down her triumph in a long list of other triumphs to be accomplished in due time. Sometimes you think that something is trailing you, so you have to be alert, mindful. You have dreams where you infiltrate a cargo ship delivering a dangerous nuclear weapon, with opponents in all corners, and the storm rages on, rocking the ship, rocking your head. Life is a deathmatch, a struggle to find clues to get out of the musty cavern and its winding exits, a desperate battle to rescue the princess.

But in this world, you lose. Everytime. You save and wait for the next opportunity, and you try over and over again but you lose, because everyone else is so into the game, so good at it, that they win without effort. Without them even noticing. You control yourself and nothing else.

You’re even beginning to doubt your own alleged self-control.

*

“What are your orders?” He asks, saluting firmly. Inside your stomach clenches, because they can only go too far.

*

“It is quite amazing. I mean, levels one to twenty you desperately fight to survive; you’ve dodged bullets and fought against a tank and you’ve engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a psychotic, yet deadly ninja, I mean, man, you even blew up the entire enemy base, barely escaping the facility yourself! The evil plans and bosses and weapons are buried beneath the rubble, you’re practically the hero of the world, and then the game ends, just like that! I mean, what the fuck, right?”

You rub your eyes tiredly. “Did I win?”

“It’s a roleplaying game. There are no tournaments.”

You wipe the remaining blood on your arm with your shirt, and then toss it away.

“There are no winners.”

Your mind is dark. You did not save enough.

“You’re just supposed to have fun.”

Notes to the Lilyflower (Or, Why Her World is Round)

2008-04-22T14:49:32Z

I.

It began two hundred thousand years ago (six months ago)
why should it end? Or rather,
how should it. There are those who can break another and sleep at night. I
remember the Queen and the Other, the world
talked behind their backs, but they're still alive.
And me?

II.

Ten Points for the best yet, perfezione as you would put it, almost impossible, the Sun is the Center of the Solar System, an ideallic sphere, paradise in your way, perhaps? God-loves-you, Vitruvius had it right: nothing to add, nothing lacking, a beauty unfathomable, why that's quite ugly isn't it.

III.

You can walk for the earth is flat, and drop your fingers to be eaten by the men on the way.

IV.

"Oh, I haven't seen you in a while!"

"Yes, but have you heard about what happened to her?"

V.

There is an unstoppable media frenzy the moment she reaches the peak of the world. Helicopters dance overhead as cameras focus on an image that will not affect the future of the planet whatsoever. Her determined expression as she lifts her flag is featured in more than a million TV screens in the world, taken in by billions of eyes and hands and teeth. She beams, waves her hand fleetingly, and smiles for the cameras.

And then she slips.

That is what should happen to those who climb high, but in the real world honey, there will be a million hands to break her fall, and who are you to judge them? And they never slip, my dearest, they never stumble, they never fall, they never, love. You're just another button in the elevator to the peak of the world; you'll take her to the top, but she'll be the only one who gets there.

Desaparecidos

2008-03-26T14:13:04Z

Desaparecidos

Author's Notes: Politically-laden. Written for my Nnara-Youth CWTS class. Dedicated to all the internal refugees from Southern Tagalog.

I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be
Super
To turn back time, crush enemies with one punch, and possibly
fly like you’re just
breathing
But what I really dream of is having the ability to
be invisible.

Think about it. Complete invisibility; no one will know where you are,
who you are. You
can get away with anything.
The slightest touch, the smallest movement
Won’t give you away
Unseen, undetected by
the human eye.

Look, I can hear everything you’re saying!
I can enter theatres without cash.
It’s a wonderful life.

And then I met you.
Singing, shouting
Protests as vicious as sharp teeth, yet
harmless, innocent.
Away from familiar places,
Fighting not to fly.
Fighting just to
breathe.
Invisible.

And it makes no sense, but you are
Super.
Tear-stained cheeks and muddy snot and
clothes secondhand
But they do nothing for you.
And you clutch photos of mangled faces
(you don’t know them, and yet you do
They kissed you to sleep
a long time ago, when the sun rose and set at all the right places)
While the pretty woman on TV asks you
where they are
and you say “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me”
But they do nothing for you.

Your face is all over town. In
wanted posters, flyers,
on TV
(Oh, you’ve always wanted to be in TV, but not like this, never like this)
And your tears are real
But they do nothing for you.

They look at you, and
they pass by, the way they
walk by the
homeless.
Their eyes recognize you, but their minds say you
were never there.
The huge vans roll by, massive cars with
Very Important People
and they stare straight ahead.
It seems as if you’ve lost your voice, because
you’re screaming for
thousands of lives, but
no one
not one of them
comes close.

Complete invisibility, preset.
Powers that you’ve
never wanted.
I listened to you, and
I saw you
for the very first time.

But you’re not here anymore.
And that was the last I’ve seen you.
Perhaps you’ve become
truly invisible.
Perhaps you’ve been
right here
beside me
Screaming and shouting, and I’m crying but
perhaps the Very Important People have won
And I can’t open my eyes.
Perhaps they took you away from me.

But I’ve seen you once, and that is enough.
I tell other people your name, your age,
your life.

So this is for you
and your mothers and fathers, your brothers and sisters,
and others
who’ve become invisible, too.

Nervosa

2008-03-21T14:28:12Z

Nervosa

So he told me, look man, you gotta eat. You’re practically skin and bones. Your collarbone is seemingly carved with perfection, elbows and knees ripping the threads that hold your flesh together, and your eyes are round, your cheeks convex. You gotta eat.

So I go down on my knees and eat. I eat the stench of his girlfriend, the evidence of warmth and suffocation. I eat all his sons and daughters, their wide smiles and playful laughter, and his hands wander to the curves of my neck and tighten. I drink his excess wine, eat his sun-brightened dreams of a humble home, lush, green lawns and white picket fences. I swallow his future, hum a hungry tune as bits of his existence slide down my throat and settle on my once-empty stomach. He’s just standing there against the wall, and I’m eating him. I eat him while he’s breathing. I eat him while he is alive.

I eat him while he dies. I have never felt so full.

[xxxholic] The Doumeki Shizuka Files

2008-03-17T17:36:06Z

Title:The Doumeki Shizuka Files, or What Really Happened in the Music Room (as Recorded, Researched and Compiled by Investigative Underground Journalist Kumo Maki)
Author: Mushroom
Author's Notes: Inspired by episode #49 of the anime Card Captor Sakura, which is entitled Sakura and the Dangerous Piano. Thanks to star_flare for the beta-read! The style is highly experimental, so nit-picks are greatly appreciated.

Kumo Maki’s notes: Hi, all. Here are a few excerpts of my interviews of certain individuals who have directly or indirectly communicated with Doumeki Shizuka of class III-A.

Music Room Closed For Renovation, Mystery of the Broken Piano Solved
Kumo Maki

After rumours about the haunted music room proliferated across the school last Monday, Principal Toshio Makoto finally addressed the burgeoning issue in an informal general assembly yesterday morning. Principal Toshio led a team of investigators consisting of two senior faculty members, discussed the situation with the two victims, and inspected the music room located at the fourth floor of the Kensou building. Despite the alarm of the students and faculty regarding the injuries caused by the damaged piano to students Doumeki Shizuka and Watanuki Kimihiro of section II-A, he stated that there was no cause for anxiety.

“Our school is definitely safe. The terrible incident in the music room was merely an accident; one of the legs of the grand piano broke and shot forward, hitting the two, before they pushed it back and it crashed to the wall,” said Principal Toshio, explaining the huge crack on the left wall next to the window.

Music teacher Sato Megumi also shared her findings, asserting that it was an accident. “The rumour seems to have sprung from class II-B, as they were the so-called witnesses to the incident. Rest assured that nothing extraordinary happened. This is simply a way to cause panic and paranoia within the school community.”

Meanwhile, the Music Room is under renovation, for the teacher’s council has implemented a new enhancement program for most of the abandoned class and lecture rooms at the Kensou building. “The program will concentrate on rebuilding and restoring some of the rooms in the building. The staff is now conducting daily inspections of school facilities, and new equipment have already been delivered. The building will be brand new soon.” said Principal Sato.

Doumeki Shizuka and Watanuki Kimihiro have declined to comment on the matter...

***

1.

Hah! You have approached the best person for the job.

Our club specialises in studying ruined or departed spirits, the Goryo, the ghosts of children past, animal spirits and the like. However, we do not exorcise these beings. We focus on our research, yet we do not seek to disprove or seek the truth, we merely want to gather all information. Our database is quite extensive, as you can see. We collect local legends and excerpts from popular stories, passed on from generation to generation, until they transform and branch out into different others, different words and locations with similar circumstances. Every place has the same ghost story, adjusted to relate to the minds of those who listen. Have you ever heard of an original ghost story, one that bears no semblance to others? Perhaps not. Spirits who seek vengeance by haunting a particular object is certainly nothing new. There is the tale of the furisode, the accursed kimono, and the ghost story of Yotsuya, which you already know, huh. Each school boasts of its own special array of school specters; they’re like mascots, tourist attractions. Following this thought, then we can say that quite a number of people have committed suicide in bathroom stalls, all in the same manner. Almost everyone has seen or heard about the long-haired girl with pale wrists and bloodred eyes. Your school was once a dump site for the rotting corpses of war victims. No school exists without the ghosts of its past; its enduring, vindictive memories.

The piano room incident…it is quite possible. A cursed piano, lifting itself off the ground, ready to kill – it’s more than frightening, it’s fascinating. And it is also heavily dramatic. I can already see it in my head; a talented pianist, driven to death by sheer madness and genius and pride and pressure. Perhaps she was alone in the music room, playing the keys with her eyes closed, drowning in the wonders of her own music while her murderer slit her throat. An ex-lover, an envious rival, a psychotic teacher…the possibilities are endless.

Or maybe the story was told to keep people away. A meeting place between star-crossed lovers, a place of dirty deeds and shameless acts. You know they say that our ancestors weaved stories about vengeful guardian spirits, to keep other tribes from attacking and pillaging their homes.

What?

What about Doumeki Shizuka and Watanuki Kimihiro?

2.

Um, good morning, how may I help you?

What do you mean you want to ask if there’s something going on with me and THAT—

Himawari-chan—

You know to be completely honest with you I don’t get why people are so, well, obsessed with him. He’s not likeable, not at all! He’s useless! He never talks! You’ll come up to him and say ‘hey, guess what, I think you did very well in our soccer match earlier, did you play a lot in middle school? You seem pretty athletic', because you’re just trying to strike up a conversation like a normal person, and then he looks at you slowly, and then grunts, like some caveman and…and then he smirks. Unbelievable. Does he think he’s this great, golden god of soccer? Oh no sir, he’s not anything, and I barely even talk to him and then he treats me like he knows me and I don’t get it, not at all. Now tell me if that isn’t annoying. And after that time he tried to hold my hand while his was icky and clammy and I mean, that isn't acceptable, I don't care if that madwoman says it's hitsuzen--yes?

Oh, I'm really sorry, but hitsuzen isn't like destiny at all, it's a bit more complicated than that...

Sorry. AND NOTHING HAPPENED LAST MONDAY, DON’T LISTEN TO THE RUMORS, I SWEAR I—

Oh, um, I’m very glad I could help.

3.

I think he’s likeable enough. A bit too silent…it’s unnerving if you’re the only two people in the room, but he’s cool. Also my partner in Home Economics. I remember one time, when I was fucking around in class and scalded myself, he well, he accompanied me to the clinic. He didn’t have to, I was fine—really. But he had that look on his face that you just don’t say no to. I wonder how that Watanuki guy manages to shout at him? Not a single sign of concern showed in his face, but he doesn’t have to. Be concerned, I mean. He just does things, I guess, accepts the natural order of things, but hey what’s so natural about liking…never mind.

I don’t know, I never talked to him. Oh, sure, I did, we talked about homework and I borrowed a pen once, but. You’d think you know him very well because he’s everywhere; conversations along corridors, the school newspaper, and hell, there’s a fucking research paper about the Music Room Incident. I’m not going to ask where this interview’s headed, but I am aware that there is an underground circulation of photos. Girls are scary, crazy creatures.

Ow! Sorry. He’s a big fuss, but you don’t know shit about him, no you don’t. He hangs out a lot with Kunogi and that weird fellow, and then that’s all there is to know. Hell, his friends are strange and noisy, but you don’t know them at all, either.

Always wondered and all, too.

I’ve more stuff to tell you, since we are classmates most of the time, although most of my opinions are based on observation and not real conversations, and…say, I think we’ll be able to talk better outside the classroom.

…How does Dukylon after school sound?

Sure. Tell me if you find out something. Tell me if it’s worth it.

4.

I don’t know anything, I promise! I just heard screaming and a huge crash and I checked and the piano hit the wall with this really sickening CRRRUUUNCH and Watanuki-san had his hands on his face and he was crying and Doumeki-san was there with his bow and he said something like, I’m not sure but it sounded something like, don’t do this to me. And Watanuki-san answered, I love you, I know I need you, but I can’t depend on you, I never will, and you deserve someone who can.

Doumeki-san shouted at him once, and that was when my classmates took notice. Sato-sensei stormed inside and made some wild hand gestures, and then shouted at us some more, but we didn't care.

I'm not sure if I'm even supposed to tell you this, but that shit was amazing.

5.

Ah, yes! Doumeki-kun and Watanuki-kun are the best of friends! It’s true that Watanuki-kun can get a little bit excited when Doumeki-kun teases him, but that’s just their special way of showing affection, of course! I remember one time, last Monday. I’m not really sure what happened, but I do know that they came from the Music room. Doumeki-kun was supporting Watanuki-kun and I was seriously so worried but since he was with Doumeki-kun, I knew he was alright. The moment Doumeki-kun told Watanuki-kun to cook something for him and he replied enthusiastically – though with a lot of loud words and complicated expressions involved, but that’s part of their performance – all my worries disappeared, and I knew that something wonderful happened!

What about me? Watanuki-kun is so kind!

You see, they truly are the best of friends, and I do agree that one might wonder what I am in the equation, tee-hee!

…

Doumeki-kun and Watanuki-kun are so precious! They certainly liven up lunchtimes, don’t you agree?

6.

Kyudo, I think, is a love story.

And no, I’m not talking about Cupid, that saccharine excuse for an archer. The simple movement of leveling the bow, of setting it down and letting go of the arrow, and then staring straight ahead with determination…it is selfless abandon, though it is never reckless. It is like shooting off towards the sky and to the expanding emptiness ahead.

Our sensei said once, hey you guys, listen here. I know you come from – pardon the expletives – fucking well-bred families but I don’t give a damn about that, you can chuck that shit out the window. Yes, those were his exact words. Good god, one would probably think how the hell that person became a teacher, and a teacher of Kyudo at that, but he’s our sensei and we listen to the clever bastard. So we all stood up and trembled with fear. He continued with ‘you spoiled brats, do you even know what Kyudo’s all about? Do you?’ And I do know, now. I sure do. But we said nothing, scared out of our wits. Doumeki-san saved us all by saying yes. Looking back, he was probably mocking us too, in that I’m-not-mocking-you way he usually does. I guess everyone respects him. Hell, we’re also afraid of him. I wonder how it feels, though, to be revered and feared…

It’s really difficult to explain, so I’ll try to tell you through Kakuto-sensei’s teachings, but. Hmmm. Let’s see. Here goes. Close your eyes. No, really. There, that’s right. You are an archer. You have your bow. Now. Feel the feathers through your fingers, the tingling of your senses, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, and listen to the screaming of your head, the rattling of chains. You are caged in a world of strangers, and you need to find yourself. However, you shall not murder the screaming – you will set it free. And it will be a strong, flowing river of energy. Now listen. It is time to empty the river in your head. Everything is static and ineffective, every thing else is garbage – destroy them. Now.

Now. Your energy has to flow from your hands to your yugake, through your bow, to the bowstring, and finally to the arrow, until your soul soars forward. It shall hit another, thus creating a noiseless medley of soul-screaming. Emptiness towards completion. Nothing towards Yourself.

Exactly my point. Everything must be perfect. And to attain that perfection you must be slow, quiet, for technique is key.

That’s right. Kakuto-sensei asked us to do the necessary rituals before practice, and after our meditation he ordered Doumeki-san to try one shot. He bowed firmly and prepared himself.

The moment he stepped on the shai and faced the target, we knew he was in too deep.

Doumeki-san gripped the bowstring, left hand ready, eyes deep and searching. He turned his head, raised and brought down the bow – slowly, very slowly – and released the bow. It was a strong, flawless release, and he had reached his target, pinned it down; there was no escaping. None at all. Beautiful. You’d think that single moment was his whole life.

It seemed like, I mean, what I’m trying to say is, Doumeki Shizuka is that sort of person.

Now I don’t really know what happened there, why Doumeki-san hurried to the music room. Kakuto-sensei asked him to take another shot, and we prepared ourselves for another beautiful technique and he raised the bow and--and then he stopped. Just like that. Like he saw something. And then he ran. He turned around, hands gripping his bow, and ran away like he was in battle. I don't know how he knew. The Paranormal Club has been crowing about it for some reason, and they’ve been visiting every classroom and speaking in loud, obnoxious voices and all the girls seem excited and frustrated over something. Everyone is making a big deal out of it. Everyone’s asking questions. But all you need to do is to watch Doumeki-san.

You’re very welcome.

7.

I AM THE PERFECT PERSON TO TALK TO. YOU SHOULD HAVE APPROACHED ME EARLIER, YOU DUMBASS.

Sheesh. Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends!

Doumeki Shizuka, Doumeki Shizuka. Birthday, March 3rd. Lives in a temple with his parents and grandmother. Favourite hobby is archery and eating. His favourite food changes according to the season, or what’s NOT in season. I should know. I listen to Watanuki Kimihiro all the time. No, not eavesdropping. I was merely taking down notes, and if I were, as you said, eavesdropping, then it wouldn’t be so difficult, what with his loud voice ricocheting off the walls. What else?

His favourite colour is blue. A teacher asked him. Just so happened that I was scheduled to be there. Our organization has schedules, you see. Mine’s thursday afternoons, because I have class in the room next to his.

You can ask me anything. I probably have an answer to all your questions. Or, if I don’t have the answer, I can always ask. Someone else. What do you mean, have I talked to Doumeki Shizuka? Of course I haven’t. Are you an idiot? You don’t talk to Doumeki-kun. You just don’t. You just stare at him approximately five meters away or more, and then take down notes and share them with the rest of the girls. Seriously girl, you have a LOT to learn.

Listen, you can’t be all buddy-buddy with The Doumeki Shizuka. Not like we contest the benefits of friendship, but he gets to do the choosing, and there’s always the threat of being more than friends, and it’s an agreement between us girls that no one gets him, no one should. You’ve got to have respect, girl. One of us would feel so horrible if he’s taken. I mean, how would you feel if your supposed equal got the upper hand? Well, if he asks one of us, then I guess that breaks everything. Then again, that’s why we just follow him around, to avoid that sort of thing from happening. And you never, ever betray the organization.

Kunogi isn’t part of our group. I don’t think she belongs to anyone at all, but she does spend a lot of time with them, why do you ask?

Oh no, they’re not an item. I made sure of that.

The Music Room Incident. Fuck. Rika and I were trailing Doumeki-kun that time. We were right on schedule. He was running, bow in hand, heading towards the direction of the Music room. I started to panic then, because why the hell is he running around with his archery equipment in hand? He looked frantic, too. Well, he had a blank face, but his forehead was sweating like crazy. Yes, I notice these things, and that was enough to make me worry.

There was some sickening screaming inside the music room, and it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever heard. Seriously. It didn’t sound like Watanuki Kimihiro at all, but when Doumeki-kun opened the door, there he was.
And then the door closed. Rika yanked it open and I saw Watanuki Kimihiro push Doumeki-kun away, calling him an idiot like he had every right to and next thing I knew, we were in the clinic.

We were shocked, I guess. Of what, I’m not really sure. But Doumeki Shizuka was there, staring at the both of us, and my insides just melted until I knew.

He was looking right through me, and there was, like, a totally weird smile on his face.

Doumeki Shizuka isn’t anyone to own. It’s the universal truth. I do hold on to information I know about him, though, close to my heart. That way at least I own some part of him. What does the colour blue do to you, anyway? What does it do to him? It makes him smile. It makes him smile even if he’s covered with bruises and there’s blood on his cheek, and what happened in the Music Room, anyway?

Why are you laughing? Hey, you know something, don’t you? What happened in there? Did you ask someone? What?

HEY!

8.

Oh god. Why should I care if those two nitwits met up in some secluded room or something? Packed lunches and shared umbrellas, am I the only one who notices these things?

Heroes, Nathan/Peter

2008-01-02T08:51:52Z

Title: Pictures
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: G
Author's Notes: Prompt requested by conflictx. Set at the start of season 2.

Oh. The brothers during Nathan's wedding, says your mother's elegant script below the photo. Peter Petrelli is your best man. His smile is wide, boyish.

"Congratulations." Peter's smile is genuine as he embraces you. His cheek, you note, is warm against yours. Suddenly you find it difficult to let go -- you want to wrap your arms around him and hide him from everyone, from the world which is out to get you.

You shift your head a little, never breaking skin contact, until both your foreheads meet. You close your eyes. Soon Peter will be in the same situation; his smiles will not be yours, they will be his, and his alone.

The thought makes you scowl.

You take the photo and flip the album pages again, trying to find something else, until you spot it. Peter's graduation in high school - he looks particularly depressed.

"You ready for college, Pete?" You ruffle his hair, and Peter grumbles.

"Listen," You place your hands on his shoulders and urge him to look at you straight in the eyes, "Don't mind our mother. She's just -- "

"I can never be like you." He mumbles. Such a teenager. "I only have this stupid diploma."

"I'm proud of you Pete." You say, seriously. "You know I am, right?"

He smiles sadly at you and pulls away.

You fight a sob before taking the photo out and placing it gently on a pile next to you. After a pregnant pause you dive in again, searching for your youth...

"Stop crying. Crybaby."

"I'm not a crybaby!"

He tries to free himself from your grasp, but you don't let him. Downstairs, mommy and daddy are fighting about something, but you don't understand. You hear your name, and Peter's, and your little brother is trembling. You're scared, but you don't want to show him. You have to be strong.

You close your eyes and pray to God for your brother's life, for immense strength, for the power to fly away from all this.

You are done. You close the album and collect your memories close to your chest. You are done; you cannot follow. You must live, and you must never forget. You will die if you do.

Sasunaru for kotomine

2008-01-02T08:40:49Z

SasukexNaruto, prompt: fanservice, for kotomine

"I-I'm back." Blood. Running down his fingers, specks coating tall grass. Someone screams inside you at the sight of it, but you assure yourself that this doesn't hurt him.

What hurts is how you can smile, how you spread your arms so wide. They ache for him. It hurts how you can be so stupid.

He falls towards you.

You're idiotically, completely in love with this man, and everybody else knew before you did.

***

You take him with you to the market come Sunday morning. It's time to celebrate after all. The vendors recognize you, and they seem to have forgotten their anger as they eagerly give you everything you need. They look at him as well, but not too long. They smile, if a bit awkwardly.

The crowd is unruly, so you take his hand -- the people might eat him up, bones and all, and you don't want that. You constantly look back to see him looking at you. It's happened sometime ago, near a waterfall, so you grip him tightly.

***

You can't seem to let go. He doesn't seem to mind.

The hushed whispers this time are born not of malice, but intrigue.

***

Or amusement.

"Is it true that you two are...?" Sakura wrings her hands nervously.

"Are...?" You ask quizzically. The rest of the room is quiet; you spot Hinata's face going red. "What?"

"Oi, idiot. Ready to go?" He calls from behind you. You insult him back, as always, and take his outstretched hand.

You revel in the smiles that surround you.

Prompt: mp3 players

2008-01-02T08:24:54Z

DoumekixWatanuki, prompt: mp3 players, for star_flare

"WHAT'S THAT?!" Watanuki demanded. Trust Watanuki to make everything sound like an accusation. Or a crime. Doumeki removed one of the earphones and gave him a questioning look. Or what seemed like a questioning look. One could never really know.

Watanuki knew, apparently. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I'm listening. To the music."

"Well I was talking to you and YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO LISTEN!" Watanuki snatched the earphones from Doumeki's hand and placed them in his own ears.

Waves. Waterfalls. A stream. What?

Watanuki gave them back and stomped to the direction of their classroom. "You are so weird."

***

Before Watanuki could open his mouth to say something nasty, Doumeki said "Oi, hurry up" and plugged his earphones in again.

The walk home was silent. Too silent. Watanuki gripped his bag and fought the urge to hurl it at Doumeki's face when they reached his apartment.

***

"Why do you keep on using that, anyway?" Watanuki asked. It was the rare occasion when Doumeki actually put down his mp3 player, right after archery practice.

"It makes me relax." Doumeki said simply.

"Relax, huh." Watanuki said, before Doumeki succumbed to his own universe. Well, they were in fourth year, and things were getting difficult, with the amounts of schoolwork they had. Not to mention college applications. Plus, archery competitions were probably stressful.

Yeah.

***

"What's the matter, Watanuki-kun?" Yuuko purred. She was drinking sake, which was usual, and smiling eerily, which was also nothing out of the ordinary. Her lipstick was smeared, however, and she could barely get up, which meant that she had breached the highest standards of Yuuko-drunkenness and was beyond salvation.

"Watanuki is jealous of Doumeki's mp3 player." Mokona supplied helpfully.

"I AM NOT JEALOUS."

"Oh, such pure emotion!"

"HOW COULD I BE JEALOUS OF AN OBJECT. It's a thing he sticks up his ears, for crying out loud!"

"And it's something he listens to, everyday." Yuuko said solemnly. He wondered how she could switch back and forth from rampaging woman to infuriating, all-knowing sorceress.

"Hah!" Watanuki marched to the kitchen, "Like I care."

***

They were walking home in silence again. Watanuki could practically hear the music from Doumeki's player, even if he was two feet ahead of him. Some acoustic guitar thing. Doumeki must've put in on full volume.

This was getting annoying.

***

Watanuki set up a picnic that day, but Himawari was down with the flu, so it was just the two of them, outside the building, under the shade.

Watanuki didn't like the silence at all. It was awkward, tense; like most nights spent alone in his apartment. Like life before Yuuko-san, and...

Doumeki reached for his bento, but Watanuki lifted it away. They looked at each other. Watanuki gestured at his ears, a determined expression on his face.

Doumeki took the earphones off. "I want my bento."

God, he was blunt. "I want you to listen to me." He said firmly.

"Okay."

"And I want you to never use that again."

"Okay." Doumeki's seemed like he was grinning, though his face was blank. "What do you want to say?"

"What?"

"What do you want me to listen to?"

"Oh," Watanuki rubbed his nose, looking embarrassed. "Me. I want you to listen to me.

...Just me."

There was something weird about Doumeki's face, something that made him look strangely attractive, so Watanuki slammed the bento back on the picnic mat and bowed his head, hiding the blush. "Besides, it's completely rude to not listen while someone is talking, you asshole."

Watanuki ranted on and on while Doumeki ate quietly, eyes and ears and everything, just every part of him focused solely on Watanuki.

Drabble Flood

2007-12-28T14:25:49Z

Chibiusa/Hotaru

COTTON CANDY

"What do you mean, you've never eaten cotton candy before?!"

Your best friend gapes at you, absolutely horrified. You're in a park, surrounded by moms and kids and the occasional food stall, and for once you are completely alone with her, with no chaperon; only busy strangers and an endless row of trees.

You nod, embarrassed, though you are not sure why.

Ah, there. Chibiusa pulls your arm determinedly, words spilling out of her mouth in haste. "You can't be serious. You have to try it out. There's one here, somewhere. You should eat some, it's delicious! Oh where is it? Where is it? Luna showed it to me last month..."

You finally get your hands on one, as bright and pink as Chibiusa's hair. She looks up at you excitedly, and you beam back as you bite into a piece.

And though you think it's too sweet, like you've just chewed on a fluffy sphere of fine sugar, you believe it is worth the risk.

SeiyaxUsagi, Sailormoon

SUPERSTAR

You sing the song Superstar. It's about love and the blinking lights and squeals and noise that is success, and how they just can't go hand in hand, as everything, every sound is, like they say, static in the radio.

You fall for her, anyway, and there is no stopping that strange, devastating force.

She is too kind. She says 'yes' to all your invitations, treats you like a human being, treats you like a close friend. At some point you think she is mine, she really is, and yet when you look closely, past her gentle blue eyes and the skin beneath, you see that something is pulling her away -- away from you.

You sing the last notes and the audience, once hushed, becomes a riot.

The earth is a stage, you tell yourself softly, and she cheers from her seat.

2)

DATE

"Hurry up, I want to see everything!"

"Look at this fish, it looks like it ate something horrible, hehe."

"N-neobalainidae. Neobalaenidae? Ne-o-ba-lae-ni-dae!"

You gaze as she presses her nose against the glass, watching the dolphin as it beams back - her reflection reveals blue eyes, a soft smile, joy, and it's such a little thing, a precious, breakable happiness - and you wonder why you ever compared her to another woman in the first place.

KeixYuuki

SCHERZO

"WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?!" Yuuki pushes up his glasses irritably, his face suspiciously red.

"I-I'm kinda shocked," Tounoin said, his fingers lingering where the surprise kiss had been seconds ago. The sonata in his head is low, expectant, waiting for an opportune moment.

"Well...yeah," The blush doesn't fade even as Yuuki makes his way to the door. "We have practice in thirty minutes, so you better hurry up."

"I'll just," Tounoin gestures uselessly to the bedroom, "get my things."

The door closes.

The wide, face-eating grin appears, and soon Tounoin is whooping and engaging in a merry dance around his apartment, until Yuuki peeks in and tells him to stop scaring their neighbors.

SeishirouxSubaru

THEIR STORY

The story of Seishirou and Subaru is this:

It is love-lies-bleeding, it is lost, never found again; it begins in a plethora of dimensions in varying circumstances, and then joins at one certain point; it is the same romance, the same drama, the same death.

It is the tears that do not fall but the heart that beats itself to death; the rain beneath the eyelids, holding a precious sacrifice close; a crippled horse, a blind eagle, a tragedy in many forms.

It is about love.

Seven Ways to Live Again

2007-12-11T15:42:55Z

Title: Seven Ways to Live Again
Author: Mushroom
Rating: R
Summary: Learn how to piece yourself together, in seven easy steps!

1)

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

Something catches Charlie’s eye. About four meters from where he and Lewis are standing, right behind the wall with the posters of that rising shampoo commercial model with shiny black hair and buck teeth, there is a strange cat with horrible yellow splotches and a bloody right eye. The cat jumps, startled by an rushing bicycle – hot pink and glaring – and the driver is a girl he vaguely remembers as his neighbour’s cousin, a pigtailed brat who scams everyone within reach. The cat meows irritably and scurries away from its humble home of newspapers and rotting vegetables, leaving specks of blood-rain on the street.

“I will never regret what we had.”

Suddenly Charlie remembers about that girl with the pigtails, with the scandalous bike, with the maniacal grin of one who wanted to ram herself, bike and all, on an unsuspecting pedestrian. She was the one who greeted him earlier, who tried to sell him some home-baked cookies he was certain he saw in a bakeshop downtown. Well, that explained why they looked like blobs of brown, synthetic sugar disguised as a tasty treat. Another cat shows up this time, the thinnest pregnant cat Charlie has ever seen, and it brushes its nose against the specks of blood-rain on the street.

“It’s never too late to be friends.”

Charlie decides it's the perfect time to walk fast, far, and away. So he does. He has this gripping, relentless urge to run after that girl and her rampaging bicycle, because he is not hearing what he thinks he’s hearing, and this will not change his life. So he follows the cat with a hole in its head and steps on the specks of blood-rain on the street.

2)

The first thing Charlie thinks about is that he should be doing something else other than sitting around, trying to feel. As soon as his mom cleans up the table he sifts through the daily newspaper, tossing the other sections away, reads the headlines and the local and international news. A hundred people died during a flood, says the smiling broadcaster of a night-time news show. Google informs him that a killer is on the loose, and tells him to look at sexy Asian girls in school uniforms. He thinks about hunger, the death of his sister when he was three, the war on the other side of the world, the street kids with dirty fingernails. He feels sick. He feels wrong, misshapen because does not care, to be honest. He struggles with sympathy and the human will, but it does not come. Their world is too big, and the world he’s in is not as huge, as impressing, and there are no agencies in his world that can give him aid, no international rights to violate.

3)

“The poets were telling the truth.”

Lino tightens his grip on Charlie’s shoulders. His breath reeks of Ribera del Duero.

“That thing Pablo Neruda keeps on talking about. Pedro Calderon de la Barca. Rosemonde Gerard, that bitch. Those unknown people. Faggots. It’s real. It’s fucking real. And you know what sucks so bad? Is that it can happen to anyone. That’s right. Those fucking movies can happen to you. Poets, songwriters, the fucking saints, they think they’re the ones who’ve been through everything. But you’ll go through everything they say anyway. It’ll happen anyway. They just fucking write whatever screws other people up, and sometimes they get paid for it, and then you see their names in text books and in papers. Fuck them. You know what, I have a theory. We are all seriously fucked. We're fucking doomed.”

Lino crushes Charlie against his chest.

4)

Ten waking hours later, and Charlie feels like he ought to die. It’s the end of the world. He’s supposed to die, because Lewis took away everything and left nothing, that’s how it goes. He is dead, basically. But he’s not. He’s painfully aware of how normal his breathing sounds, how his alarm clock reminds him that it’ll be shrieking in twenty seconds, how sticky his left cheek feels because it landed on a puddle of drool.

It is cruel and inhuman punishment, Charlie thinks, to breathe air, so he stops, and the sensation overwhelms him.

Charlie’s alarm clock rings, and his body betrays him.

“Fuck,” he says.

The left side of the bed is cold. Charlie’s heart aches suddenly, with a twinge that reaches his belly, and then down there, right there, exciting him. He’s horny. And strangely enough, he’s alive.

What he needs is a fuck. He touches himself, tentatively, and his cock twitches with longing. Soon his strokes are fast and efficient. He does not think about anyone -- only two large, calloused hands stroking his cock, just the way he likes it -- and there is no need to dwell on unnecessary details. Temporary delight, only it hurts, so he closes his eyes, wishes for the orgasm to never arrive, and relies on his lonely creativity.

5)

Charlie shows up on Lino’s doorstep, carrying a dusty bottle of rhum that he excavated from the loose wooden panels on their kitchen floor.

He raises the bottle with a sheepish look. “Um, I promise I won’t throw up on your shoes again.”

“Not to worry, I’m wearing my Dad’s old sneaks right now.”

Lino snickers and Charlie laughs – loud and true – and then his jaw aches from the sudden movement. He stops abruptly, feeling guilty and not knowing why.

Lino scowls.

6)

Charlie spends his mornings jogging along the streets. He already knows everyone in Winston Drive, and became fast friends with a kind old lady that gives away coupons and gift certificates. They talk a lot, mostly about the government thirty years ago.

Charlie is rather fond of Nimka, the old lady’s pet terrier. One time he volunteered to give her walks free of charge for the old, and he enjoyed it immensely. Nowadays one is not seen without the other; meanwhile the old lady cannot walk too far, so she sits on a bench and waits.

Charlie lets Nimka lead him, allows her to show him places he never really cared about before.

With Nimka’s help Charlie and Lino also discovered that there is an ancient-looking bookshop at the end of Winston, right before the road meets with gnarly-looking trees, menacing grass, and a sign that probably said KEEP OUT but is now decorated with spray-painted quotations from a dead person. There are no self-help books in the store that remind Charlie of anything, mostly laughable romances, stories of aliens in other planets, tales for children, and tales that are meant for children but are actually loaded with political intent. The owner is a crabby old man, but he doesn’t really talk that much, so Charlie usually grabs a book at random and leafs through the crisp, coffee-colored pages. He loves pressing his nose against them; inhaling the words as if he spoke to them in their tongue. Lino loves teasing him about it.

There are seven thick books stacked on Charlie’s bed, and they are from the bookshop; he reads them before going to bed, and proceeds to dream of black stars and fairytale murders.

7)

When Lino tells Charlie that he loves him, Charlie says it doesn’t work that way, that he has finally learned to live again and it is just too unbearable to live for another person, to care and die for one.

Lino looks at him straight in the eye. “Just so you know.”

Charlie feels like hitting him. “Am I supposed to say something?”

“Not really,” Lino smiles sadly.

*

Charlie does not say anything. Nevertheless, he knows that Lino will never take his life, no matter how much he wants it.

Yet Charlie is going to give it to him, anyway. He will read the newspapers and the columns and the ads, and all the stories in the bookshop before the pages crumble with time; he will smile and laugh and forget the jaw-hurt; he will taste the changing, crazy world with Nimka. Charlie will live and die a thousand times in a span of eighty years; he will stop himself from breathing at night and then wake up the next day; and in the seventh misshapen morning of his life, he will love again.

The Best Love Story of All Time by Andrew Tan

2007-12-03T14:29:43Z

Title: The Best Love Story of All Time By Andrew Tan
Author: Mushroom
Summary: A Happily Ever After Kind of Love Story.

It’s five-thirty am and Andrew wakes up to a sudden, life-changing realization, that the girl is the most beautiful woman on earth. Oh, that is certainly a strange feeling, to receive the answer to the question, to retrieve a piece of the puzzle with ten to twenty thousand other missing pieces -- hidden in crooks and corners you’ve already checked thrice -- that finally show up at a later date. The sun is barely up yet, hiding behind his window, beneath the roof of the other house, and he thinks that his life hasn’t changed that much, so he writes must show my utmost love and devotion on a piece of paper and goes back to bed.

The next five-thirty he blinks his eyes open, seeing red-blue-white flat lines stretching to the infinite ends of his gathered eyesight, and then drifts out of the house and into a waiting cab and out again, to his classroom, where the other boys gossip (they do, really, they’re just extremely unenthusiastic about it though their hearts are a-blazing with eager fire) and then – bam – another door-slam realization, albeit ugly and horrible and much like a Christmas supper with tonsilitis.

It is quite possible that every man in the world also thinks she is the most beautiful woman in the world, thinks Andrew. He sits, head between his knees, and weeps. I mean, think about it, she is every thing beautiful; even every thing that is not her, and every thing that she wants to be. There is no future that shows Andrew and perfection at all, not a chance of paupers, not a chance in hell.

Andrew, all tears and incomplete words and shaking elbows, looks up and sees the girl’s shadow, a dark shape with no eyes. The girl has perfected her five o’ clock shadow; it is shapely, almost comparable to her form, and makes his heart twist itself on its own, with empty, slow contractions. Filth dribbles from the girl’s mouth and singes the grass, but her shadow’s voice is lovely. I love you, he says, and the shadow smiles back. He tears a piece of paper and writes: I love you. The shadow smiles, with teeth this time.

He watches the girl everyday, in the classroom, and the shadow says hi. Soon Andrew and the shadow play happy games together, and he gives it his grimmest joys, his most pleasant sorrows. At nights there are only lampposts every twenty meters for brief comfort and the loneliest kisses. In the morning, as soon as he steps into consciousness, he writes a note and watches it travel with the southern wind, and the shadow catches it in the afternoon and writes back: I love you, I love all of you, darling, will you miss me soon?

It often raises its head to speak, but Andrew presses his mouth against lifeless, pretty lips, and they do not talk, they never do. Andrew is a writer.

At the seven hundredth five-thirty morning Andrew wakes up with a slow-paced realization that, for the past four hundred and fifty dawns, has been tapping insistently at his ear drums. This isn’t much of a surprise, more like a rude gesture he could see at the corner of his eyes, something not worth mentioning. He looks it up and the good ol’ machine confirms; the shadow is an occupant of space, a bringer of non-light, a reverse. Not feeling, not love.

Andrew can only write. It is the only thing he knows. He watches the last note, the last words, the final letters of his hurried goodbye drift to where he cannot face. They are scheduled to meet by the lamppost then, but he does not walk the next twenty meters.

The shadow swallows the words, behind the mail box, and says oh, oh it says. There are no tears for an eyeless creature.

Andrew is gripped with painless grief. He spends his nights penning his thoughts on his wrist, weaving beautiful and melancholic words together, consulting his spell-checker. He writes everything he lost and gained and missed and secretly rejoiced for, and his strained loneliness chews on his shoulders until he wakes up at eleven pm and thinks wow, huh, I think this is sort of real. So he wraps his wrist and goes to their classroom. Holds the girl’s hands and reveals the artistic, post-modern ache of his loss.

The girl is moved by the act, and they kiss amidst chalk dust and gasps of those who waited just as long. Andrew has it all in his head, it’s spectacular, it’s invigorating. It’s the greatest love story ever told, and five-thirty is not alone anymore, five-thirty is warm breath against his neck. And then they live happily ever after, just like that.

*

The girl lives on without a silhouette, and it is just as well. One has no use for it anyway, and it is not a token of happiness. There are still promises of what was once loved, however, in the wind and the shore and the rain, and it goes I love you, I love all of you, darling, will you miss me soon?

Fantasy

2007-11-02T09:17:55Z

So, I have this fantasy entitled
"The Beginning and End of the Sensational and Electrifying Existence of She Who Is Named __________________, and So On and So Forth"
the drama begins with me walking up to her, eighteen
teardrops painting my cheeks
and my mouth opens with "my beloved cells are
are immature."

"Oh darling, honey, sweetheart, love of my life,
she who makes everything bright and sunny,
whatever do you mean?" She gasps, arches her eyebrow, and
tears her hair.

You've heard of it, right? I say. The cells feed,
grow and think,
just not the way they're supposed to. Tragedy suits
my somber smile, like
the rape of the Pacific.

I take her hand and walk to a nearby romantic
volcano. "Do you regret
everything you've done?"

"Yes!" she cries passionately, and I push her down the pit.

Transitions - Original Fiction

2007-10-23T10:33:22Z

Transitions
Author: mushroom18
Rating: R
A/N: Written as my final short story for Prof. Conchitina Cruz's Erotic Writing Class.
Summary: High school is a time of experimentation.

Transitions

We were classmates for years, at a private high school in Quezon City. Altair was a weird name, so people remembered him. Altair Mendoza did not live up to his name, though. He had average grades, a depressing amount of achievements, and a deadpan voice. His hair was normal and his clothes were unexciting. His face told us that he’d seen everything, and he wasn’t impressed at all. Yes, Altair was bored with the universe at sixteen years old. He loved reading books, though. Everyday he’d bring a new volume of an encyclopedia to school, and would read through the rest of homeroom period.

We were also neighbors. Altair lived across the street, in a large, white house. Sometimes I’d look out my bedroom window and Altair would look back, just like that, with soulless eyes that were just as bare as his room. My room was messy and had a lot of posters and stuff, but I was in high school, so that was normal. His room consisted of white walls, a bookshelf, and a lone laptop on is desk.

Altair and I weren’t childhood friends, though. We never hung out and talked about girls and computer games and horrifying schoolwork. Well my parents and his were pretty good friends, and I was always tasked to hand over some of our handa during Christmas, but they didn’t really force us to talk.

Altair used to look at me from the window, unblinkingly. He wore white shirts, so he blended with the walls of his room. It was like being observed by a floating head. It was more than disturbing, so I would glare back.

The mutual glaring stopped. Things, as predicted, changed.

How was it possible? I don’t know. I do know how it began, though. That night I had an arm around Catherine; I was kind of tipsy so she was tasked to take me home. My friends—I keep on forgetting their names—were right behind me, talking in loud voices. Our subdivision was deserted, so their drunken rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’ filled the streets and irritated the rest of the neighborhood.

My friends stopped singing once my house was in view. Before I could ask what prompted them to pity the human race, the sound of heavy footsteps emerged from behind us. They looked behind them in dramatic slow motion, eyes wide. There was no need for me to turn around. I knew the person who loved taking walks at night, like some demented night-creature. We were silent as Altair Mendoza shuffled past. Catherine nudged my ribs, and I yelped. Her elbow was probably sharper than her teeth!

Suddenly the night-creature paused and stared at me, at my eyes down to my shaking ankles, and oh god, his eyes were being all creepy and shiny again.

“You’re drunk.” Altair said. I never heard his voice in a short distance before. I wanted to hear it again. “I’m not drunk. I’m just a little tipsy.” I said. I even tried to stand up to show him just how wrong he was, but my head weighed ten billion pounds. Ten billion. I almost fell head-first to the pavement; Catherine let out a sound that suspiciously seemed like a squeak, and then Altair continued walking and disappeared behind a row of purple bougainvilleas.
“I didn’t know you were neighbors.” One of my friends said somewhat accusingly, as if I had to tell them everything.

“I didn’t think it was that important,” I said. “Besides, Altair has a really scary room. It’s like something Hannibal would sleep in. The whole world doesn’t need to know that there’s a serial killer living here.”

My friends looked like they wanted to learn more about Altair and his boring existence but Catherine shooed them off. After three unsuccessful attempts my two friends skipped away, singing a rather nasty version of ‘Joy to the World’, while Catherine lugged me towards the gate. “Are your parents gone?” she asked. “Oh yeah, you mentioned that they’re in Pampanga yesterday. And if I remember correctly, your little sister sleeps at eight every night.” Catherine had this habit of asking questions with no real interest in answers. She had no time for those. “I’m going to open the gate now.”

“She sleeps at nine, actually.” I said, and had a vision of a white, pristine wall. “Go on.”
Catherine was a pretty strong girl. She managed to open the gate, push the huge Narra door, and trudge up the stairs with me dangling uselessly at her side. She was a very dependable friend. Probably why I dated her in the first place. I gestured to my room and asked her to come in with me. She flushed and all but dragged me inside, excitedly.

I left her side almost immediately when I spotted my bed. I didn’t even mind that the pencils were there to stab my back; I launched myself off the floor and landed it, enjoying its soft caresses and promise of wonderful sleep. And then I remembered that my girlfriend was standing three feet away, with her arms crossed. “Thanks a lot, Cath.” I said, and burped sincerely. Catherine made a face, crawled on top of me, and showed every intention of staying in that delicate position for the rest of the night. “I’m feeling hot,” she said. Her breath reeked of tequila. We were both smashed senseless, apparently. That explained her superhuman strength.
“Maybe you’re sick. You should go home,” I slurred. “Want me to take you home?” Catherine wasn’t one for answering questions either; she began rubbing herself against me insistently, up and down, waiting for me to react. I’m not saying that my body wasn’t enjoying the sensations—my cock was definitely interested—but dry sex was all that we’ve been doing, and although I didn’t know how to go all out, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. I didn’t know where that thought came from, either.

I tried pushing her away. A normal man with normal aspirations in life would not attempt such a stupid thing. I reminded myself that a responsible man wouldn’t have sex with his high school girlfriend, either. Catherine looked at me strangely. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” She pulled at my clothes and kissed me. I kept my lips closed. I was hard, but I didn’t want as much as she wanted.

Her grip was so strong that when she relaxed I accidentally pushed her. She hit her hip on my desk and let out a really loud groan.

Catherine started complaining at the top of her voice, threatening to dice my penis and throw the pieces in four different dumpsites, and then I remembered my annoying little sister’s room was right next to mine. I whirled around, frantically searching for something to distract Catherine, when I noticed that the window was open and the curtains were a heap of fabric on the floor.

Altair’s eyes were shining.

Catherine went home afterwards. I probably said sorry a million times but it was obvious that news about my manhandling would spread to the entire female population. What really sucked was that after she left, I sobered up, but my erection was still pressed against the fabric of my jeans. I sank down on the bed and remembered Altair’s expression, the way his lopsided smirk did something intriguing to his face. Something repulsive gripped my stomach and I ran to the window. I could see his smile peeking from the blinds.

And then the phone rang.

I didn’t care if my heavy footsteps woke my sister up; I grabbed the cordless phone from the wall and pressed it against my ear. “Hello?”

“Hello.” Altair’s voice was breathy. His house was too quiet. It really like talking to a killer in a horror movie.

“Why the hell do you know my number?” I demanded.

“I searched for it. I memorize it.” I let out a gasp, and he laughed. He actually laughed; meanwhile, my brain was screaming expletives. “You do realize that our parents are friends, right? Saw it on the phonebook.”

“So why—“

“Am I calling you up? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I saw something.” I closed my eyes and repressed a shudder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

That was it. “Get your ass in here!”

“Let me ask my parents’ permission.” He said brightly, and I slapped my hand on my forehead, thinking about mom and dad and hell on earth.

It seemed like it took Altair a thousand years to get to my room. When he knocked I practically yanked him inside, wishing I was strong enough to pull off his arm. His outfit was as bleak as ever, but I didn’t want to check his (most likely smirking) face, so I focused on the yellow Tupperware he presented in one hand and a water bottle in the other. “My mom made some fruit salad. She actually wanted you over for dinner when I told her that Mr. and Mrs. Rosales were out of town. I told her we had Statistics homework.”

“Uh, thanks.” I said nervously. “To your mom, I mean.” Altair nodded and lazily sat on my bean bag like his ass was meant to be on it. “So, tell me. What happened a while ago?”

I paced around the room, trying to keep calm. “What happened earlier is not what you think. I wasn’t trying to force her or anything. She’s my girlfriend, we do those things. You got me?”

“It looked like she was protesting.” He said lazily. I looked at him in disbelief.

“Well yeah, but she was protesting because I stopped her. I didn’t want it. She wanted it.” I winced. I really sounded guilty. Altair tapped his chin. “So you’re telling me that Catherine was the one who forced you, that she planned this from the beginning? I never knew she could be like that. And I never knew that you’re quite popular with the girls.”

It was like being stabbed on the gut. I didn’t give a shit about the other girls, but Catherine was my best friend. She was my girlfriend, too, and she mattered. Somehow. The thought of her retreating back made me want to retch. “Just don’t tell anybody,” I mumbled. “Please. My parents will freak if they learn about this.”

“What then, if I spill your secret?” Altair asked, though he seemed amused. “You’ll threaten me? Beat me up? You didn’t have to invite me here. It’s not like people will listen to me.”
At that moment I knew that Altair was not afraid of me. My stomach twisted with deep, strange feelings.

“Why didn’t you invite me over before?” he asked, softer this time.

“You were scaring me!” I admitted.

He grunted. “Good point. Can I look at your comic books?”

It was decided; I was never going to understand Altair Mendoza, and the world agreed with me. That night we slept on my bed, side by side. It was the first time someone other than my mother saw my room. The whole situation seemed oddly intimate. Suddenly I remembered my earlier predicament, and cursed myself for not using the bathroom before recklessly shouting at Altair in the middle of the night.

He lifted the comforters to his chin and stared at the ceiling. “You know, I’ve always been looking at your room. It is more interesting up close.”

“I know. I still have nightmares about it.” I said, with much emphasis. I shifted uncomfortably, desperately wishing for a really cold shower. “Your room, meanwhile, is the ugliest piece of—what the fuck?!” I yelled as a warm hand snaked down my shorts.

“Ssshhh,” he said soothingly, though his arms were trembling. “You didn’t think I noticed? Let me take care of that.”

Any protests I had in mind killed themselves when he wrapped his hand around my cock.
I wasn’t gay, then. But it’s a really different story once another person’s hand is pumping you to fullness, to satisfaction. At least it’s not as depressing as your own hand. Especially if the hand was Altair’s.

His hand was large and there were calluses on his fingertips, but he worked so well, so brilliantly that I had to choke a sob. My hips followed his movements, and I knew I was making a lot of noise that I would probably regret in the morning, but I didn’t care. The universe was Altair’s hand, the smooth clicks of his wrist, the hitches of his breath. I didn’t have the heart or the willpower to punch his face. I assured myself that I could punch him later and state that I was drunk as hell the night before, but that moment was more important. I guess I needed release more than anything.

My orgasm shocked me—I gasped loudly and came in his fingers. I made the mistake of opening my eyes. We shared a look, knowing it was the beginning of a series of sleepovers.

As much as I wanted to instill selective amnesia on myself, I could still remember how great Altair’s hello-nice-meeting-you handjob was. I only managed to punch him half-heartedly in the morning, before we charged to the bathroom to get ready for school.

Altair and I rushed to the classroom together. Judging from the odd looks I received, my friends probably told everyone that Altair lived next-door. I glared at our classmates and slid next to my two hung-over friends, while Altair took his usual back row seat, face bored and innocent, as if his hands weren’t fucking with me under the sheets last night. “So, how’s Catherine?” One of my friends asked, and I told him to shut up and listen to the homeroom teacher.

I paired up with Altair during calculus and ordered him to sleep over again. “See, you have to teach me calculus.” I said, and he replied with, “I can teach you more than that.” That distracted me the whole day; I could only stare at the clock, waiting for dismissal.

I allowed Catherine to break up with me in the afternoon. Her voice, for some reason, seemed lighter when she said it was over. I told her that I loved her, which I thought I was sure of, but she said that love was just not possible for high school students. “Sixteen is the age for experimentation. College is the only thing seniors must think about,” she said. Catherine was very haughty when she was sober. “You have no right to tell me that what I’m feeling is nonexistent.” I whined, and she only snickered in reply.

I decided that Catherine was right. I invited Altair over my place, again and again. Everything was in bullet speed; I never wanted something that much before. We didn’t really talk much in class, we just worked together sometimes, but nights were spent in my room, rubbing our cocks together, panting on each other’s shoulders. I learned that Altair’s disinterested expression would completely change during sex; he left his eyes open, which was sort of freaky, but his face was much more animated, more intense. I thought he was scrawny because he never participated in PE, but sometimes he could be really violent. He even slammed my head on the dresser. I kicked his shin in retaliation, but he only made some stupid remark about BDSM which I really, really didn’t need to know. I came to the conclusion that Altair actually had a personality and a sense of humor. That thought kept me up for days, and the brat had the audacity to point at my eye bags and smirk in the afternoons.

My room had gotten used to Altair’s presence. One night he walked in, white shirt soaked and clinging on him like second skin. I roamed my hands around his body, fascinated; his nipples were a dark contrast to his yellow skin, and he was practically hairless. He knelt down on one knee — I had a fleeting thought of fireworks — and sucked my cock while the rain knocked on the walls. I clutched at his wet clothes and pulled at his hair and I knew I was hurting him but I was aching and it was his entire fault. He swallowed, but I knew he never done that before because he had a weird look in his face, like he wasn’t sure if it tasted right. I took off his shirt and let him borrow one of my new ones, and then we slept on the bed, looking like a mass of entangled limbs and socked feet.

We didn’t talk much because the need to lick and suck and thrust was far greater. But when we did open our mouths, we would use up more than five hours. I found out that Altair knew a lot about my childhood. He was there during my third birthday party, which I couldn’t remember, but he said he gave me a red truck as a present. I asked why he had been observing me since we were little kids. He said my room was interesting. I think he was trying to give me a compliment.
Not everyday was smooth sailing. One time Altair did something really amazing with his tongue that I had the nagging suspicion that he slept with the entire school. “Not really, only the faculty,” was his answer, and we both decided that was the nastiest joke in history. We also had a huge fight when Altair tried to explain the complexities of safe sex. He had a box of rose-printed condoms in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other, so throughout the whole lecture I was looking at the junk food, mesmerized. He got really mad when he found out I wasn’t listening. He shouted at me and told me to grow up. He usually said that, when we were fighting.

“I’ve looked through your window several times.” Altair said one Monday morning, and there wasn’t anything creepy in his tone. Not anymore. It was teasing, more like. I wondered when things changed. “I think I even saw you naked like, a couple of times.”

“I’ve hated you for sixteen years.” I said, without any real heat. Sixteen years were a long time to hate someone, I realized. I guess it’s inevitable that we’d end up rolling around the sheets. We were boys in fourth year high school with vicious hormones, and I thought, hey, fuck the world. Sex was just sex and it was great, and moaning over my screwed sexuality wouldn’t give me any blowjobs.

Around July my classmates changed. Everyone was talking about their preferred colleges, and some kids pored over course lists, looking troubled. Even I was affected: I asked my mom to buy a college reviewer, and Altair and I spent the weekend solving the problem sets. My legs were cramping after working on five pages of chemistry. “Ugh, will we even use this shit in the future? Wait here, I’ll get you a Coke.”

“I hate Coke.” In this fresh and alternate universe, Altair was a huge brat.

“Fine. I’ll get myself a Coke, and you can drink your own spit.” I was about to sprint downstairs when Altair grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled. I stumbled and fell on his lap awkwardly. “Hey,” I said, playfully elbowing his shoulder. I felt Altair’s grin against my hair. We stared at the reviewer for a while, the formulas not really sinking in, until something hit me. I pulled away from his grip and looked at him sternly. “You never smile in class. Even when the guys are cracking jokes and our classmates and teachers laugh along, you just sit there and sulk. Why are you such a killjoy?”

“High school is not for me,” he answered. “Frankly, I think it’s a waste of time. Someday we’ll look back and think of all the stupid things we’ve done. And then we’ll hate ourselves and wish we can turn back time and undo things.”

“Lighten up! That’s why we should enjoy high school while it lasts!”

“I can’t wait until graduation.” He said. I wanted to murder him, but somehow I ended up sucking him until he was a total mess, which was close enough.

By the time the fourth quarter exams were over and graduation practice was declared, I felt like shit. Every single day I was overcome by the desire to vomit (I actually succeeded one Thursday, after fifth period). Some of my classmates shared the same sentiments. They too, thought that college was undesirable, while others were bright-eyed and excited, especially the ones who managed to get in good universities. Several rumors about college spread in our batch like wildfire; stories of frat wars and terror professors who ate freshmen for breakfast were whispered in hallways, while some girls dreamed about college basketball players, with their broad shoulders and long limbs. I privately thought they had ugly teeth, but I was willing to spoil everyone’s happy thoughts about college that time.

Most annoying of all was Altair, whose bored expression lifted and was replaced by keen determination. By some weird twist of fate he managed to get in the top universities – okay, that’s a lie. He studied like hell during our fourth year, so he deserved it.

“You think college will make you happy?” I mumbled. Altair was looking through university leaflets again that night, and I wanted to chew on the leaflets, rip his clothes, and have such mind-blowing sex that Altair would forget everything. Okay, so we haven’t really went all the way yet that time, mostly because I didn’t want that up my ass. I was seriously considering that option, however, if it meant getting his attention.

“Hmmm?” he asked. When it was obvious that no answer was heading his way, Altair sighed and leaned back. I stole a few minutes to admire his collarbone, and then he spoke up. “When I was thirteen years old my parents gave me a pile of books and a laptop. I learned about pulsars, the Mediterranean Sea, Egyptian pharaohs, and Islamic art. I found out about the working class struggle and the depths of the Pacific. I discovered Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles. I discovered BDSM (I grinned at that) and microchips. And these things fascinated me. They were far more interesting than what our teachers tell us. You’d listen in class, nod, and forget everything in the morning. But those bits of information are different. They’re fun to know. My parents bought the books and said that they were a great help when they were in college. We can actually enjoy studying once we graduate from high school. I want to stimulate my brain. I’ll let you read them, if you want.”

I rolled my eyes. “You want to torture me with more books? After all our homework?”

The corners of his mouth curved upwards. He had been smiling a lot more lately, which was always a good thing. “I am quite tired from all the studying. Wanna have lunch tomorrow?”

“We have grad practice.” I reminded him.

“We’ll skip.” He smiled. “It’ll be a date.”

I punched him when I realized that I was blushing.

I spent Graduation Day in fear. A lot of the girls cried and the guys gave each other ‘manly’ hugs and pats, but I was too busy searching the crowd for Altair, afraid that he’d disappear. I finally found him mingling outside, while his parents and mine chatted gaily along the hallway. I said hello to them for a bit, while mentally mourning over my lack of shiny awards. Altair grabbed me by the arm and we walked away from our parents and a throng of photographers.

“Congratulations.” I whispered, once we were alone. Altair looked ready to conquer galaxies, with his brushed hair and wide, face-eating grin.

“Hey, congrats. I think we’re eating out together. They were talking about Chinese food.” We talked about the menu, joked a bit about our classmates who had snot on their noses while we were singing our grad song, and I forgot all about the future as he kissed my forehead. I didn’t even mind that his hands were on his chest, gripping his diploma.

Altair has a goatee now. It looks good on him, but it doesn’t really feel that nice against my chin. He’s grown to be a six-footed monster, and sports wider shoulders. I don’t see him that much, because he chose to study in a university four hours away from the city. Said he needed fresh air. We still talk a lot on the phone, and we even have phone sex for kicks. Or SMS sex. Have you ever tried that? Yeah. I don’t know if we will last. I still want us to, of course, but sometimes I miss him so much that my teeth ache.

Catherine and I are in the same school, taking up Nursing. She adores our uniform, and says she can’t wait to get to work. I think it’s a bit itchy, especially on the armpits.

I can’t remember much about high school now, even if it has only been three years. My only memories are the ones I told you, and some random facts my teachers implanted in the recesses of our brains. I can’t remember the exact time I grew up, while Altair was already an adult a long time ago.

I do remember the feelings, though. It’s easier to recall the heady bouts of elation, the bursting of chests, and the thrill of first times.

Altair was wrong; some things never change. I’m still struggling over my Chemistry homework. Yes, science continues to plague my life. Not like I have any choice to begin with. I believe college is a repeat of high school, only with more complicated theories. Or it could be a repeat of grade school. I think everything repeats itself, anyway. They just go on and on.

At nights I look out the window while I cram. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss my night-walker. All I see is white now.