When Words Fall frail

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari sa mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang kahit papaano:-) )

Summary: A story about identity crisis and, oh yeah..Hiroaki Koshino's homophobia leads him to an unlikely transformation on his 17th b-day. Something's not right about his thinking, telling him to go this way but....
Warning: language and sexual content.

Prologue

It's pitch black down here. I don't know where I am; in an abandoned hole maybe, or in a deathly abyss at the edge of the world. I can't really tell, my stubborn optical system is never that which can slice through the darkest patches of the moon, or of Mars (not the bars), much less of this non-magnetic black hole that has sucked me all the way to its empty belly. These eyes never come in handy, not even when I'm ballin' down town. There's the light-swift point guard for you.

*Whistling* Ah-hah! I've made one sensational discovery here; I can't turn a joint. After my eyes have gone obsolete, my muscles have suddenly become involuntary, ignoring orders coming from this biological control room inside my skull. What do you call that? Oh, brain. Great, just great. Now my whole body's gone amiss; and I used to think a stupid thumb injury could kill. Oh well, I was the playground loser then, which I no longer am; thanks for reminding, though. Here I am, numb as an anchor under the buoy, a great paraplegic prat who's humming along with the playing melody from the distance. Or is there anything playing at all? Just my imagination perchance. Lalalalalala. There goes the free-flowing symphony, and I'm suddenly stomping my feet after the rhythmic notes as they shift from one scale to another. Lalalalala. Wait a minute, Look! I can wiggle my feet! And I can feel them sending their impulse through my just-pronounced decrepit veins, coaxing my brain to make them walk. Or at least that's what I understand, but no one's here to watch these enthusiastic little toes, and even if there's someone he won't see them in maximum efficiency with the lights out. Darn.

I get myself turned loose from slouchig off to grant my odd feet's silly request; walk, walk, and walk for a challenging, sure-thing exercise. Funny it doesn't take a ton of wrenched efforts to get me straightened up; one minute I was paralyzed, the next one, I'm going hyper. What the fuck's with me, anyway? I turn to my heels. A hollow space envelopes my calorie-reduced body as I breeze through the freezing torpor of this tunnel. So I'm in a tunnel. Why didn't I recognize it a minute before? Interesting; I've gone absolutely dumb. Whatever, this is still nothing-doing so there's no point raising a whiffle of useless fetters, no one's sounding me out anyway. A light in the dark shines about 30 meters away. If I get there before being engulfed by this void or whatever the hell this is, maybe I can altogether cut loose from this fantastic insanity. I start to run, run until my drenched skin can no longer excrete a drop of sweat. I'm looking like a galloping fucker here, really. I reach in for the opening, its blinding light diffuses against the nothingness that slithers after me. BAM! I stumble. I look back; the path where I've exactly snucked out is barred, completely obliterated in the thin air of moist, molecular masses. *Sigh* Let' see, where am I? Oh....

I'm crouching in the middle of a concave line of swarming, familiar faces. Somebody helps me to my feet. I'm inside Ryonan school gym. Through a secret passage, I was able to sprint out to this place. Thanks to the nonexistent map that led me here. Hang on, since when has there been a secret passage through this place? Shoot. I'm racking it all up again, who the fuck cares if there isn't, anyway? Better leave it for now; ain't got time to grow pensive and logical in this infernal labyrinth. But ought I to be happy? Why? Something tells me this is a special day for me. Perhaps...

I'm suddenly greeted in optimum sweetness, wrapped around in heavy, excited arms, patted on the shoulders, tapped on the head, and what the?...kissed on the cheeks by some buff-bodied, warm-skinned somebodies...*shudders* Oh, it's my 17th birthday. How can I forget? Still dumb, I guess. I suddenly feel scorched by a disturbing, stunning...something stealing in to the dull state of my mind, getting into my nerves like...hell, is it?

Oh, this is what's been stabbing me; cheers. I hate cheers. Even Ryonan cheers sicken me in the head.

My insides suddenly shrivel with chagrin. Why? I can't tell yet.

'Welcome, dear Hiro-chan!' Sendoh's polyphonic voice suddenly booms over the crowd of cat-calling spectators. hell, what are they cat-calling for? He's saddled with the usual look-I'm-a-perv grin that strangles me the moment I go eye to eye with him. Something tells me he's getting an erection, or maybe he just had a quickie in the cubicle with a cheap shot nobody that he's totally flushed, or perhaps he just masturbated behind the lockers that he's looking so fucked-up elated or....even more so, maybe it's because of me that he's getting a sudden, mechanical arousal...Oh, happy mating season, crotch kings. Somebody hand him an anti-orgasmic explosion for Holy Pete's sake...

'Uh, what's this for?' I ask as I try to avert Sendoh's expressive look, eyeing instead the jeering faces around me.

'For your birthday, silly. What else?' Another voice lifts up. I whirl around to see Ikegami's blissful smile as it mingles with a sea of snide grins and maniacal glares. How sexual. Why the fuck do they have to goggle at me like I'm a maligned drag queen in a thong? Can't they just fuck with themselves instead of pouncing on me? It makes me feel cold naked being exposed to these malevolent, horny glances; those metaphorical, masculine gazes that shout for an instant orgy at the sight of a fuck-free, unadulterated virgin....like me. Kuso...
A hand suddenly rests itself on my shoulder blade, a thick fingered hand that can crack a leather in one squeeze, Uozomi's callused hand.

'Today is the day when you're finally baptized as a member of the-ehem-glorified F4,' He unsheathes an ogre smile. Strangely, it electrifies me.

'F4, sempai?' I whimper pathetically. This is getting craggier; why the heck does everyone have to act like a clubbed jackass on my birthday?

'Yes, dear,'

'I don't get it.' And I mean not fucking able to get a syllable of your blabber so quit clamming me up. Why can't you go point blank on this whatever fucked up matter you've got?

'Explain, Akira.' Captain nods at the sophomore who darts forward, throws a sucrose-filled smile at me, and speaks aloud as if delivering an accursed death notice,

'Hiroaki Koshino, this is the day when, with the help of your team mates, you're finally unshackled from the smoldering bonds of teenage repressions and maneuvered to the arms of your brethren, the ever just F4, wherefore you are bestowed with the undying grace of freedom, love, understanding-'

'My head's still in the air. What exactly is it?' I seethe. I'm now knitting my brows in bold skepticism and gazing at the boy in question; a flicker of fiery gleam romps behind Akira Sendoh's glassy pupils. Talk about cross breed of a bark sucking quibbler and a 24/7 pumping machine like Mr. Ryonan Ace. *sigh* Does he have to look like a go-to-bed-with-me cock master every fucking minute? Why can't he be less sex occupied just for a goddamn second for salvation's sake?

'I'll explain, Hiro-chan.' That helps. Needing no formal invitation, Ikegami strides in. 'We're now subjecting you to the F4 initiation. It means that you would be among us from now on.'
Terrific. Now they want me to be AMONG them. Don't get me started here, but have I always been the black sheep of this whole mess otherwise known as Ryonan Team that I never really was among them?

'Still blurry,' I blurt out. 'Does this have anything to do with Ryonan Basketball Team?'
'No.' Uozomi answers. 'In this brotherhood, there's more liberty. In fact, there's a lot more than that,' He finishes, his tone getting more frantic word after word.

Now that's something fishy. So fishy, I can almost taste the oceanic flavor of fish when I pout out my tongue. I don't think Taoka will like this, or does he already know about this illegal fraternity among his boys? I bet no.

'And I'm becoming one of you guys?' I reiterate Ikegami's words in a wobbling, nervous tone. 'What exactly is the binding factor or symbol among the F4 members?' Well said; this is how you nail these wafflers, Hiroaki.

No word escapes from the seemingly tied throats of the bastards. A protracted stillness caves in. A threatening, condemnable stillness oozes and rims around us like gigantic halos. Much as I hate vocifery, I dread silence; that state of speechlessness that urges curiosity to create mayhem...it's killing me. What're they playing at?! Hello?! I don't remember requesting for a we-didn't-hear-a-word answer here, can anyone tell me about it? Moments. I twist my quarrying brows to trot out the lethal tranquility...somebody smells my irritation...thank heavens.

'This, dear lad,' Ikegami gives a start as he fingers a plain, round silver piece that dangles playfully on his right earlobe to give emphasis, 'is the commonality among us brothers.'

I automatically dash my eyesight to the other 2 members; Uozomi and Sendoh are wearing the same accessory. I suddenly want to faint, faint so I'll be able to scrape myself from this newfangled madness that's suddenly invading the minds of these people. Damn, why can't I just pass out here and now for good fuck's sake? Those pierced right ears! So obscene, and so...so criminal that they remain the only indelible flesh from their dissolving faces...Those tiny, silvery stuff on their victimized right ears...of all execrable infections in this world...the infamous social symbol for...oh, only fuck knows what it's gonna be for these dumb arses.

'You will be the 4th member. At last, we're completed.' Sendoh chimes in as the intensity of his glare renders me immotile in a single stroke. He wants to put a bit on the side with me; I can tell. The moronic imp. Does he have to look like he's craving for a prick lick when smiling?

'Happy birthday, Hiro-chan. We hope you'll love our gift.' Uozomi's peevish voice springs out as he pulls out a replica of their earrings from his pocket. His stalwart knuckles deftly thrusts the damned thing on my palm. I jerk backward as I struggle to pluck up my scattered vocabulary. My throat refuses to lease a single word. I'm mute, helpless, and doomed. I choke to recall what it is like talking but my cognitive functions have just plunged down in temporary oblivion for a summer break; I'm losing myinnate ability to trigger my senses. Why the fuck do I have to fall in a trance just now?! Fuck this tongue!
'And oh,' A voice suddenly soars above all attempts to cry a loud. Its mocking tempo enrages me to the point of hysteria. 'Have we told you what F4 stands for?'

I shake my head despite being plagued by an emergency stiff neck. Still the handicapped wretch that I've become, I fail to venture a more articulate gesture of saying fuck no.

'It's Faggot Four.' A collective laughter whizzes out after the phrase.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!


Hiroaki Koshino's room. Quarter to 6 in the morning.

Alarm clock wreaks havoc at 5:45 in the morning. I jump back from my bed as the insistent ringing assaults the outer lining of my eardrums, drilling its way through my snoozing cerebrum. A nightmare. The world's spookiest and most realistic nightmare, so real I can damn well remember the staunch of the damp atmosphere in that...hell-turned Ryonan gym, and the isolated feeling of despair amid disillusioned entities, the singular absence of pathos and shame among that perverted flock of scum, their tweaking laughter and meaningful smiles, their denouncible sneers and faces...Whatever. I'm feeling for my lips. Oh, blast me; my jaws are popped open. I must've left them hinged on a 45 degree angle while yelping. That monotonous, glass cracking AHHHHHH! forgot to zip back the dry slit that has been cached up the whole goddamn time I was conking until... I wonder if somebody heard me scream? Did I sound girly or even, well, being castrated? I don't know. But who cares a fucking dime, anyway? I just had an infernal dream here so anyone can shove off and excuse me for yelling like a molested school girl.

Hiroaki Koshino's room. 5 to 6 in the morning.

A rictus of imaginary pain is climbing its way up through the anaesthesized areas of my chest, limbs, neck, and forehead; I'm supposed to feel scourged but the numbness inside me hasn't been cured by the wake. Maybe I've become altogether unfeeling like I was in the dream....I don't know. I feel like I'm dwindling into someone I'm not or never will, like an unforeseen metamorphosis of human anatomy is taking me over and cladding me with a whole new uniform. Pretty freaky.

Koshino residence. 6:30 in the morning.

Musing. Faggot Four. No, I'm still not one of them so it remains F3; I ain't signing a goddamn thing to be among that contemptible ilk. But it's only a dream, right? A worse-than-succubus dream that scares straight people out of their wits. I'm at a loss here...I'm suddenly wondering....Oh well, I'm still no gay. I'm maybe pliant but I'm dead straight, and no Uozomi or Ikegami or Sendoh is getting homosexual on me or I'm ball-whipping his ass faster than a rodent gets spooned. This I swear.


7:15 in the morning. On the way to Ryonan School gym

I'm 5 minutes late, and I'm cocksure Taoka's angry fits will be hauled at me in no time flat. This isn't gonna be a lucky day for birthday boy. But don't I deserve a little larger fragment of auspices here? It's my fucking birthday for crying out loud. Let me enjoy this for awhile, let me be the boss, the campus tyrant who nags at his coach and players for being so lame in practice. Yeah, I'll be like that once I swing those double doors open, and they'll be like, 'Oh, Koshino! You've become so manly, I thought you were Ikegami. Look at you, so virile and so mature-looking,' Hahaha...And I'll be like, 'Oh yeah? I just aged a year, want to try me?' Hahaha...Oh, here we are.

7:19 in the morning. Gym.


It would've been better if today's occurences turn that way, so I say. But the usual status quo makes it a next to impossible thing that nothing comes as a surprise; obviously, I'm not the spanking new egotistic dictator of the day as I've pictured it 4 minutes ago and most precisely, I'm not the self-centered, makeshift master in command at Taoka's absence. That's one good thing to make up for it, at least; Taoka isn't here to prattle with curses at my lateness. But for some reason, Captain Uozomi is in charge and here he is with his faithful sidekick Ikegami to direct the team's rotational practice. So here I am; the permanently moulded sulking shooting guard cum floor sweeper of Ryonan practice gym. Amazing.

7:30 in the morning. Gym.
Curious stares are flying at my feet all the way up to my mum face. Let me guess; I'm looking like a dejected gang rape victim from last night's hold up. This glum face is the talebearer of the story behind this godawful flout, isn't it?

'Do I have a speck on my nose tip?' I mumble under breath as I get myself to stretching.

Something's gone wild in a blink the moment I have my back turned. Everyone's suddenly throwing me a happy-birthday greeting. I knew it. The next minute, I'm belching out an occasional thank-you between proper intervals. Wow, I'll probably pass for a human answering machine next time. So thanks to Ryonan team mates for greeting me a happy birthday.

7:36 in the morning. Gym.

I'm a little jumpy today, and I'm not referring to your normal everyday touchiness that comes from a long running fatigue or any petty shit, but that sort of irritation when you feel qualmed and somewhat strangely, ravished by a horde of chuckling hyenas and everything around you just blows that you'd rather sequester yourself in a dusty cupboard than to jabber garrulously with these people. Right, that sickness is palling the hell out of me that I'm no more exciting than a blocky yokel in a jersey.

Akira Sendoh suddenly traipses down to where I'm lolling myself off as he pulls out a folding chair next to mine. He's smiling as usual; hold it, he isn't wearing a look-I'm-a-perv smile today! Hurrah! He's put on his unvarying look-I'm-an-idiot smile back. But I have to admit that the dream makes a mighty impression on me; somehow, I'm still feeling acutely picqued on by this feel-good, happy-go-lucky guy beside me. And the closer he gets to me, the more the fibers of my prone temper are crackling in a short circuit. Sounds weird but I want to daub his face with the chair I'm sitting on or to sling this supercharged knuckle between his eyes, but then, I'm not in an entirely grounded position to act like a barbaric bastard for no valid excuse. So I just pin myself down in toiled perseverance while striving to maintain mental and physical balance; I should know a lot better than getting myself a slab of constant beating from the whole team.

'Hi, Hiroaki.' Sendoh says.

I'm losing it; I need to pull myself together before I hurl a big, tasty punch on him.

'Hello,' I say curtly, fighting the gravity to flick his temples open.

I don't know, but is it because he played the role of a nasty skank in that damned dream that I want to scratch him off to bloody pulp? Have its annihilatory elements been fabricated into irrefutable facts inside me that I'm taking it all as if it's been a part of my shameful past? But he's the same Sendoh I knew from our freshman year; the staright, jack-of-all-trades material with a million dollar smile. He isn't gay like the slutty one I know with a pierced right ear. He's sitting beside me because he feels like I'm in dreadful need of a friendly attentive ear to drain down all my gripes, he's probably offering his amicable condolences to me beacuse I'm looking like a deranged dotard who needs a prescription. But why am I itching to rip him into pathetic dregs? Why do I want to see him hoisted in a hearse? Am I going mad? Or am I just losing the fundamental soundness for the day that even maintaining a well regulated disposition becomes a mean feat? Maybe.

'I hope this isn't boring you,' He suddenly smiles.

He means all the time-killing when no Taoka is telling you off to cover a thousand laps. Oh, weak.

'Nope. It's ok.'

It's not boring me; it's murdering me. And I mean you're murdering me with that proximity and this seemingly infinite time we have together, can't you scram for awhile?

He's now prying open his double edged lips in what must've been a sardonic smile to me, at least. I can't stop myself; I want to scissor him to pieces and I can't get his words out of me; Faggot Four. The name's been permanently engraved on my brain, and the longer I watch him smile, the more vivid the words Faggot Four hover in my memory pool. Tell me, why does the world have to be filled with loathsome eccentricities? Why can't queer folks stand screwing what can be screwed? What's so fun about cock fencing that fags are going gaga over the sadistic pleasure underlying it? And what's so satisfying about behind-the-back fucking when all they get is swelled asses? And the heinous orals? Don't get me reeling it all up now 'cos I just had my breakfast. Gross. Gay people deserve to rot in hell. What's fucking right with these ironies that they become an addiction to these deluded animals, anyway? Sigh.

TBC

What Love Is

What Love Is


Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari sa mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang kahit papaano '--')

Summary lines make up lyrics of a number of mushy love songs. Name them if you want; I didn't compose them.


Summary: Love is a many splendored thing. Love is the answer. Love takes time. Love is a battlefield. Love hurts, love scars. Love will tear us apart. Love breaks your heart...finally. One shot. SenRu-SenMit.




No matter what shove I give to rake into a pile the shattered pieces of my past, my rigor only seems too deficient to even manage a handful of rubbles; and once luck lets me get hold of a grain they all begin to whisk away with the winds to cram themselves behind a shut door that'd never unlatch for me. There an image would flit through my pensive thoughts, like a shaft of steel zooming through a swirl of clouds to completely undo its peaceful business of painting the skies. They would pose often as empty pictures, these quick snatches of memories that trickle away in horrendous speed after being gabbed to be recognized, and always they are irrespective of the messages they convey and oblivious to any audience. Supposing the event is crucial to my ‘prefigurement’, I'd never really know; this deja vu just keeps on opening before me like a nameless corpse that reaches its hands to pull me away from the utter forgetfulness that has ceaselessly contaminated me, but all the while it has never succeeded. For what reason need I be reconciled with my past like that, only hell can tell. Nothing would make me recall the days when I was undergoing a metamorphosis. Those very days had leached away to oceans of tears and time long parched down to the Earth's thickest crust; and to ransack it is no easier than digging a cemented grave with bare fingers. Those insentient frames would go on flashing before my mind in an elliptic pattern that never ends, but they're merely inane pictures that can't alert even the most reminiscent of feelings. But from these nimble instances I learned that I need to get back, because if I don't I would be lost and with me shall go Kaede Rukawa, whom I loved. I need to write this thing about him; it's the only way to reconstruct the burnt bridge of things that were between and around us, regardless if the hands of time only follow a single direction and that is, to the future, never to the past. It's the only way to preserve our existence together which had long ago vacated a special place inside me; and I need it packed with something worth remembering, if not with his evanescent love for me.

---

The moon hung low in the sky that night, limpid, as the stars around were like strobes. Rustles of winds could be heard streaming by the leaves that dangled on their branches. White foggy breath emit from the freezing lips of the people around. Besides the thunderous claps of waves against the rocky shores, everything was serene; not a wisp of cloud in the dark horizon. It was a rather cold evening we were relishing by the dank sea side; we were nestled there, Kaede and I. It should've been a great jolly night had not the feel of the atmosphere seemed to me a constituent for a heartache recipe. I was right, of course; it was.


'I think Ryonan would go as far as to the Nationals this year. We've worked twice as hard as any team in the league, that I can assure. I just hope that when that time comes, we wouldn't have to face each other, and that you'd do just as good.'

Kaede's deadpan of a face changed its expression and tilted into a faded smirk. He held me in long enough to make me feel less comfortable, and after a while he responded in what seemed to be a gesture that was a little more than a grunt.

I sat tight-lipped. There was no need to pursue another random talk; Kaede was never the kind to offer a word in exchange. And strange as it was, I simply loved it when he made no effort to parry or equivocate my statements; it made me feel controlled, and it was only during that time that I had someone who had command over me. It was this feeling I missed most; for the first time in my life someone was applying his power on me. I never had that till he came.

'I've made up my mind, Akira.' He stood up. Outwardly, his face was grazed by no feeling; but behind this stiffness, I could feel a surge of emotions creeping out.

'What?' I asked, acknowledging both the eerie look on his face and his sudden, un-centered will to call it a night.

'I'm playing in America.'

It was succinct as that; no holds barred, no strings attached. He decided to dive along with the pivotal moment that could define what glory was to him, and with that look of longing on the surface of his eyes' stillness; I knew he couldn't have asked for anything more than flying abroad and be an internationally acclaimed athlete. All that passed between us lost their point at that precise second; the only bright spot in this bore of a life I've been leading is boarding off somewhere I could only dream of setting a shoe on. I could not for the life of me adopt a more jocular tone with him other than the sullen one I could give as an answer, lame as it was. It was this mode of speaking that could reflect the weary pain rattling inside me; but he was blind to it.

'That'd be good for you.' Was my short reply. It was a voice garnished with the very same irony of the commonplace reply I just gave, like a stellar brightness redounding on the pools of my eyes, completely contradictory to what it had under its sheets.

'You'd be alone then.'

'If you stay,' I let out a staccato sigh then, 'I won't be.'

'I can't. I should go.'

No person had showed that much of self-centered confidence to me, or at least I have not known such guile thing as his well-cared-for self -obsession. How much would it take to feed his ego? It was like a hungry beast that's got a bottomless well for a stomach. Everything that came as an obstruction for his self development had to be annihilated from the face of the Earth, even if that poor something was me. The world did not simply revolve around him; It revolved FOR him and for this reason, I had to bow out to give way to his interests. There seemed to be no limit to anything he could want and likewise, there was no limit to anything that could be given to him. That was his world; mine was altogether different. But differences weren't a bother; we were inseparable, solid as one, and completely in need of each other. Once upon a time, that was.

Kaede took off when his sophomore year started. I can't relate the sadness I felt at the time; a thorn was permanently embedded on my flesh and as corny as it sounds, eternal pain was all that suited it. All those dreams had been detonated in one go; and all I could keep with me were the extant memories of our times together which were bound to be stuffed in a casket over time. But he made me pledge not to forget. And he was right; otherwise, I wouldn't be stealing glitches from tainted memories of the past, pathetically struggling to make anything out of them.

'Would you promise me one thing?'

It was one of those rare times when Kaede would bother to come up with a whole sentence.Nevertheless I realized, out of mutuality, that he was getting dramatic on me for the very first time and also, for the last time. This wasn't like his usual method of bidding farewell; I sensed that perhaps I was an exception, grand as that migth sound. Maybe I did have a place, if not special, in that chilly heart of his, maybe I made up a portion of his absolute being. Perhaps.

'Sure.' I answered. That was all and everything there was as answer. It was complete honesty; but in hell's deeper truth, I would've died trying to dissuade him to fly. I would've sprung right in front of the plane if that would stop the pilot steering the pad, I would fain lose both of us in a crash. But no supplication could alter his wont, no amount of tears could even partly melt the solid substance of his heart; most of all, he was bound to leave me without overlooking it anyway.

'Remember our first night together, the night by the shore, and this one.'

That was easy as hell. It would be as natural as continuing to breathe, but it would be painful beyond imagination.

'That’s one half duty; sure thing. But that counts three; you only asked for one.' I forced a laugh.

'Get serious.' He paused. 'If you don't we'll both get lost.'

Like I was not lost already; but he...he lost his marbles for abandoning me like this. This detriment is too real to forget and perhaps, too precious to prolong. It would take epochs to kill it by laughter and good times; but even if that might be, it would go on and on, hurting me.

'There's too much about you that one can't help remembering. It's impossible to get you off my mind; you're just too remarkable even for my standards...'

I squinted an eye on his face; there I saw an untenable depth of sympathy and sorrow that was foreign to me. It was full of expression; everything that suggested suffering was there, just like the aging picture of Dorian Gray that bore the motley crimes, the invidious sins, and the sorrows of the sitter for the sake of gaining immortal beauty. It was just heart-rending and to think that it was because time had been gathered and spent by both of us; it made me weak. That was the final expression I've seen on his face; sad, broken hearted, and sickly. It was a telltale of many stories, sad stories about love concocted with throes of bitterness, a love that had waxed and waned after being constricted at a price, a love that was fossilized by a selfish ambition, a love that would lose its charm in spite of the forget-me-not promise attached to it. There was no point glossing over the event; it was ugly enough to place between us the space and time linking night and day.

Eons died after another; to recuperate seemed a far cry from me. Kaede Rukawa never returned but he remained interminable in my mind. Always he was there, seeming to remind me of all that he was as if afraid I'd let go of my promise. The recollections of his face gripped my brain tight enough to leave marks on it; and it only made me feel deflated, like I was slated to remain empty for all the time being. But somebody came and swapped the loneliness out of my days with laughter. Hisashi Mitsui would've been the living elixir of this moribund life in me. He had me resuscitated after I'd been drowned in despair, by wagging away the black fog that had taken shelter in me, he had brought me back to the daylight. He was everything I wanted to be and everything I would've wished for; he was like a far away star that'd never stop enticing me but unlike a real one, Mitsui reached out to me. His smile was enough to summon all that was good in this world and his eyes...they were like azure balls of fire that could absorb all the weariness in me and cast it away till it smoked out to nothing. He was pleasure and salvation, loveliness and perfection, bliss and laughter; he made my life operative once again, and he made me forget.

It was months ago when I ran into him in a sports apparel store somewhere inside Y______ mall. When he caught a glance of me, I knew he didn't hesitate to walk up and stir up a warm conversation. It would've been impossible to deflect the talk about Kaede Rukawa; it was inevitable that it would come up anyway. Hisashi Mitsui knew about Rukawa and I, but he was frank and upfront about the subject. I don't think he made a matter of being discreet when he referred to his team mate; he was yakking away like talking about Rukawa in front of his left alone lover was as ordinary as discussing the weather.


'Rukawa had been planning that as Coach Anzai said. It didn't come as a surprise to me though. I always knew he thought too high of himself and little Japan wasn't enough for him. You know I sometimes think he was a big bait for our team; he would've brought Shohoku to a championship a couple of years from now. But Rukawa, well, he had hopes that didn’t involve this team. A rather sad resolution for a squad as capable as ours.' Mitsui said in a sing-song. He was completely indifferent to my feelings.

'I always thought he was special.' I replied. I couldn't believe my ears; there I was making a comment about Rukawa when his name hadn't effused from my mouth for God knows how many months then.

'Extraordinary guy, I'd say. But he was hard in the head. I wonder what made you two together. Hey, no offense meant but I used to think you just didn't synchronize. Know what I mean?' Mitsui said. An apologetic smile was flouncing on his perfectly chiseled visage.

'Sort of. But things don't have to be alike in love, it would've been plain.' I answered, thinking how I was carrying on with the flow of this shenanigan. Here, I realized that I was touching on a sacred subject.

'Oh, variety comes in handy then? A rather peculiar view you have there.' Mitsui smiled humorously. He adjusted his gaze to the digital Nike* watch wrapped around his wrist and turned to me, 'There's plenty of time to kill; care for a cup?'

'Sure.'

We sat in a coffee shop to grab a sip and continued to chat. It was ages ago since I went out for a walk. Being with Mitsui had rejuvenated both my physical and emotional strength. I didn't know if it was right to feel that way; all I knew was that it was too early to be feeling at home with this guy. But his charm was such that I couldn't help feeling renewed. One minute I was still blanched in dark grief, the next one I felt myself smiling in intuition. What he had was incomparable with what Rukawa had; everything in Mitsui was natural and beautiful whereas in Rukawa there was only coldness and perhaps naturalness was in him also. It was unfair to think that way but I knew I was changed and that was a good sign. Mitsui and I started going out for good time's sake after that. He sought me out, I sought him out. I grew to love listening to his thoughts; often he was asking me questions that seemed only too odd to be taking time with and if I couldn't give an answer, he'd voice himself out, not caring if he sounded absurd. It was sheer fun to be with him prattling about silly jokes and daft people and all the hilarity of this world and I simply loved it that way. But there was one thing we kept our fingers off; the topic on Rukawa. The second we stepped on the coffee shop that day, all words that were suggestive of Rukawa were sawed off from our vocabulary. His name became a taboo and to bring him up was blasphemy. Unconscious of his pandemic influence on me, Mitsui kept on making me forget the deep rooted pain of my past. He wasn't deliberately obliterating Rukawa from my memories, he didn't know he was; the lavish beauty of his face was enough for me to forget my own name, what more of Rukawa? I knew this shouldn't be but ounce by ounce, Rukawa's image would vanish by a fleeting moment and before I could retrieve it, Mitsui would be there as if coming to the rescue.


I lay on my bed one chilly night in April. Fierce amount of rain was nuzzling out from the gay clouds outside; a roll of thunder and lightning was singing along. The winds were howling against my windowpane and no matter what I plug on my ears its sound just kept on permeating the solid glass. I was digging for what to do or what to think regardless of the mobbing noise of rain, until I caught a glimpse of the Spalding* leather ball at the corner. It was Rukawa's present for my 17th birthday. This time I decided to devote my isolation to the memory of Rukawa; it was decades since I last thought of him. Maybe because I was still shackled by the promise I made him and still bound to fulfill it that I chose to open this gritty skeleton from my closet. He said something about being lost if I forgot about him and those nights, thanks to the endless days of lament I never once went over those phrases. But then, they were still hollow. I couldn't figure it out with the proper light because Rukawa's last minute words were as they were; nothing's behind them. And yet why would he make me swear something that could do without a pledge; to remember him, well that was just natural. I put it then to my head to spread out the matter with Mitsui; it wasn't the best idea but this guy was dab for solving riddles; and besides, he knew Rukawa. The next day found me and Mitsui inside a coffee shop.

'You sure you wanna talk about him? Wouldn't it be hell to bring him up? I mean, you've had your mouth clammed on Rukawa for God knows how many months and now you just pop up here wanting to be reminded; something's gone awry, really.' Mitsui said, propping up his chin to palm it with his left hand. It seemed like he was there all along with Rukawa and I; the mere hint of familiarity in his voice made me think he knew everything I went through even before we'd gone intimate with each other.

'Hisashi, I made a promise to Rukawa, I think it would be a crime to break it.' I answered solemnly, ignoring his words on the whole.

'Am I getting on your way?' He frowned, flinching a little at the misguided impression I made on him.

'That's beside the point. It's just that...all this time I've been heedless of what that promise means to me and him. I'm coming to loose ends here; I can't tell if it meant more than it sounded to me, knowing Rukawa, but it just came to me last night that it wouldn't be as simple as that and what's sad is that I can't register it with anything sensible.'

'Did you just bite more than you could chew? And what promise? Does it run against our current condition?' Mitsui said. I could tell from his look that he was ready to help no matter what it would cost him.

'He just told me not to forget him and I've placed my word on it.'

'He loved you, that's all.' Was Mitsui's short reply.

'I was thinking about something grander, something that would put me through hell. He just told me not to forget him as if it were a hard feat, and if he loved me enough he would've asked for something more challenging to accomplish as a proof at least.' I complained.

'Promises are-' Mitsui gave it a start but,

'Meant to be broken. That's bullcrap, I don't subscribe to that shit.' I finished with a scowl.

'Keep your cool; that just doesn't sum it up. It's not what I was gonna say, only unscrupulous louts buy that. Look here, Akira, promises are made to define the meaning of dilemma, to give one no choice but to proceed to what he is loath to do. Rukawa made you promise not to forget him because it's likely that at any means, you would. I don't know how much was there between you two but however it was, it wasn't strong enough to remain forever and he knew that, admit it or not.' Mitsui said in reproof.


'He wasn't witty enough to think up anything like that. You know him; he doesn't even talk, much less think about what's gonna happen.' I protested.

'Quiet people think most; chatty ones like you often don't have the keenness. Maybe that's why you missed it.' Mitsui said.

'Ouch. That's a low blow.'

'No offense meant, mate. But come to think of it; Rukawa did put a hidden meaning in it. But you've broken your word already by wandering off beyond the path. You must've forgotten him a countless times after he's gone off.' Mitsui said. It wasn't an insult; there was no malice in his tone.

'No, I haven't forgotten about him; otherwise I wouldn't be here trying to figure him out.' Even I wasn't sure about it.

There was a pause. Mitsui puffed up a cigarette; I reclined to my chair to recover the whole scenario during Rukawa's flight. Then I was swallowed by his last piercing words,

'Hisashi, he stressed on one thing; he said we'd both be lost if I failed to remember.' I began. 'I don't get it.'

Mitsui's expression was suddenly replaced by a discomfited seriousness. He squinched up his face for a second and locked himself in silent steadiness.

'Getting lost...I don't know.' He said, seeming too uneasy to manage a whole sentence.

'Not even a tingle of light? Come on, Hisashi, you can do better than that. You're probably the best interpreter I've seen; don't tell me you're in the dark at it.' I said.


'No. What I meant was that I don't know if I should be giving you an advice. I've read a book that shares the same theme, you know, that forget-me-not thing and believe me, it's heart-breaking. If you're gonna pounce me on don't expect me to sugar-coat it, it would be sad. ' He said. There was a sympathetic glimmer in his eyes that I'd never seen before.


'It wouldn't hurt to mouth out an opinion. After all, freedom of speech is the rock of this relationship, right?' I pressed on.

'Okay, here's what I think; Rukawa has given much of his true self to you, it's only through and with you that he felt he was quite what he really is. He's never felt like that with anyone else, even with himself. And when you were there he could be everything that he wanted to be. He wanted you to remember because by leaving you he knew that that feeling of reality would drift away from him and the only way to get it back is for you to remind him of what he really was. If you forget, then, he'd sure be lost. Now the question is; is your situation vice versa because if that's the case you two are bound to get lost.' Mitsui finished. It was only then that I witnessed such sadness chipping him up.

I kept quiet. My guards all fell down, leaving me defenseless to this blow that could mean ultimate defeat; Rukawa had given me much more than anyone could give to his lover. It pained me to think I didn't even give a second thought to it when it deserved a million.

'Rukawa must've assumed that you were equally dependent on each other that's why he said 'both' of you would get lost, not just 'I'; it's up to you to answer to that.' Mitsui continued.

'Hisashi, I'm wondering if his words contain even the tiniest evidence that he really loved me. I shouldn't be asking you this, you of all people, but you're the only who can make anything of us both.' I said out of the blue, not caring to answer the question of the subject.

'Know the song 'Love Makes No Promises'? Well, that's pig's fart because love makes all promises; without them no love can last. You can't question what Rukawa had for you after what he made you promise; it's all written there. You really think he'd say that if he didn't give a damn about you? The guy loved you and I'd say loved you enough to knock out all mountains to their base.' Mitsui said.

'He only thought of himself when we were together; everything WAS for the good of him. It was only self love that he had.'

'He needed that to recognize what he really is so he could offer his bare self to you. If he didn't have anything that's true in his self, how would he be able to give anything to you? He needed the time and all those things so if the moment came that you'd ask anything of him, he'd be on the trot to give it to you. He was still inexperienced to show the nature of his feelings for you but man, didn’t he love you good.' Mitsui said as if defending Rukawa from a dangerous calumny.

'He shouldn't have flown off in the first place.'

'He just thought you were too good for him and so he left you. His bad; you're sad.' Mitsui declares as a matter-of-factly.


'You made me forget all the pain of his memories. It's because of you that I still want to live up to now. When Rukawa had gone off the only thing I had in common with the living was the soil beneath us; then you came and filled that gap. And now, you're making me realize why I shouldn't be throwing it all away...'


'Don't forget the pain, Akira; it's the only thing that binds you now. I'm not saying you should languish in the past but we can't deny that it's only through history that we'd be able to find a cure to this poison. Now answer this; is Rukawa what you are to him? Is it only through him that you felt natural as your true self? That would clear your mind on the matter, it'd be better to decide now.' Mitsui said.

'Hisashi, the choice is long over; I chose to forget and to be with you, you know that. Rukawa is now an echo in the distant past that'd never blow its winds back to me. I'm with you because I love you and I know you feel the same.'

'You made that choice when you were still convinced that Rukawa didn't feel for you. I need to hear what's inside that thick skull of yours after learning that I could never love you like Rukawa did, that I could never sacrifice what he had. What was between you two is inimitable, infinite, and even heroic. I could love you for only as long as I live, beyond that, I don't know; compare to what Rukawa offered to you, mine is but an inch of his mile long run. I'm saying this because I feel that it's desecration to be involved in the holiness of your relationship, that my intrusion in it would mark a black spot in its purity. But I love you, and I'd rather be an anomaly between you two than to lose you...I'm sorry.' He broke down. A sigh followed, almost mechanical; a ruckus cry would've exploded but it came splitting down to a silent pond of tears. I wanted to palliate his pain, to hush his suffering with my own but I realized that there was no comfort to it; not at awful times like this.


I sat aloof, thinking for what seemed to be an eternity. I knew Mitsui was right and that he was giving me a choice; to remain faithful to Rukawa's memory or to go on living accompanied by the light of his face, its beauty, and his laughter. I tried to give it a heavy study but my head was out in the cold and my wits weren't about me. I began to feel that I had to be loyal to my word for Rukawa but at the same, the need to keep a close distance to Mitsui was compelling me to retain my decision. I looked at the world around us; nothing could give me an answer. Suddenly, I felt as if the hands of Delirium had sneaked behind my back and pulled my plug in a flash; my engines were shut down to refrain me from thinking straight. My logical senses began to collapse like a tumbled house of cards that'd disappear the moment it touched the floor, until all I could hear was my frightened gasps. Those around me, living or not, were transforming into something stark that darkened in color . Even my body was stiffening until finally nosediving with the pitch black void to further expand its territory. I could no longer see anything that'd fetch me back to Mitsui nor with that world; all I saw ahead was the road to getting lost.


END

Idyll Under the Waves

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Summary: An OOC fic about Rukawa. Yes, it doesn't seem like him but he sure has a lot to say about this blue-eyed someone. How much does he want this senior? Does he stand a chance? Find out. Another Rumit fic.


Warning: language



Prologue

Inside Rukawa's mind.....



I've been pretty fucked up lately, I can tell. It is so because they're all getting on my tail even though they claim to have not gone an inch beyond japing; they say I'm all too touchy and easily flustered, and if I'm not wearing a somber scowl, they'll still whine about my temper being in a threadbare. But if you stuck yourself in glum you still get a blast out of them giving you a misnomer; I've always been the 'Snobby Little Fox' of this hell-turned-Shohoku-School. Goodness, people just love exacerbating your pains, don't they? 'Kaede, you musn't frown like that, be comme il faut; they'll like it.' Fuck what they like, I want to be me just for a second; it's my fucking life, you know. Can't we just do away with the be-nice-to-the-nice-because-it's-nice-to-be-nice-to-the-nice attitude? You see, I'm in a deadlock here; if I do this, they'll find it disagreeable, if I act natural, it'll sure be repulsive. I'm no Mr. Nice Guy from around the block; I have to stretch the point to that. I'm not your next door congenial chap who delights in trivial coquetry the society requires. I'm just a...a simple kid with an extraordinarily anti-social conduct. Or am I? That's not how you describe a simple individual or an average Joe, and I'm certain I don't look like one. No, I can't be that; with these vaunted good looks my frivolous little crowd will sure repugn such sentiment. Of course they worship me; I'm the best thing that ever happened to this pathetic team, and if it wasn't for HIM I should be...should be desisting my efforts to be the rookie superstar, I should be playing somewhere else, I should be securing a spot in Kangawa mytical five. Phew, how long will I keep on making eyes at him? For another semester? A year? My whole godawful life? Fuck...



Must undergo ceremonial ablution to drive away this devil. Didn't work out last time so...



Time calls for desperate measures; I have to consult a quack-or an expert, rather. This is what's been prescribed to me to rid of this illness (courtesy of Dr. Love):



1. Must set priorities



2. Must practice hard


3. Must be focusing on the upcoming games


4. Must clinch playoff berth



5. Must act normal



6. Must not be overdosing myself with obsession


7. Must forget about my feelings




Rather demanding, right? But Doc says I shouldn't put it in the bad light, 'It's all for your health (mental health). I'm not saying you should avoid him; that'd be cruel. Just tone down your emotions and you'll get on,' That's how I should be, he says. Must dig a recess in my mind to occupy it with what's significant (whatever is significant to me), must not niggle, must pull myself out of this quagmire...This is farfetched; me? Control my feelings for Hisashi Mitsui?


Shohoku gym. Morning. After a 30 minute practice game.


Here he goes again, unrolling his tough thighs a meter away from my played out, lax body. Here we are; I, perched on this steel folding chair and he, in front of me whipping his post-game warm up routine. His self-styled hair dress remains intact despite the groggy flip flops of his gallops, and its tiny nibs are still perceptible after being roughly rubbed and swayed for a hundred times. He's so near to me I can almost taste the pungency of his sweat fountain as my blade-sharp eyes go over the blanket of his impeccably pigmented skin, mincing it smoothly to mentally denude him of what's been cloaking his delicious nakedness. I'm concentrating on his facial features as usual, and I can't help scrutinizing the listlessness of that exquisitely gorgeous face. For some unknown reason it (his innocent expression) seems so malicious to me, and that unintentionally flippant smirk on his gaze while he inflects his knees only pushes me to the limits; I'm fighting the impetus to clasp him harshly to me and yes, I'm battling with this vile temptation in abysmal labor. This death-like irresoluteness I gain from his presence murders me, literally; add to it the unwary decorum he's flaunting me and I'm doomed to another fit of hysterics here. Why the fuck does he have to be so fucking handsome, and hot, and buffed? Why can't he just be a plain bumpkin without an iota of charm for damnation's sake? Do I have to imagine him in a see-through apparel every goddamn time? Why can't I scratch him off this balky brain? Do I have to be a fucking stickler for pretty boys like Mitsui-san or for overkill good looks like that? He's not even getting enough props for that face of his and fuck knows how many cut-throat bitches drool over me. Yes, me; the squeamish closet-queen-jock-heartthrob of this little academy called Shohoku High, and they're just as haplessly clueless on WHAT Kaede Rukawa is as I am on what Hisashi Mitsui is. Darn it! His mystery's such a fucking nuisance; why can't he be an all-out or a discreet gay like everyone else (or like me, for that matter)? Or maybe he's just another diva playing hide and seek behind that lady killer facade. Hope so; in that way, I wouldn't be overdoing myself trying to get across his real identity, and I shouldn't be growing a paddy of acne stressing myself with incessant thoughts about him. Kuso. I have to purge myself of this psychological pain in the ass or else, I'm done for; the only way is to follow Dr. Love's pieces of advice. Must try so...




But he's so...perfect, and cute, and sexy, and innocent; how can I possibly dump it all away or even betray the thought of him? I'm thinking; I can just stay like this till the last drop of time's sands flips away to the universal void, and I can watch him forever, desire-less as he may be.



There, his scandalously short tights are shrinking higher above his knees as he stretches busily on the wooden floor. His face seems to decipher nothing of the treachery of this disillusionment; it's very much likely that's he's still unsuspicious of all my unpracticed advances or my dark aspirations for him, after all, I haven't tried anything funny; YET. But I've gone totally evil on this matter, fostering a fashionable vice of fantasizing over this dainty, lovely lad---





'Rukawa,'





'Huh?'





Holy fuck. It's HIM. He's snucking that look to me again, and he's leasing a smile...an emasculating, de-boning grin...I can't resist this...geeesh...




'Rukawa?'





'Huh?'






'You're sweating a ton,'






Fuck it. Don't look at me like that; you're burning me. Kaede, what's fucking wrong with you? Keep your ego afloat, stand up and give him the traditional kiss-my-ass attitude.





'...'





'Rukawa, you good?'





Must stay defiant to his sex appeal...must not give a welcoming response...must be an artic blockhead all the time....darn!




'Uh-huh.'







'Uhm, you sure?






Fuck that nosy ass of yours. Scram before I do something insidious here.





'Hai, sempai.'






'If you say so. Can you hand me a towel?'






Sure thing. I shove one to him, averting his sidelong glance that seems to jest my rude deportment. Must not be affected...grrr...







'Rukawa?'






Fuck. What d'you want? Can't get enough of seducing a bloke like me, Hisashi? You can't even take me on, I bet.






'Sempai?'





'Thanks.'



Now he's walking away, taking with him that irresistibly attractive smile that sucks dry all my physical prowess; that weakening, plundering glance he shoots at me....so...so meaningful and strange and dreamy. Grrr... Thanks to my dialogue deficit syndrome I didn't have the chance to say...THAT.

I need a moment of consolation to retrieve my senses, and that's only possible in two instances; either I totally forget about him, or he shall be mine. It can't be otherwise but right now... Hell, whatever goes. He's gotta be mine if that's the only thing in the world that is, and it sure is.


The next day.



Akagi's merciful enough to treat the team to a lavish buffet; a fine indemnification for the torture he's putting us into everyday. I haven't gone a lunch out with as many people like this; I've always been your regular not-so-geeky loner type. I know it would've been more normal if I've put down the offer but captain is unusually insistent that I should join them. He's just probably sympathetic with my social condition; I can tell it from his commiserating look. If only he knows how I love being alone. Well, we should all be proper at times of course, and be smart enough not to refuse God's grace(thus goes the famous Filipino adage) so for the sake of paying that much respect to my senior; I agree to feast with the team.

The red head ape's thick as thieves as usual; stacking his plate with a pile of God knows how many dishes and condiments are there. His monstrous appetite is a turn-off, but I can't say the other boys are better; they all sniff at the table like filthy swine, anyway. I'm not a connoisseur for preening and hygiene, that would've made me obvious. But I've always clothed myself in optimum propriety; my shirt's always tucked in, my shoes polished, my pants ironed, you can't ask for anything better. Right, he can't ask for anything better. TBC

Come Here, Rukawa (LEMON)

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari ng mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang sa pagbabasa '--')


Summary: Having fun doesn't always have to mean filthy vices and making love doesn't always have to be with women; a realization for someone like Hisashi Mitsui who's been a hedonist all his life. MitRu-RuMit. One shot. R&R.


Warning: For the love of the Lord, be warned; lemon content, quasi-pornographic lines, explicit language, and a whole babble about dirty stuff.



3 things you can find yourself engaged in after practice ran late in Shohoku gym; 1) go home and hole up as usual, 2) extend daily grind hours by staying behind (you don't get paid overtime for winding your spring double times of course) and, 3) find temporary solace or ecstasy in midnight clubs. Number 1's not purchased by my habitual drift lest emergency props up; it's kinda against my religion to be stuck behind my house's entrance door 2 hours before sun up. Number 2's a rare case though I do resort to it more often than not; if I feel like hazing myself to the bone I might as well burrow myself back in the gym and rehearse my shooting range for extra vantage, aside from that, it's not really my fave agenda nor do I deem it rewarding. The last one, however, is another story; sort of a pro forma activity I get myself in the moment Ayako blows the whistle and announces that practice is over. Attending late night bars on a regular day to day basis is something I can't jack in; somehow, I find it as a quintessential supplement to what I give away during school hours, and putting a stop to it could be the nail on my coffin. A very hedonistic vanity I'm nurturing over there. The instinct has been with me since time immemorial; I can't quite recall the times when I fail to indulge myself in excessive pleasures after being pared down in basketball games. It has been a mechanical round about in my life's schedule since going on 16; having a full swing with girls over the tables and tugging them all the way to the nearest hotel buildings to gun away all night. I barely place regards on laws concerning minors, curfews, and all promulgated crap the community applies; and somehow I can always manage to sneak out safely and frolic up to dark. Not that I'm raising my stakes over these notorious exploits, considering my health problems, but sex for me is a vitamin or a mineral that replenishes all energies lost during the previous moments. Honest to goodness, if intercourse as such could just hurt I'd probably be in an ambulance with my breath hanging in a threadbare, and rabbits could just snuff it at the earliest stages. In any case, sex must have a common based dosage to maintain one's figure and drive as portrayed by our most prominent sex gurus. I do have a subliminal, if not truthful, faith in that.



Now since sex itself has somehow stolen its way through this, I might as well boil things down on a personal level, y'know, squabble about the skanks and harlots I've made a pass on. I can't say I remember most of them; probably just a tithe. Not that this lot is worth remembering but sometimes we do tend to keep recollections when we aren't drunk or intoxicated (and yes, I do shoot a lot even if I'm sober), 'ayt ? Women of the ilk are practically homogenized by one outstanding trait (I use 'trait' because it seems that they're like that per se); they'd sleep around for cash. It doesn't count if the customer's looking like a mad dog or a limp string bean or an ancient pedophile or a dyed in the wool nympho or a big shot hottie; they'd probably even hit it with a lesbo. As long as he/she's got dope the ticket is in his/her pockets, follow? So far, customers aren't a spoke. But things become variegated among these lowdown tramps when it comes to 1) looks, 2) attitude, 3) status, 4)age, 5) and performance. The basics. Looks are no problem as long as you're blind (a cataract would do as a defense guard as well); no kidding. An ample of them are netted out from the country's remotest provinces that few of them hardly act as and look like badly tanned, if not unsuccessfully cremated, yokels. A couple could probably pass as roughly hewn human beings, the rest is a forbidden fact. No sugar coating; plainly speaking, 90% are a hideous pack so if looks are what you're after you'd be written off the first minute for sure. Next stop is the attitude; well, most of them are docile as a domestic pup; that's what they get paid for. Still there lingers the recessive allele; one perfect example is the one I did months ago. This woman sure has a foul slit of a mouth on her; always says 'fuck' instead of 'screw' or almost any verb for that matter, it'd take 6 bottles of detergents to clean out that filthy mouth of hers. This is the kind clients should avoid; the mal-educated attitude of such population, a deplorable case. Third is status, which is a little off the line; there's the high class chicks and the euphemistic obituary known as the women in the street, not meaning your average Janes but of course the pick up women. I get a good share of the former when I'm stable and hog the latter when I'm hard up; just your pragmatic way of riding on the turn table. Difference between the classes isn't much of a digit either; if the girl didn't tell you she's from this group you probably wouldn't know till she shows you the bill. I did mention that they aren't the pretty, exquisite crowd of hookers like what you see in the movies such as 'Pretty Woman' and 'Identity' so it wouldn't really get to someone's neck that such distinguishing lines subsist. Fourth is age; I couldn't care less as long as she's not a soggy menopause. Most customers do enjoy their roles, however, if the girl's mature enough to know all techniques. Other than that nothing's really off the hook with older workers; they all have more or less the same size of holes anyway. And last is the performance. Some have infantile experience, some turn you up ok, but most are adept in this filthy profession which is why I change buddies almost every night. Right there is a clue to what I really am; a playbull or just plain bull, like Greg Kinnear's character in the flick 'Someone Like You'; once he's over doing a girl he'd go looking for another whom he hasn't slept with. Angles for multifarious sets of women damn near every night and doesn't like doing things more than once; typical me. But instances crop up when you're starving for one particular worker and that, as far as I'm concerned, is just file. You'll need to screw one girl more than once to get on top of it. If her service is liked by many she'd most possibly be scrapped from the stockroom all the time; so make sure you get to be more intimate with her which is as good as saying bed her as much as possible otherwise you'll miss her menu and come off almost empty handed by selecting from those who're hung out to dry. My thing? Nah. Performance is all I'm over the hill with since I can easily make do with a blindfold. Simply put, there's not much a heavyset excitement or delight in these things; just carnal lust or any sentient urge that'd soon eat itself up like a cannibal is taking over me. I'm probably just succumbing to my hormonal dash or I maybe mentally sick given that I'd rather die than to be a masturbating or a plain celibate. To a lesser or greater extent, there's just nothing anyone could change as one couldn't transform a wind into a ravaging tornado; things for me would go on running like a mill and not stop working out in the appointed end, which tells you why I'm again--for the umpteenth--inside Heartbeat club along Q______ Avenue.




I chose a compartment somewhere in the room's corner spot; a four-seater area. The place is frighteningly caved in, like a secluded underground compound with no virtual ventilation anywhere; makes me wonder where the cold's seeping in or where the hell is the fire exit sign. Basically a place where claustrophobic attacks become prone to patients. Here is like any other club; there're the stairs leading to the rooms in the next floors, restrooms, a flat dance floor, an elevated level in the right wing like the ones in opera houses, and a pole-less stage of about 20 meters as the main attraction. The approximation of the atmosphere is on both ends of the scale; equally extreme with no in-between. Could be carrying the feel of a pre-war serendipity or a post-war toast, something like that; it wouldn't probably make sense to anyone at that after all, I'm that lame at describing feelings. The lights are translucent crimson tooled with dark blue strobes that dance along with the mo town rhythm of the background. Marvin Gaye's record's being played by the band tonight, 'Heard it Through the Grapevine.' 70's blues aren't that tight to me but they sure give one a kick back for relaxation, if ever, I'd rather like to hear from Cheap Trick or Led Zeppelin when we talk about classics or fossils, say. Unfortunately, these guys' pitch doesn't just meet with disco house requirements so Black music are the frontliners to places like this. Music here is a sort of condiment they serve; the whole ambience being the main dish and the women as side ones. If any of the 3's missing; the whole wouldn't probably be considered as a fun place to be; so they're all needed for a more conducive atmosphere. Not too many people are present; familiar faces are visible though, the frequent bar pupils as usual, the dregs of society, and a number of fresh faces with fear printed all over them as if they've been forcefully hauled in front of the club's entrance. They're probably just here for rebellious domestic reasons or in the process of their christening as frequent novices, but then it's not really my business to pinpoint which is the veteran, the amateur, and the mug players. What I'm here for is to get laid as usual. None the more interesting, but here I am.




I drill my pocket for my lighter and puff up a Marlboro Light. I beckon to the waiter and triple my order for White Russian; he seems to be an ok chap, pure character and ageless. Uhmm, ageless because by his looks one could simply negate age's significance; if he says he's 17 everyone would've agreed, if he says he's 26 everyone would buy it just the same. I may want to have the same magic by which any age would just fit me; sounds cool, I could be immune from youth-related protocols if it were me. 5 minutes have passed; my cigarette scalding in half and my wine exquisitely served in an elegant decanter. The place reeks of squalid caprice with some clanky crowd patter to add to the sound pollution, and I'm mingling with it. I may even be a principal part of it in a deeper sense. I gulp down a couple of glasses; the substance isn't fierce enough to send burning sensation down my throat, should've gone for a double cocktail instead. Not that cocktails hit you fast in the head but these stuff sure give a layback relief once they've been given a swig; vodkas sans partners such as this one in my grip only stir a bunch of eddies inside my head, y'know, the dizzying swirls that knock you out almost mechanically after a third shot. And sure enough you'll get a hell of a headache in the morning; a nerve wrecking hangover as how it usually pays off for drinkers. I'm now prodding my third glass with a Pyrex mixer; still no go. I'm trying to rewind my memory lane to envision the women I've slept with just in case they come up to me and lure me under the covers; I could make up a couple of them but none resembles anyone here inside. I wonder if all of them are out on a day off at the same night, likely. I down another glass; one after another till my bill becomes longer and longer and my pocket shrinks to the smallest size it can get. Still no shadow slithering up to me. Doesn't anyone care for a night with me? This is chaos. A legendary devastation in my history book. Sigh. I request for a bag of wasabi chips to kill time with; an empty stomach during intercourse isn't advisable, it reduces appetite in a major scale. I munch on it till no grain sprays out of the bag when inverted and continue to sip alcohol till my cheeks go florid with rising blood and arteries. Then I begin to feel like tumbling headfirst on the table's surface; my neck's rigidity starts to decrease, my shoulders declining in a sloped motion, my eyesight becoming blurred and beady, and my respiration decelerating quickly. Other than the fact that imaginary riffs are assaulting my eardrums, right now I know next to nothing except that the alcohol spirit of the wine is taking its toll on me; not a very friendly way of taking revenge after being decimated to a drop, I guess. I shook my hands in an attempt to produce wavelike radiation through my veins so as to refrain them from being numb but the damn vodka did prick my spot really hard. I strive to find my smarts to pull me out but ideas just don't bounce off and keep on vanishing on thin air. Damn, I feel like a drugged punk.


Somebody's heading this way; a chick or a hooker who's probably able to catch the sound of my honking horn. An un-ceremonial approach from a sleep-over partner but hey, have I got a choice? I can't yet make anything out of this figure going nigh me but I sure can tell she's heating up inside. She fixes herself square in front of me and reclines her back on the wall. My eyes are still dysfunctional; so what I'm literally seeing now is a myopic vision. I can very well identify even the miniscule bits of trash on my table but an inch farther than that, all I can detect are distorted double images and this creature in front of me is no more than a watery picture of a body. Even trying to peep through the fog from my cigarette is kid's stuff compared to trying to see through this heinous obscurity jumbling with my eyesight. But I can feel her presence transmitting something through me, like a moving air that's so positively alluring I could just snag her by the collar and go straight somewhere where we can lay back and undress. My head's still swimming away and all I can feel is the weight anchoring my brain, pulling it vigorously to drown in an unfathomable ocean of lethargy and headache. The person just sits there watching me battle against this evil phenomenon and no matter how hard I try to shout help, my voice only comes out as sleepy yawn. Finally gravity wins over me as the whole of my upper part poises itself to fall down the surface of the table as if I'll eventually pass out and begin to snooze on job. I suddenly feel a hand fondling my back and trying to reclaim my former stance. She lifts me back to assume sitting position; her scent is redolent and somewhat masculine but ensnaring nonetheless, like the type that you'd look for when you're barred inside a dungeon. Really cute smell though. She places an arm around my waist and put mine on her shoulders; only now that I learn she's trying to scoop me up from the bank. By full reach of my awareness, it'll suffice it to say that she's going for a good go with me. I feel myself smiling; a distinctive smile that precedes good sex. I'm not sure why I'm letting this happen all the while when I can't even see what she looks like(not that I care about looks); something inside just tells me that I need to put a bit on the side with this person no matter what. I just have this off-centered hunch for god knows what reason; we're going to f*ck like crazy tonight, mad is it? And here it's been co-opted that we have the same connected intuition 'cos here we are scraping by the stairs for the love rooms. See? It all amounts to the same thing; sex-starved pair on the loose, me being the other half.

I hear a door creak open; next thing I know is I'm on the sheets. I begin to strip; skin to skin, I'm feeling every ounce of heat ricocheting on my layers. I'm still dead drunk and inarticulate but I still do know how to tell if I have a limp or a hard on and right now it's damn the latter. The woman isn't beside me; the sound of the open faucet in the bathroom next door tells she's getting prepped. I close my eyes and rummage through this obdurate headache; I'm meaning to get composed again but it just won't come off, I'm still blind and dumb and hell drunk. A door closes and subtle clunks of footsteps are heard louder and louder. Bed shakes a little. Someone's crawling on top of me; naked, fiery softness producing a hushed friction hovering above me, and a hand-playful, sly thing,- is gently grabbing on my erection. My length's getting stiff each second ,and a desirous moan is leaking out from my breast as I reach climax for the first time of the day. I feel a slow breath against my face and at perfect response, I thrust out my lips to kiss her face, her cheeks, ears, bangs, and lips. I give it further, licking all over her down to her neck; smooth plane against my tongue. She withdraws and puts her fill as an old timer; licks me back all over down to my throat, chest, stomach, until finally going down on me. The way she nibbles on my cock is beyond ethereal physical sensibility; oral stimulation has never been this heavenly, surpassing any elation brought about by vaginal moisture during the methodological process of sex itself. This is the sole and only excuse I can take on getting on top of me; an optimum fellatio. I never place myself under any body lest it be that thing, and mind you what she's doing down there right now is good in every sense of the word. She sure sucks right and not just right as in fine, but admittedly the best one I've had. It's controlled, taken cared of, yielding, and undeniably hardcore. She swallows every drop of my cum every time I come and man, I just love it that way. Most girls would probably rush to the bathroom the moment a modicum of semen touches their tongues and spit it straight on the toilet bowl to be flushed. But this girl rocks hard for ingesting it all. She does all the work, dirty or not, without asking to be reciprocated; it's like she's doing it with a limp blow up doll. Pity I can't return her favors; I'm too drunk to even bat an eye on her. Only one thing's a bit catchy in the scenario though; she's one aggressive bitch, and a little virile in her movements. Whatever; now that my dick's no longer heavy with sticky, oozy fluid, I can doze off comfortably.



...an old man's crouching in front of our garage fingering a car's piston; obviously peeled away from his car's hood to be repaired at once. He's got only a couple of equipment in his oversized engine kit; a screwdriver and a pen knife. How did a pen knife plunder its way through the damn box; don't ask me, I thought it was supposed to be a lock pick or some sort. Anyhow, picture this; a lanky old coot lounging somewhere in front of my house because his wheels just broke down and he's about to fix the third degree damage by excellent use of a screw driver and a pen knife. He says he's a mail man. I don't even know why a mail man would ride on a *Ford 850i '86 model to deliver a fucking letter. But he's into it anyway. He drops the cylinders and turns to me. He's asking for a glass of orange juice sprinkled with raw grains of Chinese rice, about 21/2 tablespoons he emphasizes. When I ask what with the silly grains he just says it'll get the engine working. Without a word, I acquiesce to this and head for our kitchen. I make a glassful of the hilarious recipe. The glass's slippery base slides from my palm and drops---twang...



A dream. It's morning. Limpid sun strokes are permeating through the almost transparent curtain; no lights or lamps on, just the natural clarity sent by the skies is reigning the area. Every piece of furniture of the room is in the right spot as it was yesterday; save that our clothes are draping everywhere. So last night's wild escapade did take place in here. The place is so quiet; a silence that follows a grisly massacre is lingering with the most infinitesimal particles of the bedroom. There's an idyllic air sweeping through the space which seems to spill out from a particular presence inside the room, not mine for sure. A merciless hangover is tormenting the insides of my skull but from its modesty, I know it has quelled down considerably. I search with my eyes (which are now wind down to normal vision); Someone's perched on the sofa bed adjacent to mine. I scratch my lids for a more accurate view. A raven haired, white skinned someone is blankly watching me. Kaede Rukawa. What the fuck is he doing here? Now I'm baffled 11 times. His face is lodged on me; effeminate, scornful visage of the freshman whom I play with everyday. 2 deep blue orbs against my naked torso. He's stripped too; only a pair of red boxers is girthing him. Did I pass on an orgy last night? Was Rukawa with us all the while? Where's the faceless, wonderful woman on top of me? Sigh. All those are nulled by Rukawa's presence in a fast pace. It's crucial to fill in the blanks now.


'Where is she, Rukawa?'



'What she?'



'The woman, asshole. The one who did me last night; where did you hide her?'



'No woman.'



'The fuck d'you mean by 'no woman?'



'No one. Just you and me.'



'You and me? I smell bullshit.'



'You were drunk.'



'Yeah, I fucking know.'



'I brought you here.'


'No bullshit to badness, Rukawa. Answer me; where is she? I need to pay her for last night's great fuck. I know I wasn't dreaming so quit pricking around me.'


'No need to pay me.'



'What d'you mean...'


'We banged away, sempai.'



'Kiss my ass.'



'No woman. It was me, sempai.'


Stillness. No woman. He and I. Last night. Best sex of my life. Hang on; I didn't get to enter her. Just gave me a hand and blowjob. Just that. Enough of the stupid periods. I didn't see the woman's face; there probably wasn't one anyway. But Rukawa. He raped me while I was dead drunk.


'You fucked me while I was asleep, didn't you?'


'...' nods.

'I thought you were a woman and you took advantage of my temporary betise. You senior-raping son of a gun! How can you-'


'You liked it, sempai.'


Me? Liked it? But...On the bright side, it's the best one I've had so far. I Probably even loved it. How did he learn to suck like that? Am I angry? I shouldn't be, perhaps...I should return the favor; it was good, extremely good indeed. Yes, maybe it's my turn to work on him now just for payback. My first time with a male. I don't know how to, but here goes nothing.



'Come here, Rukawa.'



END



A/N: I did put a caution. Please don't condemn me for this. It's un-edited so just ignore the typos and errors. I may want to work on a sequel if it turns out okay but I'm gonna make it discreet and conservative. Thanks for reading.

The 7 Day Itch

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. the events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Summary: Rukawa's not satisfied; Mitsui's just not giving it right. What's it about them that needs a little tuning? Is 7 days worth enduring? Find out. One shot. Rated.
Warning: F word all over. Lotsa dirty, lewd talk; in fact this is all about filth talk so kids can back off.
A/N: Title's inspired by Marilyn Monroe's hit film.

Sweat of indignation drips freely from his steaming, porous skin; teeth grinding ferociously and brows furrowing in zenith fury. He rushes out of his classroom in maximum acceleration until barging in the stair set. He slackens his pace, breathing more calmly at each stair step as he ascends one more flight. An excruciating beat drums from his nape down to the soles of his feet; he begins to tremble all over. He pauses for another second upon entering the 3rd floor corridor, reluctantly reverting his thought on the crumpled piece of paper in his obdurately clenched fist. His temperament smoulders truculently at the recollections of the lines blotted on that dreadful note. Those words, soaring out to pierce him and to subvert him ultimately; he won't take it, none of it. There's his room; 302 it says, and as the distance between him and that room retrenches, he feels all the more prone to another savage attack of high blood pressure. He gives a good hard effort to obliterate the dissolute looking face he's been wearing all morning but it only troughs him not to unleash the outbursts of his anger. He canters further forward the room, increasing both agility and courage to face the guileless culprit who's been causing his distress lately. He knocks at his classroom door, almost assaulting the durable plywood with the destructive banging of his stalwart knuckles.

A formidable looking educator flings the portal open.

'You need something, Mr.?'

'Your student.' Mitsui answers.

'Which one?'

'Rukawa.'

Rukawa wades through the professor and faces Mitsui as if to survey him. The professor shuts the door behind him to leave the arguing lovers.

'What the fuck d'you mean by a cool off?' Mitsui chides in almost immediately. He scoops up the letter to Rukawa. All plush wrath.

'Forget about it.'

'You're just repeating what's on that goddamn letter. Any other say?' Mitsui says, punctuating the dull silence following Rukawa's reply.

'7 days of break up, that's all.'

'What, Rukawa?' A terrified disbelief is pencilled on the senior's face.

'Just for 7 days, sempai.'

'What's the point?' Mitsui throws a look of questioning irritation. There's no way he's taking it kindly.

'I need a break.'


'You're such a sloth. Snap the fuck out it.' Mitsui releases a smelting hiss as he rolls his sapphire blue pupils in a conic motion.


'I'm getting bored, sempai.’

'Talk to yourself; I'm having fun.' Mitsui declares a matter-of-factly, reclaiming a portion of his self-possession.

'You're hampering me.'

'Quit repining, Rukawa; you're being a sassy bitch to me.' Mitsui gives deadly snarl. Hot blood on the boil.

'It's my right to complain,'

'You've got no grounds for it; I'm screwing you just right every night. Ungrateful bastard,' Mitsui snucks a venomous glare and a rictus of fictitious pain.

'No. You're not.'

'I know how to fuck anyone good; you, most of all.' A quarrying facial contortion crosses Mitsui's face. Sore spot's been hit.

*Sigh* Save it for next week; I want a vacay,'

'You're not missing a session with me, got that? ' Mitsui says in an awful, chafing growl.

'I am. I'm peeled down by your...'

'By my pleasurable, irresistible, adept techniques? How can you refuse me? Or even stand a night without me?' Mitsui splits an evil smile adorned with stroke of wincing, almost lethal, sarcasm.

'I'll try it, then. Give me a week.'

Silence. Mitsui's goading expression challenges Rukawa's self imposed listlessness.
'I get it; I'm the only one who can read you, Kaede. Go on then, fix that execrable impairment of yours...' Mitsui whacks a snide grin of insinuating malice.

'What impairment?'

'What else? Your phallic problem; I see you can't manage proper erection on me.' Mitsui says licentiously after a snobbish hmpph.

'I always have, you know that.'

'Keep telling yourself that. I can damn well tell a limp from a boner, Kaede; I'm a junkie.' Another of Mitsui's malevolent, rankling smile. This alerts Rukawa's vulnerable irritation.

*Sigh* Have a fuck-free mind for a minute at least, sempai.'
'Is celibacy that in these days, Kaede? Not me; I'll always be your next-door hare...ever,' Mitsui releases a forced, diabolic guffaw.

'Maybe. But try to hang on by yourself, sempai. I'm sure you wouldn't lose the touch.'

'Are you telling me to fuck myself while you're away, Kaede? You think I'll masturbate as a final resort? Drop dead, skink; I'm not the cheap chap you think I am.' Mitsui roars with a ravishing, devilish glance. He's festered enough to pummel the other down alright.

*Sigh* I'm going. But how're you gonna get on?'


'I haven't set you free. You're going to bed me non-stop still and see me every break, right? Now cut the cackle 'cos you're being the principal bitch of this goddamn life I'm running, really.' Mitsui retorts with a threatening, imminent gaze.

'Uhmm. Give the 7 days I need. I'll see after that.'

'Fuck you. What d'you need 7 days for? You doing anyone besides me, Kaede? You want a slab of beating?' Mitsui growls in an even deadlier leer.

'No. I want a layoff. That's all.'

'You're winding me up. Just tell me what you want; I'll sound you out, promise.' Mitsui gives in, his brows in sceptic furrow. A silence floats over with a tinge of doom's chill; no hint of auspices lingers in the dead air, not for Hisashi Mitsui.

'...'
Protracted stillness. Then a sudden, gentle smile sweeps the senior's face.

'Kaede, if you want me to take it slower; all you have to do is ask.'

'...'

10,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'If it's the dirty talk you don't like, I'll scrap it.'

'...'

20,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'I know! Maybe you hate being pinched. I'll stop that then.'

'...'

30,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'Uhmm...Kaede, don't you like the way I stroke you? If not, just tell me.'

'...'

40,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'You hate the colour of my undies, right?'

'...'

50,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'You don't wanna be bitten on the ears?'

'...'

60,000 watt mega handsome smile.


'You want me to take showers every night?'

'...'

70,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'You don't wanna be the sucker anymore? I'll be that then.'

'...'


80,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'I'll no longer pull you by the hair when you're going down on me.'

'...'

90,000 watt mega handsome smile.

'You're behind's swelling bad?'


'Fuck you.'

100,000 decibel super hoarse growl.


'God damn it, Kaede! What is it?! You want to be on top? What? Am I talking to a wall here?' Mitsui yells, transforming the whole corridor into a subterranean inferno.

'No. I want it no other way. But a week off is necessary. Ok, sempai?'

'I smell bullshit. Since when did you not love getting laid?' A smoke-puffing anger is astir on the senior's note.

'Now.'

'Oh yeah? This is fucking lame. You think I'll pine for you when you're out there screwing someone else? Don't worry, starting from now I wouldn't care half a nut whether that prick of yours goes in anybody's hole; just don't come back-'

'I told you; I have no one.'

'Yeah, right. Like Rukawa and chastity go together in perfect harmony; really, I don't think you can abstain a night sex...it's written on you, rabbit.'

'I'm not like you.'

'Fuck that, foxy.'

'I'm sorry, sempai. but-'

'No buts. Just hit the right mark; are you dumping me?'

'...'

'What?! Recall the alphabet, dumby; nay or no?'

'Yes.'

'You're skating on thin ice. You should know better than underscoring me like a retard, arse head; you can't find anyone like me anymore, not in a million years.'


'I know. But I just need 7 days; after that, I'll see if I want you back.'


'I'm not a commodity to be discarded and retrieved just like that, and I'm no fucking harlot either. What d'you think I'm doing you for?'

'I don't know.'

'It's because I love you.'

'I don't feel it.'

'What can I do to make you feel?'

'7 days, sempai.'

'7 days, then what of us?'

'I'll see.'

'Why're you doing this to me?'

'Jealous.'

'Jealous? Fuck, with whom?'

'Tetsuo.'

'Oh, Shit. Not that apish numskull. You can't be juxtaposed in any level with Tesuo and certainly not I being the judge here. Rukawa, that's childish envy. I don't like that.'

'Do you like him?'

'Fuck, what d'you think of me? He's just good for his motorcycle ride; he doesn't even wear helmets. You think I'd go for zany riffraff like him over you?

'Really?'

'No guesswork for that, Rukawa; You're a thousand times more desirable.'
'I am?'

'Sure as cause precedes effect. Will you come now?'

'I don't know.'

'You're just snugging me under the fog with that unsure frame of mind of yours. Think straight. Can you endure 7 days without me?'

'....'

'This is stretching forever; Kaede, I'm waiting. Can you do it without Hisashi Mitsui? 7 days? you're being mean to yourself if you ask me. It stands to reason; abstinence isn't your thing.'

'Ok...I can't.'

'Good. *Sigh*. You just gave me a mean day, you know tha?’

'I'm sorry, sempai.'

'Don't mention it. I'll see you later.

Smiles.

END