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