AN: It's another "Genderbent Loud House story collection."

I don't know if anybody's interested in another one of these, but I thought it'd be fun to at least give it a shot. Mostly, I wanted to try to explore how each character might be viewed/treated if they were interested in the same hobbies as their female counterparts but were boys instead of girls, since that wasn't really touched upon in One of the Boys. Rather than rewrite episodes of the show I'm going to try writing some original scenarios, mostly centered around positive brotherly interactions, and depending on the response to this first story I'll try to make this a semi-regular thing. Anyway, I hope you like this first story. It's about Lars and Luke.

Black Sheep Boy

A sea of black ink grew ever-larger and more viscous on the otherwise white page of Lars' notebook as he tip-tapped the point of his pen on the paper.

He had been sitting there for the better part of an hour, lost in the rhythm and cross-legged in the open casket he called his bed, his composition notebook of poems spread open like a giant butterfly on his lap. Usually the words flowed freely from his pen, but on that day he found himself unable to make more sophisticated marks on the page.

Staring into the blot of ink, that void into which all his thoughts were sucked in and annihilated, Lars asked himself if he had anything left to say with his writing. For his art, he usually drew from his feelings of isolation and loneliness, pouring his soul into his poetry. Was his soul empty now? Had he become like a inkwell run dry at only eight years old, before his true skills could fully mature and blossom? Such worries entered his mind every so often during particularly nasty stretches of writer's block. Inevitably, of course, something would always come to him, some renewed sense of inspiration or an outside muse to provide reinvigoration. If only he knew where to find them.

Linka would probably know, he thought. She was the only one in the house who knew of his passion for writing.

Months back, his notebook had disappeared. How it happened he still wasn't sure, as he almost never dared to take it anywhere outside of his room or his many little secret dark places around the house. Perhaps some mischievous ghost or poltergeist took it and hid it, Lars wondered. He made a mental note to ask the spirits that dwelt in the house what happened during the next seance he conducted. In any event, he nearly tore each and every chamber of the house upside down and inside out to find it, desperate to do so before any of his siblings discovered it first. It wasn't manly for boys to sit around writing poetry, especially the type of soul-baring stuff he specialized in, and the absolute last thing he needed in his life was for them to have more ammunition to tease him with. Especially Lynn. It was bad enough having to share a room with him.

After a long day of searching without success, he retired to his room, resigned to what he was sure would be a miserable future full of humiliation. He was surprised to see Linka standing there, poetry book clutched in her grip. Rather than make a big fuss, she only set it on his bed, assured him that his secret was safe with her, and casually added that she'd always have his back before leaving.

That night, after Lynn fell asleep, Lars wrote a quatrain in tribute to his only sister, a commemoration of how she made him feel a little less alone in the world.

In a way, he was actually glad she discovered his secret. It meant that he could go to her for writing advice without fear of judgement. She was surprisingly insightful about his craft. Many a time since she found out about his hobby did she rescue a failing verse with a helpful suggestion, usually a rhyme.

Perhaps he could go to her now for her help in breaking down the dam that kept the words from flowing from his mind.

On second thought, he didn't want to come to rely on her too much. Did Oscar Wilde need help writing Ravenna, or Walt Whitman for Song of Myself? So Lars ended up going back to one of his familiar tricks for getting the creative juices flowing; free-writing. He brought his pen back to the paper again and started freely scrawling whatever came to mind with no filter to hold him back:

Red robin flitters in a ribcage
Cockroach stagecoach carries beetles to the ball
Black-tongued cherry-eyed infants nibble and encrust
Children get older
But bronze and silver never get any golder

He paused. Yes, there was definitely something at the end there. A sonnet about the fleeting nature of youth, perhaps? It was a subject Lars fancied himself an expert in, despite being only a child himself. He could see himself now; a modern day Lord Byron, locked away in his room for days on end, not even leaving to eat as he worked on his magnum opus. With a tiny grin Lars gripped his pen ever tighter, determined to follow this new bit of inspiration to its conclusion. This was it, nothing could hold him back-

The tell-tale jangle of the turning door knob broke his concentration. Lars panicked at the sound, abandoning his delusions of grandeur as he entered fight-or-flight mode, choosing the latter option. In a hurry he shut his book and stuffed it into his bed, then reached to the floor, where among the dirty clothes and pieces of his brother's sports equipment that littered his room there lay one of his horror comic books, one he had already read several times. He snatched it up and folded it open before his eyes, trying to appear engrossed in the images of blood and gore and vampire slayers that decorated the glossy pages.

In walked Lynn, drenched in sweat and squirting water into his mouth from a green plastic bottle, a foul smell that was salty and nauseating following behind him. Lars had grown used to his room stinking like a gym locker thanks to his bunk mate, but when the stench was this overwhelming he couldn't help but be caught off guard.

"'Sup loser," Lynn greeted offhand, though without malice. It was like he thought of the insult as just another nickname for his little brother.

Lars sighed. "Hi Lynn. How was your run?"

"Good, good. Ran ten miles. What've you been doing? Just laying around, reading your dumb comics?"

There was a slight hint of disapproval in Lynn's tone, but nothing Lars couldn't handle. "Yup," he answered, not taking his eyes from the page.

"Lame," Lynn said, but left it at that. He may have thought that comic books were a waste of time that could be better spent exercising or playing sports, but he couldn't find too much fault in the idea of a little boy enjoying them, especially the ultraviolet kinds Lars seemed to prefer. He walked to his dresser and ruffled through the messy drawers until he produced a clean outfit. "I'm gonna go hit the shower," he said as he started back towards the door, but paused just as he was about to step through the frame. Smiling mischievously, he went over to his brother's bed and sat on the edge. "But first, I got a little present for ya."

Having him so close brought beads of nervous sweat to Lars' forehead. Trying to keep his expression blank, he brought down the comic on his lap so he could look at Lynn's smirking face. It wasn't like his brother to get him presents unless it was his birthday or Christmas and their mom and dad made him. "Wh-what kind of present?" he asked.

Lynn answered by lifting his leg and letting a rotten-egg smelling horn blast of flatulence sound through the air around Lars' bed. Before the eight year old had time to react, Lynn pushed him by the scalp into the casket, stood up, and held the lid shut. "A dutch oven!" he shouted, cackling all the while.

Inside the coffin, Lars held his breath and struggled to be let out, punching and kicking at the lid to no effect. He'd have been screaming if not for the fact that he didn't want to open his mouth and let any of that rancid air enter his lungs. Ten or so seconds passed in that putrid box before finally Lynn let go and allowed his brother to escape. Lars immediately burst out of his bed, climbing to the floor while he sucked in clean oxygen in heavy breaths like he were a landlocked fish. "I told you…to stop…doing that!" he wheezed out between gasps.

"Oh, boo-hoo," Lynn said, rolling his eyes as his laughter died down, "learn to take a joke." He began to turn around, intending to go about his original plan to take a shower, when something caught his eye in Lars' coffin, nestled away in one of the creases where the cushion met the wooden frame. "What's this?" he asked, dropping his change of clothes and reaching for Lars' book.

Lars was still recovering from the gas attack, but when he looked up and saw the journal in his brother's hands panic and dread filled the volume of his person. Immediately he shot up on his feet, trying as hard as he could to appear unalarmed even as every synapse in his brain shot off like fireworks. "Nothing," he said, a little too quickly to be believable.

"Oh my God," Lynn said in disbelief as he opened to a random page and saw what was written there, "is this poetry?" The word dripped out of his mouth with disgust, mockery staining each syllable.

By then a blush was blooming on Lars' cheeks, a rare sight considering his usually sallow complexion. "It's, um…a project they're making me do for school…" It was an obvious lie, the first thing that came to his head as he reached for his book. Lynn pulled it away just as Lars' fingers brushed against the cover.

"Really?" Lynn said incredulously, "'Cause some of these are dated back to June." Flipping to a random page, he came across a poem that seemed to particularly make him sneer. "Jeez, listen to this crap…I am a golem with an asphalt heart/Pumping concrete blood through aqueduct veins/Knock me over; I'll fall apart/Shale skin and a stone brain" As soon as he finished reading he began to fight back a snorting kind of laughter, derisive and cruel, making a big show of how he was barely able to hold it in. "Wow dude, that is, um…really something." It was painfully apparent that he didn't mean it in a good way.

"Sh-shut up," Lars stuttered and stammered in reply, his face now blood-colored all over, "just give it back." Again he lunged for his book, and again Lynn pulled it away, running off with it into the hallway outside their bedroom.

"You want it?" Lynn taunted over his shoulder while Lars gave chase, "Then come and get it!"

They ran through the upstairs, usually such a noisy place for one reason or another, most often from the screams of the twins as they had one of their countless fights, the small explosions that sounded from any of Levi's experiments gone awry, or the high pitched cry of Leon after being woken from a nap. On this day the sound of Luke practicing his guitar provided accompaniment for Lynn's little game of keep away, quick and heavy riffs that matched the anger bubbling to the surface of Lars' being as he chased his brother. Of course he was no match for Lynn's speed, even if Lynn did make sure to slow himself down for no other reason than to taunt his little brother further with the false hope that he could ever catch him and get his book back.

"Lynn, I'm serious!" Lars yelled. It was rare to see him so heated. Usually his only preferred outlet for his rage were his poems. Up ahead at the end of the corridor, Loki walked out of the bathroom, too preoccupied with checking to make sure his fly was up to notice his two younger brothers running.

"Loki, think fast!" Lynn called out just as Lars was finally about to gain some ground on him. He threw the notebook through the air to his eldest sibling, who looked up in surprise as soon as he heard the sound of Lynn's voice. Reflexively he brought his hand up, catching the journal in his grasp.

"What's this?" Loki asked, having been caught off guard.

"Check it out! Our little bro is a poet," Lynn answered, making sure to sound as infantile as possible. He and Lars were locked in a one-sided wrestling match, with Lars struggling to push his way past his brother, though Lynn was effortlessly able to hold him back.

"It's mine, give it back!" Lars demanded. He finally managed to fight his way through Lynn and went to stand before his oldest brother, who towered over him with a cross look on his face, astounded at the idea of an eight year old boy demanding anything of him. Lars realized upon looking up at that face that taking such a tone may not have been a good idea. Switching tactics, he clasped his hands in front of his chest in a begging gesture, making an effort to seem as small and pathetic as possible. "Please?" he whimpered almost like a whining dog. He hoped against hope Loki would take pity on him and just hand the book over without a word.

For a moment, it seemed his wish would come true. "Yeah, sure Lars," Loki started, his expression softening, "you can have it back." He bent down and made a tentative motion to return the book, and Lars was nearly so shocked by this gesture that he almost forgot to reach for it. Almost. He raised his hand to grab it, yet just as he was able to form a loose hold on the cover Loki snatched it away in a flash. "You just have to catch it first! Go long Lynn!" At that he tossed the book through the air like a discus to the other side of the hallway, where Lynn, well trained after years of playing football, effortlessly ran and caught it.

A game of monkey in the middle ensued, still set to the sounds of Luke's punk rock guitar blasting from his room. "Guys, this isn't funny!" Lars moaned as he ran back and forth between his brothers as they tossed the book to one another, too high for him to jump up and intercept.

When Lynn last caught it, it landed in his hand all splayed open, with pages exposed. It was in such a position when a fourth voice all of a sudden entered the mix. "Leave him alone!" Linka yelled at the top of her lungs at the other end of the hall. For a moment the game was forgotten as the three brothers turned to look at their sister standing before her door with her hands on her hips, almost like she thought of herself as a superhero come to Lars' rescue. Her older brothers, of course, were unintimidated.

"What?" Lynn asked Lars, "You're such a pansy you need your sister to fight your battles for you?"

"Lay off him, Lynn," Linka said as she went to stand by her little brother, "you guys are just jealous."

Loki snorted in disbelief. "Oh, are we?"

"Yeah! You guys wish you were as creative and deep as Lars is, instead of being a couple of big bullies. You both need to realize that none of this macho crap matters, and that there's nothing wrong with being sensitive, like Lars is." She folded her arms across her chest and held her chin high, confidently smiling secure in the belief that she made her point. She could see it in her mind; Loki and Lynn, ashamed of how they were acting, would give Lars his journal back, apologizing profusely all the while. Maybe even afterwards Loki would bring his younger siblings in for a big group hug. She could practically hear a studio audience awww'ing in the background of her fantasy.

The reality, of course, was that as soon as the words left her mouth, her big brothers looked to each other a split second before bursting into laughter, great full-bellied horse laughs as Lars buried his crimson face in his hands, wishing he could disappear completely. "You're not helping," he growled at his sister through clenched teeth under his breath.

"Sure, whatever Linka," Loki said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, "We were just fooling around. Lynn, give the dweeb his cringey emo diary back, will ya?" With that, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, staring down and tapping the screen as he went back into his room, leaving his three younger siblings alone in the hall.

"Yeah yeah, alright," Lynn said. He went over to Lars, still with his face in his palms, and made a motion to hand the book over, when he saw something scrawled on the open page that caught his attention. It was a short poem, only a few lines, dated from the previous week. What piqued his interest, however, was the title. "Lynn," it was called. "Wait a minute, is this one about me?" He stepped back a few feet and held it in front of his eyes, at first confused, then angry.

"Oh no…" Lars muttered. By then he sounded utterly defeated, unable even to put up a fight anymore, leaving his sister to do the remainder of the fighting on his behalf.

"Lynn," Linka said, "this has gone on long enough. Loki told you to give it back."

"In a minute!" he snarled, keeping his eyes on the poem. Unlike before, there was no trace of teasing or humor in his tone, only anger as he read aloud what was on the paper. "My brother Lynn, I can hardly begin/To list every loathsome and obnoxious sin/And all of the pain that I feel within/Is because for eight years to me you have been/As welcome as a splinter under my skin/As stinking as an overflowing garbage bin/As awful as an eye being popped by a pin/How I wish each night that we were not kin/Lynn."

He stopped and stared coldly at his little brother, who turned his head away from his sight in shame. Linka at first appeared hurt on behalf of Lynn for all the nasty things the poem said about him. Then she remembered the circumstances, and what it must've been like rooming with him full time, and her sympathy practically evaporated. She once had to endure a few nights with him sharing her room, and had she Lars' enthusiasm for writing she could probably fill a hundred notebooks with poetry about that hellish week alone. At the end of the day, the fact that Lars only had one poem decrying his older brother's less than admirable qualities was almost something of a miracle as far as she was concerned. "Okay," she said with a shrug, "so Lars wrote something just to vent. Big deal. You gotta admit, you can be kinda hard to live with sometimes. Trust me, I know."

"Oh yeah?" was all Lynn said. Without another word, he walked with purpose past Linka and Lars, into the open bathroom, where he held the book over the toilet, not appearing to take any kind of joy in the action. At that moment the music from Luke's room ceased, and all was silent for once in the house, as if to highlight what was about to happen. "This book is full of shit, and you know where shit goes?" Before his siblings could rush over to stop him, Lynn dunked the book into that bowl of tainted water, leaving only the corner by which he held it dry. He then tossed it at his brother and sister, who both stepped back to avoid getting splashed. His task finished, Lynn shut the bathroom door, and within seconds the shower was running and steam was wafting into the hallway.

It landed face open, giving Lars a chance to see that all the ink was running down the damp papers like rivers of black, the words all distorted into shapes barely discernible. He fell to his knees before it, shoulders slumped, too emotionally numb to cry, opting instead to sigh in resignation even though what he really wanted to do was scream at the ceiling.