Also, chapter one sets the tone for
the story. This is a very adult story. Please read only if you feel you
are mature enough to handle the content.
Fly Away From Here
Ishida Yamato walked wearily up the
stairs towards the door to the apartment he shared with his father. Light
from the streetlamps created flickering shadows across the stained carpet
floor of the hallway. Yamato's feet slid sluggish closer to his destination.
When he finally reached the door, he stared stupidly at it for a full minute,
attempting to remember how it opened. As if a little-used light bulb had
suddenly clicked on in his brain, he reached into his pocket and pulled
out his keys. Fumbling until he found the right one, Yamato set his guitar
case down against the door with a dull thump.
A sudden muffled moan from inside
the apartment startled him out of his mental fog. Yamato wondered who would
be inside his home at that time, and realized that he didn't even know
what time it was. He checked his watch and shook his head, surprised
at the answer. He brought it closer to his eyes and squinted at the little
digital numbers, which danced in front of his tired vision like hyperactive
little green bugs.
Three things happened at once, then.
First, the door was wrenched open from the inside, revealing Yamato's father
in his disheveled pajamas. Secondly, his guitar case fell inward, landing
between his father's feet with a sickening crack. Third, Yamato yelped
in surprise and dropped his keys between his own feet.
"What are you doing here?" they both
asked each other at the same time. Masaharu looked half dead, with dark
rings under his eyes, and his shoulders slumped from fatigue. His son wasn't
in much better condition.
Yamato swallowed before he spoke,
and told his heartbeat to return to normal. "I just got done with band
practice," he answered. He reached down and retrieved his keys. Then, cocking
his head to one side, "You're usually not home yet."
His father sighed, gently grabbing
the neck of the guitar case and pulling the instrument up. "Yeah, well,
we ran out of regular coffee at work, but I didn't have any money to go
buy some more, so I came back here to get some. Once I got in, I realized
I was just too tired to go back, so I went to bed." His eyes narrowed as
he met Yamato's gaze. "It's almost two in the morning. Do you always practice
this late?" he asked accusingly.
Yamato took his guitar out of Masaharu's
hands and slipped through the open door and past him. "I - uh - no - no,
not usually," he stammered, turning red, and ducking his head to hide it.
"We just got - wrapped up - in the . . . music . . . and," he trailed off
as his father closed and locked the front door and turned around, staring
at him wearily.
"I didn't know it was so late," Yamato
finished lamely, mentally kicking himself. His father would ask what was
going on, he was sure of it.
Masaharu simply nodded and ambled
back off to bed, though, shutting his bedroom door behind him. Yamato sighed
in relief and kicked off his shoes. He walked silently to his own room,
pushing the door shut behind him and leaning against it. His head fell
forward against his chest and he sighed again. That was too close,
he told himself. I've got to be more careful. He's going to find out
one of these days. Yamato shuddered and pushed himself off the door.
He set his guitar case gently on his bed, and opened it, checking to make
sure his precious instrument hadn't cracked when it fell. It was okay.
Dimming the overhead lights, Yamato
pulled off his school jacket and threw it on the floor as he walked back
toward the door. He put his ear against the crack, listening for any sounds
that would indicate his father was still awake. Soft, distant snores were
all he heard. Carefully, Yama locked his door, wincing at the noise the
bolt made when it shot home.
Unbuttoning his shirt and sliding
it off, Yamato walked over to his dresser. His CD player sat on top, and
he turned it on, turning the volume down, low enough not to wake Masaharu,
but loud enough to cover what noise the blond planned on making. Yamato
threw his white long-sleeved school shirt over the back of the wooden chair
by his desk and pulled off the tshirt he wore underneath. Standing in front
of the full-length mirror on his closet door, he slowly, sensually unbuckled
his belt and undid the button and zipper on his pants. He admired his own
form as he slid his trousers off his slender legs.
Yamato bent down and pulled his socks
off. The CD player went silent for a few seconds as it hit a break between
songs and Yama gave himself one last scrutinizing look in the mirror before
turning off the light and laying back on his bed. He usually wore boxers,
but since he hadn't had any clean ones, he'd worn a pair of dark blue briefs
that day.
Yamato rubbed his neck with his right
hand, feeling the curves and bumbs. As he moved his hand down his chest
and stomach, he wished, not for the first time, that his ribs didn't protrude
out so much. No matter how much he ate, he was unable to gain any weight.
I have the perfect figure,
he thought. Any girl would kill to be as thin as I am. He squeezed
his eyes shut. I should have been born a girl! Life would be so much
easier! I could just tell him how I feel, and it wouldn't matter
what anyone thought, because girls are expected to like guys, but guys
can't like other guys.
I'm a freak.
Yamato moved his fingers lightly
over the line of nearly-invisible fuzz that started just below his belly
button. He let his hand play with the elastic band of his briefs for a
second before he raised his hips and slipped his underwear down a few inches.
His erection bobbed up, a reminder that he couldn't control himself whenever
he pictured the object of his desire. Reaching blindly into the drawer
beside his bed, Yamato pulled out a small bottle of lotion. He squeezed
a glob out onto his hand, then put it back in the drawer.
I'm not normal, he told himself,
setting a slow rhythm. If I were normal, I wouldn't be fantasizing about
guys all the time. I wouldn't get hard just thinking his name. Yamato's
throat tightened. I wouldn't feel so confused, so alone all the time!
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Why can't I be normal? he
asked himself, as the music concealed the slippery noises he made. Why
am I gay?
