To Be Like Him

JUST BECAUSE I like to push the idea of Ike being a sneaky little closet homosexual who enjoys invading his older brother's privacy and lusting over Stan. And Kyle. Although that's rather gross. At least they're not blood brothers.

Always wanted to have Ike do something like this. He is a rather strange kid, you know with the whole having sex with his kindergarten teacher thing.

IKE IS SATAN'S CHILD. D: Srsly ppl.

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They're thrown over each other, sleeping like beasts. I wrinkle my nose as if I'm disgusted by the sight.

But I'm not.

I'm disgusted with myself.

Every night that Stan is over I sneak into my older brother's room to watch them. And to try to keep myself from that strong yearning feeling that grips me sometimes.

I have to prove to myself that there is nothing I want here.

I don't want to feel Stan's sweaty skin against mine, his stiff lust pushing into my hip, or Kyle's perfectly mismatched eyes boring a hole in my soul, my fingers dancing on his washboard abs. But no matter how many times I tell myself this, I still get the feeling of stifled sounds of lust in my throat, and that aching in my chest.

This is who you are, my mind will tell me, although I insist, It's NOT , I'm NOT like that. But I'm losing this battle. That's the one thing I'm sure of.

Maybe my intoxication with them was had something to do with our differences. It fascinated me. They were strong where I was spindly, handsome where I was not, and men, where I was but a boy.

And so this battle with myself led me in here, to hide in the darkness and imagine that I was one of them.

This particular night it's raining outside, the soft noise masking my footfalls as I approach them. I'm able to get close enough to see the beads of sweat still dotting their tanned skin. They've had sex.

A wave of relief sweeps through me as I feel my stomach churn. I try to ignore the fact that this sickness I'm feeling is the product of jealousy. It's a jealous kind of sick. Not a repulsed one as I would have liked.

I step on a clothing item, and bending down through the darkness, I pick it up. Boxers. I don't know who's but it's not like I care. I try to stuff them into my pocket.

A noise distracts me.

It's like a whimper and a groan combined. I stand up quickly, then freeze.

Someone moves on the bed. It's Stan. I can see that he is pressed up against my brother, a complete look of bliss on his face. He's actually smiling in his sleep. I didn't think that anyone actually did that. Guess you have to see it to believe it.

I notice now that Stan is naked, his lower half covered in the twisted sheet, laying loosely over his groin.

Oh, God. I wish I were that damn sheet right now. I think before I can stop myself. I blush at this silly thought, but am unable to get the picture from my mind, the feeling that sheet would get, if sheets could feel.

Now I just want to hit myself.

My eyes glide over Kyle, relishing in his beauty. I notice that the sheet isn't covering him, but I can't see anything in the shadow that is hanging over his sleeping form.

His mouth is open slightly, and I can almost see the tops of his white teeth.

My breathing is irregular and raspy compared to his soft baby breaths, the puffs of air stroking Stan's chiseled jaw and soft cheek, brushing his hair.

I half wish I could tear his face so he wouldn't be so goddamn perfect.

My brother has never been anything but perfect. He's the athlete, the smart one, the handsome, dashing one.

But he's not perfect I guess.

He's the crazy one, the risk taker, the stunt-devil, the one who's always prone to injury after injury. Sometimes I wish I could share his scars and battle wounds. This aspect of him does not make him perfect to my parents, but to everyone else, it seems to be a fast hold to his popularity, his perfectness.

He's the rebel. I'm the victim.

I do what ever our parents want, or at least they think I do. I don't have the nerve to openly disobey them.

I'm the quiet, easy one, the one who, if I didn't wear such 'gothic' (my parents word, not mine) clothes, would be introduced to the neighbor's friends, my parent's friends, with a proud smile.

It's hard to look and not want to be. To be everything that he is and that he stands for.

I want to be Ike. The Ike. Not just 'Kyle's little brother Ike'.

But I probably never will be. I just don't have it.

Stan stirs again in his sleep, making a groaning noise. I jump slightly, my eyes focusing on him in the dark. He's just as bad as my brother. Or maybe just as perfect. Maybe it's the same damn thing at the end of the day.

I take one last longing look at the sleeping boys, before I tuck the pair of burgundy boxers farther into my pocket and high tail it from the room.

Their room. I don't belong there. Not with them. For I am not a god.

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Then he ran back to his room and made the boxers his pillowcase.

Ike's so totally emo. o3o

The end. Until the next one. REMEMBER: REVIEWS EQUALS MORE UPDATES!

-sweetfur