The story of Peter Santiago and Ouran Hayes.
The broken, bullied and desperate, willing to change himself even if it kills him.
The exalted, shamed and objectified. Too torn up to care anymore.
The story of two impossibly different bo...
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The sky was a churning mass of grey, the clouds heavy and ripe yet not ready to shower the cracked asphalt of the basketball court with rain. Ouran slumped his body against the chain lick fence bordering the court, relishing in the cool, restless wind whipping through his hair, heavy with the scent of a storm.
Ouran watched as the clouds wrestled and writhed in anticipation, already cloaked in shawls of lead grey and pearly white, ready to kiss the parched earth with their cool, sweet lips. He watched as the wind fought with the trees, violently ripping leaves of branches and bending them backwards, tossing them around like a lone boat on the ocean, taunting and teasing, restless with fervent excitement.
Ouran found solace in the chaos around him. It drowned out the chaos of his mind. The utter madness that reverberated in his ears, roaring as loud as the wind and churning as frenzied as the sky.
"A fucking asshole"
"What is wrong with you?"
"Object. Object. Object"
"Fucking asshole"
"All you can do is suck and fuck"
"Asshole!"
"He broke her heart" "Just like your goddamn father!"
"What a fucking slut"
"What is wrong with you?"
Ouran smashed his head against the chain link and screwed his eyes shut, slowly sinking to the ground, the tumult of his thoughts spiking louder than the storm, completely enveloping him in its screams.
What was wrong with him?
Why couldn't he just bask in the attention like a normal guy?
Why didn't he just act like Himuro Fujikawa or Andrew Bobrowski and bask in the worship of this small town.
Why didn't he-
"Hey"
A voice cut through the chaos like a knife through butter, raspy and lilting, leathered with involuntary concern.
It made Ouran's heart stop.
Iggy Henderson stood a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of his ratty black slacks, the battered old army jacket he wore over his uniform whipping around him in the wind.
They just looked at each other. Faces neutral and guarded, eyes assessing yet trying to appear bored.
Ouran studied Iggy's body for any tension or slight movements, anything indicating a lunge of power and a sudden brawl. But Iggy was totally relaxed, though his face was guarded his whole body was slacked, like he was just strolling along and happened to find Ouran wallowing in self-pity on his way.
