A/N: Heh...This sucks quite a bit, so concrit is very appreciated. The OOC-ness is ridiculous, I know. And, as always, PoT is not mine.
Smile for Me
Don't make me wait
I'm not myself
I can't take this
-'Hear Me Out' Frou Frou
I pad down the hall awkwardly, trying to make as little noise as possible. It's the middle of the night— one o'clock, maybe two. I didn't check the time before I slipped out of the room I share with my older brother. This is the fourth night in a row that I've woken up in the early hours of the morning, the fourth time that I've needed to silently make my way to the bathroom, the fourth time I've feared being caught by one of the members of my large family.
I reach the end of the hallway and turn the knob, pushing the door open, being careful that the hinges don't squeak too loudly. I step in and shut the door behind me. Resting my palms on the edge of the sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I see half-opened eyes bordered by dark bags, and I know already that I'll be tired tomorrow morning. I run fingers through my sleep-mussed hair, lingering for a moment before I move my hand down to scratch my stomach.
My stomach's not itchy.
I can't look at myself anymore, and turn away from the mirror, eyes darting from the floor to the tub to the hamper. Suddenly, the bathroom is much more interesting than it's ever been.
I exhale, because I know I must have been standing here for five minutes already—or at least, it seems like it's been that long. Either way, I know that I have to take care of this problem. Someone might need to use to bathroom soon.
I slide my hand down gradually until my fingers meet my arousal, and I inhale sharply through barely opened lips. I stroke myself through my boxers, once, twice, my eyes closing the rest of the way. I can feel myself growing harder.
I lift my head to stare at the mirror again, but quickly avert my eyes, because I don't want to face at myself. Not now. I finger the elastic band of my boxers for a moment, which are becoming increasingly tight, before slipping my thumb under and pulling them down. They pool around my ankles and cool air ghosts over bare skin. I shiver.
My hand moves toward my cock hesitantly, yet eagerly, because I don't want to do this, yet I can't bear not to.
It's completely normal. Supposedly, all boys do it. That's what I've been told, and that's what I believe. But as I wrap my fingers around my arousal, calloused hand surrounding hot flesh, there's only one thing on my mind. Oishi. And that's why it feels so wrong.
I stroke myself, movements jerking and rough. My grip is tighter than usual, because I'm trying to hurry. I'm trying to get this over with.
Even if all boys do it, I can't imagine Oishi doing it— well, I can fantasize about him doing it, but that only makes me feel worse —and I can't fathom him thinking such thoughts. Dirty and impure and… embarrassing. But these dreams I've been having… I can't control them, so I can't help doing this.
I run the pad of my thumb over the tip of my cock, already wet with pre-come, and I bite my lip, putting more weight on the hand that supports me. It's pathetic, really. Jerking off in the bathroom at odd hours of the night and trying to stifle my moans so that I won't wake anyone, all because kissing isn't enough for me.
I want Oishi to touch me like this, to make me writhe under his body. Oishi only wants to hold hands. I want to see his bare skin. Not like in the locker room; I want to be able to stare, to take it all in, and then to map it all out with my mouth. Oishi only wants to kiss me on the cheek, and on the rare occasions when I'm lucky, the lips.
I run my hand down the shaft, alternating between squeezing and rubbing, the friction of my hasty movements more than I'm used to. I shudder, and gradually moved my hand down to finger my balls. They're hot beneath my touch. I swallow and nibble on my lower lip, because I'm making small sounds, and these walls echo.
I bought condoms once. And lubricant. I knew at the time that I would never need them. That we would never need them. But I still bought them, blushing and awkward as the cashier gave me peculiar looks, all because I had empty hopes.
They're still buried in the back of my sock drawer.
I'm close, I know I am. My strokes are sloppy and rushed, fingers pressing and kneading. Light floods my eyes as I tilt my head back and stare up at the ceiling. I think about him; his chest, his legs, his stomach, any part of him that I've managed to see. It's not much, though. The other members of the tennis club have seen as much of Oishi as I have. Fuji's probably seen more, because Fuji always unabashedly stares at everyone. I only give him fleeting glances, because I'm afraid of what he'll think if he catches me ogling him. And because I'm afraid of what effect it will have on me.
It's his smile, though, that drives me crazy more than anything. He can make my knees weak with just one grin. It's gorgeous. It's torturous.
I blink, because everything around me is blurring to white. My breathing is heavy and unmeasured, and I'm moaning now, maybe even saying his name, but I don't try to stop it, because I can't. I'm almost there, and I've lost control.
I lost control a long time ago.
Another tug, a tighter grip, and I'm coming, eyes shut tight, toes curling, and teeth digging into my lip. My head is swimming, my mind is blank, and with eyes closed, I still see that torturous, beautiful smile.
I turn my eyes down. Come covers my hand, my stomach, and now it's dripping down my leg. I stand there for a moment, just breathing, and then hastily grab a few tissues and clean myself up. I redress and turn the light off without before I can glance back at the mirror.
I walk back into my room, and I hear my brother rolling over in his bed. He's awake. I don't care.
The next day at practice, I'm not thinking about tennis. I'm not thinking of much of anything, except for how his shorts fit him so snugly, and about how his skin is coated in a layer of sweat. I stare openly, because at this point, everyone's already noticed, and it's meaningless to try and hide it. Because of him, I lost a match to Ryoma six to love and 'Kikumaru-sempai should focus more.'And because of you 'Kikumaru is seventy-three percent more distracted than usual.' I spend five minutes assuring Taka that, yes, I'm fine and need to tell Fuji that, no, there's nothing interesting that I'm looking at.
But Oishi doesn't notice; he's too busy playing a match with Momo, and then telling the first years to pick up balls. And when he does come over to me, he smiles at me like nothing is out of the ordinary and puts his hand on my shoulder. He never does anything more than that in public, but it still sends shivers down my spine, and I need to walk away. I don't look over my shoulder to see him frowning. Even when he touches me so innocently, it's more than I can handle, but still never enough.
When there are ten minutes left in practice, Tezuka assigns me twenty laps for not paying attention. I'm grateful, because I'll be able to clear my head, and I won't be able to watch you. As I run, I close my eyes. The sun is hot on my back, and I focus on my breathing, and the rhythm of my shoes against the ground. I consider my options. I could slow down so that my laps will take longer and he'll be dressed by the time I need to shower. I think about quickening my pace so that I can shower while he's making sure the first years are cleaning up.
I stop thinking when I hear another set of footsteps behind me. I turn my head to see Oishi steadily catching up to me. Despite wanting to run away, I slow down, and he falls into step beside me. His skin is damp and his shirt is sticking to his chest. He's smiling, face illuminated by the sun. I try to look away, but I can't. I'm trapped.
"Eiji, after we shower," he begins, and now I really want to run away, "Do you want to go back to my place to do our homework?"
I return his grin and nod, but say nothing.
I already know I'm not going to sleep well tonight.