Like Music

Like Music

by Ju

 

 

Naoya always feels bad about doing this, except for those few seconds when it feels so so good.In his mind he knows that he canít help it, really, because heís seventeen years old; but this is empty reasoning when it doesnít subdue the embarrassment, or the shame, or the fear that he will leave a stain on Aoe-sanís sofa.And sleeping on the sofa in the living room means that timing is a tricky thing, which also means that his masturbatory habits are premeditated, scheduled into a timeslot like washing the dishes and doing his homework.

 

He can tell that his face is red from beginning to end, and heís grateful that itís dark in the room, even though there is nobody else in the room with him.He likes to draw the blinds so that none of the city lights can shine in, and he wonders if Aoe-san wonders why Naoya does this on certain nights and not on others.Thinking about Aoe-san while he touches himself feels wrong though, dirty somehow, and itís probably not a coincidence that it all ends much faster when he does think about Aoe-san.Heís still undecided about whether this is a good thing or not, but most of the time he canít help thinking about the man anyway.

 

He never takes off his shorts, just turns to face the back of the sofa and slips his hand in; the very first time, he was surprised by the mess, and panicked for a full ten minutes, but now he knows to keep the box of tissues nearby and ready.Itís almost soothing, the up down up down motion of his hand, rhythmic and constant in a way that his life hasnít been for some time now, until the thought of Aoe-san interrupts like unexpected syncopation.He always thinks of Aoe-sanís hands, big and strong and warm and gentle on his hair, against his back, around his wrist, and his own hand falters and jerks, and in those few seconds of searing white heat his breath is a quiet exhalation of a name.

 

His face burns even brighter as he cleans up his mess, taking care to wrap extra tissues around the ones that are dirty, then tossing them all into the wastebasket that sits deliberately close by.But his limbs feel heavy, his mind pleasantly blank, and he thinks he hears footsteps as his eyes fall shut; when he wakes in the morning, though, he tells himself that it was just a dream.

 

 

~ fin




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