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Yuzuru heard the silent slide of his mother’s footsteps on the wooden floor, and the soft click of the different lights she turned off on her way to her bedroom. He felt, rather than heard, the careful way she closed his door, so slow. Strangely comforting.
Eyes closed, breath small, he kept on listening.
His mom had most likely reached her room now. He waited, and listened, in the vast quietness of the apartment, and there it was ― the last click of a lamp, the one on top of her bedside table.
Yuzuru exhaled and shifted on his back. He stared at the ceiling.
It sometimes felt like a game, with his mom. A silent competition. Who could be the quietest?
He didn’t feel bad for listening with such attention, even if it was weird. He knew she did the same. She was as attentive to details as he was. It wasn't ill-intentioned. They loved each other, and for the longest time, had nothing to hide from the other.
Until he did.
And that’s when the game first started; her, being so attentive, and so careful in trying to show she wasn’t, and him, responding with even more cautiousness, the subtlety of looking at her and trying to guess how much she knew, and just how much she kept quiet. Sometimes, it drove Yuzuru crazy, thinking about it. Paranoid.
But then, to get himself to calm down, he would breathe, and convince himself it was all in his mind. He didn’t care. She didn’t care. Even if she knew, she wouldn’t. Nobody cared. It was small, so small, insignificant. Everything was fine.
He turned around, tugging himself in his bedsheets. He forced his eyes shut.
A weird energy kept him awake. He had felt it coming since he laid down, but still tried to fight against it.
The thing was, Yuzuru knew how his body functioned. It was like a machine. He studied its physics, learnt its limits, how to push them, how to control every part. He was so careful with it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t fail him, every once in a while.
And it was the case that night.
Yuzuru groaned, twisted in his bedsheets, uncomfortable. Restless.
It made absolutely no sense, Yuzuru thought. It never did. He was tired. Exhausted, even, and his body was too. He trained so hard he knew he would be sore the next morning, pushed himself as far as he could to get rid of all this restless energy, the one he felt building up for days now and tried so badly to conceal, failing, every time. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
And those bedsheets were so, so uncomfortable. He kicked them to the side, rather harshly. He hoped it would help his body to grow cold, limp, like he wanted. It needed sleep.
He knew about those things. He had experience. He was an adult now, not a lanky and overwhelmed teenage boy anymore. Although he never really felt this spurge of uncontrolled and crazy hormones he heard about as a teenager, now, he almost wished he did. Necessarily, Yuzuru convinced himself, if it had happened a few years ago, it would be over by now. And he wouldn’t need to ― so often.
Yuzuru inhaled, trying to relativize. It was not that often. It was still inconvenient, yes, but he had understood rapidly enough the precursor signs, the build up; and if he took care of it quickly, mechanically, the first day or so, without too much hesitation or thinking about it, it would be fine.
He closed his eyes and cursed himself silently.
He knew the signs well, and yet had chosen to ignore them, like some kind of amateur. He tried to recall the numbers of days, of weeks, but it was all too confused in his mind, who usually did a great job in erasing as much as possible of these episodes.
The remaining bedsheets on the left side of his body were all too soft, all too distracting, but he was turning cold now, so he had to wrap himself up in them again.
A part of him just wanted to sit down on his bed, take a few deep breaths, do some stretching, and pray to fall asleep. But the other part recalled today very well, and knew perfectly that postponing whatever was bound to happen would only result in another terrible, terrible day of embarrassing himself. He couldn’t take it.
First, there was the agitation, the itch. Then, the hypersensitivity. Since a few days, every texture on his skin would feel strange, both unwelcomed and longed for. Every touch would feel twice as pleasant, and Yuzuru would have to physically force himself to withdraw from hugs, from soft and innocent caresses Tracy or his mom would give to his cheek, from Javier’s flustering touches.
Oh, Javier. If he knew ― Yuzuru shook his head, curling up on himself, a reflex, bringing his hands to his temples. Forbidding himself to think about the worst.
It was all okay, it was all fine.
Nobody knew, nobody noticed. Nobody cared.
He tried to slow down his heartbeat, and breathed.
Javier had no idea of the effect his hands could have on someone as touch-starved as Yuzuru. He never would. Yuzuru thought it would get better, seeing him less, training on different rinks now. And in a way, he was right; not seeing Javier made it easier, in the dept of the night, not to think about his lingering hands, rough but so warm, so gentle at the back of his neck.
But what Yuzuru didn’t plan was what would happen when he would see him again, inevitably. It was easy not to desire what you didn’t see, but it was harder to resist after days, weeks of total absence. He was like the thirstiest man who would be dropped, without warning, in the middle of the clearest lake.
And Javier, who had no idea, who would be all smiles and soft gazes, tight hugs and easy laugh, ‘I missed seeing you every day’, and ‘how soft is your hair!’, like it was nothing.
Yuzuru clenched his fists, feeling stupid. It was nothing.
It felt so strange, almost invasive, when he first arrived in Canada. How tactile everyone was with each other. Javier was the worst of them all, and soon enough Yuzuru was told that it was because he was European, and that’s just how Europeans were, and he shouldn't dare go and think something else now, because it was being foolish and not hiding his game as well as he should have.
If there were any doubts to have ― there was not ―, there was none left after that day. That day, in the locker rooms.
He remembered it all too well. It was so long ago, but it somehow burnt itself in his brain and he couldn’t shake it off.
Yuzuru stayed a few minutes after practice to talk with Brian, and when he arrived in the locker room, conversations were already well engaged. Yuzuru didn’t interrupt and minded his own business; it was not like anyone stopped to include him. But mind him, at least they kept on going, and it was a good sign that they felt okay talking about that kind of stuff when he was there.
Some guy was unlacing his skates as he was talking about a girl he met the night before. Javier was laughing, and Yuzuru listened carefully.
The chat switched to Javier, who talked about his girlfriend, and, all of a sudden, Yuzuru’s stomach was full of rocks.
He wanted to crawl away, but he stayed, kept on listening, even raised his head, thoughtless, and now it was too late. Javier talked about it like it was nothing, men’s locker room chat, and the coarse laughter of the others added up to Yuzuru’s dizziness.
At some point in the story, Javier even made eye contact with him. There was nothing to deduce there, nothing to imagine, even though Yuzuru often wished there was ― he always liked complicated things. It was just eyes meeting eyes, but that’s when Yuzuru realized he was holding his breath, and that in the span of only a few minutes, he had grown tense and uncomfortably hot. He packed his things at the speed of light, firmly keeping his gaze down, and barely waved a hand to say bye to the others.
That night, as soon as he arrived home, he locked himself up in his room and jerked off to the images his training mate had imprinted into his mind. He came messily, hand over his mouth muffling his cries, to the quickest and most confusing orgasm he ever had.
After, he felt like throwing up.
Javier never talked like that in front of him again, and Yuzuru wasn’t sure if he was relieved.
Of course, because he was such a terrible friend, such a terrible human, that didn’t stop his body from remembering the intensity of the pleasure it had felt at the thought of being touched by Javier like he touched his girlfriend, and from bringing back these memories in the dept of the night, at moments like that.
But the worst, the worst, were the dreams.
Following the restlessness and the hypersensitivity, the third sign, when Yuzuru didn’t take care of his body the way it wanted, were those. And they were terrible, because if he could manage to control the appropriate dosing of his fantasies when he was awake, his subconscious had no care, during the night, for all of Yuzuru’s daylight inhibitions.
He had a dream last night. One of those dreams.
And when he saw Javier this morning, he felt so sick with himself that he couldn’t dare look at him, despite the other’s worries and care. One of the things he also hated the most was to make others worry about him. Look where that took him.
He had to take care of it.
Slowly, cautiously, Yuzuru trailed his hand down his torso to press it between his legs. Even through the material of his briefs, he could feel the hardness. And that press was just tentative, only a flutter, yet it was enough for the heat to pool down there from all over.
In his dreams, there was no space for rationality. But here, and maybe it was just as terrible, Yuzuru had enough, just with objective muscle memory, to build himself up.
He just had to think, as he pressed slightly harder on his erection, about the way Javier’s hands grabbed his side yesterday, when Brian was talking to them, about his warm palm at his waist, gently laying there, until he decided he wanted to see Yuzuru laugh by squeezing harder, solid. It had worked, Yuzuru bent himself in two to the side, laughing, tickled, tried to push him away.
His other hand went to his side, lingering on the ghost of Javier’s fingers at the crook of his waist. He pressed on it there, trying to imitate the feeling his body remembered, but it lacked Javier’s solid arm behind his back, his warm breath on his neck, his raspy chin on his shoulder. Irritated, Yuzuru shifted a little.
He changed his strategy, and thought instead of his usual variety of fantasies, ones who almost never failed him, and who didn’t include necessarily Javier. The ones that made him feel the least guilty, but just as dirty as the others.
As he caressed slowly his crotch over the fabric, he slid a hand under his shirt. He imagined someone else doing it to him, someone without a face or a name but with big, rough hands, and tall and broad shoulders to press him down on his mattress. Someone whose thumbs would scratch on his nipples. Yuzuru would cry out, eyes closed, back arching up, but a hand would come up to his mouth and tell him to shup up, be quiet, and it would feel so, so good.
He liked the thought of being handled, roughly or softly, whatever. Just for someone to take control for a moment, and for Yuzuru to let go, to find release, just for a second.
His hand slid down under his underwear, and the feeling of his cock being touched made him tense up all over. Stroking slowly, he turned around to muffle his short breath in his pillow.
This was all too much, he thought. He needed to calm down, to keep the control. But his hand wouldn’t stop stroking, and the fire from his guts from spreading.
Now turned on his belly, legs spread and pelvis slightly raised, almost on his knees, he had better access to this part, the one whom only thinking about was enough to ignite his very core. Still stroking with his right hand, he brought the left one up to his neck, and let it rest there, heavy, a few seconds.
God, how good it would feel to have Javi pressing softly on his throat like that.
Yuzuru then brought his hand on his mouth, and as he opened it, he tried not to feel the shame creeping up, warming his cheeks. He wetted his fingers, fast, a task that needed to be done and not dwelled too much upon, or he would die of embarrassment. Once his fingers were wet, sticky with saliva, he brought his hand down his back. He trembled as he spread lightly his ass cheeks, holding his breath, very still.
His fingers fluttered over his hole, and his whole body arched up from the sensation.
He kept playing around it a bit, torturing himself, before opening himself up with his own index.
Soft gasps couldn’t help but to escape his mouth, his face scrunched up as he inserted slowly his finger. He stopped at the second phalanx to catch his breath for a moment. This kind of stimulation had something intense about it, completely bizarre and overwhelming, yet it was his favorite.
He picked up a little rhythm, in and out, concentrating on the feeling, the sparks of pleasure running up his veins, and after a while, when he felt comfortable, added a second finger.
“Oh,” he breathed. This was the real thing.
Two of his fingers stretching him up, on his knees, legs spread, other hand stroking his cock, and little breaths of pleasure escaping his mouth into the pillow, Yuzuru liked to think about someone finding him like this. He would feel ashamed, sure, but he wouldn’t stop, and the person who found him would understand that the mess he was was all for a stranger to take. If only Javier would have him, he silently pleaded, he would be so, so good.
The hand on his cock started to stroke faster, slick with the precome escaping from the tip, and Yuzuru groaned.
The stuff from his dreams now creeped up from the back of his mind, and he did try to stop it. It didn’t work. Never did.
It was now Javier whose fingers were up his ass, and he was taking them out. Yuzuru braced himself for what was to come, for something bigger to fill him up ― but it was only his third finger, and it was not satisfying, not what he craved.
Javier would stroke his ass cheeks, grab them into his hands, grab them hard, maybe even slap them or call them fat, and Yuzuru would agree, would confess that he only ever hoped for him to tell him that, and not for the hundreds of fans and strangers that looked down his body like he was theirs.
“Ah,” Yuzuru breathed. “Ah, yes, yes.”
And then Javier would grab his slicked cock, the one Yuzuru saw from the side in the showers a couple times, the same he used to fuck his girl so good like he said he did. Yuzuru could do things she wouldn’t even imagine, he could, if only, if only ―
Javier’s cock would enter him, slow and so big. It would take his breath away, make it hard to breathe. Yuzuru’s guts were twisting with the intensity of his desire, and his strained cock was almost hurting from the sheer want every part of his being felt for more.
The Javier from his fantasies somehow knew, and didn’t take it slow. He was pounding just the way Yuzuru cried for, fast and deep, making Yuzuru’s whole body shake, tense up to hold himself still.
Fingers working fast up his ass, Yuzuru felt some drool escaping the side of his opened mouth. He bit down on his pillow, trying to muffle his moans.
And Javier’s thrust would become erratic by now, short and messy, and he would tell Yuzuru he'd be about to fill him up like a bitch.
Yuzu's hand worked on the tip of his cock, thumb pressing on the silt, almost painful, and he started shaking.
Yes, yes ―
Fill him up ― that’s all he wanted, to be taken and used like this, and it was so, so good. Come inside him ― please, if only Javier wanted to, oh, the things he would do for it to happen ― Javier, Javi, Javi ―
He came, finally, body tensing and toes curling, biting down harshly on his pillow, and it was the strongest orgasm he had in a while.
He laid down on his belly, muscles limp at last, trying to catch his breath. After a while, he found the strength to shift on his back.
He stared at the ceiling, chest lifting up and down.
First came the relief; the itch was scratched, it was done. Every muscle was relaxed, at last. He was good, for another month or so.
Then, of course, the guilt. The shame.
Who even did that― what kind of friend? He brought his hands to push his pillow onto his face, feeling the need to scream. What if he saw Javier tomorrow? How could he ever look him in the eyes? Brian, Tracy?
Inhale, exhale.
Moments after masturbating always felt like cleaning up a messy house: putting his mind back into order, pushing his scattered thought at the back of his head, in separate drawers, ones he could open whenever he wanted but were always best closed. By doing so, he almost managed to forget about his fantasies right away. He pushed his fears and his shame even furtherer, and locked the door twice. Everything needed to be neat, to leave space for what really mattered ― skating. He knew the importance of organization.
When he finally calmed down, his mind as tidy as could be, and body as tranquil as ever, he spared a thought for his mom.
He hoped her sleep was heavy.