TITLE: Like Flies in my Water Bottle
PART: One-Shot Drabble (Just to get the idea out of my head... so that I can go back to the land of the sane once again... ^^;)
GENRE: Implied Yaoi
DISCLAIMERS: The series I'm referring to does not belong to me… ^_^ only this weird story does.
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Like Flies in My Water Bottle* * *
He couldn't understand it.
Even if he thought of it the whole day, Arai couldn't seem to grasp the reason behind his startling – not to mention disturbing, fixation.
Glaring at the laces of his new tennis shoes, he tried recalling things that could possibly give him the answers he desperately needed. Unfortunately, his mind was uncooperative... and possibly very much unwilling.
I'm the lowest of the low. He thought, gritting his teeth as he grasped the end of his shirt and yanked it upwards, taking it off, exposing his slight muscles that rippled with every flex his biceps made. With a scowl that seemed permanently engraved between his brows, he bounced the ball on the hard-packed dirt twice before hurtling it up vertically into the air. Then, swinging his racket almost vehemently, he hit his target, the ball colliding against the pressured strings so powerfully that for a short moment, the surface of his prized possession seemed dented, screaming in its own unique way with a loud thwack, sending the greenish-yellow blob that was the ball across the court and onto the wire fence that surrounded his playing area. I'm sick in every way possible.
He had been trying to practice overtime in one of the deserted street tennis courts every late afternoon to shake off his tensed muscles... as well as his unfitting fascination about... No, don't think of him; don't think of him, you stupid knucklehead! He shook his head repeatedly, hard enough for his eyes to resemble the antique pendulum of his living room clock.
However, try as he might, disturbing pictures still rolled into his tired brain.
It wasn't disturbing because he did not like them. In fact, what disturbed him was the way he seemed to like them so much in a way he couldn't quite describe – and he didn't want to. The image of those childishly smooth-looking legs came unbidden, and he wished for the umpteenth time that he had chosen a court where there were installed comfort rooms. He muttered an oath and promptly scolded the package inside his shorts for being such a sensitive bastard. He let out a shuddering breath as he accidentally brushed his clothed cock with the end of his tennis racket, cursing even more as he stiffened as hot flashes shot through his system.
He desperately needed a drink.
He desperately needed to cool down – NOW.
With a defeated sigh, he trudged awkwardly to where his duffel bag lay undisturbed on the wooden benches, and with a sound thud, he dropped beside it, rummaging inside and moaning lightly as he felt the dampness of his towel-wrapped water bottle. The coolness of the rough cloth comforted him somehow... and he found himself clutching at his water bottle as if his life depended on it. With renewed determination, he uncapped the protruding straw and took a huge slurp of cold water, letting out a groan after gulping it down. He took another sip... and another... and then another, revelling in the singular kind of peace it brought him, his hard-on finally dissolving with ease as minutes slowly ticked past.
The night was approaching, and he could feel a chill wind penetrate deep into his exposed skin. He needed to dress up, or else he would get real sick. Reluctantly relinquishing his hold on his apparent saviour, he rummaged once again and took out a huge green shirt. Without any hesitation, he pulled it over his head and proceeded to primp himself, worrying the unwanted creases silly, his fingers trying to smoothen them away – all to no avail.
Oh well, it doesn't matter anyway; it's close to sunset already.
He stared at the hem of his shirt. It was green, he knew, only a bit cloaked by the shadows to resemble such colour.
Green.
There's a patch of green patterns across the chest area of his club shirt... For someone with two years of tennis experience, the look isn't so bad... It's pretty interesting... a bit dorky, but still interesting. Much like that kid's shirt... yeah...
Suddenly his eyes widened. Oh hell!
There he was!
The focal point of his obsession was walking by the court, probably on the way home. Soon enough, unwanted stirrings coursed through his body, making him feel as if he was on fire. An image of small hands with quite a small dosage of tennis experience caressing his hardened length aroused him to the tenth power, and the exponent seemed to increase as a vivid mind video of a quite wide a mouth swallowing him was enough to render him mindless.
He could not do anything but stare, his eyes following the other boy's every movement.
He could not breathe properly... even when the other boy was well beyond the reach of his sharp eyesight.
With deliberate slowness, he massaged his crotch and let out a keening cry as he came a few moments later, with sweat streaming from his pores, his exposed body glistening with it... and the front of his shorts wet with spent passion.
Why did he have to be obsessed with the loudmouth anyway? What made him want to just pull him underneath and fuck him senseless – or at least until he cried out for mercy? He wasn't much of a looker, so... why him?
His throat was dry... and it felt parched.
He reached for his water bottle, uncapped it and chugged the refreshing liquid faster than one could say 'mania'.
Maybe I should start liking normal things.
And for the umpteenth time, he hoped Inui would never know about it... if he did, he's going to die.
Mainly from embarrassment.
He raised his eyes heavenward and groaned, smacking his freehand against his forehead.
Why does it have to be HORIO of all people?
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A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm officially demented... if I wasn't then, now I am. The thought just couldn't leave my poor abused brain and I had to do something about it. ^^;