Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto
Note: Hi there! Just something for your pleasure (hopefully!) while I work on the next chapter of The Mission. This short isn't connected with that story so if you haven't read that work, no worries! Of course I would appreciate it if you dropped by that one and gave it a read and review but thanks for taking the time to read this first! ~ Luna
It's the casual touches that do it. Her hand brushing his as they walk close in a crowd, the silken slide of her hair over his arm as she turns her head to speak to a friend. He can't stop himself from reaching out to touch her arm, bring her attention back to him. The dove gray of her eyes always catch his, hold him and he feels the look like a punch to the gut. His skin is tight, his breath measured by sheer will. The conversation is light and everyone is laughing, he joins in though he doesn't know the joke. They are all sitting in a booth at the barbeque, pressed close to each other. Somehow, he'd ended up with her pressed to his right side, her leg touching the length of his. The friend on his left is trying to give some space and he finds himself doing the same but he can't bring himself to break the contact with her. She brings her hand up to hide a quiet laugh, eyes crinkled shut in mirth and her elbow brushes his arm. He doesn't mean to but he finds his arm raising to slide behind her, curving along the back of the booth. Just to give her more room, and he's proud that he does it so nonchalantly. Now he can feel the brush of her head against his arm everytime she moves, keeps his hand up on the back, won't let himself drop his hand to brush her hair or shoulder.
She turns again to the friend to her left and that presses her tighter against him. He finds himself pressing back, holding his position simply by the stiffening of his body. Her hand has landed on her lap, her pinky just hanging over her leg, brushing his own. He doesn't think she even knows it. The electric touch sends a jolt through him and he forces himself to focus on the conversation around him. There's a moment when her hand slides just a bit more, brushing more along his leg as she lifts it to her mouth again. He grits his teeth and then finds he has to open his mouth to respond to his friend. Then her voice is quiet and close, sliding along his nerves and into his ear. "Gomen, there's not much room," and she's moving as if to put some space between their legs. It's not consciously done, the warm breath on his neck, the hushed tone in the boisterous environment around them. He pulls his arm from behind her and drops his hand briefly on her knee, holding her still and he moves his leg to press tightly to hers again. He doesn't look at her, can feel her slight jump at the touch, and he doesn't leave his hand there longer than is needed to convey that it's fine. He doesn't have to look at her to know she's blushing, knows her well enough to know she will have dropped her head and used her long hair to hide her face for a moment until she calms herself. He brings his arm back up and around her, fingers now just brushing her shoulder, covered by the cloth of her jacket. He's still too aware of where they touch, too aware of the feel and scent of her, vanilla and lavender. At one point he's pulled into a part of the conversation on the other side of the table and leans forward and just slightly around her to answer. His side is pressed into her, her arm against his chest and his arm is more fully resting on her. It's only for a moment but he logs the feel to remember for later. It's so different from when they were younger, his awareness of her morphing from a need to protect, to this more intense need to touch. He's moving back in the seat and the tension is easing just a bit, until she turns in her own response to the friend on his left and at the same time is bumped from her right. Jostled into him, she puts her hand on his thigh to hold herself upright at the same time that he moves to brace her with the arm around her shoulders. It's a faux embrace, and the feel of her hand on his thigh makes his leg twitch. She's sitting up a second later, and the apologies begin from all around. Then the food arrives and he drops his arm to eat. Their arms are brushing, and of course he talks with his hands most of the time, waving exuberantly to emphasize his thoughts. The rest of the night is a torment of causal touches. And then it's over and he's sliding out of the booth behind her, leg moving along hers and even though he knows he should let the space grow, he uses the usual excuse of his impatience to stay close to her. She's out of the booth, just moving to straighten up when one of their friends turns too quickly, bumping into her while carrying on the conversation and she's falling back, landing against him, half in his lap and he's jolted again. She gets up quickly with a squeaked apology and really all he can think is that the right side of his body is going to be on fire for hours after this. They leave as a group, splitting off as they move through the village heading to their separate homes. She's still standing close, talking quietly and he takes advantage again by letting his hand brush hers. When it's his turn to split off, he does.
He's still not sure how to take the next step. Not sure if responding to her years after the fact will have an effect. He can still hear her words, they play in his mind when he least expects them. At his small apartment he leaves the light off and collapses on his bed. It takes time and tossing and turning to get comfortable and he knows he should get up and get ready for sleep before he lets himself nod off but he's too warm, too tightly wound. When he sleeps, he dreams.
It's the causal touches that make him want more. He can almost smell her scent and feel the ghost of her hand on his thigh. Then the touch shifts, less ghost-like and more real. There's a weight next to him in the bed, her leg slides over his own, her hand there to brace her as she moves to straddle him. Her hair is a liquid slide along his chest, her mouth moving from his shoulder to his mouth. The kiss is light at first, a question and then it's deepening. Mouths open and tongues sliding wetly. She makes a small noise in the back of her throat and his hands cup the back of her head to hold her to him. Then she's moving against him, just a light movement but his body is already sensitized to her touch and he pulls his mouth from hers to groan. Her hands are on his shoulders now as she pushes herself up and moves again, cradling him and she presses down just slightly. "Ugh" he won't close his eyes, wants to see her above him. Wants to watch as the flush spreads in her cheeks and her mouth opens to gasp in air. She reaches out then and brushes his hair from his forehead in a gentle touch and her movements grow erratic as she cups his cheek, slides her hand down the edge of his jaw and traces the vein in his neck before settling on his chest. They're still fully clothed, they always are in his dreams. If he was awake he would wonder, but now in the cocoon of his dream he's focused on her, on her face and those dove gray eyes. His hands have settled on her hips and he's moving under her now, matching her. The fire in his belly builds, the quiet sounds and kisses add to the burn. Then the world is spiraling in tight and almost painful and fracturing, instead of releasing in that burst coil reaction that he knows so well, he hears her call his name quietly from above him.
He wakes in a rush, body bowstring tight, tension high and sweating. He breathes out a shaky breath, groaning as he tries to get his body under control. He refuses to reach down and finish, refuses to use the dream, use her that way. He can't control or stop the dreams but while awake he tries to be considerate of her. She doesn't even know he thinks of her like this. Doesn't know that beyond the bone deep yearning for her that he feels constantly, is an emotion so great it terrifies him. He could blame it on his childhood, on growing up the way that he did but really it just comes down to plain cowardice and shame. It took him so long to realize his own feelings, took him so long to appreciate hers for what they really were. And now he's not sure if she still feels the same. It's likely, as he doesn't think she's the type to change her mind. Still, he's been trying to figure out how to tell her and until then it's the causal touches that get him.