Notches on the Bedpost: Naruse

Characters/Pairings: Naruse-Nakajima
Rating: R
Words: 743
Summary: In which Naruse has a match, and Nakajima is unintentionally a tease of the highest order. Or was that intentionally?

Naruse weighed the racket in his hand and grinned, looking at his dark-haired opponent across the court. Nakajima Hideaki might top his level and possibly the school in academics (and top them all literally too, according to rumours), but Naruse was that in the realm of sports – in tennis – he was unbeatable.

He threw the bright yellow ball up in the air, and served.

Several games later, Naruse had to admit that Nakajima was good – or at least, he was damn fast. They were both sweating by now, though Nakajima was definitely sweating and panting harder than he was. Well, that was a given, Naruse grinned to himself, given that he had made Nakajima run around the courts so much. (He had done that partly to tire out his opponent, partly to try to make him lose his usual unflappable composure and partly because... Nakajima did look rather attractive in shorts. And when his shirt rode up when he jumped.)

He was still smiling when the umpire shouted for them to change courts.

He watched as Nakajima approached the bench. Niwa tossed him a water bottle, and they smiled at each other (the sun must be particularly hot today; Naruse felt a rush of heat at the sight of that smile) before Nakajima...

Wait. He wasn't going to... oh my god.

Naruse could feel his jaw falling open as Nakajima tilted his head back and poured the entire bottle of water over himself. His mouth went entirely dry, eyes riveted on the sight of pale skin gleaming in a constellation under the bright afternoon sun. Water droplets ran from his chin down the line of his neck, into his shirt and if his shirt wasn't skin-tight before it was now, showing the curve of every single muscle that Nakajima had and Naruse could only stare, eyes wide and mouth open.

He thought that he had entirely stopped breathing. Everyone in that area, including Niwa, seemed to have frozen mid-motion and was just watching as Nakajima practically moaned in front of all of them, eyes closed and thoroughly enjoying the feel of cool water on his skin. He dropped the water bottle and reached up, running his fingers through his dark hair. The sun and the water played tricks on Naruse's eyes – for a moment, Nakajima's hair looked blue, blue like the brightest and most expensive of sapphires, like the colour of the sea under the starlight.

Naruse's knees felt weak when Nakajima's hands ran down his own body and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a pale, sculpted chest. Later, he would swear that he could hear the sound of everyone swallowing simultaneously. He had to stifle a moan when Nakajima took a white towel from his bag and started to touch himself, drying every inch of that pale, absolutely flawless skin.

His nipples were a dusky brown, Naruse noted to himself, dazed. He wore dog tags, silver and engraved.

Nakajima shook out the water in his hair and dried it vigorously with the towel. This time, Naruse definitely heard the sound of a collective, disappointed sigh when Nakajima slipped on a new, dry shirt. His shorts were clinging to his skin still, Naruse realized, but Nakajima was wearing tights underneath. Skin-tight tights that hid nothing of Nakajima's crotch. Naruse gulped to himself and took his position on the courts, moving like a robot.

When he served again, he double-faulted.

The rest of the game was nearly a sham, because Naruse kept stumbling and missing on his returns, and his serves either fault or were so weak that even a child could return them. He was trying desperately to hide the erection tenting his shorts, but it was obvious that the more he tried to hide it, the more Nakajima noticed. Nakajima was smirking at him oh-so-smugly, like he had won already, and Naruse wanted to just storm over the net and clock him a good one. But then Nakajima would jump to smash or tilt his head back, and Naruse would be blinded all over again by the sight of pale, smooth skin.

Needless to say, Nakajima won the match.

Naruse stormed grumpily off the courts, twisting the cap off his bottle like it had personally offended him. He turned, glaring at Nakajima as the older boy walked past.

Nakajima smirked, and licked his lips. His plush, pink, wet lips.

Naruse dropped the bottle, his palm suddenly sweaty.

Nakajima laughed.

End