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The first time Nakatsu jerked off while thinking about Mizuki, he pictured the other boy in a dress, and told himself he wasn't imagining Mizuki at all. Nakatsu couldn't meet Mizuki's eyes for days afterwards. He couldn't stop himself from curling his fist around his erection and picturing the girl with Mizuki's face, Mizuki's smile, Mizuki's mouth--the girl who was not Mizuki--on her knees before him, either.
He was sick, Nakatsu thought: disgusting, a pervert.
And when the girl who was not Mizuki rolled her hips against Nakatsu's so that their erections brushed together, Nakatsu grunted and came with as startled shout that made Kayashima sigh and stir restlessly in the bunk beneath his. Nakatsu stared at the ceiling, panting, and panicking, and wanting.
Mizuki was pretty enough to be a girl, but he wasn't--and that wasn't enough to keep Nakatsu from wanting him.
*
The women in the magazine looked nothing like Mizuki. They had painted mouths, and round asses, and full breasts barely contained by prettily coloured scraps of lace and silk. Nakatsu flipped through the rumpled and well-worn pages of the magazine until his dick ached.
He wasn't gay. He couldn't be gay if the sight of naked women could make him hard, and needy, and desperate for release. Nakatsu rubbed himself through his boxers, smiled at the proof that he was still normal, still himself.
Thought, fleetingly, of what Mizuki would look like, straining against red lace, and came.
*
Nakatsu was strong, and Nakatsu was determined--and Nakatsu liked women. He spent hours on the soccer field, too sore by the end of the day to think about anything but sleep. He kept his fists braced against the shower stall's wall, cold water a hard stream against his back.
Wanting to touch Mizuki--wanting to have Mizuki--was wrong.
Nakatsu wouldn't give into sick impulse, and press Mizuki against the door of the room he shared with Sano. He wouldn't slide his hand beneath the hem of Mizuki's shirt, and press his open palm to the small of Mizuki's back. He wouldn't take Mizuki's first kiss, and he certainly wouldn't ease his hand past Mizuki's open zipper and rub him until Mizuki cried out with the pleasure of it.
Nakatsu smacked his forehead against the tiled wall. He was disgusting. He was weak.
The water wasn't cold enough.
*
He closed his eyes, and saw Mizuki sitting on the edge of Sano's mussed bed. His unbuttoned shirt was hanging off his arms, braced behind him on the bed. His chest was narrow, his skin smooth. Mizuki's face was pink, his eyes dilated, mouth wet.
His heart was thundering beneath Nakatsu's open palm.
"I want," Mizuki said shyly, "your mouth. . ."
Nakatsu shuddered, breathed out sharply, and thought: This doesn't have to be who I am. Nakatsu was weak, pathetic, sick. Nakatsu was tired of lying to himself, and Mizuki, and the world. He wanted Mizuki.
Nakatsu was on his knees between Mizuki's spread legs, his hands braced on Mizuki's thighs. His heart was racing, but his mind was still--finally, finally, and this was who Nakatsu was.
He wanted everything from Mizuki.
Even this, Nakatsu thought, and let Mizuki in.
*
The next time Nakatsu closed his eyes in the darkness of his room, he saw water running down the smooth line of Mizuki's back. He couldn't forget the sight of water droplets clinging to the curve of Mizuki's breasts. Not a dream, not a fantasy--it was real.
He imagined the swell of Mizuki's breasts beneath his palms, the weight of her erection in his hand--girl, boy, Mizuki--and came undone.