After the Dresses Are Gone

After the Dresses Are Gone

A/N: I still haven't decide who is seme yet, so if you have a preference, let me know in a review.

Chapter 1

Summer term was almost over at Fujimori School. Those that had spent the summer there were disappearing for a few last days of break while some of those who had been away all summer were arriving early, settling back in the dorms for the new term at this all-male school. This year Kouno Tooru and Shihoudani Yuujirou were among the latter group not the former. When they’d become second-year students, Tooru and Yuujirou had moved from their P-room to a regular dorm room, finally finished with their duties as the famous Fujimori Princesses. The Princesses were always first year students, the most beautiful males of the whole high school, and they cross-dressed throughout the year in student-designed dresses, appearing at all sorts of functions to cheer on and encourage the students. These “females” were, of course, required to stay for summer term to cheer the teams practicing in the summer heat. And last year, when still Princesses, neither Tooru nor Yuujirou had been on good terms with their families, so even when they had a break from their Princess duties, they hadn’t gone home.

But by the time of their second year’s summer term, they had both been able to talk to their families, largely due to each other. Yuujirou’s family had come to understand how he had felt like an unwelcome reminder of his mother’s first marriage, something that her second husband and second son would prefer vanish. And Tooru’s uncle and his daughter, Sayaka, had realized that Tooru would never be son and husband to them. Tooru had stopped trying to be an ideal brother to Sayaka, and following the advice of not only Yuujirou, but also their friends Mikoto and Akira, he had criticized Sayaka when she earned it. He felt a little guilty that one reason he was able to be so rude to his cousin whom he had always thought of as his precious little sister was that she still seemed to believe that he was gay and involved with Yuujirou.

It had been just a ploy, a trick to get Sayaka and her violence away from Tooru and Fujimori school. It had worked for a while. Yuujirou had told her that Tooru was secretly gay and had kissed him as proof. Later after her increasingly vicious attacks on Yuujirou had been exposed—including inciting two men to rape him, which had fortunately been prevented—Tooru had vehemently denied that he was gay. But Sayaka, having given up on her dream of being Tooru’s bride, greatly preferred the idea that Tooru simply loved men not women to the truth he simple liked other women better than her. So she had purchased pictures of Tooru and Yuujirou together in drag as Princesses and hung them in Tooru’s room. She had told her girlfriends and almost every woman in their hometown, and they had treated Tooru differently. There was no way he could find a girlfriend when all his hints and suggestions were interpreted as mere harmless flirting or a search for a “fag hag.”

It had bothered Tooru, for he and Yuujirou had sworn they would try to find girlfriends this summer, so Mikoto wouldn’t be the only former Princess with a girlfriend. But just as their efforts to pick up girls together last summer had failed, so had Tooru failed. This time it wasn’t because he was taken for a girl, but because the girls thought he was gay. It pleased Tooru that his body had changed from last year. He was much taller now. He still didn’t have any facial hair and lacked a lot of muscles, but with his height and bigger body, he could only be taken for a very tall and athletic woman. It would have hurt Tooru to realize that many men did assume that, only in their minds he was not a too tall, too masculine woman, but a leggy goddess with deep dark blue eyes to die for, the softest looking and prettiest white skin, and stunning blue hair cut short enough to show off one of the sexiest napes of the neck they had seen.

The old custom of geisha’s not covering their necks with makeup had made the back of the neck a traditional erotic zone in Japan, just as the chalk white make-up of the geisha had made pale, pale white skin seem the most beautiful color of skin--more desirable than a healthy tan. Tooru’s white skin was highlighted by the blue of his hair, and as he sat on the train going back to Fujimori school, he would have been upset to find that a number of the men traveling with him thought about kissing his neck, his lips, and thrusting their hands in that hair. But the only person ever to push a hand into his hair, to fondle his ear, to cup his cheek, and then set their lips against his so he could feel them against his own was Yuujirou. And to his horror, Tooru had spent many hours on lonely hot summer nights remembering that kiss. For the picture that Sayaka had hung so he could see it from his bed was of himself and Yuujirou in those sailor suit dresses that they had been wearing during the kiss.

Tooru had lain there in his bed at his uncle’s house at night, trying to sleep, and the next thing he would know was that his hand had crept up to his right ear, the ear that Yuujirou’s long white fingers had caressed. Then in shock his hand would fly to cover his mouth, and the touch of his index and middle finger would feel like Yuujirou’s lips. Would kissing a girl feel like that? What would it feel like to kiss when you weren’t frozen in shock, unable to move? Tooru would imagine kissing a woman, a beautiful blonde with long hair and soft pink lips. His penis would stir between his legs, hardening, and his breathing would get more ragged. He’d feel soft lips on his, he’d bury his hands in soft blonde hair, and then he’d pull back to look down on his captive beauty’s face—and it would be Yuujirou’s! Those wicked golden eyes, that wonderful rare color of amber sometimes called cat’s eyes, would look at him from under long dark lashes.

Tooru would curse, his not quite full erection would immediately start to vanish, and he would stare grumply up at the picture of two former Princesses fully made up. It was the picture’s fault his dream woman would morph into Yuujirou, he would think crossly. But oddly, she didn’t morph into a Yuujirou in make-up as depicted in the picture. And he couldn’t see himself kissing anyone in a dress like that—who wore such clothes anyway but the Lolita or Goth girls? Instead the face against his was without make-up, and the body he imagined himself holding close was in jeans and a soft, loose sweater. Then he would feel another burst of annoyance that the sweater that he’d feel under his fingers would be that soft green one of Yuujirou’s—the one that had pulls and a hole, the one he had been tossed when fretting over how to pack the ceramic vase he’d bought for his aunt from the ceramic club sale.

When he’d come home and unpacked his suitcase on his bed, he’d unwrapped the vase and just hung the sweater over one of the knobs on the headboard of his bed. The reason his dream woman wore that sweater was his hand would sometimes in bed stretch out and brush it by accident. He’d vow to put the sweater in a drawer in the morning, but somehow he’d always forgotten to do it in those first few weeks at home. Then he woken up one morning to discover himself clutching the sweater, his pajama pants wet from a nocturnal emission. The shock over that had driven his dreams from his head. But he’d somehow felt that to put away the sweater, to hide it, would have meant it bothered him, that something of Yuujirou’s was so tempting, so erotic, he needed to keep it out of sight, away from where he could touch it or smell the faint traces of the body that had worn it. And of course, he wasn’t attracted to Yuujirou that way! If he took those pictures down his sister had hung, he would just be letting her silly misconceptions get at him.

And if his dream woman sometimes had eyes like Yuujirou’s—eyes sometimes gold, sometimes more a golden orange-brown, eyes like honey or butterscotch, so what? He liked honey and butterscotch. Tooru sat on the train, happy to be leaving home, leaving Sayaka and those girls that looked at him so oddly behind, leaving behind too, those silly Princess pictures. This was likely to be his last term to just enjoy school, he thought. At the end of term, elections for student council would be held, and his good friend Akira would be—no other outcome seemed likely—elected the new president of student council. As fourth-year students, President Arisada, Vice President Koshino, Secretary Tadasu, and Treasurer Harue would not be able to run the school like they had since being elected as only second-year students. They would be much too busy trying to get into prestigious colleges and universities around the world. And everyone knew that Akira, or Sakamoto-sama as most of the school called him, was President Arisada’s chosen successor. And it seemed very likely that Yuujirou would be his vice president, Mikoto his secretary, and he himself, Tooru, would become treasurer. Next year as third years, they’d be responsible for so much, especially overseeing the new Princesses, and then as fourth years, they’d be cramming for entrance examinations and aiming for the colleges and universities of their choices. So this term was the last term for fun.

With thoughts like these, Tooru occupied himself on the train and then the bus and the walk to his dorm. Yuujirou would arrive tomorrow, and Tooru wanted to be unpacked and settled in. He would walk down and meet Yuujirou at the train station, Tooru thought with a smile as he made his way down the empty hallway to their room with its bunk beds and side-by-side desks. He wouldn’t have to make the long trip from bus to room alone with suitcase and stuffed backpack. In front of the room, Tooru pulled out his key, wanting nothing more than to dump his things on the floor and collapse. `I’ll collapse on Yuujirou’s bed as it’s just too much to climb up to the top bunk this tired. He won’t know,’ thought Tooru. Leaning in to insert the key, Tooru froze as he heard a moan coming from his room. Someone was in there! Adrenaline flooded him, and he put his ear to the door—yes, another faint moan. What? Could Yuujirou have come back and fallen somehow? Or—or—nothing else came to mind, and Tooru raced to open the door, images now flashing in his brain of Yuujirou lying in a pool of blood or with his body twisted and broken.

The door swung open, and he rushed into the room—and saw Yuujirou naked on his bunk masturbating. Their eyes met, and Yuujirou’s hand fell away from his cock, and he cried out, “Tooru,” and came. Mouth open, Tooru watched the white fluid rise up from Yuujirou’s cock before that long white hand grabbed the t-shirt on the bed and wrapped it over the cockhead, catching the rest of the cum. Though it was only a second or two before that happened, it seemed like a minute or more to Tooru when his eyes seemed to see it all. The white spray arched up and fell down onto the blue pillow under Yuujirou’s head, down into his honey blonde hair, a few drops landing on his temple. And those eyes—never had those eyes gotten so wide under Yuujirou’s shaggy bangs. And they were neither honey nor butterscotch, but hot carmel, hot melted carmel in a face of strawberry ice cream—for Yuujirou was flushed pink: pink face, pink neck, pink chest. And his lips, his nipples, and his cock were like red strawberries in the pink ice cream.

Never had Tooru seen a cock so red—and he’d seen Yuujirou’s briefly before in the bath, but never like this. It hadn’t been so thick, so long, so red, so wet. And his pubic hair was blonde too! Yuujirou had so little hair aside from that on his head, Tooru had never thought about it. He knew that not everyone had hair like his, but since he was a child he was used to looking down and seeing his cock in a nest of blue curls. So that blonde hair around the base of Yuujirou’s erection—it seemed wrong, somehow, shocking—and yet at the same time there was a rightness to it. Having once seen Yuujirou’s cock extended fully—it looked like six and half or seven inches—it seemed to Tooru that was what all cocks should look like. His was only five and half inches hard and much more slender than Yuujirou’s. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of inferiority about his penis. Japanese men tended to be smaller, so he’d felt happy to be above the global average. He’d never looked at other men’s penises in an erect state, so he’d thought they all were as thin as his. But Yuujirou’s had filled his fist as he had seen in that one second before the hand had dropped down to the bed.

And then the t-shirt had covered that cock from his view, but Tooru could remember how it had looked. He could remember the sight of Yuujirou’s hairless chest flushed pink with those tiny nipples of his looking swollen and red, and that face—that face—oh, god, would he ever look at Yuujirou and not see that face he had made as he called out “Tooru” and then been overtaken by pleasure? Had he ever seen Yuujirou look so beautiful? Yuujirou beautiful? Beautiful? Tooru backed up until he hit the half open door of their room. He kept backing up, pushing the door closed behind him, leaving his things in the hall forgotten. His back against the door, out of sight from the bunk beds and from Yuujirou’s carmel eyes in the little space between the closet and the wall that the door opened into, Tooru slowly slid down to the floor. His head fell forward, and his hands came up to cover his face—too late, too late! He couldn’t unsee what he had seen.

And sitting there he suddenly became aware of crying—soft sobs, sobs that sounded heartbroken, sobs muffled by a pillow. Yuujirou was crying! And Tooru forgot about himself and went to his best friend. He didn’t remember standing up or walking—he was just there, suddenly, sitting on the edge of Yuujirou’s bunk, his hands caressing that blonde hair, saying, “It’s ok, Yuujirou, it’s ok.” He wasn’t sure exactly what was ok, but it seemed like the thing to say—and he would say anything for Yuujirou to stop crying. He never cried! And then that head turned up to him, the face now white, whiter than he’d ever seen, the big carmel eyes wet with tears.

“Tooru, you forgive me? You don’t hate me? You won’t leave me?” asked Yuujirou in a voice that seemed so strange. Yuujirou—Yuujirou, the one who was always calm, always teasing, always confident—was asking these questions, his voice tremulous.

“No, Yuujirou, I’ll never hate you! Why would I leave you just because—“ Tooru paused, then said with a grin, “you’re a horny dog? You thought you were alone; I should have knocked. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry for walking in on you.”

And then the Yuujirou he knew was back, smiling up at him, fluttering his eyelashes, saying, “Oh you can always walk in on me, Toochan!”

Tooru glared down at him, but then his eye caught Yuujirou’s nipples—still red, still swollen—and he leaped up. “I’ll be back in five minutes, bastard, so get dressed. And if you don’t want me to tell Miko-chan, you’ll act like this never happened!”

“If you tell Mikoto, Tooru, I want to be there to see his face!” called Yuujirou, laugher in his tone as Tooru pulled the door shut behind him.

Tooru sank down, sitting on his suitcase. He pressed his hands once to his face, which seemed hot to the touch. He knew he was red, flushed—oh god, probably as pink as Yuujirou had been from passion. Tooru shook his head and groaned. He had to forget this, ignore this! Yuujirou was already joking about it, acting normal! Yes, he had to forget. Otherwise, how could he sleep night after night above that bunk, imagining that below him Yuujirou was stretched out naked, touching himself? That that cock, that gorgeous, perfect cock was hard and dripping just a little bit beneath him? In his jeans, Tooru felt his own cock start to stiffen. With a cry, he got up and fled down the hall to the bathroom, leaving his bag and suitcase once more in the hallway. He’d told Yuujirou to forget it, but how would he?

As he washed his face in the bathroom, his cock rock hard, Tooru had the terrible feeling he would never be able to forget the sight of Yuujirou orgasming.