From dawn, I watch for him. Discreetly. I pretend to be asleep, my eyelids half-closed, but my attention is entirely focused on him. Beneath the thin fabric of his briefs, very fashionable at the time, really short, tight-fitting, almost tiny, his morning erection is clearly visible, taut, aggressive. The fabric, stretched to the limit, covers almost nothing. Sometimes, when he moves slightly in his sleep, the elastic at the crotch shifts, and I glimpse the base of his penis, hairy, pink, and swollen. I hold my breath, fascinated by this stolen view, by this proof of raw virility, just inches away from me. And I feel my own body react, my penis harden under my underwear, as if it wants to join his. Smaïn wakes with a start, as if he'd felt my gaze on him. He stretches, arms above his head, and his briefs, already straining, ride up slightly, revealing a little more of his skin, his coarse pubic hair. He doesn't know I'm watching him. He doesn't know that every movement of his body is torture for me. The day begins, and with it, the obsession. Smaïn and I are inseparable. A partnership. Always together. At training, on chores, at meals. And everywhere, his body is a provocation. When he runs, his athletic shorts, or his fatigues, when we're in field gear, cling to every muscle of his thighs, his buttocks. The thin, worn fabric hides nothing. Sometimes, when he bends down to pick something up, or when he jumps over an obstacle, the shape of his penis is visible beneath the fatigues, taut, imposing. I often position myself behind him, just far enough away not to arouse suspicion, but close enough to see the sweat beading on the small of his back, to notice how his shorts or fatigues cling to his skin, highlighting every curve. And when he lifts things, when he stretches to grab something, I see his buttocks tighten beneath the fabric, his thighs tense, and I have to concentrate to avoid tripping, distracted by the sight. His fatigues, especially, are torture: when he's squatting, the fabric stretches across his crotch, and I can make out every detail of his genitals, as if he were naked in front of me. Back then, in the communal showers, we didn't hold back; it's a whole other ordeal. Everyone is naked, and Smaïn is no exception, even though he clearly doesn't seem too comfortable in his birthday suit... Water cascades over his body, highlighting every contour, every curve. I always position myself a little apart, so I can observe him without being seen. His penis, often half-erect, hangs between his thighs, heavy and veiny. When he soaps himself, his hands glide over his chest, his stomach, his thighs, and I have to force myself to look away, to focus on my own body. But it's almost impossible.One day, he noticed me staring at him. He smiled, a little amused, a little embarrassed, and said, "You're checking me out." I laughed, a little too loudly, and replied, "You're an idiot. I'm just checking if you've washed the mud off properly." He shrugged, as if it were a plausible answer, and carried on washing. But since that day, I've been even more careful. Because I don't want him to know. Not yet. And then there are the moments of rest. Sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree or a wall of the barracks, we chat about this and that. He smokes, legs apart, elbows on his knees, torso leaning slightly forward. In this position, I can see how his pectoral muscles rise and fall with each breath, how his arms, covered in a fine layer of dark hair, tense when he brings the cigarette to his lips. His hands are strong, veiny, with scars at the knuckles. And then there are his briefs… Always those short, tight briefs that reveal so little. When he sits, the fabric dips between his buttocks, emphasizing their roundness, their firmness. When he stands, I see how the fabric molds to his penis, as if caressing it. At night, in the tent, it's the worst. We're side by side on our beds, and even though we don't touch, I feel his presence like a warmth. He often sleeps on his back, one arm behind his neck, the other resting on his stomach. His briefs, so short, reveal every contour of his body. I spend minutes watching him, memorizing every detail, every shadow. And then there are those nights when he turns onto his side, facing me. The moon, filtering through the fabric, barely illuminates his face, but enough for me to see his slightly parted lips, his long, dark eyelashes. And when he moves again, I see, beneath the thin fabric of his briefs, the familiar bulge of his nocturnal erection, taut, throbbing, as if trying to escape. I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching out, from brushing against that warmth, that life pulsing just inches away. Not to mention those little everyday gestures. The way he adjusts his briefs in the morning, pulling t ...

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