Help! //McLennon

ten

John's point of view:

(Three months later)

Paul did forget his towel. He did. But he could also easily get one for himself. Either I was deciding to do a good deed for once in my life, or I wanted to see him again. He'd only been in the bath for five minutes, but lately, I'd found myself yearning to always be in his presence.

Everything had settled down since he came back. We got into a comfortable routine and everything was finally fixing itself into place. I would go to work every weekday, come home at nine to a meal Paul had made and anything he needed during the day; he went to Cynthia's for help. He did most of the housework while I did all financial business and tried to keep a steady income. Weren't living incredibly comfortably, and some night's dinner wasn't guaranteed but Paul had said - multiple times - that he felt like the happiest, luckiest lad alive. And nothing could make me smile more than to hear him say that.

My soft spot for the boy had done nothing but grown, same with Mike. They were wonderful boys and I sure as hell didn't miss walking into a cold, empty, lonely apartment after work each night.

I think Mike had fallen in love with me. He would cling to me all hours of the day, and sometimes Paul even had to bribe him off me. Which caused a feeling I'd never expected to rise again since Julia died, something so pure, a family-type feeling. Sure, me and Cyn were family, but it was still separated by the fact I didn't have to look after her. She had her life. I had mine. But now, I did have to look after Paul and Mike. And our lives were pretty much all the same, forgetting our pasts of course.

Paul still hadn't gone into detail about what had happened with Helen. He'd drop a fact or so on me every now and again, but I could tell he just wanted to forget. He still had a nightmare every night but he'd only scream every week or so, waking up in a cold sweat: crying. I'd go in there and try my awkward best to comfort him. Sometimes I'd grab his hand and hug him and Mike. Mike, sharing a bed with him, would always wake up to Paul's screaming, therefore crying too.

Cyn once said that love is when you feel for someone so deeply that it affects you too. Now I don't know much about love, or feeling really, but if that's true; I'm getting pretty close to being in love with these boys. Every time Paul gets reminded of something horrible and looks down at his hands all sad, everything in my cold being aches. Every time Mike blurts something out about Helen, Paul always shhhhing him instantly, it makes me angry. Or sad. Or helpless. And feeling for me had been a thing I was used to not doing. I didn't feel at all for myself, Cyn could feel for herself and I had no one else to feel for.

But now I did and it was odd. My whole mental structure had changed, the wall I had spent so long to build up was no being taken down, brick by brick, by Mike and Paul.

Right, Paul's towel.

My knuckle meets with the wood of the bathroom door in a quiet knock. I wait for a response, but - unusually - Paul doesn't answer. A frown takes place in my features and I silently, slowly, open the door, closing my eyes for the sake of Paul. Calling out his name in a whisper, I get no answer again. My eyes fly open, hoping he hasn't died a tragic death in the bathtub.

He isn't dead. At least I think he isn't dead. From where I was peeking into the room from the door, I could see him in the reflection in the bathroom mirror. He sat up in the soap bubbles, the suds covering everything indecent. His eyes were closed and a strange expression was pressed into his handsome features; halfway between being pained and pleased. I watched silently in confusion, wondering what the hell he was doing. Before I knew what was happening, he lets out a quiet whine, shifting his hips until the suds weren't doing anything anymore.

My breath hitches in my throat and if I wasn't trying to go unnoticed, a loud gasp would have left my lips. I couldn't help but still continue to watch him. Any normal person would have left his towel by the door and left, but I sure as fuck wasn't normal so I continued to watch him on awe like the queer pervert I naturally am.

He still wasn't moving much, but his eyes were still scrunched up in a weird mixture. Suddenly, his lips fall apart in a silent gasp and then - a few moments later, a low whimper echoes quietly around the tiled bathroom.

I swallow down the lump in my throat and suppress a scream as I finally realise what on earth he was doing. His hand was under the water, moving in a very suggestive manner, but I frown once I see he isn't having a wank like I had originally thought.

I know I need to stop. This is where the line is drawn. Well, actually, it was drawn a while back, but I didn't feel physically capable of moving away. My feet were glued to the spot and I had lost the ability to avert my eyes from the heavenly scene in front of me.

Paul's hair was a mattered wet mess, sticking to his forehead and his cheeks were red from the heat of the water. Mix that with how he's biting his lip and two of his fingers buried deep inside himself, my breath was turning into a pant and hot and flustered were words coming quickly into context. A shiver runs down my spine as he moans under his high-pitched pants and throws his head back, moving his hand faster into himself.

I knew all lads touched themselves, it was common knowledge but never had I seen or heard of a bloke fingering himself like Paul was. A wank was just the average stuff all men fit into their daily schedules, but what Paul was doing, how his face looked, made it seem even better.

Cursing myself for the pitched tent in my trousers, I silently leave the towel on the floor and close the door, rushing to my bedroom and locking the door. I jumped on my bed and tugged my pants down in eager haste, then realising; I didn't know how to do this. I wanted to try whatever Paul was doing, but now that it came to actually doing it, I had no clue - and a bit of stage fright.

"Fuck it." I breathe, lowering two fingers between my legs and slowly pushing in. I cringe at the horrible feeling, instantly pulling my finger out. After a split-second of brain-storming, I reach under my bed for the small bottle of lotion - we all know exactly why I have lotion under my bed;). Drenching my fingers in the creamy liquid I try again, closing my eyes this time to focus on the feeling.

It was weird. Not unpleasant though. So I gently - after a few long seconds - start to move them in and out in a rhymic motion. At first, it isn't nearly as good as a good old fashioned wank, but as I move faster and faster, the strange and slightly uncomfortable feeling leaves completely. Not knowing what to think of the alien sensation, I continue, waiting for some else to happen.

And then, holy hell, something amazing. I don't know what, but it feels good. Really good.

My head is thrown back into the pillow and my lips part silently. Whatever it was, it happens again. A small gasp makes its way out of my mouth and my fingers reaching to grasp the bedsheets whoreishly. It was bliss. No wonder Paul looked so out of it in heaven.