For as long as Murphy could remember, Connor could spend hours in the bath. And the time only increased when he discovered a bottle of bubble-bath in their mother's cupboard. When they were young, Connor would use the large, family tub as a warm swimming pool, dipping, rolling, and sliding across the porcelain. Murphy would take guilty, youthful fascination in finding any excuse to be in the bathroom simply so he could listen to the gentle splashing and swishing noises his brother created.
It was a cardinal rule that he not disturb his brother's ritual with speech, however, so he would content himself with brushing his teeth, washing his face, and, later, shaving. Murphy rarely even glanced in Connor's direction, more than content with the sounds and the gentle smell of the soap.
As they grew older and Connor's body and legs lengthened into manhood, the swimming all but stopped. Murphy would walk in to find the other lying bonelessly in the warm water, eyes closed and brow slightly furrowed. It was at this point that, with the lack of sounds, Murphy began to look. Water clung to the tanned skin of his shoulders, dripping down to the surface of the water that muted the image of the body below. After raking the image twice with his eyes, he would quickly finish whatever mundane task he'd used as an excuse to gain entrance and then leave his brother to his peace.
Sometimes, when Murphy snuck in closer to the end of the bath, he was nostalgically surprised to once again hear the gentle swish of water as Connor soaped up. Once or twice it even seemed that Connor himself missed the slide of water, porcelain, and skin, and he would slide back and forth a few times before getting out, as though trying to mix the water over his body.
It was this time in their lives when Murphy's fascination began to grow less youthful, and a bit more guilty.
Murphy himself had never taken to baths. He'd tried desperately, the Lord help him, but no less than five minutes after climbing into the water he would grow bored and get out. He was quite simply too impatient.
Showers were another matter entirely.
The constant flow of the water distracted his mind and beat hard on his tense muscles. He loved the flow of it over his eyes and down around his nose, a sensation he knew for a fact Connor hated. Plus it was simply easier for him to masturbate in the privacy of the shower back home, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit it.
Sometimes, during the random appearance of hot water in their South Boston apartment, Murphy would stand under the spray and wonder if Connor ever listened to his showers. He wondered if his brother ever took the opportunity to study the current of water down his back from Connor's bed.
When the nerve struck him, which seemed to be more and more frequently, Murphy would find himself playing to they idea that Connor was, indeed, watching. He would arch up into the spray of water briefly before leaning forward to splay his hands on the semi-tiled wall and drop his head down, pouring the water from his hair in a cascade.
The movement felt good, if nothing else, and always gave him an excuse to chide himself later for his vanity. Because every time he turned off the stream and turned to grab a towel for his waist, Connor would be otherwise occupied.
Murphy sighed, shaking the water from his hair only to drench it again. He grabbed the bar of soap and commited what he had seen a fashion magazine once call a Cardinal Sin. He lathered his hair with it. Then he moved to the layer of grime only a meat-packing plant could produce and ran the soap, now a thin sliver that barely fit in the center of his palm, across his skin.
Turning from the wall to rinse the soap from his hair, he locked eyes with Connor.