Em POV
Edward falls on a Thursday.
The cool autumn weather is starting to give way to the deeper chill of winter, but Coach Clapp is still making us run outside. Edward trips on a branch, falls to the ground, and catches himself on his hands. I race over to make sure that he is okay, and the other students follow. Edward protests all the attention, insisting that he's mostly unhurt even though his palms are scraped and bloody.
"Kid, take Cullen to the nurse," the coach tells me, shooing away the other guys that have surrounded us. I grip Edward's elbow and help him up off the ground, letting go as soon as I'm sure he's steady.
"I feel like such an idiot," Edward mumbles, as soon as we're clear of the rest of the class.
"It was an accident," I tell him, nudging him with my elbow in reassurance. "It happens to the rest of us, ja?"
"You mean 'the best of us'?" Edward asks, grinning. I shake my head-he's constantly correcting my English phrases.
"Come on, friend, you are bleeding all over the school," I remind him, leading the way to the nurse's office.
ooOOoo
Edward's hands were pretty raw after the school nurse washed them, so she covered them in some kind of ointment and wrapped them in gauze. He ripped it off as soon as we got home and he hasn't complained all night, but I've seen him wince in pain a few times.
After dinner, I sit on Edward's bed with him and help him with some math homework, then he helps me with some of the language in my English essay. It's a typical, quiet evening, and we go to bed early, around ten.
I drift off to sleep easily, but a frustrated groan rouses me soon after. The clock by my bed says it's eleven, and I blink as my eyes adjust to the dim light. Edward is in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other under the sheets. Ahhh, maybe he wants to play? I reach down to grip my own hardening cock, listening for the usual soft sounds coming from Edward's side of the room.
Something is different, though, tonight. There's no rhythm to his movement, no heavy breathing as he gets more and more aroused. He groans again, a strangled, desperate sound, and my brain starts to catch up with what's going on.
Edward needs to get off, but with his hands all torn up from the fall, there's probably nothing he can do.
He turns his head just then, dropping the arm that was shadowing his face. We lock eyes across the darkened room for a long moment before I throw back my covers and pad across the carpet to his side of the room.
He shakes his head and shifts closer to the wall as I sit down next to him.
"Let me help you," I whisper, tugging back his covers. He bats my hand away the first time I reach for his boxers, but I nudge him playfully and reassure him with a smile. I don't want to push him if he doesn't want to do this, but our experience jerking off in the same room tells me he's at least a little bit curious.
I reach for his boxers again and he doesn't protest, even lifts his hips a little so I can slide them down, but his hand covers his dick as it springs free. My motives are not completely pure-I want to see him, to touch him, just as much as I want to help him out.
"Edward," I whisper, resting my hand over his, "let me."
