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Connor knows they’re going to get in trouble. He can feel it in his bones; can feel it in the misty wind that blows his hair into his eyes. There’s no way to hide what Murphy is doing. No way they’re getting out of this unscathed.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and pokes his big toe into the hole on his left sneaker. “Ma’ll be home soon.”
Murphy looks over his shoulder and grins at him, showing the gap where he’s missing his front teeth. Then he turns back to the wall of their house - their white house - lifts the lump of wet charcoal and begins to draw thick black lines on the paint.
There are four drawings already. All animals in a neat little row. A cat, a rabbit, a duck, and a fish. His brother is currently working on an owl. Connor wants to drag Murphy away from the wet charcoal they’d discovered in the grill, left uncovered overnight by Uncle Sibéal; away from the wall where he’s drawing on their white house. He wants to wash it all away before their Ma sees it and punishes Murphy. Murphy, who just can’t control his impulses, who acts before he thinks and lives in the moment; throwing Connor happy smiles even though he must know there’ll be hell to pay.
“Ye know, Ma’s gonna kill us, yeah?” He breathes in the smell of mud and clovers and a dampness in the air that predicts more rain.
“Maybe not,” Murphy says while his brother rolls his eyes.
The wind picks up, sending the tree limbs swaying and rustling about, so much so that he doesn't hear the crunch of car tires on gravel. He jumps when the car door slams, like during the startling part of a scary movie. “Murph!” he whispers between his clenched teeth.
They stare at each other. Murphy with his missing teeth and blackened hand still clenching the lump of wet coal.
Connor kicks himself into gear. “Listen,” he says as his fingers find the hem of Murphy’s tee shirt. “Take off yer shirt and we’ll use it to clean it off. It might work if we use the hose too.”
Murphy tries to disengage his brother’s hands from his shirt. “No. These are good drawings, and I don’t want to-”
“What in the…? Good Lord, what have ye little hellions done now?” Ma stalks forward.
She is not that tall, but she has a heft to her and a loud voice that makes her pretty scary sometimes. As she approaches, Connor kicks his brother in the shin. Murphy tosses the lump of coal behind him as if that’ll be helpful.
“What have ye done? Are ye little shites trying to devalue our property? Deface our home? Murphy MacManus, front and center, NOW!” She points at the ground in front of her.
Instead of doing as he is asked, Murphy slides closer to Connor, semi-behind him, and peeks over his shoulder.
“NOW, MURPHY!” Ma points again at the ground in front of her.
He feels Murphy huff out his breath along his shoulder as he leaves the safety of behind-his-brother to obey their Ma.
“I did it.”
It’s out before Connor can stop himself. It’s out even though he knows it will only make things worse. He can’t help it, desperate at the thought of Murphy being punished. He lies even though he knows it’s obvious and lying is a bigger sin than drawing on the house with wet charcoal.
“Connor MacManus!” Ma’s eyes are huge, and her face is getting pink. Neither is a good sign at all. She gestures towards the back door. “Go to yer room while I deal with your brother.”
“But Ma…” Connor lingers, clasping hands with Murphy, unwilling to abandon him to his punishment.
Murphy retrieves his hand and hisses, “Go, please. Yer gonna make it worse.”
He goes, rushing once he’s out of sight, up to their room where he peeks out the window.
Ma has Murphy by his bicep as she yells at him, shaking his small frame slightly. Eventually, Murphy gets seven smacks on his arse with her hand. One for each year of their lives. Connor winces over each one as if he can feel them himself.
When he hears her come in and start up the stairs, he sits on his bed and tries to look remorseful and ashamed.
She enters without knocking and parks herself on Murphy’s bed, moving books and shoes and crayons to make space for her frame. She smells like cigarettes and fried food.
She looks at him and shakes her head. “What did St. Augustine have to say about lying, Connor?”
He lets out the breath he’s been holding. Of course, she’s going to start there. “Lying is always morally wrong, regardless of the circumstances.”
“And why is that?”
“Because God is perfectly capable of extricating from trouble those who stand fast in the truth.”
Ma nods. “What I don’t understand is why ye felt the need to lie in the first place? Ye weren’t in any trouble. It’s that brother of yers.”
It’s started to rain. He can hear it splattering against the window glass like fingers lightly tapping.
“Ma, I just… I dunno… I don’t like Murphy to be in trouble.”
“Connor, son, yer protectiveness towards yer brother is becoming…”
He watches her flounder for words.
“It was cute when ye were wee, but yer seven now. Most twins start to grow apart. Look at Erin Walsh’s girls - they moved into separate rooms when they were four. They’re eleven now and don’t even have the same interests or friends.”
Connor shrugs and toes at the rug, which makes his big toe protrude from the hole in his shoe.
Ma shakes her head. “No dinner tonight. Bed by seven. And ye go to confession before school tomorrow.”
He nods, relieved that’s all he’s getting. Although he’s likely to be on his knees most of tomorrow saying hundreds of Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s. He looks up through his too-long bangs, silently asking with his eyes.
Ma stands up. “Murphy’s washing the house.”
“In the rain?”
“Aye, in the rain. And ye are not to help him. He must learn he can’t just do whatever he feels like. Actions carry consequences.”
He watches from the window. His brother looks tiny from up here. He watches Murphy scrub away his pictures and hose down the wall with his mouth turned upside down.
*
Later, while darkness settles in, they huddle under the covers in Connor’s bed.
“Connor,” Murphy whispers. They’re supposed to be asleep in their own beds, but they can hear the tv from downstairs and feel certain their mother is done with them for the day.
His stomach growls. “What?”
“Do ye wanna get something from the stash?”
Connor grins at Murphy and gets out of bed. In his dresser, in the bottom drawer under his sweatpants, is a cardboard shoebox where they keep a stash of snacks, nicked and stockpiled, for these occasions. Early bed without dinner is one of their mother’s favorite punishments.
“We got a chocolate bar, three packs of crisps, and two wafer thingies.”
They split the chocolate and a pack of crisps and have one wafer thingy each; drinking water bent over straight from the bathroom faucet to wash it all down.
Almost full, they climb into their own beds. Connor stares at the ceiling, thinking about his confession tomorrow, when Murphy whispers, “Thanks anyway, Con. Ye didn’t have to.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. He did have to. He couldn’t not, but that’s not a concept he can really grasp, much less explain. Instead, he just says, “That rabbit was really good. Probably the best rabbit ye’ve ever drawn.”
Murphy smiles his gap-toothed grin in the dim light from the slightly ajar bathroom door, and he smiles back, feeling warmed. Murphy's happiness is worth getting yelled at and being hungry and the impending confession. Completely worth it.
***
It’s raining, and they’re eating beef and Guinness stew at the table while Ma putters around the kitchen, setting out flatware and taking bread from the oven. She puts the bread in the middle of the table and sets a glass of Guinness in front of each of their plates. They grin at each other, then at their Ma. “Thanks, Ma!” they say in unison because getting to drink alcohol at dinner is a special treat.
Ma settles into her seat, and Connor is starting to feel pretty good even though Murphy has been acting kinda sketchy since they left school. He lifts his beer, feeling the foam form a mustache on his lip as he sips slowly; knowing they won’t be allowed another.
“Ma,” Murphy says, looking at Connor instead of his mother. “Do ye think ye could ask yer cousin James if I can borrow his fancy jacket this weekend? The one that looks like a suit jacket? Maeve Connolly, that red-headed girl in my biology class, asked me to the dance on Saturday. The one at the community center where the girls are supposed to ask the boys.”
Connor chokes on his beer, spilling it, sticky and cold over his knuckles. “What?” he croaks and coughs.
Ma is beaming at Murphy. “Of course, love. Yer first date. Finally, I thought ye boys would never be interested. Is she a nice girl?”
“Yeah, Ma,” Murphy answers, eyes still on Connor, watching him wipe off his hand. “She’s a nice girl.”
“Do ye know her, Connor?” Ma turns to him.
He nods.
“And…?”
“She’s nice,” he agrees. His head feels funny, and everything seems really far away. He thinks he might faint and digs his nails into his thigh, trying to regain his composure.
“Did ye get asked, then?” Ma wonders, suddenly really fucking curious.
He shakes his head so it’s not a verbal lie because he was asked by two different girls, but he’d said no. He’d said no, and Murphy didn’t.
“Just as well,” Ma determines. “If ye were both there, I’m sure ye’d just ignore yer dates anyway. Finally, my boys are growing up.”
He bunks off school the following two days, claiming illness. Friday morning, Murphy watches him heat up the thermometer against a light bulb so he can prove his fever to Ma.
“Ye skipping again?”
He shrugs.
Murphy sneers, slings on his backpack, and leaves.
He stays in bed all morning. Not crying. Because that would be weird and stupid. Because of course Murphy will find a girl. Because of course. That’s how it’s supposed to happen. Just like Ma always said. And it’s not like he couldn’t go to the dance with one of the girls who had asked him; but just having to look at Murphy dancing with someone, touching them… What the fuck is wrong with him? Something’s wrong in his brain or maybe his heart.
He gets up and puts on his rosary. It feels weird and unnaturally heavy. He says the whole of it. Twice. But unlike usual, he still feels empty and distraught inside. He goes back to bed.
*
Saturday, he lies in bed all morning, moaning about his fever and upset stomach - the latter not being an actual lie. He doesn’t feel good at all. However, Murphy has stopped giving him judgy looks and has taken to bringing him cool drinks and digestive biscuits; even a cold cloth for his not-actually-hot forehead.
He wakes from a Benadryl-induced nap late in the afternoon, almost evening.
“Hullo, arsewipe,” Murphy says from his own bed, where he's lying on his stomach drawing in his sketchpad. He’s wearing sweatpants and an old blue shirt that's so faded it appears gray.
“What time is it?” Connor questions pointlessly as he looks at the clock. The whole house is quiet. “Where’s Ma?”
“Ma is helping Uncle Sibéal at the bar. So, we’re on our own for dinner. I’m not gonna ask ye how yer feeling because I know ye’ve been lying about being sick.”
“Well, my stomach really doesn’t feel good,” he protests and then, looking the time again, asks, “Why aren’t ye getting ready for the dance?”
“Canceled.”
“Really?” He’s already feeling better. “I mean, why? I thought ye were looking forward to it? Did ye cancel cause I’m sick?”
His brother rolls over and sits up on the bed, runs a hand through his hair with a shrug. “I was only sort of looking forward to it. But I didn’t want to leave ye here like this.”
“Oh.” He’s not feeling sick anymore at all.
“And I don’t mean - ‘leave ye here feeling sick’. I mean, ‘leave ye here lying yer arse off'.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugs. He can’t explain what he doesn’t understand. He can’t bring himself to say, ‘The thought of ye doing anything with someone who isn’t me makes me feel insane.’
“Oy, check it out!” Murphy seems to be changing the subject, so he watches him cross the room to Connor’s dresser and start rummaging around in the stash box they still keep there. He whips a pack of cigarettes at Connor, who snags them out of the air even though he isn’t prepared. He has good reflexes.
“Where’d ye get these?” he asks as he’s ripping the cellophane off. “If ye nicked them from Ma, she’s gonna notice.”
“Nah, I found a fiver in the street on the way home yesterday and legit bought them.”
Connor’s already lit one and hands it over, lighting a second for himself. They sit side-by-side on the floor between their beds. Murphy tries to make smoke rings while he practices just looking cool smoking. After a while, he says, “Do ye have a crush on Maeve?”
“Nah. I don’t.”
“Because since when do we do things without each other? Huh?” He draws anxiously on his cigarette, causing a short coughing fit, but manages to growl, “I thought we were making plans to go to America, and now yer trying to find a girlfriend?”
His brother looks over at him with a small smile on his face. A pretty satisfied looking smile, which just raises his anxiety.
“Is she yer girlfriend?” Connor can’t breathe properly, like his lungs forgot how to work, and his voice is weird and shaky. “Murph! For chrissake.”
Murphy slaps him on the shoulder. “Lord’s name. And no, for fuck’s sake, Con. She is not my girlfriend. And I don’t like to do things without ye. It’s been fucking hell going to school these past two days alone. I just… Fuck, this is embarrassing, but I thought she would probably kiss me, and that was my motivation to say yes.”
His lungs figure out their job again and he asks, less shaky, “Because ye thought she would kiss ye?”
“Aye! For fuck’s sake, is that a sin? We’re sixteen. I would like to kiss someone, wouldn’t ye? Do ye have no interest?”
“Oh.” Connor flushes bright red for some reason. “I do, I just… I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t wanna just kiss someone that has no real meaning to me, ye know? Like a first kiss - that should be special, right?” He shrugs and spreads out his hands helplessly.
Murphy nods but doesn’t say anything, so they smoke another cigarette and go downstairs to find dinner.
They have sandwiches because Ma didn’t leave them anything. This makes Connor wonder. “Was Ma pissed at ye for canceling on the girl?”
“Aye. Pissed. Disappointed. Apparently, we’ll ‘always be a couple of piss ants who will never amount to anything and a general embarrassment to her forever.'" He mimics the last part in their mother’s voice, which sends Connor into gales of laughter.
They watch Smokey and the Bandit, and a really shitty horror movie called “Night of the Blood Beast” on the living room tv and go to bed around 1:30 so they don’t have to deal with their Ma.
Connor’s lying on his back in bed, thinking about how this evening was better than he had imagined and feeling badly about the number of lies he’d told over the past couple days, when Murphy gets up, takes two steps towards his bed, and pauses suddenly, frozen for a moment in a beam of moonlight, one hand loosely curled into a fist resting over his heart.
Connor’s lips start to form his name, start to form the words: “Murph, what’s wrong” and then his brother is on the move again. He’s on top of Connor in a flash. He lays down on him, so they are flush. Murphy leans on his elbows, looks straight into Connor’s eyes for a minute, then holds Connor’s head still with his hands on either side and leans forward and presses their lips together.
They’re kissing. Like really kissing. Not in a slobby, quick, can’t get enough way, but in a slow and languid exploring and tasting kind of way. It goes on for just a minute, maybe two, before Murphy pulls back, smiles at him, and says, “It’s better than I thought it would be.”
And then he’s off him and back in his own bed before Connor can take in a breath. He trembles under the covers and doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t quite trust his voice. Murphy seems satisfied, splayed out on his belly in his favorite sleeping position, so he says nothing and just feels.
His lips are wet and tingling. His ears burn slightly where Murphy’s hands had held his head still and his heart is thumping so loudly, he is sure his brother can hear it. And there’s a feeling in him that he’s never felt before, a sense of ‘everything right and nothing wrong’, and it’s the best feeling he’s ever had, even counting times in church. He wallows in it until he falls into sleep.
***
Murphy has the best face.
Ma is out drinking, and he’s melted into the couch with some terrible comedy running on the tv and rain drumming steadily on the roof. Murphy’s mostly asleep, stretched out on his back with his head in Connor’s lap.
At first, he was just looking. Taking in Murphy’s cheekbones, the square of his jaw, his nose that doesn't look like Connor’s nose at all. With his eyes closed, Murphy looks young. Younger than their eighteen years. Connor touches the tip of his brother’s nose, allows his finger to ride up the bridge and curve over his eyebrow.
He strokes down his cheek and along the jaw, pauses at Murphy’s lips to skate his fingers over them slowly, gently.
Murphy makes a pleasant humming sound in his sleep.
He thinks about bending forward and kissing his forehead. Or his mouth, his mouth, his mouth, his mouth…
The front door slams, and Ma clears her throat.
He jumps, waking Murphy, who sits up abruptly, and they clash heads with loud “ow’s” coming from them simultaneously.
“Shite, Ma. Don’t sneak up on people. Fuck.” He rubs his jaw where he was hit.
Murphy rubs his head, yawns, and says, “Don’t yell at, Ma.” He stands, yawns again and says, “Les’ go ta bed, yeah?”, already starting for the stairs.
Connor turns off the tv with the remote and starts to follow.
“Connor!” His Ma’s voice is shrill and loud. She’s definitely been drinking.
When he looks over his shoulder, she beckons him back. Something rolls over in his stomach as he saunters up to her. She piles her purse and the tote with the crazy flower print that she brings fucking everywhere on him and says, “Have a drink with me.”
He carries her bags into the kitchen and hangs them from the fourth chair at the table that no one uses unless Uncle Sibéal or a cousin is over.
Ma gets the liquor bottle and two shot glasses.
“Ma.” Connor swallows. “It’s late. I just wanna go to bed.”
“I need to talk at ye, and yer gonna listen. So, sit down and shut up.”
He does.
She pours shots and downs hers. His glass sits, sweating in front of him, while he swallows and tries to gauge just how drunk his Ma is.
She belches loudly and lights a cigarette.
Really drunk.
“So, how long now?”
He freezes, unsure of what she’s asking.
“Before ye leave me forever? Two months?”
Relief rushes through him like cool aloe on a stinging sunburn. She means how long before they leave for America.
“Six weeks. The passports should arrive any day now.” He cadges a cigarette from her pack and lights it.
“And ye wanna leave because…”
Fuck. Not this again.
“Ma, we wanna explore and go places and do things. Why’d we bother learning all these languages? To work on McGregor’s farm all our lives?”
“And the other reason then?”
“There is no other reason, Ma. It’s just time for us to go…seek our fortune or whatever.”
“But ye have another reason?” She gives him a strangely sober look and leans heavily on her elbows over the table.
He shakes his head and grinds his heel into the floor, so he doesn’t squirm as if he’s six and about to get a lashing.
“Aye. Ye think I don’t know. But I’m yer Ma. I know. And Connor, I caution ye now. This path will lead the both of ye straight to hell.”
“I dunno what yer on about.”
She sighs deeply and loudly, and he can smell the whiskey on her breath.
“Connor.”
He looks at her.
“Look at me.”
“I am!”
They stare at each other. He grinds both heels into the ground.
“Do ye have inappropriate feelings towards yer brother?”
The sentence hangs between them as time slows down, and the moment grows larger like a water droplet swelling and swelling and swelling on the edge of the faucet. He makes fists and digs his nails into his palms.
“I dunno what ye mean.”
“Ye do.”
They stare at each other, but he resists the urge to fucking bolt. A small thought gives him hope that maybe she’s so drunk she won’t remember and…
“Connor!” She slaps the table with the flat of her hand. It rings out in the empty kitchen with the rain still drumming down and stomach acid rising up his throat. “The truth, boyo. Now.”
“No.”
There’s a moment where he thinks she’s gonna let it go. A brief period where he knows he could justify the answer as he was saying no to telling the truth, not her actual question, but she presses him, and he’s fucked.
“I think ye lie. I think ye lie, and yer gonna drag yer brother into hell with ye.”
He doesn’t move; doesn’t even blink.
His Ma readjusts her bulk on the old kitchen chair, and it creaks shrilly. “So, let me ask ye again. Are yer feelings for yer brother complete manky?”
He gulps in air, straightens his back. “No, Ma. Yer wrecked and talking shit. I don’t feel that way. I don’t.” He shoves back his chair and dashes out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She’s calling him, but he ignores it and locks the bedroom door behind him.
He sits on the floor with his back against the door for a while; trying not to think at all while he gets his breath back to normal. He gulps air and covers his face with his hands. They're trembling.
Murphy’s bed creaks. “What? Why’re ye so loud? I’m tryin’ ta sleep.”
“I’m not loud.”
“Ye are inside. I can feel it in me head.” Without hesitating, he scoots back and holds open the covers. “C’mere.”
Connor peels out of his shirt and sweatpants and crawls in. He hasn’t brushed his teeth. It doesn’t matter.
Murphy settles against him, slings a heavy leg and one arm over him. He says “shhhhh” against Connor’s temple and falls back asleep.
He closes his eyes and allows the rhythm of Murphy’s breathing to slow his heartbeat and calm his mind. Inhaling, he skates his fingers over the skin over Murphy’s ribcage. It’s just brotherly love. That’s all. This is normal.
***
“You stupid fucks!” Rocco yells across the pool table.
“Roc, stop it.” Connor extends his hand to the pair of blokes he and his loud, shaggy friend had just beaten while Rocco scoops up the bet.
Connor takes the cash Roc hands him and looks around for his brother.
Murphy’s at the bar with several regulars and that new blond lad who wants to become a regular. He won't be if Connor has anything to say about it.
“Murph!” he roars across the room and slings his head towards the door. Murphy stands up amid a course of “no’s” and “it’s too early's" and heads toward him. They’re almost out the door when the lad calls over.
“Murphy! Hey, Murph!”
Connor plows forward and ends up on the sidewalk alone while Murphy gives the blond bloke their number. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the blond guy whose name he can’t be arsed about. Doesn’t like the way he stands so close to Murphy. It’s hard to say why - dude just rubs him the wrong way, is all. And the guy won’t stop talking to his brother; their number clutched in one hand and his other on Murphy’s elbow.
“Murph!” he bellows through the open door, frowning.
Looking up, Murphy smiles at Connor in the way he does when he’s really proud of himself, which is fucking annoying. Connor gestures for him to come the fuck on. And Murphy does, without ever dropping that smile.
*
Two days later, Murphy sticks his head out the window where Connor’s reading and smoking on the fire escape.
“Ye wanna go to the movies? That Will Smith thing with aliens?”
Connor shrugs.
“Yeah, then? I need to know what to tell Christopher. He’s on the phone.”
“Who?” He has no idea what Murphy is talking about. They don’t generally hang out with anyone outside of McGinty’s besides Roc.
“Christopher? Ye know him, the blond bloke.”
That fucker.
“No. We’re busy.”
“What are we doing?”
“Stuff.”
Murphy sighs. “So, we can’t go to the movies with my friend because ye wanna do ‘stuff’”?
“Aye. And he isn’t yer friend. I don’t like ‘em.”
Murphy cocks his head at him, chews his bottom lip, and retreats back into the apartment.
Connor leans over the sill to listen to Murphy’s side of the conversation.
“Hey, thanks anyway. Connor doesn’t wanna go.”
“Um. I don’t… I can’t… We don’t do that.”
“Aye”
“Is it?”
“Anyway, I have to go. See ye at Docs.”
Murphy hangs up the phone and wanders away into the apartment.
Connor breathes a sigh of relief. He’s gonna have to handle this situation. Before it becomes intolerable.
*
It becomes intolerable in almost no time at all.
They’re at Doc’s bar, and he is getting shit-faced drunk because. Just because. He slams another shot and lights a cigarette, squinting against the smoke and watching his brother playing darts across the room.
That fucking guy is playing with him.
And the thing is, the fucking thing that’s really pissing him off is the way he touches Murphy. Not like Roc, who's a hugger and almost like family, even though they’d only arrived seven months ago. There was never anything weird, anything unseemly about the way Rocco touched anyone. But this bloke, he lingers when he touches Murphy. And frankly, Connor’s done with the whole fucking situation.
Murphy hits the bullseye, and blondie hugs him one-armed, pulling Murphy’s head close to his own.
He vibrates in his seat out of pure rage, noticing Murphy noticing him noticing, and fuck all if his brother doesn’t look goddamn satisfied again. Fuck a bunch of this.
When Murphy heads to the jacks, he approaches Christopher.
“Talk to ye?” He gestures towards the door.
“Uh. Sure.”
The lad follows him into the alley.
“No offense, mate, but I don’t like ye, so ye’ll need to fuck off. Find another bar. Find another friend. Find someone else’s brother to eye up.”
“What’s your problem? Because to me you seem pretty obsessed with your brother. You have the hots for him? That’s fucking disgusting, dude.”
“I’m not. I don’t!” he yells. It’s way too loud. He blinks and tries to focus through the blur of alcohol. “It's just a thing. We both need to like ye, and I don’t, so…” He gestures with his hands out and shrugs.
“Look, pervert. I don’t care what you think. I’m not backing down just because you’re in love with your brother.”
Connor socks him in the stomach. Christopher is not ready for it and stumbles backward into the brick wall. Connor crowds into him. When Christopher turns his head to look down the alleyway towards some sort of commotion that he doesn’t give a fuck about, Connor shoves his head against the wall.
“Ye fucking stay away from my brother and shut yer fucking gob about what ye think.” He takes three giant steps to the left, lugging Christopher with him while keeping his head pressed to the wall, dragging the side of his face against the rough and jagged bricks.
He grins broadly as Christopher screams. And then there are a bunch of people pulling at him. Turning to fight them all in a blind rage of nearly blackout drunk, he gets in several licks on who knows before Murphy punches him so hard he falls on his arse.
“What the fuck?” Murphy hisses in his face, leaning over him, holding him by his lapels. He lets Murphy drag him to his feet. The motion almost makes him puke, but he holds it down while Murphy leads him away by the wrist.
He glances over at the group surrounding Christopher, who is groaning on the ground with blood all over his shirt and in his hair. He smirks even though his jaw hurts where Murphy clobbered him.
Murphy says nothing during the rushed walk home, but also doesn’t let go of his wrist, and that’s nice.
He’s close to passing out when his wrist is finally released and he tumbles onto his bed. Murphy takes his boots off because he’s a good brother like that. So pretty. So very, very pretty.
Everything goes black.
***
It’s been a month since the face-bricking incident, and they’ve never mentioned it. Christopher hasn’t been seen since, so Connor feels mostly satisfied. Except that Murphy keeps kinda side-eyeing him and acting jumpy, so he stews in his anxiety about the situation.
On payday, Connor finishes “doing the books” as he calls it while Murphy laughs since he basically scribbles out figures on the back of an envelope and determines if they can put any money in the tattoo fund. Which is an empty coffee can they keep under Connor’s bed.
“Hey! Look.” Connor waves his scribbled envelope around, smiling happily. “We did it. Tattoos are fully funded!”
“Aye?” Murphy smiles back. “That’s awesome. The Holy Mother will look brilliant on our necks, for sure. When can we go?”
“Tomorrow or next week maybe. I wanna do the hands first though. Veritas and Aequitas, yeah? Like we always talked about.”
“Connor,” Murphy says slowly and deliberately. “I think we should do the other one first. I don’t know that the hand ones are right for us, right now.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and we’re doing the hands.”
“Well, not tomorrow then.” Murphy dips out of the conversation and the apartment through the kitchen window to the fire escape. Connor thinks about pursuing the subject out there but decides against it for now. Although, it’s weird whenever Murphy doesn’t want to do the exact same thing he does. Something feels decidedly off about it and the whole thing makes him grumpy.
*
The following weekend is cold, and rain’s coming down in buckets when Murphy says, “Why don’t we just stay in tonight?”
And so, they do.
After Chinese food and a joint Rocco had given them, Connor finds an old horror film with Vincent Price on tv. It’s black and white. After a while, Murphy goes to the loo and sits down right next to him when he returns. Their thighs are touching.
“Con.” Murphy says his name quietly, almost in a whisper.
He glances over, and they make eye contact. Murphy has his chin tucked slightly, staring up through his lashes in a way that makes him have to avert his gaze before he starts to get hard. Fuck. “Aye?”
“Do ye remember the night I almost went to that community dance?”
He swallows and nods because he doesn’t trust his voice at the moment.
“Well.” Murphy shifts and sets his hand on Connor’s thigh. He leaves it there. “I was thinking that kissing would be something I’d like to try again.” He bites his bottom lip.
He’s beautiful, really. With his lip caught like that and his eyes so innocent and not innocent at the same time, the small mole by his mouth and the way his eyelashes frame his eyes. His eyes which can look kind or friendly or mean as fuck, and also his nose which is different than Connor’s, and he likes it better than his own but wouldn’t want to have it because he likes looking at it on Murphy, and also…
“Fuck, Connor!” Murphy shoves away from him.
“Sorry.” Now, he’s biting his own lip. “Sorry. I got lost for a minute. I… Um… Do ye think that’s a good idea, though? I mean…”
“What?” Murphy’s angry now, his face no longer sweet, but his jaw clenched and his eyes shooting sparks. “Seriously? I always thought that this was… I mean, don’t ye want…” He trails off.
Fuck yeah. Always. Forever. He swallows. “I don’t think we should use each other like that. It’s not right. It wouldn’t be right before God.”
“Connor. I… There’re things I want to do, and I’d rather do them with ye. Especially when ye have a problem with me and anyone else.”
“No, I don’t.”
Murphy raises his eyebrows. “So, what would happen if ye saw me making out with Christopher?”
“I’d fucking kill him,” he growls, face darkening before realizing he’s walked into a trap. Goddamnit.
“See?” Murphy slides closer and rests his hand on his brother’s thigh again. He rubs his thumb in a small circle.
“Murph, we just can’t. I mean, it’s unholy.”
“It isn’t.” Murphy looks around the room. He glides his hand further up Connor’s leg, fingers reaching to touch the inner thigh, pressing lightly. “I’m not talking about physical stuff here.”
Connor cocks an eyebrow.
“I mean, I am. Right now. But… That's not all that I…” Murphy turns full-on to look at him. “Okay. Okay.”
“Wha-”
“I love ye. I’m in love with ye.”
His heart pounds wildly. He can hear it in his ears, and he feels slightly sick to his stomach, and at the same time there’s a sort of soaring feeling he’s never experienced before, like he’s flying right up to heaven.
“Connor.”
He looks at Murphy. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say the truth, Connor. Do ye remember how to do that?”
“Murph, please…”
“Are ye in love with me or not?”
“Murphy.”
“Answer.”
His throat’s closing up, and all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut only to picture their Ma’s face; how she’d looked on the night she accused him of incestual desires, brow furrowed and mouth twisted in a mixture of anger and disgust. Things blur, and the edges of his vision start to black. “I’m not,” he croaks. He tries again but nothing comes out as if his voice box crumbled into dust; destroyed with his constant lying.
Murphy stands up and leaves the room. After a few minutes, Connor hears the shower. He hasn’t moved; he’s stuck; frozen. There’s a loud buzz inside his head, and everything around him is less there than it should be.
The shower turns off. He hears Murphy moving around and steels himself for whatever his brother is going to try next. But Murphy doesn’t reappear.
He’s not sure what to do.
Eventually, he peeks into the bedroom to find Murphy in bed, pretending to be asleep. He really doesn’t know what to do.
After four cigarettes smoked back-to-back, Connor puts on his boots and walks through the rain to church. He sits in their familiar pew. Dripping. It’s comforting, smelling the incense and old wood, but somehow, after years and years of repetition and drilling, he’s unable to remember a single prayer.
After a while, he leaves.
***
He wields his knife like a pro, slicing through the meat, the smell of blood in his nose. There’s a tap on his shoulder, and Frankie the foreman is there nodding and saying, “Lunchtime!”
He gets his sandwich from his locker and wanders through the breakroom looking for Murphy.
“Hey, Connor, you fucking lost?” Jim waves him over.
Connor sits down in the hard plastic chair next to him.“Ye seen my brother?”
“Think he left early. Is that all you have? You want some of these cookies? Lucy made them yesterday.”
“He left?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
Connor abandons his sandwich and Jim and his cookies and the break room altogether. He finds Frankie the foreman, who confirms that Murphy left right before lunch, saying he had an appointment.
“An appointment?”
“Yeah, Connor. Is everything okay?”
“I have to go, Frankie.”
“Aw, fuck. I knew it. Knew it when Murphy asked. Goddamnit, ye fucking two can’t be without the other.”
Connor shifts his weight and waits for Frankie to finish yelling. He’s not concerned; he and Murph are hard workers, and Frankie likes them.
“So, can I go?”
“Yeah. Fuck, you two are annoying though.”
Connor walks towards his locker when Frankie calls from behind him, “Why didn’t you just leave with him in the first place? Bunch of nonsense from grown men.”
They live eleven blocks from the meat-packing plant. He runs the first nine and then walks the last two, so he doesn’t look like a steaming, gulping idiot when he arrives.
The apartment is quiet. The living room and kitchen are empty, but he knows Murphy’s there. He walks to the bedroom and finds his brother packing a bag.
“Murph.”
Murphy turns around and grimaces at him, then goes back to putting jeans into his duffle. “Figures.”
“What are ye doing?”
Murphy doesn’t turn to look at him, instead he fingers the bag’s zipper and says to it, “I was gonna leave a note to make it easier.”
“Yer leaving?!” His heart rate escalates until he can feel it in his ears again, and he feels seasick, feels like his soul rolled over.
“Aye.”
“Where are ye going?”
“To Rocco’s. Then…” Murphy shrugs. “I don’t know. Find a place, I guess.”
“Ye told Rocco that ye wanna move in with him?”
Murphy shakes his head and shrugs. “It’s Rocco. He’s not gonna turn me away.”
As Murphy moves toward the doorway where he’s standing, he blocks it with his body without thinking.
“No.”
“Con, I gotta get my toothbrush. Move, will ye?”
“No.”
“Connor!”
“No.”
“Fucking move, man.”
“No.” He can’t stop. “No. No. No. No.” He’s shaking his head, blocking the doorway, and repeating the word over and over. His heart hammers wildly against his ribs.
Murphy hits his chest. Not really hard, but not really soft either. Connor doesn’t move. He just keeps standing there, shaking his head, and saying "no".
Murphy shoves him, but he doesn’t budge. He’s like a tree that’s taken root.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”
“Connor, shut up! Shut yer gob! And get the fuck out of my way or I will beat ye senseless.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no.”
Murphy punches him in the face and then the stomach and tries to drag him away by his hips. They fall, and he’s hit several more times, but he can’t shut up even though he wants to. He just can’t.
His brother makes it past him and kicks his hand when he tries to grab him. Connor finally shuts up and stumbles upright and forward at the same time, lurching down the hall to snatch Murphy by his tee-shirt hem.
“Why are ye leaving me, Murph?”
When Murphy turns to look at him, his heart breaks a bit. His brother looks so sad. “Because I don’t want to live with ye like this. I can’t stand it.”
“Because of the other night when I said I wasn’t-”
“Aye! It’s not because you said. It’s because ye lied. To me. And I don’t understand why ye do it. Ye know lying is a mortal sin. Just the same as…” Murphy trails off and shrugs. “When ye deny everything and say ye don’t feel like I know ye do, I don’t know what to do, Connor. It hurts. I want to touch ye and for ye to touch me. I know ye also want that. But ye just refuse and lie. I don’t know what to do anymore, except leave.”
“Murphy, please fucking don’t.”
“Connor. I have to. Yer delusional. Talking about getting veritas tattooed on yer body when yer a fucking liar. Ye don’t deserve a tatt like that. And I don’t deserve to be lied to by the one person I’m supposed to be able to count on. And I don’t know why ye chose lying over…” He pauses for a long time and finishes quietly, “the other sin.”
“Ma knows,” he croaks. And then the tears start, and he can’t stop them any more than he could stop saying “no”.
Murphy shifts uncertainty for a minute, then he squats next to Connor and hugs him. Connor cries harder. After a bit, Murphy gets up and fetches a roll of toilet paper and the small trash can from the bathroom. Connor blows his nose and cries even harder while Murphy sits next to him and rubs his back.
Tears drip off his nose and his chin. He doesn’t care because what does it matter? He’s fucked everything up, and Murphy knows, he knew, he has known. He breathes out shakily.
“Con.” Murphy leans over, trying to catch his eyes.
He looks up in embarrassment, but Murphy's face is soft, and his eyes are kind. This makes him cry even harder for some reason. Because he loves his brother, and his brother loves him, and that is fucked and sinful. It’s outright illegal. And if they ever see their Ma again, she’ll know at a glance.
It takes a bit to stop crying. Eventually, the tears lessen, and his breath stops hitching so much, and they’re just stuck in the hallway outside the bathroom, and he isn’t sure what to do next. Murphy lights two cigarettes and hands him one, and that helps.
Halfway through the smoke, Murphy says, “Tell me.”
Connor takes a shaky breath and informs his brother of the time their mother confronted him, and he lied.
“I’d have lied to her as well, Con,” Murphy says, snaking his arm around Connor’s shoulders and curling his fingers into the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m sorry. She thinks she’s trying to protect us, but who is she to know what God wants?”
He barks out a short, harsh laugh. “Ye think God wants us to fuck?”
Murphy retracts his arm and smacks him. “Don’t be rude. No one can say what He wants, but I know what I feel. And nothing about ye has ever felt wrong. That night we kissed felt like the doors of Heaven opening. At least to me, it did.”
He thinks briefly about the consequences of mortal sins but finds his mind drifting to the curve of his brother’s eyebrow and how his lips look when they blow out smoke.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Sorry for lying to ye. Sorry for breaking down. Sorry for making ye wanna leave.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
A train goes rumbling by, and someone in the street is shouting, “You don’t know me. You don’t know me” over and over again.
He’s lost the fight he never wanted and never understood why he was even fighting to begin with. He draws deeply on his smoke and concedes. “I’ve been in love with ye forever.”
“I know,” Murphy says, moving to straddle him in the hallway. He takes Connor’s cigarette and tosses it in the trashcan and leans down and kisses him just like he did that night in their bedroom in Ireland so many years ago.
And then his brother’ tongue is in his mouth, and he’s got a death grip on Murphy’s hips. He can feel Murphy growing against his stomach and pulls him tighter. Everything is very warm and bright against his closed eyes. It’s like his body is on fire. It’s like the world is on fire.
It’s the trash can, though. They scramble to dump it in the tub and douse it with water.
“Holy fuck.” Murphy looks over with an eyebrow cocked and grins. And that feels good. Seeing Murphy with the light back in his eyes. He looks sexier than ever.
Connor threads his hand into his brother’s hair and pulls him in until there is no space between them at all.
Then there is only the smell of wet, burned paper and their gross toilet and a bit of blood stink leftover from work, but the smell and the feel and the taste of Murphy blends it all away to the edges of his senses as his fingers work open the button on Murphy’s pants.
*
On Saturday afternoon, they stand in the wind and the sunshine on the sidewalk in front of the tattoo parlor. Connor lights two cigarettes and hands one to Murphy. “Fuck, that hurt.”
Murphy sneers at him. “Don’t be a baby. Mine is twice as long.”
Connor laughs, feeling happy and satisfied. “Fucking one extra letter, ye knob.” He knocks his shoulder into Murphy’s, and they start the walk back to their apartment. “Now, no more lies between us ever.”
Murphy blows smoke into the wind, and it whips back into his face, causing him to squint against it. “I need ye to know that I never planned to actually leave. When I was packing, I just wanted to make ye have to do something.”
Connor shrugs and smiles, small and without teeth. “I knew. I know,” he says, soft and just audible over the wind.
They walk on silently. Both glancing occasionally at their new ink and curling their fingers against the residual sting.
Murphy smells really good, better than him, weirdly different even though they use the same deodorant, toothpaste, soap, and shampoo.
They’re only a couple of blocks from home when Murphy stops walking.
It takes Connor a second to realize, lost in thought about how they could possibly smell differently.
“What?” he asks, suddenly cautious, his anxiety rising sharply.
“There’s something I guess I should divulge.” Murphy looks very serious, and Connor’s heartbeat doubles.
He grits his teeth and nods while tension crawls up his spine.
Murphy steps right into his space, eyes so blue, they remind him of the Celtic Sea back home. His brother leans even closer and tells him, “Maeve Connelly never did ask me to the dance that time. I just made that up to see what ye would do.” And then he runs.
Connor stands frozen, momentarily stunned. Murphy jogs slowly away, grinning back over his shoulder, waiting to be chased, ready to be caught. He tosses his butt into the street and sprints after his brother, who runs faster, glancing backward. Their laughter curls and weaves together briefly before being swept away by the wind.