Nicholas: Randomly came tome in French class this morning. I wrote furiously for most of the day trying to get it just right. I've never been more challenged by a stubborn fanfiction. It wouldn't work right for the longest time! I managed to get it good in Math class (when of course I should have been paying attention to my teacher. She made fun of me for writing too much today.). Now it is typed and here you are, lovelies. Drop by and leave off a review if you love me! You know you do!
Disclaimer: Every time I must press harder on this wound. I don't own anything pertaining to the Boondock Saints...so there...
Rating: M...a bit of angst...quite a bit of language...some intensely not-so-brotherly love-touches...
It happened once while they were in their teens. It was never defined in words (see: secret, dark mystery, a mixture of "nunya" and "business"). Both understood why they never spoke of it (was it fear? embarrassment?), but they didn't understand why they understood. For a week after it happened, they did not touch each other, didn't talk to one another, barely looked the other in the face. It had almost traumatized them.
Of course, as things go, the effect of it faded and the MacManus twins fell back into relatively their original system—fights, hugs, kisses on the cheek—and it was all right. That was familiar ground. But it still shadowed everything they did. It made Connor's nightmares worse because he was too nervous to go to his brother's bed afterwards for fear of what might happen. It made Murphy jump up and take over the bathroom to be alone with himself when Connor would come out of the shower in nothing but a towel—sometimes nothing at all.
For a while—years, actually—they couldn't sit comfortably with each other being nude in the same room. All because it happened. That night when Connor couldn't control himself and Murphy didn't stop him…They were twins, god damn it! They did everything together so why not this? Why not it?
When they moved to Boston—quite the change from Ireland—it almost went away. It was almost smothered and buried under the excitement of the city and how hard it was for them to find an affordable place to live in. They became themselves gain—screwing around, getting pissfaced drunk at a bar named McGinty's, not being afraid of lingering touches or heat from closeness. And it was all right…until they got settled in.
They lived in a loft on the fifth floor and winter nights were cold as the ninth ring of Hell (see Dante's Inferno,that freakin' cold!). Nosebleed-cold, frostbite-cold, ice sickles hanging from your nose…maybe that's an exaggeration, but the point is there. The thickest, warmest blanket in their apartment was Connor's—Murphy apparently had something better to do with his half of the twenty they found on the ground once.
"Damn it, Murph! Quit hoggin' the fuckin' bed!"
"Piss off! I'm fallin' off the side, here."
Murphy was indeed almost off the mattress and the blanket was stretched taut over the two of them. Every winter they went through this and they hardly ever got through the nights where they were both comfortably warm—neither noticed how much they tried not to touch when they were only in their boxers. Tonight was too cold for that, though.
"Seriously, this is gettin' ridiculous! Tomorrow I'm gettin' ya a blanket so ya can leave me the fuck alone!" Twisting awkwardly, Connor searched for a comfortable position and did not find one. His foot slipped forward too quickly and caught the back of Murphy's calf with a sharp smack.
"Ow! Jesus fuckin' Christ! Are ya tryin' ta kill me or somethin'?" Murphy knocked his heel against Connor's shin unkindly. "I'm fuckin' sorry I'm tryin' ta keep warm when ye gots the only blanket in here."
"Ya got plenty o' blankets!"
"I got sheets, there's a difference."
"Oh, sod it! Ya whine more than any self-respectin' newborn puppy." He tried to swallow an indignant yelp when Murphy's elbow caught him in the ribs suddenly, but failed with no grace whatsoever. "Damn it! I outta just shove ya out right now, ya little bastard."
"But I'm cold!"
"Aye? Well, whinin' about it won't warm ya up none." There was a beat after that statement in which Connor felt his blanket fly back towards his face and felt his brother's weight lift off his bed. Confusion: they never actually meant it when they pushed each other away. "What're ya doin'?"
"I'm goin' ta bed. My bed."
Connor wouldn't have that. He sat up awkwardly and watched the stiff form of a cold Murphy—clad in his winter pjs, which consisted of boxers with the "added warmth" of socks—wandered slowly to the other bed. "Murph, I thought ye were cold."
"I am," he stated stubbornly. All their lives, Murphy had been strong-willed, short-tempered, and stubborn. That wasn't a good combination without his charming wit that got him out of sticky situations. "I'll just leave ya the fuck alone, then."
'I said that, didn't I?' Connor thought with a wince. He hadn't meant it, but he didn't think Murphy would take him frankly. "Look, if yer cold I don' want ya freezin' ta death." Sure, that was it. But it wasn't quite it. Connor wanted Murphy next to him for his own comfort, not Murphy's. After a moment of contemplation that blew away years of dust to uncover ancient feelings, Connor came to a grave realization. This was it. "Never mind," he stated suddenly, his voice very dry, very…startled.
It was so much so that Murphy looked over his shoulder just in time to see Connor turn over onto his other side. Murphy stared at his brother's back, not quite sure why he was uneasy. "What was that?" he asked carefully. The lack of response was enough to remind him of it. He hadn't gotten in to bed and all plans to do so fled his will. He felt frozen, but not with cold.
Connor pulled the blanket to his neck and pushed the side of his face into his pillow. It seemed that holding the rough fabric closer could take away his insecurity, make him safer from sins and all other bad things…and it. With a shudder, he tried not to think about it, but the memory was suddenly, once again, alive in his mind (see: mental repression). It always did things to his mind—made him think things he knew he shouldn't think.
Murphy saw those all-too-familiar images in his head once more. It was wrong…right? That's why it had scared them some much. He suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable. He wasn't sure if he should move. That night played in his head again and he felt the very concept of it pulsing in his blood. Pulsing through his chest, down his arms and legs. It was a sort of heat, and the cold didn't bother him for a short minute.
That same heat—the heat of it—sneaked through Connor system as well. He felt it as he could feel the bed he was laying on. Coursing through him from top to toe, and soon the blanket was getting to be a bit superfluous. He didn't dare remove it, even though it constricted him to no end. No, it wasn't the blanket. It was his boxers.
Feeling the bite of a breeze from the broken window they'd never get fixed, Murphy snapped back to his senses. He looked at his bed and frowned sharply at the lack of Connor's nice warm blanket—his subconscious muttered: the lack of Connor. Why now, why tonight didit have to come back? Well, tonight was as good as any other night.
Connor couldn't stand it—well, didn't want to have to stand it—so he gave up on trying. He carefully moved his arm, so that Murphy would notice the movement, and slowly slipped his hand in his shorts. Timid fingers stroked sensitive flesh while Connor tried to clear his mind. Slowly, gently he gripped that steadily hardening organ and closed his eyes. It was quickly a thing of the past while his mind was overtaken by Murphy. Such a feeling wouldn't last long, but while it did…Connor moved his hand roughly and hid his quiet sigh.
Murphy wasn't stupid, and to think so would prove stupidity upon the thinker (not the statue). He stared at Connor for a while, the darkness playing with the figure on the other bed so that he couldn't quite make it out. There was movement, though, and there were sounds. O, what sounds they were! Murphy felt them as much as he heard them, and so he got a little weak at the knees. Panting—making Murphy pant—grunting—making Murphy sigh—hissing—making Murphy just about lose his mind. 'Fuck it,' he thought suddenly. He walked away from his cold, lonesome bed.
Preoccupied, Connor didn't hear Murphy's socked feet slip on the concrete floor. His hand was moving faster of its own accord and Connor couldn't help but let the burning steam fill his body, blocking his ears and dulling his senses. He barely felt the bed sink beside him, or an edge of his blanket lift. The cold air was no match for Connor's busy hand (see: wanking, jerking off, masturbation). Then suddenly, there was Murphy.
Arms wrapped around Connor's shoulders, then skimmed down his sides to hold his stomach. Connor was unmoving suddenly, frightened out of his mind. There was something on his neck, licking patterns while the other pair of hands dove into his boxers to touch him, fondle him.
And strangely—or not so strangely—Connor went with it. He only tensed for a moment at the new presence behind him. Then he pushed himself backward slightly, the heat of the bare chest on his back adding to the careful, dizzying strokes of Murphy's capable fist making it all the more enjoyable. Tongue flicking across his flesh, mouth closing over the muscles at the base of his neck, strong arms enfolding him, protecting him—Connor was fine. It was there, but what was it?
"Murphy?" Connor gasped quietly as though he meant to ask. He didn't, though. Every slide of Murphy's hand added to the friction, making Connor buck his hips, ever so slightly. Mind went swimming and rational thinking was out of the equation.
Sounds. Glorious sound that made Murphy provoke more. His other arm wrapped around Connor's waist and pulled his brother even closer to him, mouth still sucking and nipping lightly at the tanned flesh that spread rigidly over Connor's shoulder. Murphy was experimenting when he put his leg around Connor's, but it worked enough to make the blond brother moan in his throat. As a reward for the blessed noise, Murphy's hand sped up to an erratic tempo.
Friction. Sweet touch and feeling and friction. Connor gripped the arm that was tightly bound around his stomach. "God…" he grunted in the midst of his quickening breaths and harsh pants. Not the name, not a prayer, just an exclamation. He dug his short nails into the muscular forearm. The passion welling up inside him made his entire body go rigid and his jaw lock fixedly around a quiet cry that was growing into something else.
Connor's head was pushing backward, embedding itself between Murphy's and the pillow. With a bit of a smirk, Murphy kissed his brother's cheek and then, straining slightly, the corner of his mouth. Almost obediently, Connor turned his head toward his dark brother and their mouths joined zealously.
Almost obediently, but it wasn't quite so. Connor wasn't the obedient one; he was the controlling one. When it happened, Connor had been the instigator. Roles inverted, in a different setting, under the blanket they could barely share, it happened again. They might as well have switched tattoos and called it a reenactment. Oddly enough, it was different this time. Both men knew what they were doing this time—well at least, Connor thought Murphy knew what he was doing, ''cause whatever it is he's fuckin' good at it.' There was no uncertainty between them this time, nothing to fear, nothing to say "where'd this come from?" or "isn't this wrong?" They knew the repercussions, but they were almost glad that they'd suffer together. It didn't matter what would happen in the future, what happened at that moment mattered. That moment when Connor's body jerked suddenly, against his brother, his throat released high-pitched cry and a hot sticky liquid spilled out into Murphy's hand, the question that was it faded and was immediately replaced by an answer. It was the both of them; together in the bond that could never be broken, Murphy's arms around Connor or vice versa.
"God…" The repetition was all that Connor could muster through his now very dry and scratchy throat. Murphy released him gently, but kept his hand planted firmly just under the elastic of the boxers. With a sigh, Connor was content. No fears plagued him. His trauma was gone. He was happy.
They both slept comfortably warm that night; Connor fitted snugly against Murphy's form, under the blanket that they could now share easily. "Guess it's not as bad as we thought," Murphy mumbled into his brother's light, soft hair before either of them had the chance to fall out of consciousness.
"Indeed," Connor stated with a graceful chuckle that only Murphy appreciated for it's animate beauty when he could see the way it would shake Connor's shoulders. "Thank ye, Murph."
"I love ya too, Conn."