A/N: WARNING INCEST AND MALEXMALE!

EDIT (6/11/10): Fixed up the mutilated setnece towards the end of the chapter. You should find it enjoyable now. Also, gave you the curtesy of on-the-spot translations.

"Speech"

-thoughts-

Chapter 1

He leaves early, before there's any ray of light peering through the city, hours before it can reach their little window and have the chance of waking his sleeping brother. Connor hears Murphy rustling around in his mattress as he pulls up his pants, takes his coat and rosaries of their nails and slams the door shut without uttering a word.

Connor lies on his side facing away from his brothers strange behavior and stares at the dark cracks in the wall. The blonde bites his lip, his thumb pushing more skin into his teeth as he tries to decifer the meaning behind it all.

For two weeks now Connor has dealt with his brother's mysterious ritual of sneaking out at the exact time every morning; or at least it feels like it's the same time. The blonde can't tell for sure. The alarm clock was happily tossed as soon as they started their new line of work.

-Doesn't even leave a freakin' note.-

It's stupid of Connor to expect that of his brother, but he does. He expects Murphy to tell him where he's going, when he'll be back and if he's stoping to pick up smokes on his way home. Connors desperate for anything that reassures him they're still brothers. He'd be happy with a "g'mornin.'"

It's possible Murphy thinks Connor doesn't notice the change, believes the blond really is a heavy sleeper and doesn't hear his wakefulness when it's damn near impossible for his twin to ignore. And being twins gives them a connection of sorts, a window that tells one when something isn't right with the other. Murphy had to know that.

Connor's forhead breaks out into rows of wrinkles as he takes that logic and flips it. Maybe Murphy is trying his hardest to make him notice something is wrong, wants Connor to confront him, to stop him. Connor concentrates too hard and bites his lip open.

"Fuck that hurt!"

Connor sits up in bed, pressing the back of his hand to his bloody lip. It leaves a shinning black dot on his hand. Connor stands up and heads for the table with last night's beer. He drinks what sour remnants he can find.

"Ah, shit!" He swore, his lips stinging as the alcohol hits, beer spilling onto his bare chest.

"Fuck this shit! I'll fuckin' make him talk!"

Connor grabs his coat, not bothering to throw on a shirt, and rushes out the door. He turns back around for his boots once he safely plucks the broken glass out of his foot.

Once outside, Connor heads down the accompanying alley to make up some time, dodging obstacles of trash as they come. He smells the ghost of his brother's cigarrette, and knows he's not far behind. Connor reaches the sidewalk and looks left then right before finding his brother's trademark black coat and blue jeans a couple blocks away.

He's alone.

- And why wouldn't he be? It's got to be close to 3 in the morning. I must be losin' me head.-

With the morning chill fresh on his face, Connor runs up to his brother and shoves on the shoulder. Ther darker man is completely off his guard and tetters into the closest building. Even then, Murphy is slow to react. Connor is amazed at how long it takes him to pull back a fist and defend himself. Whatever has been calling his brother out at this ungodly hour has devoured his mind too.

"An' just where te fuck da ya think yur goin'?" Connor demands, pretending to uphold the role of the bigger, badder brother, but they both that title belongs to Murphy. He's never the one to back down.

Blue eyes blink a few times, piecing together what just happened to him and why his brother of all people was standing in front of him. Connor sees the confusion and grips his brothers shoulder reassuringly, steps just a bit closer so their breathes mingle. Connor almost forgot how cold it gets during these spring mornings and regrets not having a shirt.

In a flurry of black, Connor's hand is knocked away.

"None of yer fuckin' business, a-rite?"

Murphy shoves his hands into his pockets and strides into alley.

Connor stares after his brother's form as it disappares around the corner while his own body is infected with numbness. This was one of those times where Connor consulted one of the many unwritten laws between them: if Murphy had a problem, Connor was there when he needed him, but until then Murphy solved it alone. So naturally, this would be Connor's cue to go back to bed, but the isolation has made him paranoid. Especially, when there's another rule that states they're supposed to share everything with each other.

Connor runs a hand over the scruff of his jaw that pinches at his mouth. He looks around the still sleeping city, indecision weighing heavily on him. Connor's worst fear is for his brother to hate him and persuing with empty threats and open hands will only make the distance between them that much worse.

"Te hell wit it! Shits already hit te fan."

This time Connor grapples Murphy's wieght with the lapels of his coat and shoves his back against the nearest building. He stumbles over a lamp cord in the process.

Murphy doesn't say anything, but he raises his hands in mock surrender and doesn't meet his brother's eyes.

"Now yur gunna tell me what goin' on or so help me I'll beat it out of you!"

He's putting a strain on his vocal cords, but it's the best the lighter twin can do to sound convincing.

Murphy knows there's a vain popping out of Connor's throat right now. He knows his face is turning a brute red without looking at him. Murphy doesn't try to escape his brother's grip, but he doesn't have to. He's getting away with silence. Murphy puts his hands down slowly, averting his eyes from across the street to the garbage around their shoes.

Connor decides to changes strategies and give pleading a shot.

"Please, Murph. I am worried about ya."

Murphy finally looks at him in the eye, the frustration buried in those pools making Connor recoil back. Connor sees it now, the addition of new lines under his brother's eyes. His face looks bruised while the rest of him grows paler by the day. His hair looks greasier than normal too.

- How long as he been without a shower?-

Connor moves to test the ebony locks against his hand. He combs it back and the coarse hairs stick in the place of a cowlick. Those same hands trace down Murphy's temple, coming to rest on the thin structure of his cheeks.

Murphy opens that grimacing mouth of his, eyebrows knotting as he gives his brother what he wants.

"To pray. Are you satisfied now?"

"What?"

Murphy's beauty mark tended to distract him at the most inconvient times.

Murphy rolls his eyes toward the sky exasperatedly and then drops them back down to level with his twin. The words are spoken harsher, on the verge of screaming so that his brother will hear him this time, "I SAID I WAS PRAYIN'. THERE IS NO CRIME IN THAT IS THERE?"

Connor blinks. What would warrant his brother to redouble his devotion? Was he feeling regret? Was it sadness for the dead even though those slimy bastards deserved what they had coming to them? No that couldn't be it. It had to be something Connor did. And just as the lighter twin came to this conclusion, he could only think of a few things that Murphy antagonised over.

"Is it because of the rope?" Connor asks apologeticaly. He's not entirely sure if rope is was what caused this mess, but it was better than saying nothing. At least Connor thinks so.

Murphy pushes his brother off of him, spins on his heel and stretches his arms out like tired wings.

"No, Connor. It's not cuz of te friggin' rope," he says with a facetious smile, astounded that his brother doesn't have a clue to what's proding him.

With that, Murphy leaves and doesn't come back.

Connor sits on his mattress, foot tapping restlessly against the floor. He threw a shirt on when he got back, but that was the extent of his accomplishments. That aside from smoking his tenth consecutive cigarette. The filter is again brought to his lips and he inhales. The smoke is held in for a couple seconds then blown out through his nose. Nicotine wasn't calming him down like it normally would.

"I should do somethi' fer 'em to make up. But what?"

Connor scratched away at his scalp as he thought over the possiblities. He surveyed the apartment in hopes of landing an idea. The sink was filled with every dish they owned and was starting to smell. The stove held the black crusted remains of whatever it was they attempted to cook while drunk one night. The floor was sticky with spilled drinks and dust clung to every surface he could see.

"I could clean up the place a bit?" Connor laughed at that. Him clean. That was an oxymoron if he ever heard one.

Connor smakes himself in the forehead and hangs his head low.

"Shit, I gunna hafta do aren't I?"

Murphy came home earlier than expected, or maybe it was later. Time seemed to speed faster than normal when faced with the task of cleaning a filthy apartment. Connor looked behind him from his spot on the floor, sponge in hand, as his twin walked through the door carrying a brown paper bag. Connor threw the sponge into the bucket of cloudy water and sat up on his soaked knees to gauge his brother's reaction.

Murphy's eyes seemed to spark open, seeming oddly displaced for a minute, asking himself several times if he came home to the right apartment.

"Do ya like it then?" Connor asked, junctioning with his nose towards the apartment.

Murphy jumps, startled to find Connor home and on his knees in the far corner of the room washing under the cabinets. Smirking, Murphy apparased the apartment, nodding his head and offering a geniue smile, showing off his teeth.

"Yeah, I think I do."

Murphy shuts the door and sets down the bag on the table, pulling out a bottle of 40 proof rum and takes a good long swig.

Connor stands. He picks up the feather duster from off the counter and points it at his unappriciative half.

"I hope ye brought some home fer me. I've been te one slavin' away 'ere."

Murphy has to cut his drink short, so not to laugh and spew expensive rum all over the table. He wipes away the small amount of liqiour that leaked past his lips.

"And what are ye goin' to do if I forgot miss alice? Tickle me te death wit yer powderpuff stick?"

"You know what, that's exactly what I am gunna do."

Murphy has a glint in his eyes, promising to do something Connor isn't going to like. The dark twin holds the bottle out, tipping the mouth ever closer to the clean floor below.

"If ye ask me, I think the scent of pine could use ... oh I don't know ... little more rum?"

"Don't ya do it! I am warning ya!" Connor was turning red again, he always did when he was angry, and shook his makeshift weapon in disapproval.

There's a trickling sound and Connor watches in open-mouthed horror as a cascade of rum splashes across the clean, white-titled riches of his labor. Murphy doesn't waste too much alcohol on his harrassment, even if the look on his brother's face is possitively adorable.

In the next instant, Connor tackles his twin to the floor, Murphy's back pressed into the mess he made.

Connor lifts up his brother's shirt and grazes his flanks with the fine tips of the feather duster, dodging knees to the ribs and punches to the face.

"Get off! Hahah! Get off - ahah - me dammit!" Murphy barks, trying to wrench himself free from his brothers position on top of him.

"You just had ta do it! Didn't I tell ya not to?" Connor reminds him, his own vengence disipating the more he watchs his brother's face clench in torturous laughter.

Murphy manages to land a punch to his Connor's face and squirms onto his stomach, gasping for breath. It's taxing just to crawl away and clamber for the covers of his bed. Murphy's hand reaches the sheets, but it's a temporary victory. A pair of hands pull Murphy back into the clutches of his tormentor by the waist of his jeans.

"That wasn't very nice now was it Murph? Prepare yerself, I'll aiming for the spot."

"No," Murphy shook his head in successions of side to side, "No, I am sorry! I swear! I won't ever do it again!"

Murphy was at his mercy and it felt exceptionally good to be on top.

"You know it's not really considered punishment if I haven't made you truly sorry for your actions," his brother teases. Connor raises one eyebrow and leans closer towards his twin to scrutinize him through squinted hazel eyes.

"Are you really, really sorry Murph?" He asks in a small, discerning voice.

Murphy slides back, resting his wieght on his hands and licks his lips. He nods an affermitive.

There was a quiet between them, Murphy counting his breathes until he faces his demise or deliverance. Connor just loves watching his brother stare into the unknown, loves seeing that body shivering in anticipation as it waits at the foot of a forked-road.

A smirk was the only warning before Connor dived on him, and Murphy couldn't stop him in time. The punishment starts with a poke to his ribs, just under his arm, and Murphy flinches and cries out from the overload of sensation. A few more fingers jab into his weakest point, playing him like a piano, and Connor slides the backs of his nails lightly over the side of his brothers ribcage just to sweenten his revenge. Murphy is rendered completely helpless from the touches, his body very similar to the consistancy of gelatin. The darker twin flips onto his side simply to stuff a fistful of sheets into his mouth and mute any sound his brother might find gratifying. Connor won't let his twin ruin the fun so quickly and resorts to tracing the visible groves of his brother ribs with his fingers.

Murphy gasps, his eyes shut tight and his face suggesting he's holding more in than just a chuckle or two.

"Alright, alright! Uncle! Aunt! Which ever one ya want! I am sorry!" Murphy waves his hand at his brother to release him, that he's been pushed to his limit.

"Aye, that's good enough for me then." Connor leans back, withdrawing his artillery of fingers just enough to offer them together as a hand for his brother to take. Murphy blinks open his eyes, panting heavily. He hopes his body will again grow bones so he won't be committed to the floor. He lamely reaches a hand up to meet his brother's, certain he'll stay on the floor if he isn't properly lifted to his feet.

Murphy is officially dishelved from the top of his moppy head of hair down to his stretched-out shirt and sagging jeans. His cheeks are still hot with blood and his body is vulnerable like a newborn deer that has yet to master the art of standing. A smile plays on Connor's lips and Murphy gives him a glare in return.

"What are ya all flustered fer?" Connor asks, feigning innocence.

Murphy punches him in the shoulder as hard as he has the strength to and Connor takes the blow with snickering contempt. Connor turns the page to more pressing matters, inspecting the brown bag his brother brought home with him.

"What did ya bring me home good to eat?"

"Look fer yerself." Murphy snaps.

Connor pulls out two stirafoam boxes and sets them down on the table. He opens the one he has a good feeling is his. He finds a turkey club inside with chips and a side of potato salad.

"Believe this one's yers." He slides the container over to his twins on the other side of the table.

"What makes ye think there's one in there fer ye? Could've just as easily bought two fer meself."

Ignoring his brother, Connor opens the remaing box and his eyes immedately light up.

"Oh-ho-ho! I don't remember ya liking onions," Connor squeals in excitement, beholding the wonderful sight of a half pound beef burger smothered in dripping wet onions.

Murphy covers his nose in distaste at the thought of eating such a vile vegetable. He can't find one thing edible about them.

Murphy smooths out his hair and straightens his shirt before sitting down. There's a pugent scent of lemon furniture polish when he gets there and he can see his reflection in the now shining table. With all these poisonous odors swimming around he might just turn ill.

"I am surprised you didn't burn a hole in the floor," Murphy says, picking up a triangle of his sandwitch and biting into it.

"Well it's all really quite simple," Connor explains motioning with his hand, "You just look on the bottle for whatever it is your trying to clean and it tell ya right on the back."

Murphy leans across the table, his eyes scanning for any invisible rubbernecks as if they're conducting a secret exchange, "Really? Do you think you could teach me how to do it?"

Conner promotes his brother's satire, leaning down as well as he whispers, "Are you sure your ready for that? It's not as easy as it looks. Maybe we should start ye out on somethin' small. Like a ... like a window or somethin'."

Connor laughs as his own superior wit and leans back into his chair to spend some quaility time with his burger.

Murphy licks away the mayonaise clinging to the corner of his lips, "Oh, are ye an expert now just after yer first day on the job?"

"Well if your mix the wrong ones together you might burn yerself or blow the whole place up."

Murphy arches his brows. The hand that holds his sandwitch points a finger at his twin, "Hey, just think that if i did discover somethin' explosive we could use it in our next job, eh?"

Connor doubles forward, the fries he swallowed almost chocking him as he surpresses a laugh. He clears his throat and pats his chest to get his lungs working again. He recovers and nods his head in agreement. "Yur right. I should let you do all the cleaning from now on."

"Oh, no I wouldn't want to intrude on your calling."

"Is that what it is now you little prick?" Connor, clearly emasculated, flicks a fry at Murphy forehead.

Murphy's turns his head to minimalize the damage from the deep fried missle, but he's not offended in the least. He slumps across the table, arms resting on the wooden surface like a stretching house cat. "I'll have to buy ye a dress, one with a little apron in the front." It hurts him to continue on through his band of chuckles, but it's worth it. "Every great maid has to have a uniform."

"Shut up and eat yer sandwitch," Connor snaps, ready to end the conversation.

"Hey, are ya gunna chase me out with a broom and take away me dinner if track mud through the house?"

"We'll see how ya like it when someone dirties somethin' right after ya cleaned it. Damn right pisses ye off."

Murphy stares at his brother who is completely seriousness. Murphy falls off his chair laughing, spilling the contents of his dinner all over the floor.

"Hey you better clean that up when yer done!"

Murphy turns blue.

Murphy fell into an easy sleep with a full stomach and a busy liver. The night passes by quickly for him, uninterrupted. He wakes up after the monday morning rush, when half of the building is at work and the scent of coffee permeats through the walls. The dark twin stretches, feeling better today than he had the past few days. The only thing ruining his morning is an unruly itch. He reaches a hand down to subdue it,intent on going right back to bed, but his hands refuse to move from above his head. He tries again, tugging insistantly against the shackles around his wrists.

"What the fuck?"

Murphy tilts his head back, now very much awake. A tangle of loops and knots are tying him down to the bed, tethered to the various pipes in the room. Murphy knew only one mand who loved rope this much.

"CONNOR!" Murphy bellows, rousing the remaining tenants both above and below them with is voice.

There's a stifled chuckle to his left.

"Oh, shit I think I've gone and made him mad," Connor whispers loud enough for Murphy to hear. He admirably avoids blowing up in laughter.

"CONNOR! DAMMMIT, UNTIE ME! THIS ISN'T A JOKE!" Murphy demands, pouring all his power into tearing himself free; as improbable as it was. The rope he was currently tied up in was the fine-woven, reinforced-you're-not-going-to-escape-without-a-knife kind.

Connor comes out of the shadows to squat down beside his enraged brother, shushing him with an amused smile.

"Hush now, you'll be waking up the nieghbors!"

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FOR?" Murphy screams, nostrils flaring.

Connor twirls his brother's combat knife just to taunt him, the sunlight catching on the blade's surface to scatter light across his brother's face.

"Aye, so ye did. But this is about another matter entirely."

"AND JUST WHAT THE FUCK WOULD THAT BE?

If Murphy wasn't pissed before he was now. His blue eyes are positively seething.

"Shhh! Didn't I tell ye to be quiet?"

Murphy scowls. He shakes his head in a silent lament for the sad, sorry condition his brother will be in by the end of the day.

"CONNOR I SWEAR TO GOD IF THIS IS ABOUT SOMETHING STUPID.."

Conner scratches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and snorts.

"Well, I don't think it's stupid, quite serious actually."

"Then hurry up and make yer peace so I can give ye the beating of yer life!" Murphy barks, energetic in his efforts to free himself.

"Oh! Now, is the at a threat or a promise?"

"CONNOR!"

Connor knows he's digging his own grave, but he can't change his stripes. There's something about his brother's snarling face that really puts him in a good mood.

"Settle down will ye? Just a bit of tease and you're havin' a royal fit. Well, guess it's time when get down to business then. So, here it is: I'll let ye go as soon as ye tell me what's that you've been prayin' about."

Murphy goes slack, closing his eyes in prayer, "Jesus my Lord and Savior, please tell me my pissant brother has gone and lost his mind."

"My mind?" Connor points to himself,"You're the one whose lost it. What the fuck are ye doin' that yer bein' so secretive about? Yer keeping somethin' from me. And what am I supposed to do; let ye be on yer merry little way?"

Connor shakes his head at the complete stranger his brother has become. He jabs his fingers into his chest, "We're brother's Murph. Doesn't that mean anythin' to ye anymore?"

Murphy doesn't say anything. He's shivering just slightly, a subtle gesture easily missed if his brother wasn't looking for it in his search for the truth. Connor doesn't know why his brother is trying so hard hide it. Connor can see the pain in his brother winding dangerously, screaming to be let out.

Murphy looks down, shaking his head in denile.

"It's nothin'," He says, meeting his brother's eyes once he's trained himself to lie, "nothin' different then what we always pray fer."

"No, No I think it's somethin' deeper then that. What are you so scared about me knowin' when I know everythin' about ye?"

Murphy's quiet again and an envitable smile works it's way to Connor's lips.

"Maybe I need to rough ya up a bit? Start whippin' ye or something so I can get me answer? Do ye think that'll work?"

Murphy's eyes widen noticebly. Connor wonders if his brother is aware that he's incessantly licking his lips.

Connor stands. He focuses his attention solely on the sharpness of the blade against his pointer finger. Murphy watches his every move, sweating himself dry with the sudden heat consuming him. After a moments consideration, Connor swings one leg over the bed, straddling the mattress and the man that's on it. Then, the blond sits himself down on his Murphy's hips.

"Get off of me!" Murphy demands; much too fast for it to be a normal reaction.

Connor is oblivious, instead watching himself play with the knife in his hands, sorting over what he'll do next.

Murphy turns his head away, clenching his eyes so tight it casts white behind his eyelids. Murphy spent the last two weeks avoiding his brother, avoiding the sin he so badly wanted to taste as it thrusts inside of him. Even the small itineraries of everyday life were done without Connor. Murphy took showers at Rocco's, ate and slept alone, and spent the rest of the hours in the pews of the church. But nothing could keep him away from Connor forever. He felt lonliness and depression boring a hole through his heart, killing him slowly. Just seeing his brother's face, hearing his voice, and being in the same room together with him made Murphy the happiest man in Boston; enough to make him believe he could live the rest of his life silently baptising the demons captivating his soul.

Connor adjusts himself, sliding an inch or so foward. The slight graze of denim against Murphy's thigh sends a wrecking ball through his fortress of resolve, laying bare his desire. Murphy doesn't understand why this is happening to him; why the weight on top of him isn't uncomfortable, but welcomed and enjoyed. He knows he should feel disgusted, awkward, revolted; it's how he asked God to make him feel, but he's faced with yearning instead.

Murphy lies stiff, eyes opened in shock. The fine tip of the blade is drawing a diagnal line down his neck. It spares the virgin it's wrath and moves down to trace the juts of Murphy's collar bone. The darker twin has to bite his lips, curl his toes, but it doesn't stop his beating heart.

"I think we might be gettin' somewhere. Ye 'fraid of bein' at knife point Murph?" Connor teases, forcing his brother's neck up with persuading steel.

"Fer ye!" Murphy blurts out, wishing the arousal growing in his pants will wilt.

"What's fer me?" Connor asks, piqued.

Murphy is short of breathe. He feels dizzy and light headed.

"That's what I've been prayin' fer... you."

"Awww! Does me dear brother care fer me that much? Didja start thinkin' that maybe one of us would die now that we're in the killin' business and leave the other to stand alone? I promise ye right now, Murph, if one of us goes, we both will. Together, like its always been."

Connor's eyes tell him that each word is wholely true.

"No, that's not it," Murphy says, feeling guilty.

Connor throws his hands up, "What then? Afraid yer gunna wake up one mornin' and I'll take all the cash and leave the country with some broad?"

Connor does snicker a little at the thought.

"Just get off of me. Please connor. Haven't I confessed enough?" Murphy pleads, humbly.

Connor knows he drained his brother of answers, but his heart still isn't satisfied, "Aye, suppose ye have. But Murph, what can you tell God that you can't tell me?"

"Believe me it's not like that."

"Then tell me. I hate feeling like this." Connor appeals, leaning down while putting his palm over his chest, "It ain't good fer me health. I am always on wheels not knowing what yer thinkin'."

"El vai condenar-nos (He will condemn us)."

"What?" Connor leans back, his blue eyes reveling themselves to their fullest. Murphy knows Galic isn't Connor's best language, but that doesn't mean the blond can't piece the sentence together when handed the words: "condem" and "us."

"Trust me, if I tell you yer not going to feel any better," Murphy warns, sliding his legs over each other nervously.

"I don't care!" Connor says, pulling on his spikey hair in frustration, "Can't ye see not knowin is killing me enough?"

Murphy swallows, finding his voice, "Then do you swear ye'll still be me brother when it's all done?"

"Yeah, a'course."

"Swear it!"

"Alright," Connor concedes, drawing a cross over his heart, "cross my heart and hope to die."

It takes Murphy a few long minutes, but he gets the words out, "I ... I think ... about ... you..."

"What?"

"I THINK ABOUT YOU!" Murphy screams, believing his brother has developed a chronic hearing problem.

"That's great! I think about ye to!" Connor proclaims, not seeing their apparent dispute.

"No, I want to do things to ya."

"I do to," Connor says, counting on his fingers as he sounds each item off, "Punch ya, kick ya-"

"No!"

It takes all of Murphy's self-control not to derail their conversation with a tirade comparing Connor's intellect with a 3rd grader's.

"The kind of things you would do with a woman! I... I want to do with you. I was asking God to give me the strength to stop it."

Connor smiles, motivated by his brother's obvious diversion, "What is it that ya like about me? Is it my sparkling personality?"

Connor sits up straight, running a hand through his hair, to make himself the spitting image of a real prince charming. Ironically, the light seems to have a sense of humor because it burns all around the blond like a corona. Satisfied with his performace, Connor leans down to draw letters on his brothers nose.

"Or is it the way I cross my 't's' and dot my 'i's' that just drives you wild?"

"God what's wrong with you! I am being serious!"

Connor freezes, the jest melting off of his face. Connor conducts an experiment. He rubs his hips slowly, tentatively over his brother again. He feels it, the bulge pressing back into his thigh.

Connor starts, a revelation flashing in his blue eyes, "My God you really do have the hots fer me don't ye?"

Murphy won't dare look at him in the eye. He'd rather stare at the gum stuck to the underside of the table.

"I told ye! Now get off of me!"

Murphy's jaw is set into a frown, trying to prevent the blush on his cheeks.

"No, no wait a minute. Why would ya like me? I mean I am your brother, but ... maybe we've just been around each other too long."

"Whatever! Just-I can't-!" Murphy kicks out his legs, trying to shaking his brother off of him, but to no avail. "... just get off and untie me."
"Why would I go and do a thing like that? We're making great progress."

"Great progress in what? Fucking torturing me?"

"What if I took off my shirt? Would that take the edge off fer ye?"

"NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"

Connor strips despite his brother's objection. He does so pointedly, arching to the side and flexing his muscles, waiting for his brother to give himself away with a side-long peek. Oh, and Murphy does, he sneaks a glance that's gone as quick as it comes. Connor smirks and handles his brother's jaw so their eyes met, blue on blue.

"This is something new. Never seen ye like this."

-Yesyouhaveyesyouhave. Ye just don't remember. -

"Oh! And now I am taking off my pants, that's sexy in't it?" Connor teases, reaching down to unbutton his pants. He keeps one hand securely around his brother's chin so he won't miss a thing. The red on Murphy's cheeks burns darker, enveloping his whole face and neck and Connor loves controlling this new aspect of his beloved brother.

"Ye never told me what you like about me."

Murphy swallows thickly. It's far too difficult to think, "Your eyes, your voice.. your body when I get to see it."

Connor feigns disappointment, taking his hand away from his pants, "Now those are all physical things. What about the soul Murph?"

The next sentences come out like water: flowing and organic, "Ye know what I'am thinkin' 'fore I do. Ye know how to handle me, tell me what I need to hear even when I won't listen. Even if it ends in a fight."

Connor laughs, feeling embarrassed. He's even keeping back a blush.

"Ye know what's funny? Ye can get all that wit a girl if ye let her get te know ya enough."

"No, not like ... like THIS... fer anyone else. Ye get such a cute look on yer face when one of yer stupid ideas works. And yer retarded fettish fer rope..."

"That's enough."

Connor's rewards his brother's answer by unzipping his pants and pushing the denim down to reveal blue striped boxers. Connor stops before any significant flesh can be exposed, jeans a little loose around his hips, but still very much clothing him.

"On second thought," Connor says as he sticks the knife into the floor for later, "where is it ye liked to be touched Murph? Is it your neck?"

Finger tips trail invisible lines down Murphy throat, flowing like raindrops down his skin. Connor kisses under his brother's jaw, hot breathe pouring out, "You know ... fer educational purposes."

Murphy gasps, pulling his knees up to contain his erection.

"Or is it your chest?"

Connor explores further down his brother's body, fingers mapping out the skin first while his lips are plotted behind, like afterthoughts. Fingers mark a path down the center of his chest, invisibly splitting him into two pieces. The fingers careen to the left, abusing the weak spot under Murphy's arm. Murphy flinches, shuddering under the ministrations. He's panting heavily, but his eyes are screwed shut, terrified of what will happen if he opens his eyes.

"Ye know ye can watch Murph."

It takes a little insistent tugging on his pants and a few reassuring words, but Connor gets Murphy to straighten out his legs and allow him to pulls his pants down to his ankles. It's all the encouragement Murphy needs to keep his eyes open for awhile.

Murphy's briefs are molded into a clear shape, alluding to how much pain he's endured. Connor's starting to feel the heat himself. The red and blue wiring under his skin seems to fill up with liquid ice while his throat swells.

Connor peels back the elastic and Murphy's there to greet him, burning red at the tip. Connor licks at the seeping slit experimentally, watching his brother's reactions. Murphy cries out, unabashed, jerking his hips back from the intensity of what one sloopy kiss does to him.

That naked moan tells Connor Murphy's lost any shame he might of had. And it's a damn delicious sound Connor thinks as it dips into his ears and sinks down through until he feels himself twitch in his pants.

This time, Connor tries running his tongue up his brother's length. Murphy's quick to throw his head back, pulling at his shackles to lift himself closer to the pleasure.

"Détache-moi. S'il vous plaît, je veux vous toucher (Untie me. Please, I want to touch you)."

"Pas encore (Not yet)."

TBC...

Comments and Questions welcome.

Chapter Completed Wednesday, May 12, 2010.