Nicholas: Funny story about this songfic. I gave it as a challenge to Kisses, but she couldn't do it, so I just ended up having to do it myself. I hope it's not too bad. I toyed with a lot of things in this, so don't get mad at me.

Disclaimer: Yeah, you know it already. I don't own it, just like I don't own Sean Patrick Flanery (but that's soon to change, he he he)

Rating: M...language...references...dark themes...mental torture.

If you, if you could return, don't let it burn, don't let it fade.
I'm sure I'm not being rude, but it's just your attitude,
It's tearing me apart, it's ruining everything.

It was as quick as the striking of a match. The door slammed shut with an indefinite ring that seemed to shatter composure in slow motion. The following days had been like a badly edited action film. Things didn't quite fit where they should and nothing flowed like it used to. The only constant that remained was Murphy.

Murphy hadn't gotten out of bed for the longest time. He was still trying to piece it together long after his brother had left. From what he could gather, they'd been holding each other like they always do when they needed a little more comfort and then, suddenly, Connor had stood.

"I can't do this anymore, Murphy," he'd said. He couldn't do what anymore? Murphy watched him, completely too tired to react, as Connor dressed himself. "I have ta leave." And leave he did, quite abruptly.

"Where're ya goin'?" He hadn't gotten an answer, just the slamming of the door.

Still puzzled and blissfully unsure of what had happened, Murphy lay back in the sheets that still held his brother's scent. It was right there with him, almost as though Connor were there as well. Then a light came through the dark, empty tunnel that tended to be Murphy's mind so late at night. Connor was gone…Connor had broken up with him…how the fuck do you break up with your brother!? And Murphy found himself suffocating in that instant.

He immediately got out of bed and stumbled to the door. After wrenching it open and staring out at the empty hall of the dingy motel they'd been staying at for a while now, his heart fell into his feet and he really couldn't breathe…he needed a cigarette.

It was as quick as the striking of a match, and the days that followed burned slowly like the cigarette that was now lit. Burned Murphy from the top of his head down to his feet.

I swore, I swore I would be true, and honey, so did you.
So why were you holding her hand? Is that the way we stand?
Were you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you?

Leave! Connor wasn't quite sure what the impulse was that made him go, but in any case the idea of it had terrified him. He felt like he was caving in at the knees, so he just had to get away. His words hadn't been his, and he hadn't meant to slam the door.

As the blond MacManus twin meandered his way through the middle of the night on that horrible date, he found himself not able to breathe as well. He needed something to clear his mind, he needed something to clear his throat. He needed a cigarette. Shit, he'd left them at the motel. He didn't want to go back.

Murphy had barely even noticed him leave, Connor mused dismally. He hadn't even got up to stop him. What had that been about? Was Connor really that disposable? Well, then fuck Murphy!

It was all so confusing, and mixed up in his head. Smoke swirled about his mind making everything unrecognizable and foreign. He hadn't noticed that he'd been walking for a long time. He just stopped suddenly and leaned back against a wall, taking a deep breath as though he had some hope of getting high off the air he was breathing. Tiredly, he put his hands in his coat pockets.

His hand hit something he hadn't expected to be there. Drawing it back, he found that he held a familiar lighter. Not familiar that it was his. The lighter was small and silver and reflected the light from a random street lamp. Connor realized awkwardly that he was wearing his brother's coat instead of his own.

Perhaps on a whim, or something like that, he lifted the collar to his nose and inhaled. There was Murphy—cigarettes, alcohol and sweat. For the first time in Connor's life, he found the smell revolting. It made his heart wrench painfully, but he wouldn't take it as regret. He didn't regret anything he'd done that night.

But I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

Two weeks had passed. Fifteen days, three hours and twenty-six minutes had passed, but who's really counting? Who really needs him anyway—Connor, I mean. Murphy tried to believe that he was already over it, tried to convince himself that if Connor so easily forgot about him, then he wasn't worth this last cigarette in his pack—Connor's pack, that'd he accidentally left…Make that twenty-seven minutes.

Oh Christ, this was going to be another long night. Another long night of no sleep, no rest, and above all, no Connor. Murphy felt like he hadn't eaten in days—and he probably hadn't—felt like he didn't want to wake up tomorrow morning—and he probably wouldn't.

He had considered suicide many times, more frequently as it came to the point that he felt so lost without Connor with him. No calls, no word whatsoever of Connor's whereabouts. Murphy would have settled with a loud, angry "fuck you!" as long as it was preceded by the information that his brother was alive.

What made Connor leave? What was it that had been so horrible that he just up and left like that? As Murphy stared at the bed he hadn't slept in since Connor had walked out on him, he realized something very obvious. Two and two equals this: Murphy was worthless.

The only person Murphy had ever felt a strong sense of belonging with had been Connor, but now he was gone. So all of Murphy's worth that had been completely Connor's, had gone and burned on that night Murphy had burned like a cigarette. With a wry smirk, the pale brother stared at the bed. The sheets still had Connor in them—the remnants of how they'd made love that night, the last shards of what Murphy and Connor had once been was stained on those sheets.

It was funny for some reason…Murphy stopped counting at fifteen days, three hours and thirty-three minutes.

Oh, I thought the world of you.
I thought nothing could go wrong,
But I was wrong. I was wrong.
If you, if you could get by, trying not to lie,
Things wouldn't be so confused and I wouldn't feel so used,
But you always really knew, I just wanna be with you.

Not for the first time in two weeks, Connor found himself wondering what Murphy was doing. He tried to convince himself that his right side didn't feel completely naked without the other's presence. He learned to ignore the strange sound of one pair of footsteps without the other.

He knew now what he had run from, and the memory of that thought was harsh in itself. Every time he thought about that night now, he felt nauseous. It should have faded by now, it should have stopped hurting so much, but it didn't. It made Connor want to drink himself under the table.

The sad thing was, he didn't have any money. He'd left everything in that dingy motel room with Murphy; he didn't even have his own coat, he had Murphy's. Finally, he'd gotten past the stage where Murphy's scent disgusted him and started to wear the damn thing again. As he wore it, he wondered what it would be like to be Murphy. He tried walking in sync with some one while standing on their right—he'd stopped a random stranger in the street to do this. It was much harder than he'd thought. He was used to doing it without thinking.

It was times like these that Connor wished Da was still alive. The MacManus men had only gotten a year together to learn to love each other again and then the old man kicked. It was one of the saddest days of Connor's life (before he'd up and left Murphy, that is).

'What am I doing?' he asked himself silently. 'I'm fucking up, that's what I'm doing.' So he made a decision. He started to walk and for the first time in two weeks, he knew where his lonesome feet were taking him.

But I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

The little lost Irishman who felt like the world's small shit speck at the moment (i.e. Murphy MacManus) left the motel room for the first time since Connor had gone. He found that the outside air was staler than ever and that he didn't feel like he was walking straight without some one on his left.

He wasn't wearing his coat. Two reasons were behind this: A.) Connor took his coat with him, B.) He wouldn't wear Connor's coat because that just reminded him that Connor wasn't there…He tried not to think about it.

And so he walked on, down the street, passing by those dull, gray surroundings that he didn't care to look at anymore. He had one place he was going, and everything else seemed a bit superfluous. He felt like he wasn't going to see any of it again; he felt like this was the last time he'd walk down this street—hoped it was.

For once, Murphy found a sort of peace. All those stupid questions that had been buzzing around his head—where had Connor gone? what was he doing right now? why had he left?—were all muted and for what felt like the first time in his life, he found a sort of clarity in his thinking. He knew exactly were he was going and how to get there and so he'd go, as quickly as possible.

Absently, his hand went into his pocket where a small, shiny pistol lay. This was all just so fucking funny.

And I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

When Connor finally arrived at the cemetery, the only thing that stopped him from going straight up to his father's grave was that he saw another, very familiar man standing there. Maybe a bit thinner and without a coat against the cold day it was that day, but Connor noticed immediately that it was Murphy. He stopped just a few yards behind him and remained silent.

"Hey, Da," Murphy said quietly, his head bent slightly, looking at the grave-marker. "I know it's been a while since we…I mean, since I visited. It's just, I've felt so lost these last few days…weeks. I just don' get it, why would he leave like that? I didn't get it the night he up an' took off."

As Murphy paused, Connor thought to make himself known. He wanted to go up and hug his brother, but how would Murphy react to that? There seemed to be this rift between them now, he had to be careful how he crossed it.

"Who does he think he is?" Murphy's voice hadn't changed. He didn't sound angry at all, but he did sound so hopeless that it hurt to hear it. "I mean it's not fair that he can just say 'fuck you' an' go, never callin' again, never givin' me any sort o' sign that he's even still a-fuckin'-live." Trust Murph to fit fuck anywhere. "I wanna know why? I wanna know what makes me so much less than him…I mean besides all the obvious reasons."

What obvious reasons? That's when Connor was about to say something in protest, but Murphy went on a bit louder this time. "I ought ta just ferget the mother fucker, but…I can't. He's my brother, fer Christ's fuckin' sake!" Then he stopped suddenly and crossed himself. "Mother Mary, full o' grace," he muttered quietly.

And then he took up where he left off, a bit more desperation to his tone. "I can't believe him, sometimes! It just…it doesn't…make sense. Is it because we're fuckin' sodomites, er some shite like that? Fuck that: I'd rather burn in hell than live without me brother." His hand crept into his pocket. "I mean, I'm goin' ta hell anyway, right? Doesn't matter much now how I get there." He withdrew a small pistol that Connor just barely saw.

What the fuck? For a moment, Connor couldn't move. He was scared stiff of what he was seeing: what he'd done. He didn't quite register this as reality until he heard the hammer cock back and saw his brother holding a shiny, deadly gun to his own jaw. "Murphy!" He shouted, closing those few yards between them then and grabbing at the gun and his twin.

Abruptly, Murphy wrenched away from Connor, consequently letting go of his gun. "What the fuck, ya scared the shite outta me!" He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm his accelerated heart rate.

"What the hell is this, Murph? What, are ya gonna shoot yerself?"

"Th'fuck d'ya care, Jack Ass?" There were tears in his eyes and on his face, and on top of that he was utterly pissed at the moment. "Where the fuck have ye been?"

A long silence hung in the air from its noose and neither Irishman moved. They just looked at each other for the longest time, wondering the same thing at the same time: "What had happen these last two weeks?" When they hadn't been together, it was like it wasn't real. They needed a witness to make this really life. And so, Connor dropped the pistol, took two short steps up to his witness and took him in a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry," he repeated that over and over again into Murphy's ear, but that couldn't possibly express how much of an asshole Connor felt like. "I'm so sorry."

There was a lady about seventy feet away mourning over her dead son as she did monthly. She looked up from her folded, wrinkled hands and noticed the odd shape across the field. Her old eyes took a while to focus on it, but she then saw it for what it was. Two men holding each other like life would stop if they let go. At first it seemed like just a friendly hug, but then the slightly taller man gripped the other's face and kissed him passionately on the mouth. Oddly enough, this old lady smiled at this and looked son at her son's grave. It was that sort of thing that had killed her boy, but she realized then that she shouldn't let it linger. They'd meet again soon.

You know I'm such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?