Somewhere in the midwest, on the edges of yet another city, Connor and Murphy MacManus pulled into a cheap hotel. The large metal sign was a relic of the 1950s, and the building looked tired and faded in the dusk.
Connor would go in first to get the room. Murphy would sneak in later. Their father had already checked into a hotel on the other side of town. They'd been doing things this way for some time, to decrease their chances of being identified, though to be honest, the twins were quite happy of the alone time it gave them.
The middle-aged woman at the desk was easily charmed by Connor's smile and good looks. His large fuzzy scarf hid the Blessed Mother on his neck, and his gloves hid the tattoo on his hand. Winter was a good time for the Saints.
Connor kicked his shoes off and collapsed on the bed. Ten minutes later Murphy did the same. A week on the road, and finally they could relax.
"I'm starved," Murphy said.
"Well, if you'd get off my legs, I could order us dinner," Connor said.
"I'm comfortable," Murphy said.
"Then you'll starve comfortably," Connor said. "When they find our bodies they'll say, looks like they starved to death, poor lads. Oh, aye, but they look comfortable, don't they?"
Murphy grumbled and rolled over. Connor ordered pizza.
"I don't wanna leave tomorrow," Murphy said.
"What are ya talkin' about?" Connor asked, though frankly, he didn't want to leave either. The bed was small, but the blankets were surprisingly warm, and his brother's skin was even warmer.
"I mean we just got here," Murphy said. "I'm tired. I want a fuckin' day off, for Christ's sake."
"Da wouldn't be happy to hear you say that."
"The man's a workaholic!" Murphy said. "It's all that time he spent in prison, he thinks he has to make up for it. I don't remember the last time I got to sleep in. I'm sick of it."
"Hmm," Connor said. He was thinking. After a moment, he dug through the loose change, rosaries, car keys and pocket lint on the bedside table and found the scrap of paper he'd written their father's hotel number on.
"What are you doing?" Murphy asked.
"Shh," Connor said. The phone rang twice before their father picked up. "Yeah, Da, it's Connor. No, it's fine. Listen, Murphy's not feeling so well. Think he might be comin' down with something. No, I don't want him to get worse. I think we should stay put for a day or two."
Murphy leaned forward, but couldn't make out what their father was saying.
"All right, Da," Connor said. "We'll call tomorrow around noon." He hung up the phone. "You got your day off."
Murphy looked at Connor with admiration. "Haven't done anything like that since we were boys," he said.
"Just be glad Ma isn't here to take your temperature," Connor said. "She always knew when you were faking."
"Aye, she did," Murphy said. He ran his fingers down Connor's side and grinned at Connor's sharp intake of breath. "But she's not here. And now that I know we don't have to wake up at sunrise, I'm not in a hurry to get to sleep."
Connor smiled. "Well, I might not have called Da entirely for your sake. I might have had some other motivation."
"That so?" Murphy said. "And what-" He didn't get to finish his sentence because Connor cut him off with a kiss. Connor had discovered long ago that was quickest way to make Murphy shut up. His hands slid over the hard curves of Murphy's body, over old scars and new scars and a lot of muscle. "Fuck, yes," Murphy gasped. It was the last coherent thing he said before dawn.
It snowed during the night; not enough for anyone to say they were snowed in, but enough to cover the ground and make the boring, dingy landscape look like a greeting card. The twins looked out their window, smiled, and went back to bed.
"Now this is what I call a day off," Murphy said. "Nowhere to go... Da not around... just you and me and a warm bed."
"Mmhmm," Connor muttered lazily. He traced the tattoo on Murphy's back with his fingertips. "We must do this more often."
"Maybe I can give you give my non-existent cold," Murphy suggested. "Then we'll have to stop at the next hotel we come to."
"That's an excellent idea," Connor said.
"Then maybe our car could break down," Murphy said.
"Let's not get too carried away," Connor said. "Da will think we're up to something."
"We are up to something!" Murphy said.
"Exactly," Connor said. "I don't want him to suspect anything."
"Suspect that we're making up excuses or suspect that we're fucking?" Murphy asked.
"Well, both, I suppose, but he should especially not know that we're fucking."
After a quiet moment of contemplation, Murphy said, "Do ya think Da would shoot us?"
"I don't actually know," Connor said. "And I'd rather not find out, so keep your excuses reasonable and to a minimum."
They laid in silence for a few moments.
"But you're still gonna catch the cold I don't actually have, aren't you?" Murphy asked.
"Aye," Connor said. "I think I can manage that. If you share enough of your germs with me."
"I don't actually have germs," Murphy said.
"You don't actually have a cold," Connor said. "You do actually have germs. Trust me, I know, I live with you. You're filthy."
Murphy punched him in the arm. Connor laughed.
"I might be filthy, but you like me that way," Murphy said.
"Now don't start in with that talk," Connor said. "Or you won't leave this bed all afternoon."
"That's no way to discourage me," Murphy said.
That day the snow glistened but did not melt, the pizza boy made another delivery and received a generous tip, and the MacManus brothers thoroughly enjoyed their day off.