porcelain envy
Not quite sane, not quite insane. Not quite sick, but not quite healthy.
Murphy's in the only closed off and walled space in the whole loft area. The only remotely closed in space, because Connor can still see him from anywhere he stands. At the fridge he can see him. At the door, he can. At the table, the stove, and the beat up cabinet across the room where they keep their clothes. He can because he's staring. He really shouldn't be, you know. But he is. And he hasn't looked away.
The tub's probably older than the either of them. Rusted to the ground, wide, high-sided, and feet like claws reaching outward. A lip and curl to the design, curved like a woman, where Murphy has his arms sitting, hanging out. Shoulders hunched up, slick. A cigarette burning down between two of his still good fingers. Sheen of rusty water up the wrist to his elbow where it's dripping on the floor. Starting up a pool.
Connor thinks he might want to ask something when Murphy takes his hand—bruised hand, white hand, raw—and puts the smoking cigarette to his mouth. Connor doesn't see the very last bit because he's behind him. Murph's pointed at the back end wall, hair wet and drying fast. Curling points at the edges because it's longer than it usually is. Black in the shadow, brown in the sun.
Murphy tilts his head back. Smoke, grey as early morning, clearing his mouth, becoming a ring, and quickly fading.
"Staring, are we?"
Connor starts.
"Attemptin' modesty, are we?" He takes a chair, sits in it, crosses his legs and leans forward. He points a finger, tries on a smile, and continues like he's making a proposition. "The question is, are ya hidin' something? Taken such a sudden shining to water, there."
Murphy keeps his head tilted back and his eyes where they are. Right on Connor. Shrewd maybe, or the slightest bit amused. But that could have been an effect of the purple and yellow bruise climbing his cheekbone. Rising like an inner daemon. Eyes squint close as the sun comes in stronger. Skin going absolutely white. White like human skin shouldn't. Eyelashes brown, fierce. Slippery wet, golden. Hand of God.
Murphy sinks further into his water, and the image fades. Pockets of grey, clouds charging the sun. Ripple and splash and rumour of a curse. Actuality.
"Fuckin' aye, Conn. What would I been hidin'? An' shut the fuck up, I'm tryin' to relax."
Motivation comes before Connor knows it, and he's standing at the side of the dripping basin tub before he knows it. Fronting out the five long lines of light coming in through the high windows. Casting shadow across land that is calm, murky water. Rusty water. Smooth red with new blood, smooth with red smell, and a knee rising out where Murph's leg bends in. Murky enough so all Connor can see is shape without detail. Ghosts.
Murphy continues to breathe smoke. Chest rising, falling. Continues to relax, to lean back, to pay no obvious mind to Connor, who's shadow all the way through by the looks of it, but bright light on the edges. Silhouette.
"Y're in my light." Murphy points out, and gives him a sidelong look.
"Am I now..."
Lopsided grin that's not quite right, but not entirely wrong for Murphy. A cigarette hanging on lips as if by nothing at all, and then a hand—so quick ya couldn't even feel it go—winding into the belt loops of his jeans, two fingers at a time, and just tugging.
His body goes with it, his knees lock, and he tips head first.
The water's cold. Room-temperature, if it had been hot in the first place. More of it on the floor now than in the tub itself. Just enough to lap up Murphy's waist, keep things interesting, and soak Connor's blue jeans up and through to his thighs.
"Little fuckin'—"
"You started it," Murphy says. Teases. Teeth and cigarette and smoke and grin.
"I'm goin' to fuckin' drown ya. C'mere."
The water sloshes, bare arms squeak along tub sides, porcelain burn. Itch. Bite.
Denim heavier than Connor's legs are ready for; his teeth grind as he moves, lifting, placing, getting a leg on either side of Murphy. Heavy. Shoulders too slippery wet for proper grip, so he scrabbles for hips, always leaning into Murphy to smother retaliation. A laugh gets out, genuine. It nose-dives into a hiss right up Connor's ear.
"Oh, fuck."
A knee—trapped, denim, pull—he didn't feel was that close to crotch until it was a hand coming up. A hand he marks this time, if distantly, and outside of his being. Outside his head. Watching from somewhere else. It latches onto his upper arm, fingers vicious, wet. Telling him enough without saying anything at all. The other hand finds its way to the edge of porcelain and stays there, locked, dripping curls of red.
Friction even he can feel through the layers.
His breath doesn't find its way out of his throat.
It sticks.
And the transition from idle to motion—blur, and limbs, and swish of water, and squeal and whine of denim—is like a click. A clank against the tub's walls. A knuckle maybe, the plug's chain, or an elbow, but it happens, the cue, and now he's levering Murphy higher. By the hips. He's close enough so that he can't see Murphy's face, but he can guess.
A little hiss here, a little hiss there. They were good.
"Fuck, fucking, fuck."
They were fucking brilliant.
The motion is smooth. Gliding on sliver-thin thread. Not too much, because he can feel how rough and sandpaper kind the jeans are, and not too little. Rasping and rolling with Murphy, who's humming like a drum beat. Water liquid and adding to the music. He moves a hand up from the murk, the ash, the blood, to the back of Murphy's head. Around the neck. An embrace. Lasting only for as long as it can, before Murphy groans, rotates just right, and the embrace turns into a death grip. Digging nails Connor doesn't have into skin used to pain.
Murphy's sliding back down into the tub, the curve, hissing, taking Connor with him.
Just guiding through the water. Hands staying and digging into hips he only thinks he can see through the splash. The sway. Sea waves, with the way they're colliding. Connor leaning back enough to see Murphy's face. Clear as white ice. Smooth as glass, mirror. Not twisted, but sublime. Teeth clicked tight but then letting loose a noise of a different colour.
"Hold up a fuckin' minute would ya. Ow," he says. Voice on the rocks. Shaky as all hell.
"What?" Just slowing, fingers digging deeper through water into hip.
"Your fuckin' denim bites, man. Gimme' a break."
"Well, what a nice way to kill a moment."
"Take 'em off, Christ."
A hand comes up to drag the loose ends of hair out of his face. A flushed face. Alive. Fingers going over his mouth like he does. Almost nervous maybe, or just restless. Picture perfect. Damp with not-quite warm water. Slick-smooth skin. Shining. Water rat. Hazed in smoke, and the deep smell of old and new blood. A slice to the wrist bleeding through the white, white bandage. Red, winding, curving, dancing down the tub side, the wall, into water and then fanning. Mixing. Swirl.
"Wait a second, wait, wait. What 'ave you got in this water? Is' pink, for Christ sake."
"It's blood!"
"M' not so sure 'bout that. Lookit this..."
"Blood," Murphy finals and growls, and snatches Connor by the rosaries still around his throat, pulling him into a lip lock. Not to be confused with a kiss, because there isn't anything remotely nice, or sweet, or tentative about it. It's an up and out attack. Teeth. Just barely an ambush. Nails. He didn't see it coming until it was hint of rust, blood, ash, smoke. Biting, sucking, grinding, clicking. Just like everything is with them. Near pain. Tongue. Stubble. A held in breath let out against his face. Feathery hot. Cooling the water coming off Murphy and onto him.
He loses his grip he'd had along the tub's edge and leans hard into Murphy then. Squeak. Murphy flails, mutters sideways along his mouth, and knocks the tub's plug out with the heal of his foot.
It was, and then it wasn't. And now it's Murphy giving him a square look. Square, even, sharp edges, red lips, eyes you're likely to fall into. Humanity, death, his brother.
"Dangerous."
"Thank you."