Riddles
Left Behind
Connor is a riddle, waiting to be solved. Murphy has been watching him for as long as he can remember, but the answer still eludes him.
When he first started watching, Murph was skittish, quickly immersing himself in something else at the slightest hint of movement. Now, he doesn't even bother to hide his questing gaze.
Each movement, each sentence, is analyzed. Questions are asked, each possible answer written carefully down. It is the only thing that Murph has ever been meticulous about. With all of the bullets and death and blood there is an art and a raw beauty, but it is not organized thought. Even with each movement and each death carefully planned, something else takes over when the mask is lowered and the gun rises.
And still he watches.
When they kill, Connor gets a foreign look in his eyes, and Murphy cannot look away.
The book is half full of answers now, but nothing feels quite right. Murph reads them at night, when he is sure his brother has gone to sleep, and makes sure that nothing has changed. It hasn't. Not yet.
And so he still searches.
And then it's just another Saturday, sitting around, Connor staring with intense concentration at the scars on his wrists and Murph with his eyes glued to Connor's hair, the way it's sticking up in the front.
And suddenly Connor's looking up, standing up. And then he's right there, staring down at Murphy with a look that's indescribable.
The next morning Murph has thrown the book away, deciding that he doesn't need it anymore. Finally letting go, he feels lost without it, as though he will float away, but Connor's arms keep him firmly on the ground.
Murphy starts to study Connor's face, out of habit, but suddenly there are those arms, and that touch. There is the kiss, awkward and perfect.
And suddenly Murphy knows the answer.
And suddenly it doesn't seem to matter at all.