Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints.
Sub Disclaimer: I do not own Damien Rice's music and lyrics.
NB: Sensitive readers tread lightly.
Story Warnings: Incest, Language, Sensitive Religious Content, MalexMale
Pairing: Twincest (Connor/Murphy)
Movie Verse: First Movie; Pre Canon - Canon / Canon Deviation
Authors Note: This is my attempt at a Boondock Saints incest story between Connor and Murphy MacManus, I won't say it's realistically portrayed because that depends on the readers views.
Sub Notes - I apologize to any Catholic/Religious readers if the content in this story offends you, it is not intended to. I also apologize for any inaccuracies with the religious content, I have tried my best to correctly reference and portray the faith, whilst staying true to my plot line.
- I'd like to thank a friend and reader of mine for introducing me to Damien Rice, he was part of the inspiration for this story.
- This story takes place during the context of the movie Boondock Saints.
- Story title is pronounced Dreh-haw-ir (Translates - Brother)
PROLOGUE
Fuck you, and all we've been through...
The prison break had been planned…and had been perpetual chaos from the very second their individual isolation cell doors were opened.
Guards had been involved in the break out, the few of them who were good men, men who believed in Connor and Murphy's calling, in their cause which left in its wake blood and bodies, the sudden deaths of delivered souls. As far as they'd come to know, millions more people supported them, thousands petitioned for their release from prison, hundreds took up the cause in their absence, killing in their names, just as Connor and Murphy did in the name of God…
…and a careful few individuals had been working on an intricate plan to get them out all the while.
Of course, that didn't mean it would be simple, or legal.
They knew in that exact moment, as twins, brothers, souls, hearts, minds and lives having always been in perfect sync, they shared the awareness, the feelings of anxiety and the thrill of exhilaration, when their cells were opened at an unscheduled time in the late of night after lock down…they knew it was time to leave. They were meant to break out that night, back to freedom, back to the world beyond the prison walls, so they could eventually return to their purpose and their cause.
Their close, trusted people...had finally made it possible.
Connor and Murphy knew.
And they'd hoped it would go smoothly, but they'd known better, deep down inside.
Because the guards were armed and they weren't to be, and their hands had to remain cuffed for appearances.
But if it was the only way, then it was the way they'd do it.
Two separate guards walked Connor to Murphy and Murphy to Connor after removing them from their cells, bringing them together in a corridor at a set of stairs. The twins shared a look, the one they shared often when they sought to look inside of the other's thoughts and feelings, to be certain, on the same page, to know they were both ready because one would never leave the other behind.
Not for a second. Not for a bullet. Not for a death. Not for anything. It was both of them or neither of them.
And once they were sure of each other both mentally and then in physical presence, they turned their attention back to the puzzled guards who had been watching them between glances around.
Murphy's guard led the way from there and the brothers stayed close, walking so their arms and shoulders brushed, because the hall they were walking through was lowly lit along rows of cells and they had to be close to the other, in case they needed to defend themselves or one another, with their hands restricted they'd need one another physically to fight.
A few inmates were awake and a good few of those had picked fights with Connor and Murphy months before they'd been moved into isolation for their own safety, as well as the other inmates, because the brothers saw a few of their new peers dead just a week into their incarceration.
They'd lacked their guns but they'd used their bare hands, which had only brought them closer to God when they prayed at night in their separate cells, while knowing the other was a block away, doing the same.
Being in separate cells had been difficult for them, the separation ate away at their sleep and their peace of mind but they'd had to endure.
Since young boys they'd never slept more than four feet apart, whether it had been in the same bed or individually. Whether it was in their home or in motels after a job, they'd move the beds closer together if they weren't in too much physical pain and other times they'd just collapse in the same bed, seeking comfort and security in the other.
So sleeping in different cells, meters apart, walls between them, without the other's breathing and presence to placate them, had affected them on a level people would never understand.
Their specially granted time alone in the yard for an hour a day was their only reprieve and they often sat and talked while they smoked, because the guards favored them with cigarettes, and sometimes they prayed together because they weren't able to do it as they usually would in the mornings and evenings.
Leaving prison would mean so much for their peace of mind, their happiness, their closeness, the intimacy of their brotherhood. They both needed to be free again.
They kept their breathing steady as they walked the hall, one guard ahead, one behind.
And Connor had just wondered whether everything was going to go according to plan at the same time as he felt Murphy tense beside him and their feelings of question and anxiousness merged, warning bells going off in their heads when the lights suddenly went on and the loud, heavy sound of a buzzer served as their only warning that the cells in the block would all simultaneously open.
Panic.
Connor saw it in the guards faces, something was wrong. Someone had set them up.
Murphy took in a sharp breath, narrowed blue eyes quickly looking around at the upper level and then lower level of the cell block, before he turned suddenly, his hands grabbing and shoving Connor forward toward the exit gate at the end of the cell block.
They broke into a run with the two guards; there was an eruption of noise and calamity around them along with a rush of adrenalin and the feeling of Murphy's hot hands and hard knuckles digging into Connor's back as they ran to get away from the approximately one hundred inmates charging at them.
They had to shove violently through a few nearer attacking inmates, in their bound states, and it was risky since there were shivs made from various objects that they struggled to avoid and didn't manage to entirely.
There was no getting out of the cell block uninjured.
They'd lost one of the guards by the time they shut the exit gate, Connor knew he would have bruises on his forearm, he also had a slash on his lower back and a black eye forming. Murphy had a swelling eye of his own, a split lip, a limp and a gash on his shoulder.
Their blood seeped and stained their dark prison jumpsuits in slow, wet patches soaking into the heavy material.
They'd lost more blood before, they'd hurt from worse wounds…it was nothing to them.
The guard uncuffed them once they were securely on the other side of the gate in a different cell block, he handed his firearm to Connor and his baton to Murphy as the chaos crescendoed around them. There were other guards now rushing their way, but they were sent to apprehend the twins and the guard with the brothers motioned for them to follow him.
They ran again, ignoring the shouts to stop, ignoring the guns aimed at them, the shots fired that they narrowly avoided. They were nearly stumbling as they ducked, sparks flying as the bullets ricocheted off walls and still closed cell bars, having to fight off the hands reaching through to grab them, to hold them, stop them.
They would not be stopped.
Connor let off a few unaimed shots as he ran and managed to hit an enemy guard in the shoulder and that only made the forces working against them angrier.
But there were other prison guards working with them and they were waiting, on duty at all the right gates from that point on, letting the twin's through as they were chased and shot at, yelled at and grabbed at. Connor cared only for the thread of consciousness and acute awareness he had for his brother's breathing just behind him, the sight of him in his peripheral. Murphy was focused on Connor just in front of him and on their destination, the prisons exit gates, they needed to get out.
Just out.
And then they were.
As they ran into the cool night air, they were directed to a standard white, plateless, panel van waiting inside the prison's gates. The sirens were going off now as they were rushed to the van, there would be no driver for them because wherever they would go to hide, they had to go alone. So Connor fell into the driver's seat and righted himself in seconds, absently shoving a large black duffle bag on the seat over to the middle between himself and Murphy, who had shut himself in on the passenger's side. Connor handed the gun he held to Murphy as he looked ahead out of the windscreen to the sight, the relieving, blessed sight of the guards opening the final gates for them.
He silently thanked God for the people who were helping them to escape.
That was the thought on Connor's mind as he started the van and started to drive, Murphy clutching the door handle and bracing himself in the seat when Connor pulled forward and the force pushed them both back against the seats. They made it passed the gates, but not without a hail of bullets from the prison towers and the enemy guards rushing out after them, shooting. Murphy glanced back cautiously after ducking glass that had shattered from one of the windows and had left a bullet lodged in the dash, the surprise of which had made Connor swerve the van quite violently.
But once the van was steady on the road and they were a good distance from the gates, both twin's had seen a few of their aiding guards getting shot down, even so the others still shut the gates after them, giving them time, giving them a chance.
A chance to get away, to delay any attempts at being followed.
Connor and Murphy had been pursued, but the twin's had been able to listen in on the radio which had been placed in the van by their escape organizers, so that they could tune in to the relevant frequency and know where to avoid driving in order to evade capture. That strategy coupled with the fact that the assisting guards had delayed pursuit long enough for Connor and Murphy to ditch the van and steal a car –the most non-descript, run down and easiest to hot wire one they could find on the street-, had worked like a charm, and after that Connor focused on just driving as Murphy said a quiet prayer over their actions that night, inclusive of shooting at innocent prison guards and the theft of the car.
Connor crossed himself and said a mental prayer too as he clutched the steering wheel, his breath hitching, his adrenalin fading, his eyes burning…
Murphy was slumped low in the passenger seat, head pressed back into the seat, throat bared as he swallowed thickly and took deep breaths.
And in silence they drove into the furthest back roads, getting so lost that Connor didn't even know where he was going after the first hour and yet the road looked familiar enough that he kept driving, letting faith guide him, trusting that he'd find a safe place for them to hide.
And it was fine that way…the silence, the calm, the open road.
It was just fine.
When they'd finally driven into a rundown part of a city hours away from the Boston prison and more than likely completely out of Massachusetts, Connor was exhausted and relieved to see a shitty, corner street motel and he drove up to it, parking in one of the few parking spots away from the flickering neon sign and away from the lights of the entrance. He looked over the building once he'd killed the ignition, leaning forward on the steering wheel, worrying over the possibility of being recognized, but he didn't think it was likely they'd have any problems considering the bad neighborhood. He did grimace a bit when he thought of the fact that the motel was probably frequented by all the wrong types and never for long periods of time, so it would be the worst kind of filthy, but at least it would be cheap.
It hit him then, money…they had no money.
He glanced over to his pale skinned brother, Murphy appeared to have fallen asleep and Connor didn't like the quiet yet weighted feeling of distance in his subconscious which was usually occupied by his twin's physical and mental presence when they were that close to one another.
It was always usually a comfort but now…something felt wrong.
They needed to be in a safe place to reassess the situation and get some rest.
But they had no money, nothing.
He wracked his brain for a few seconds, forehead on the steering wheel, before it struck him that surely the people helping them would not leave them destitute after all that, and that thought made him remember the duffle bag. He turned hurriedly in his seat, suddenly enough that he expected to disturb Murphy, so that he could reach over into the back seat where he'd tossed the black bag they'd taken from the panel van when they changed cars. He pulled the zipper open and it sounded so loud in the silence, along with the soft pops of the hot engine cooling down and the sound of Murphy's very light breathing, his twin hadn't stirred with his movement and it bothered him, they needed to get inside fast.
Connor huffed out a laugh when he rummaged through the bag's contents and felt his tension ease as he breathlessly cursed in relief, dropping his head briefly as he gripped onto the bag which contained six thick wads of crisp $100 dollar bills, four guns, several boxes of bullets, two changes of clothes and a bottle of Jameson whiskey. He owed whoever was responsible for the contents many rounds of drinks. Many.
Right then though they needed to get inside and out of sight.
Connor sat properly in his seat and hit the back of his hand against Murphy's arm,
"Murph, wake up, weh' need te' get inside…" he said in an unconscious whisper.
Murphy jolted awake and Connor absently noted the way he clenched his teeth and blearily glanced around the car through his slanted blue eyes, inhaling a bit loudly, Connor figured he must have been properly asleep.
Really, he appreciated the trust, but Connor would have liked Murphy to be more alert considering their situation.
"Where ar' weh?" Murphy asked in a rough voice.
Connor was leaning over the seat again, looking through the bag,
"Some dodgy place outside of Boston, not sure really, seems a good place te' stay fer' the night though, so hurry the fuck up." Connor explained as he zipped up the duffle bag after taking out some cash and a gun and then he pulled it over the seat and into his lap before shoving it at Murphy, who had been sitting up slowly.
Murphy flinched at the action, irritating Connor as the heavy contents inside shifted noisily, "I'm goin' te' pay fer' a room, bring that wit' yeh' when yeh' see me comin' back, alright…?" he didn't wait for an answer.
Connor got out of the car, glancing back at Murphy but he couldn't see him properly in the dark, not really, even as they'd been driving he'd been shadowed. The only thing he'd been really able to discern was the contrast of his twin's dark hair against Murphy's white pallor.
He was approaching the entrance when he remembered his prison clothes, he stopped in a shadowed area away from the nearest street light to pull the top half of his jumpsuit down so it hung off his waist, leaving him in a long sleeve white T-shirt and what looked like dark jeans in bad light. He sniffed and cleared his throat as he checked to see if the gun had been preloaded by ejecting the magazine, when he saw that it was fully loaded he put the safety on –since he'd only use it as a scare tactic- and pushed it into the back of his jumpsuit, covering it with his shirt before he checked his hands for blood, his white shirt, then his arms and lastly he ran his hands over his face.
He didn't worry over his black eye, in that kind of neighborhood it was probably a fairly common sight.
He'd missed a few serious slashes and stabs, but had taken some elbows and a few fists on their way out but aside from the small slash on his lower back, hidden by the folds of the jumpsuit, Connor had avoided any serious injury because the guards had pulled their guns out, which had forced the inmates to give them some room at the time. So while he had blood on his jumpsuit it wasn't noticeable when hanging down and he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to cover the faint pink blood smears on the sleeve arms.
When he felt presentable enough he made his way into the small, odorous reception, where an elderly, overweight man looked to be fast asleep behind the counter. Connor ran a hand through his short messy hair as he entered and he thanked God for his luck, the man probably hadn't even noticed them arrive and would surely not recognize him, there appeared to be no radio on and the small television was off too, so hopefully the man would have no clue about the prison break.
He glanced around and saw no other doors or spaces where anyone could be and then he pulled the money out of his jumpsuit pocket,
"Excuse me?" he said in his best American accent and lightest most forgetful and unobtrusive tone.
It took a second 'excuse me' before the old man stirred and squinted at Connor as he sat up, then he grabbed at his chest for his glasses where they hung from his neck.
The exchange was quick and quiet, not wordy, and Connor didn't make eye contact with the old man as he paid for a room with one bed, it was a last minute decision, as he planned to sneak Murphy into the room. If the old man did listen to the radio and heard that two inmates had escaped he wouldn't suspect Connor's early hour check in because it was made for a single person.
He said a quiet thanks and walked out with a key, discreetly raising his hand to signal his brother as he approached the car so that Murphy wouldn't get out and then he glanced over his shoulder and smirked when he saw the old man removing his glasses and rubbing at his eyes, not even interested in watching Connor.
He reached the room which was two rooms away from the reception and then he glanced at the old man again to see that he wasn't watching before he signaled Murphy to get out.
Connor felt both irritated and worried as his sibling took a bit longer to get out and come over than would have been ideal but since the old man hadn't noticed and Murphy had caught on and closed the car door very quietly, he didn't give his twin a look of question or scolding. Because the vibe he was getting from Murphy in his mind and body told him something was very wrong. Murphy looked weak as he carried the heavy bag and limped nearer, pale and Connor noticed when he got close enough under the moonlit sky, that his skin was sheened with sweat.
Before he'd closed the door and locked them inside, Connor felt his stomach bottom out, because Murphy's eyes had met his when he'd crossed the threshold into the motel room and the look there revealed the truth of what he'd missed in all the chaos and the extent of the pain his brother was feeling.
Connor didn't even need to see it, once he became aware of it through their emotional link, aware of there being something wrong, he could practically smell the blood on Murphy even from the few meters distance between them.
And then, with their subconscious connection uninterrupted, abruptly he could feel his twin's pain, it became tangible, it became real and his heart was hammering in his chest as he turned around to look at Murphy. The shaking started in his fingertips as he looked at Murphy where his sibling half slipped on the dirty old carpeted floor before he managed to sit on the foot edge of the bed with a restrained sound of pain, his jaw tense from clenching teeth and his hand going to clutch his side.
The side that had been hidden from Connor's view in all the hours they'd been driving.
Connor felt like he couldn't breathe, feeling his own panic and even Murphy's labored breaths squeeze inside his own chest. Suddenly his sibling's weak posture, sweaty pale skin, his increasing involuntary twitches, increased swallowing and barely open eyes were so obvious.
Connor felt sick…with fear.
He felt his heart squeeze and thud sorely in his chest as he rushed to Murphy, landing heavily on his knees in front of his darker haired twin,
"Murph, Murphy…fuck, oh fu… yer' shot, why, Christ, why the fuck didn't yeh' say somethin'! Shit…" his voice pitched and rasped, his mind racing along with his heart as his hands alternately squeezed Murphy's knee and hovered over his twin's hand clutching his own wound. Murphy focused on him slowly with red rimmed, sharp, austere blue eyes and he exhaled shakily through his nose,
"S'not hurting much, C-Conn…" he said weakly and swallowed, his lips were pale and dry before he slipped his tongue along the inner seam absently as he so often did, "…don't look so fuc…kin'…worried…".
Connor shook his head in disbelief and looked at his twin's hand where it was pressed to his right-middle side, his skin was stained and wet with thick blood, squelching between Murphy's twitching fingers and Connor's breath stopped, stuttered painfully, his chest hurting and hands trembling violently by now.
A dreadful cold shock ran through Connor at the sight of all that blood, the blood of his brother, the only fucking person he truly needed in his life…the severity and reality sunk in like a fucking knife…worse even because fuck…
Jesus…Christ…God in heaven…he couldn't lose Murphy. It wasn't just a typical family endearment or a statement said out of desperate love in a desperate moment, or fear of loss and panicked impulse. It was a fact, a truth, an indisputable inevitability that if his twin died…he would not continue to live.
Men of God though they were, the MacManus twins had sinned before, with and for each other and Connor would take his own life to follow Murphy out of the living world, that was if the pain of the loss itself didn't kill him.
It already felt like he was asphyxiating just watching Murphy's life blood slip out between his pale fingers.
"Murphy…Murphy…" he was mumbling and whispering Murphy's name over and over as he reached for the hand pressed to the wound, Murphy's jumpsuit was dark in color but the blood darkened it further and the smell was heady and sickeningly familiar except now…it was Murphy's blood and Connor could feel his brother's waning strength and consciousness as if it was physically happening to him.
Jesus, it practically was.
It struck him then that the faintness of Murphy across their link all along had been because he was in and out of consciousness and Connor could have killed himself right there and then, he'd eat a fucking bullet, for the fact that he hadn't realized.
And he was crying, silent tears he hadn't been aware of were wetting his eyes.
Murphy had been shot before, but never in an area with vital organs, never an area where Connor couldn't disinfect it with alcohol, pull the bullet out of muscle and flesh and then cauterize the wound to fix his brother with only a scar to add to the growing collection as reminder he'd ever been injured…this wound was different, it was in Murphy's abdomen and it had a high likeliness of being fatal.
There was too much shit going on in the human abdomen and Connor was no fucking doctor or surgeon.
He cursed under his breath as his panic raced and his blood pumped so fast his hearing sounded like a rush of static for a few seconds, so he closed his eyes as his hand slid over Murphy's clutching his wound, smearing his sibling's warm blood under his palm and he told himself to breathe, get a grip and look at the damage.
He had to breathe, because Murphy was still breathing.
Connor inhaled and exhaled loudly as he re-opened his eyes, he was sweating, but it was cold and he imagined he was probably pale as he stared first at their layered hands pressed to Murphy's wound and then up to look at his twin. Murphy was watching him through nearly closed eyes, a frown on his face,
"Yeh' ok?" he asked quietly and Connor laughed bitterly as his eyes burned with tears, they didn't always leave his eyes, he'd never been a wet crier, but his throat was closing, his body shaking and his eyes were wet enough right then that it was going to happen,
"The fuck are yeh' askin' me if I'm ok fer, yeh' fuckin' idjit…" his voice continued to pitch and his chest ached as Murphy licked his lips again and cracked a pained smile,
"Yer' a fuckin' idjit…" he breathed out and then groaned as quietly as possible and Connor looked straight into Murphy's pained face as he wracked his brain for what he'd learned, anything, over their years of being fugitives and treating their own wounds.
He couldn't think of anything helpful but he needed to do something.
"Alright, shut et'…lie down an' lemme look at yeh'…" Connor sniffed and blinked, swallowed and steadied his voice for his brother, to reassure him with his tone that they could tend to this wound and trust in their own ability to survive if it was not God's will for them to live.
And it hurt to think that last part, because after Murphy, God was Connor's second greatest need…but maybe that was exactly the problem, after Murphy. And perhaps that was it, perhaps God had abandoned them because while they served Him, they did not put Him first.
But hadn't He made it that way? Wasn't it all His design for them to be the way they were?
Too many useless questions with answers that wouldn't help Murphy stop bleeding or breathe easier.
Especially the question of whether it was God's plan for Murphy to die that night.
Connor's only answer was no.
Murphy shifted to lie down slowly as Connor got to his feet, Murphy first resting on his elbow before he made a sound of pain and collapsed onto his back a bit too suddenly, breathing heavily, teeth bared and jaw tense as his nostrils flared. Connor mumbled his brother's name in an unsteady tone as he pressed his hands into the mattress either side of his darker haired twin and stepped around Murphy's legs where they were splayed off the bed so he could sit beside him, Connor's movements were jerky and hurried.
Connor swallowed thickly again, exhaled shakily, and barely managed an inhale around a sob to get air into his lungs, his chest felt so tight. He settled on his knees on the bed beside Murphy before he lifted his hands and started to shakily peel Murphy's blood sticky fingers away from the wound.
Murphy pressed his head back into the mattress in pain as his cold, rigid fingers came away and his breath hitched on a groan of pain. His dark short hair was sweated to his forehead and the slightly longer hair at the sides of his face were curling at his ears gently in the way Connor had always thought should look out of place on a guy but never found it to on Murphy.
Murphy, with his features so fine and attractive, his hair such a rich dark brown, appearing almost black when wet or damp and so pin straight that the moisture only just caused it to kink at his ears, his skin was so pale and unblemished save for the mole on his face and the freckles on his shoulders, his eyes so, so blue…
…the only thing Connor had in common with his twin mind you, were those intense blue eyes.
Connor felt his lips shaking along with the rest of his body as he removed Murphy's hand and the blood previously seeping through his sibling's fingers pulsed warm and free, slow and thick, from the bullet wound.
Murphy's blood…
His first instinct and reaction was to press his own hand to the wound as Murphy had been doing, making his twin wince. He knew, but really didn't, that he needed to stem the blood flow…but there was too much doubt and ignorance about the wound, not enough knowledge and deep down, in his gut, inside his aching chest, in the part of his mind seizing with panic and shock and fear, he knew that there was no stopping whatever damage had been done to his brother's insides with that fucking bullet.
Not without a hospital, not without a surgeon...
Murphy's body jerked unexpectedly, a harsh twitch, as he coughed involuntarily and blood oozed faster out of his wound, between Connor's fingers…warm wetness against his palm, over the frayed material of Murphy's clothes and damaged flesh where an exposed, fatal bullet wound was.
"Murphy…" Connor said in a harsh whisper that barely came out as he kept his hand pressed to the wound, even as he straightened up so he was half kneeling and lying beside Murphy on the bed.
"…onn…Con-ner…" Murphy had been trying to speak when he coughed.
Connor stared into Murphy's face, swallowed thickly, felt his eyes water even more as he held his sibling's gaze.
"Murph?" he rasped out. Sniffed.
He was acutely aware of Murphy's wet, cold hand sliding over his where it was pressed to Murphy's firm abdomen, not firm because of Murphy's musculature…no…this was a bad firm…
It was a sign of internal bleeding, abdominal trauma.
Connor was no doctor, but he knew shit.
He could feel cold seeping into his body more and more, as cold as Murphy's skin was despite the warm, stuttering of his breath against Connor's face, mixing in with his own breaths. Murphy's was shallow but erratic and fast, his pupils had been dilated but were slowly constricting now, even as he clung to consciousness and focus and the clammy paleness of his sweaty, cold skin was a clear indication that he was in a bad way.
Of course he was…he was dying…
Fuck.
Connor had stopped breathing and he only realized belatedly, brought back from his panicked wide eyed stare by Murphy's hand sliding around, under his own, sticky cold fingers interlocking with Connor's, disregarding the bleeding wound.
They both knew. There was no saving Murphy.
Connor wondered if Murphy knew there would be no saving himself either.
Whatever Murphy had wanted to say got lost in another cough, his eyes squeezing shut, teeth baring at the pain and the wet sound of the cough came as second notice for Connor when compared to the sight of blood thickly lining Murphy's white teeth and the inside of his lips.
It had been hours of internal bleeding…the evidence of it now slipping along the inner seam of Murphy's mouth as he licked his sheet white lips on a ragged breath and swallowed his own blood with a grimace, blue eyes opening again to look at Connor.
A look of resignation, acceptance and love in his eyes.
Hurt could not describe the intense feeling of pain Connor experienced at the very idea of losing Murphy…so right then, when nothing but a miracle from God could save his brother, the pain shook his insides violently.
Connor felt ice cold, felt he couldn't take a breath and yet he was hyperventilating, sobbing out the sound of Murphy's name, squeezing Murphy's hand as he knelt beside his dying, bleeding, hurting, beautiful, beloved brother…and then his other hand was suddenly on Murphy's cold, sweat clammy cheek, cupping, caressing, sliding over his ear, into his damp, soft hair.
Murphy was focusing on breathing, no words, just his gaze, it was the only thing beside the shared pain that gave Connor any indication that Murphy was still there with him and wasn't slipping into oblivion yet.
In that moment, neither Heaven nor Hell came to Connor's mind, he didn't think of God, didn't think of his rosary or Murphy's, he didn't think of praying, he didn't think of anything except how much he wished he was the one that lay dying instead of Murphy.
Said twin convulsed slightly, more blood seeped from his mouth, a thin slip of the red liquid made its way out of the corner of Murphy's mouth. More blood seeped from his wound as well, soaking Connor's fallen white sleeve and Murphy's clothes. Murphy's grip on his hand was slackening and he was taking labored breaths, his eyes seemed wet and too blue in the low light.
"Co…nne…" Murphy tried for his name again but he couldn't make it and Connor didn't want him to try.
With a burn in his throat, pounding pain behind his eyes and the heaviest weight in his stomach, Connor shushed Murphy gently and pressed their foreheads together. Murphy's grip had slackened to the point where Connor had been the only one keeping their fingers interlocked, but he let go then to cup both sides of Murphy's face.
Connor breathed into Murphy's open mouth in heavy panicked huffs while his twin barely managed to inhale and exhale. Connor knew it would be soon, he knew Murphy would fade soon and when he did, when his last breath had passed over Connor's face, then he would take out his gun and use it to join Murphy.
As it should be. As he would have it, he and Murphy. Even if it was not God's will for them to both die that day.
"Murphy…is breá liom tú…" Connor said around a sob, "…beidh mé leat, beidh mé a leanann tú i bás…" (I love you, I will be with you, I will follow you…) he felt himself shaking worse and worse as Murphy stilled more and more.
But his eyes…his eyes held focus as if Murphy was putting all his remaining life into it, their eyes held contact up close, inches apart, forehead to forehead and Connor could smell the blood in Murphy's mouth. He could smell death on his brother and it made him sick and scared and hateful and vengeful and Jesus fucking Christ, why Murphy!?
It wasn't right…
"…aon áit Murphy, neamh nó ifreann, ní bheidh mé a bheith scartha ó tú." (…anywhere, heaven or hell, I will not be separated from you.) He breathed out and pressed his lips to the corner of Murphy's mouth, smearing the line of blood there against his mouth just as he'd done with his blood stained hand along the side of Murphy's face and neck.
There was a shared breath and then Connor felt Murphy's weak hand touch the forearm of his bloody hand and clutch lightly, so lightly, so weakly…so much blood everywhere but inside of Murphy's body where it should be…
…it fucking hurt.
What happened in that next moment made no sense to Connor, it wasn't something he'd done before, wasn't something he'd ever let himself think about even when he was at his most drunk, but that weak clutching hand and the copper tang of Murphy's blood on his lips as he pursed his own, made him exhale Murphy's name before he delicately, hesitantly, slipped his tongue along the inner seam of Murphy's blood wet lips.
He didn't want to taste the blood, no…this bizarre urge came from somewhere else, somewhere subconscious, somewhere in his mind where he put away all things considered to be the most sick and ill of all sins against God.
But right then, with no God between them, with just him and Murphy, Connor dipped his tongue into Murphy's mouth and let it brush against his twin's in a caress that sent misplaced pleasure and untold grief of loss through his body, so deep and so harsh that it hurt and he sobbed into Murphy's unresponsive mouth as tears left his eyes.
Murphy didn't kiss back, if he could, he didn't, if he didn't want to, Connor wouldn't live to regret taking this from his dying sibling. And if Murphy was just so weak that he couldn't, Connor wouldn't live to wonder if he would have kissed back.
It was only for a few seconds, a short –fucking painfully empty- kiss, there were more sobs between their mouths from Connor than anything else and then the hand on his forearm slipped, fell away…landed limp on the bed cover.
Then there were no breaths from Murphy, only his own and Connor's harsh breathing morphed into ragged, pained sobs and audible crying as he dragged his face to the side of Murphy's neck where there was no pulse, just cold skin. He buried his trembling hands in Murphy's hair and he let out his inner pain, he wept bitterly. His legs were weak then, they slipped out from underneath him so he laid half on top and half next to Murphy's body.
He whispered Murphy's name over and over, at first softly, wetly against his blood stained neck and then slowly louder, broken consonants and vowels and syllables, sounds lost to the rasping, choking of his crying.
His hands shook worse as they unclenched from Murphy's hair and ran down the sides of his cold sibling's face…
And then he shouted Murphy's name, screamed it once, loud, pained and desperate.
Because Murphy's unmoving body was pressed to his own, dead, lifeless and it was final.
God, God, how it hurt.
Connor couldn't scream again, his throat was too closed off and his mind burned with thoughts and apologies and needs and wants and questions, things unsaid, things wrongly said, Murphy's open, dead eyes, his blood stained mouth, his voice…his voice saying Connor's name, his voice in prayer…
…prayer.
Connor's mind was swarmed with prayers, the moment of Godlessness he'd experienced was gone now that he was truly alone. After a short, pained breath, Connor found himself mumbling against Murphy's cold white lips as he got up onto his knees, straddled Murphy's body and reached under the back of his shirt, into the back of his folded down prison jumpsuit and with a shaking hand he brought his gun around,
"Incline, O Lord, Thine ear te' our prayers…" the words came out in a pitchy quiver as Connor pressed his forehead to Murphy's again, "…in which we humbly beseech Thy mercy, that Thou wouldst place the soul of Thy s-servant," he sniffed as he disarmed the safety, clenching his jaw before pressing the cold steel of the unsilenced firearm in as steady a grip as he could at such an odd angle, to his own chest, to where his heart thudded painfully.
Connor held the gun to his chest, balancing his weight on his knees and his forehead to Murphy's as he positioned his thumb in the trigger guard and the fingers of his other hand clicked the hammer back to arm the gun. Connor swallowed thickly, sniffed again, opened and closed his eyes, having a hard time looking, at the same time as not looking at Murphy's peaceful face and open blue eyes,
"Which Thou hast caused te' depart from this world," he couldn't keep bitterness from his voice when he said that and he inhaled long and shakily after, smelling blood and Murphy's cold sweat, "…into the region of peace an' light…an' unite in the fellowship of Thy Saints." He choked back a sob.
Connor couldn't hear anything but his own voice and dull ringing in his ears, couldn't smell anything but Murphy, couldn't think anything but of the hollowness deep inside his chest, where once the awareness of Murphy's own heartbeat and consciousness had filled and fit and belonged.
They were one, they always had been, and even their subconscious link had always been a real tangible thing, more pronounced in the few times they had been separated and so the hollow, dark feeling swelling inside Connor's chest told of just how deeply Murphy's death reached into his soul.
It was blasphemous to think it, but he truly belonged to his brother, his life did, or rather it had, and he would give it right then, because he could not live without Murphy.
With a deep resignation and one final –sinful- stolen kiss to Murphy's cold white lips, Connor closed his eyes,
"Trí Chríost ár dTiarna…" (Through Christ our Lord) he finished the prayer in Irish, with a sorrow in his tone so deep the words hurt as they crawled from his throat before he tightened his hold on the gun, pressing his thumb to the trigger when he breathed out, "Amen..."
The click back of the trigger was drowned out by the sound of the gun shot, but it did not drown out the sound of Murphy's voice rasping out his name as pain shot through Connor like a thousand hot pokers.
Leave it, if it's nothing to you.
And if you hate me, then hate me so good...
..that you can let me out of this hell in your arms.
