Connor McManus
August 17, 1:09am
Long Wharf
Murphy was up to his waist in seawater by the time Connor reached the little beach sloping away from Long Wharf. The idiot seemed to have finally remembered that it was a six mile swim to Deer Island, which was a feat he would've had considerable difficulty with even if he hadn't been completely hammered on Guinness and cheap vodka.
Staggering to an uncertain halt that left him up to his knees in water himself, Connor retreated a little way up the beach and yelled to his brother, foam still lapping at his sodden shoes.
"What the fuck're you playin' at, Murph? Get out of the damn water!"
"Why?" Murphy yelled back over his shoulder, as the wind stirred in his hair and waves reared up around him.
"You're gonna fuckin' drown, that's why!" Connor yelled back, stumbling on the loose stones underfoot and faltering back down into knee-deep water again. He uttered a high-pitched curse in surprise as cold water filled his shoes.
"Ah, don't be such a pussy!" Murphy returned confidently. No sooner than he had closed his mouth, a wave caught him full in the chest and sent him reeling backwards, arms pinwheeling comically as he tried to keep his balance. Under normal circumstances that might've been enough to send Connor out into the cold water to drag his retarded brother back to shore, but there was still enough beer in him that, instead of rushing to help, he doubled over and burst into helpless gales of laughter.
"You look fuckin' ridiculous," he gasped when he could speak, tears springing up in the corners of his eyes. The laughter subsided almost as quickly as it had come on, but he was cackling at the memory again a second later.
"How 'bout you get a look at yourself, huh?" Murphy challenged from where he stood, now with his back to the harbour.
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Connor demanded, laughter up suddenly as his back straightened and his expression darkened.
"You're scared to come in, aren'tcha?"
"No I'm fuckin' not," he countered, which was a blatant lie and one that he hoped he wouldn't have to back up.
"Is that so?" Murphy asked, spreading his arms now in a gesture that was at once inviting and mocking. "Connor McManus, come on down!" he slurred, lurching forward unsteadily with the motion of the waves still pushing occasionally into his back.
"I'm not comin' down anywhere, Murph; you come on up."
"Alright," Murphy replied, "I will."
Revelling in a surprisingly easy success, Connor didn't register the fact that Murphy was picking up speed as he sloshed closer until it was just a little too late. His brother burst out of the water like Jaws, and tackled him to the ground just as he was about to leap out of the way. They grappled in the surf for a while, but Murphy had the obvious advantage and Connor ended up on his back in shallow water, hands pinned above his head and hips straddled firmly in spite of his protests.
"Happy?" Murphy demanded breathlessly, eyes alive and dancing with mirth. Salty water sprayed from his lips as he spoke, dripping down from his hair and the tip of his nose to land in cold drops on Connor's face. "I'm out of the water."
"Actually, you're not," Connor pointed out, grinning triumphantly.
"Ah, whatever. I'm more out of the water'n you."
There was no arguing with that, but damned if Connor wasn't going to try. His mouth moved wordlessly as he searched for a biting comeback, but nothing occurred to him. Fortunately, he was blessedly spared the need to say anything, as Murphy leaned down and silenced him with a clumsy kiss that tasted like saltwater and vodka.
They only ever got this intimate when they were drunk, and Connor was never entirely comfortable with it… but there was some dark and secret part of him that craved this kind of affection from his brother, so he let it happen. It was sin and penance rolled up neatly into one package, and Connor wondered, as he returned the kiss, if his brother saw it the same way.
Murphy muttered something inaudible into Connor's mouth, then broke the kiss and released his arms.
"Know what I could do with? Another pint," he said, leaning back so he was sat upright and more or less in Connor's lap.
"Y'got too much blood in yer alcohol system?" Connor asked, sitting up with some difficultly and leaning his head against Murphy's chest.
"Aye, somethin' like that," his twin agreed with a breath of laughter as he groaned his way up to his feet, and slogged heavily up the beach, clothes made heavy by the weight of the water they'd soaked up.
Connor rolled over laboriously, and then staggered to his feet and lunged after his brother. The damp in his own clothes made him shiver so his teeth chattered noisily in his skull, making him think dimly of a typewriter—or maybe the rattle of automatic gunfire.
"Catch fuckin' pneumonia like this," he muttered grimly.
Just for the record, I've never actually been anywhere near Boston, so I'm pretty much altering the geography to suit my needs. I believe it's called artistic license. xD In other news, I hope everyone who celebrates it had a good Christmas - and remember, feedback makes the heart grow fonder, or something like that. ;)
