That night, they sit outside, wrapped in ratty blankets, and stare up at the stars.
Connor sips at the lukewarm club orange that he'd bought on the way home from the village, and watches as his brother makes his legs twitch slightly, stretched out on the picnic rug that was spread across their front garden. "Today was good, did ye think?"
"It was, yeah." Murphy licks his lips carefully, and lies flat on his back, "We should go ta one of their matches soon. I miss it."
He tries to hide the huge smile that's pasted on his face, but luckily Murphy's not looking at him, "Yeah, sure. I can sort something out soon. Th' lads'll be chuffed."
They spend the next few minutes in silence then, as Murphy stretches out on the ground, wheelchair pushed back out of sight. Connor leans against the cool brick of their house, and nudges his brother with his foot, neither of them needing to say anything.
A car flashes past them, headlights soon disappeared into the distance, and Murphy flinches slightly at the sound. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, and turns to cock his head slightly at Connor, "Are ye okay, Connor? Like, actually are ye okay?"
"What? I'm fine, Murph, what are ye on?"
Murphy shrugs at his confusion, and concentrates on lifting one of his legs off the blanket slowly, "I know tha' all of this must have messed you up. I mean, I got hurt—an' ye did too. I—I jus' wanted ye ta know that I know tha'. We both were in tha' accident."
"Murph—what, of course—"
"Listen. People act like it was jus' me sometimes, an' it wasn't. It wasn't, okay? I jus' wanted ta say tha'."
His brother settles back in his original lying position, and closes his eyes, effectively ending the conversation. Connor can feel his mouth quirking up to form a smile, and he rolls his eyes once, before curling up on the lumpy ground beside Murphy.
"I'm fine now. Promise."
The words slip out, in between their heavy breathing, so close to sleep. The words make Murphy throw one of his arms across to hit him half-heartedly on his stomach, before they both go still again. The words are true, and the words soothe them both into sleep.
.
Murphy is woken up the next morning by his brother shaking him awake, and the sound of other people in his room.
But then he opens his eyes properly, an ache settling in between his shoulder blades, and is reminded that they slept outside, on the rough ground. Murphy moans, and blinks up slowly at the two policemen standing in their front garden.
Connor is already on his feet, having positioned the wheelchair close enough for him, and talking to the two coppers. He's frowning a bit, and one of his fists is clenched, making an uneasy feeling appear in Murphy's stomach, despite the fact that he doesn't know what they're talking about.
When he's finally heaved himself into the chair, gotten his feet positioned on the footrests properly, and ran a hand through his scruffy hair, he begins to listen.
Nothing makes sense for a few moments though, it's all just disjointed words that are far too confusing to comprehend at this hour in the morning. He sees one of the Gardaí looking at him with what appears to a small smile, mixed with a bit of pity.
It's probably rare that they call to a house to find its occupants asleep in the garden. Murphy doesn't care though. He pushes himself into the house behind his brother, and spins around to face everyone, scowling in confusion, and feeling the smallest stab of guilt when Connor has to stop in the middle of the conversation, and bend down to explain it to him.
"Murph. Murph, they caught the guy who hit us. The hit-and-run man, they found him. Murph."
He pulls himself out of his daze, and looks up to see Connor staring at him with an intense expression. "They—the guy that—what?" It still takes him a minute to wrap his mind around the idea, and halfway though he realises that his hands are rubbing at his thighs protectively.
His brother pulls up a chair, sitting down beside Murphy, and gestures for the Gardaí to do the same.
Murphy realises that, without appearing too obvious to anyone, Connor's just brought everyone down to the same level as him, and it's a relief not to have to crane his head up at the tall Gardaí . He clasps his hands together in his lap, digging his fingernails into his skin to try and stay calm.
"What now?"
They explain that the man is being detained in the Guarda station, and that they probably wouldn't have to give evidence at the trial—seeing as how the man had already confessed to being guilty. Connor frowns lessens at that, but Murphy can't even look at his brother.
"How long? How long will he get in prison?"
One of the men considers the question, and says, "It's hard to tell. He's either looking at up to a year jail time, possibly a suspended sentence. He'll probably lose his licence as well... The man—once he'd confessed, asked how the two of you were. He wanted to, uh, know if you were still alive."
"Fuck him!" Connor leaps out of his chair, sending it clattering to the ground, "Fuck the man, and fuck his concern! We don't need it! You think that we got this far on him worrying! Fuck! He doesn't get to care—he doesn't get to talk about us! He nearly killed us!" He storms upstairs, sending a picture that was hanging on the wall crashing down to the ground as well.
No one moved for a few minutes, listening to Connor slam the door to their bedroom upstairs.
"I think that ye should probably go. Thanks—fer lettin' us know. Let us know what it plays out, will ye?" Murphy wheels towards the door, and tries his best to look grateful. "Cheers fer everythin'."
The two Gardaí give their sincere apologies, and promise to get in touch soon, but Murphy doesn't even care that much anymore. He's more concerned with his brother, and the unexpected outburst that had just occurred.
"Connor! Connor MacManus get down here right now, fer fuck's sake! C'mon, stop yer cryin' an' lets sort this out!"
.
He could hear Murphy yelling for him, and for a second, Connor just pressed his face harder into the wall that he was leaning into.
But then he reluctantly pushed himself into a proper standing position, and stumbled down the stairs, seeing his twin sitting at the bottom of steps silently. Murphy didn't say anything, just rubbed at his eyes with weariness.
"Sorry."
"Ye don't have ta apologise, ye know tha'."
His hands clench into fists, and its physically hard to make his way down the last three steps. "I jus'—the guy has the nerve ta ask about us. After—after everything—an' he jus'—what, he jus' admits what he did, an' wonders if we're alive? It's not right! Fer all he knew we were dead—you could've died!"
Murphy drops his head to stare down at the wheelchair for a moment, and then he's back to looking straight at Connor, "I know. It's not right at all, but there's nothing we can do. People are just… bad."
"They're fuckin' stupid, that's what they are."
"I know."
"We don't even know his name."
Connor watches as his brother reacts to the sentence, watches as he grips one of the wheels tighter, "It wouldn't make a difference really, would it? We—we can't change anythin', not now. I'm—we're good now, we're getting better."
"Doesn't mean it's right."
Murphy laughs, and goes up on the back wheels of the chair, in a well-practised wheelie, "Aye, but sure we can handle it."
.
A few days pass, and Connor's pure anger at the man who left them bleeding in the middle of the road hasn't dissipated, but it upsets Murphy, so he at least learns how to hide it better from his brother. Murphy is on the home stretch, or so he said once, and Connor can sense that his brother doesn't have the energy to obsess over the nameless man.
They have another hospital appointment coming up, and all Murphy can do is smirk when Connor mentions it. The muscle is starting to build back up in his legs, but slowly, so slowly.
Still, it makes Murphy smile whenever he reaches another tiny milestone, so Connor is grateful for that.
They scab a lift off another relative when the appointment comes, and again, they ask their 'driver' to wait in the car.
Connor doesn't quite think that he'll ever get over the feeling of fear that floods through him when he enters the hospital. He forces himself to clamp a hand down on his brother's shoulder, so he can be sure that Murphy is right there, and not dying, and he's going to be fine. Murphy just bites his lip, and continues into the elevators.
This time, Connor refuses to be separated from his brother, and ends up following them down to x-ray when Murphy has to have all his scans done again. He crouches down on the ground outside the x-ray department, head leaned back against the wall, and tries not to think about his hatred for the guy who knocked them both down.
An hour or so later, when all the tests are done, Murphy is up on an exam table, while Connor slumps in a chair beside him.
When all the doctors and interns come flooding in, he jumps to his feet, and manages to wedge himself between the wall and the back of the exam table. This way, Connor can't be accused of getting in the way, and Murphy won't be alone.
They twist and manipulate his legs one way and another, Murphy occasionally letting out a grunt or a whine of pain, but other than that, his twin remains silent. The doctors pour over the x-rays, mutter about range of motion, and inspect the muscle tone carefully.
One leaves the room for a few minutes, and comes back in with a pair of crutches, and Murphy's face just lights up.
He's told that he can't use them all the time, and a load of rules that Connor commits to memory, but they let Murphy off the bed, and he takes his first, carefully coached through, steps in months. His legs are spindly and skinny like a colt's, and he sways a bit, his progress slow and tiring, but he's walking.
A tear slips down Murphy's face, as he turns around to face his twin, and Connor reaches out to wipe it away.
If he's being honest, tears are welling up in his own eyes, but he just beams at his brother. Murphy keeps going, taking painstakingly focused steps, until he reaches the door, and he leans against the support for a moment. Then he straightens again, and makes his way back to the chair, reluctantly letting himself be lowered back into it.
Connor reaches down to embrace his brother, and he can feel the silent sobs that are making Murphy shake ever so slightly.
"I did it," Murphy whispers into his shoulder, one hand fisting in Connor's hair, "I fuckin' walked."
.
They celebrate that night, at home with Ma.
She gets takeaway food, from the local chipper, and Murphy walks around the kitchen table twice before he has to sit down. Connor can't stop smiling.
When they finally collapse into bed, Connor hears the quiet clatter of crutches onto the ground, and he opens his eyes to see Murphy reaching down a hand to touch them gently. Then he looks over to see Connor grinning at him, and sticks out his tongue.
"Oh, fuck you. Got ta sleep."
"I was doin' nothin' but smiling at my little brother!"
"We both know I'm the oldest, here now, so ye can stop with tha' right now."
"Night, Murph."
"Night."
.
(I actually have more for this—but I just really liked that ending!)
Hope that was okay for you guys, would love to hear any comments that you have :) I'll have the next chapter up soon… perks of finally being on summer holidays!
Thanks for reading,
ArmedWithMyComputer xx