"Ow. Easy, easy."
The tattooist, a woman adorned in facial piercings and several feet worth of body ink, looked at Murphy, who gave his burning neck a rest for a moment while she waited for him to let her know when to continue.
"I told you how much a neck tattoo would hurt," she reminded him, dabbing blood off of his skin with a cloth. As the needle touched his skin again, he winced and clamped his fingers onto Connor's knuckles, causing his brother to grunt at the sensation of his hand being crunched.
"Let up a little, Murph, yer killin' meh here," he moaned through gritted teeth.
"M'sorry," he squeaked, letting up a bit. "Ugh, it fuckin' kills."
"Great," Connor sighed. "I look forward to mine, den."
"You're almost done," the tattoo artist told Murphy, who couldn't wait for it to be over. "You said you wanted the forearm done, too?"
"Aye. And my hand. But… not today, right?" If he had to sit in that uncomfortable leather chair getting poked and sketched on with needles anymore that day, he might pass out.
As she dabbed the skin of his neck, drying the dots of blood on it, she chuckled. "No. You'll have to make a follow-up. You know those are going to hurt like hell, right?"
"Like… define hell."
"Hell."
"Ah. I see, den." He grabbed Connor's hand again as she finished up the job, and Connor just bared it until it was over. When she finally got done with the black ink tattoo of Mary Magdalene on Murphy's neck, she provided him a small handheld mirror. He turned his head to the side and checked out the artwork in the reflection, then grinned.
"Worth it," he told Connor.
"Better be, fer de cost of it," his twin mumbled beneath his breath. Connor took a seat in the chair next after it was sanitized and a new needle was put in. Murphy was kind enough to provide his own hand for squeezing this time around, though he couldn't endure it as well as Connor did.
Following that adventure with pain, they met up with Rocco, who was sitting in one of the many cushioned seats of the waiting area. He chuckled as soon as they came into view. "Heard you guys whimpering like sissies in there."
Murphy balled up his fist and Connor pushed it down. "You try gettin' one, ya asshole," he told him. "On yer neck."
"No thanks. Who said you had to get them on your necks anyway? Is there a 'see how much pain you can put yourself through' contest you guys are trying to win?"
"A tattoo's got no meanin' if ya didn't suffer fer it," Murphy sneered.
"Sure, Murph. Whatever you say." He stood up and headed for the door, and the twins joined him, climbing into his car. "Oh. By the way. Happy birthday."
Murphy glanced at an invisible watch. "Oh! He's only… what, eight hours late?"
"Clearly, Roc didn't set 'is alarm fer give-a-fuck o'clock."
"Get off my case," grumbled Rocco. "Do you know what I had to deal with this morning? That little blondie you two dumped off on me…"
"Rayvie," Connor confirmed.
"Yeah, whatever. She got in my face because I yelled at my girlfriend. My girlfriend! What business is it of hers how I talk to Donna?!"
"Good to see she's fittin' in, den," Connor laughed, he and Murphy lighting a pair of cigarettes.
"Ya oughta pat yerself on de back fer lettin' her stay," Murphy added between puffs and exhales. "Ya did a good service to de community."
"Like hell I did. All I did was add to the noise pollution in my neighborhood. Oh well. At least she and Donna go out a lot now. I don't have to deal with either of them."
Connor couldn't help but bring it up. "Yeh, about dat…"
He sighed. "I know what you're going to say, Connor! And you know what? Maybe you're right. I should get rid of the fuckin' bitch. But, as I'm sure you know, it's not going to suck itself."
Connor and Murphy exchanged amused glances before busting out a song of laughs. "Aye. I might know a t'ing or two about dat."
"Besides, I can't get much better. She might be a bitch, but she's an attractive one."
"Yer attractive too, man! Give yerself some credit!"
"Aye," agreed Murphy. "Ya got de true eighties porn star t'ing goin'. Girls melt over dat shit." Connor stifled giggles at that comment, snorting.
"How the fuck would you know what girls 'melt' over, Murphy? When was the last time you looked at one?"
"Dere was one in de tattoo parlor."
"I mean looked at one. If you didn't try to stare down her shirt, you didn't really look at her."
"What?!" Connor belted, cracking up and keeling over,
Murphy's broken giggles stopped for a moment for him to say, "Oh, man, no wonder girls fawn over ya. Yer a fuckin' charmer, man."
"Aye. A regular Patrick Swayze." More laughter. "No dirty dancin' fer you, my boy."
"At least not of de sleazy kind."
"You know what? You two can go fuck each other." He glowered when they erupted into louder amusement. "Oh wait, you already do. Yeah, that's way better than my relationship! Can't find a girlfriend, so you hop on the brocest train."
"Calm down, Roc, we're only playin'," said Connor, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"We could find girlfriends if we wanted," Murphy clarified. "We don't want 'em."
"Can't say that they'd be looking for 'recently screwed own brother' on the dating resume, anyway." He shook his head, his long hair swaying.
When Connor saw that Murphy was ready to retort, he slapped a hand on his leg and shook his head at him. Murphy rolled his eyes, but he let it go. Rocco dropped them off at home and told them he'd meet them at the bar that night, and he'd buy them some birthday shots.
Once inside, they both hung their rosaries on a pair of hooks beside the doorway, and Connor took a brief, silent moment to watch them sway like metronomes. They were the last remaining bit of evidence, other than their memories, of their friendship with Eric. News reports had spoken of his murder with extreme doubt and confusion, and though they had a lot to say on the mystery of the detective's death, not a single person had any clue as to who his murderer was. Perhaps the investigation was stalled due to the amounts of documentation in Eric's safe that proved his involvement in hundreds of past murder cases, or, even more likely, they figured that whoever had killed Eric Malone had done the world some good.
Good. That wasn't a word Connor would use to describe himself, or Murphy, but it was what he aimed to be. Not just a good citizen, but a good person. Part of him feared that one day he might very well turn out like Eric, a cold-blooded killer with no feelings of regret or remorse, but he couldn't imagine it being so. After all, he had more than just himself to look out for.
"You okay?" called Murphy, who had started the shower and was busy undressing for it.
"Aye," answered Connor. "Lot on my mind." Turning toward Murphy, he smiled at the sight of him completely bare. If it was one thing that erased his troubles, it was that. While he stepped toward him, he stripped, then got underneath the shower with him.
Where would we be now if we hadn't killed Eric? Questioned Connor's mind as Murphy's arms swung around his neck and he crafted that usual cheeky grin he always managed to get when they were wet and naked. Would I feel better or worse about our lives? I suppose there's no telling, now.
What Connor did know was that he took a lot from his relationship with him. He would always be the same Connor he always used to be—but a shadow would always follow him now, as it would Murphy.
Murphy didn't have many thoughts on Eric's death, other than how relieved he was to see him gone. He did, however, find it hard to make peace with the fact that he took an innocent life. It floated around in the back of his mind, pricked at his every thought, and toyed with his emotions, which he kept even more protected than he had before. Connor would never judge him—of that he was certain now—but it was not Connor's judgment he feared any longer. It was that of the one who ran the show. Killing Eric might not have been enough to redeem his soul. If the opportunity ever presented itself to him, he'd take it without hesitation. He would set it right until his guilt faded away.
Until then, Connor had his remedies for helping him forget about it, and he would take that medicine every damn time, even if they had to keep it discreet. Each intimate moment they spent together was better than the last, especially as they got more creative with how they went about it. Murphy wouldn't deny that his favorite thing to do above all else was ride upon Connor's bucking, slamming hips, to feel the ultimate ecstasy of being physically united with him, overexerting every bit of his energy while putting it toward making the experience the greatest they ever had. To say he loved having sex with Connor would be a colossal understatement, and Connor didn't seem to deny it, either. Before they had shared that mortifying kiss in the bar that night, he would never have anticipated that they'd have something of this nature to enjoy together. In the end, it made all too much sense to him that they would. They already did everything else together. He hoped they went on like that forever and then some.
Their sex that evening, however, felt different than it usually did— not worse, by any means— but definitely different. Murphy once preferred Connor to be rough with him, liking a good dose of pleasurable pain, but he didn't ask for that this time around. Connor was grateful that he hadn't, because he had also treated it with more care than before. His touch was that of someone who was terrified of breaking something fragile, and Murphy's demeanor was softer, more affectionate than in their previous encounters. While he loved getting "fucked" by Connor, something about this gentler method made it feel a lot better.
They traded a few sweet words, dressed, then headed out to McGinty's, where a crowd of patrons was waiting for them, cheering a jubilant "Happy Birthday" at them. Connor and Murphy expected a couple of free drinks, but the whole bar ended up buying them more than they could handle. As they got sloshed, they got rowdier, and eventually gave them all a show by tackling each other in the middle of the room as their spectators betted on the winner of the amateur wrestling match.
Rocco showed up later than they expected, but they were glad he showed at all. After their awkward conversation in the car, they didn't think he'd have the stomach to. When he saw them wrestling and grunting on the floor like a couple of apes, he shook his head. He considered buying them drinks, but it looked to him like they had enough already.
Connor and Murphy went to work each day, and had even grown to like the job, as well as the people they worked with, who in turn began to treat them like family. Even their boss had grown accustomed to their wily antics by now, and they worked so well together, and so efficiently, that he couldn't bring himself to fire them whenever they stirred up trouble.
Every Sunday, they attended Catholic Mass, as they were brought up to do. Murphy slipped into the confessional at one point, surprising Connor by doing so. He never did tell him exactly what he confessed to, but whatever it was paled the priest's skin. Since that day, Murphy seemed a lot more relaxed and upbeat than Connor was used to seeing him. Their relationship seemed to strengthen beyond that point as well.
In the coming months, Murphy expressed his interest in returning to Ireland, and though Connor also wanted to, it was an extreme expense that they couldn't afford. He promised Murphy that they would someday, even if it meant using illegal means. In the meantime, they'd work their asses off to make enough for the trip. One of the only things holding them back was their friendship with Rocco.
If someone had told Connor that they'd kill hundreds more people, he'd never believe them. He'd also never take them seriously if they told him that on Saint Patrick's Day that year, he and Murphy would be brushing up on their violent skills once more, and would be perfecting them for many years yet to come.