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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings	By : MelThorn Category: 1 through F > Boondock Saints Views: 1227 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints or the characters within, and make no profit from the film or characters

Chapter List
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A gift had been granted upon Murphy, and it came with a fifteen round clip and a nine millimeter caliber. Black, lightweight, and brand spanking new, the handgun was a snug and comfortable fit in his right palm, and even as the gun dealer spoke at great length about its capabilities, Murphy could only hold his eyes on the sleek, shimmering barrel and trigger, each designed with destruction in mind, and each as beautiful as God’s golden and lavender sunrise.
“How much?” Murphy asked the dealer, whose detailed descriptions were interrupted at last.
“Normally t’ree fifty,” he answered with a dejected sigh, his chance for discussing guns eliminated. “But… since yer Irish…” He shrugged. “We migh’ be able to cut a good deal.”
These words were music to Murphy’s near-deaf ears. “And fer two o’dem?”
The dealer, surprised at the offer, raised his eyebrows and thumbed his curved chin. “Half off of both if ya get dem toget’er. I don’ normally do dis sort o’t’ing, but I like ya.”
Murphy opened the chamber and looked inside at the hollow tube within, checking it for damage or flaws. “Stop kissin’ my ass and sell meh da fuckin’ t’ings.”
Wincing and doubling back at his snappiness, he waved him to the adjacent room, an area enveloped in dim lighting, ripe with a smell of dampness, smoke and gunpowder. The dealer retrieved a black box from a combination-locked safe, which required a small key to open. Once the box was unlatched, he tossed the cover back and Murphy got a glimpse of the many stacks of bills, which brought dryness to his throat and clamminess to his palms. If only he and Connor had that much dough. They could clean out every liquor store from here to Pittsfield. They could buy an actual house. They could buy a car. They could be the complete opposite of miserable.
The dealer held his hand outward, turning his palm upward into a cup. Murphy reached into the pocket of his jeans and fished for his entire paycheck’s worth of cash, and passed it to him, trigger finger shaking with bliss. After counting the money, he slipped it into the box, then guided Murphy back to the armory, where he cased two handguns of the same type and handed them over. Murphy took the cases by the handles, nodded to him in thanks, and made his way toward the stairs.
“Happy shootin’!” called the dealer as he watched him vacate the premises. “Hope I see ya again soon!”
The business card the guy handed him would be a reminder to stop by whenever he needed a fashionable upgrade. When sunlight struck his face as he reached the surface, all he could think was how thrilled Connor would be that they’d start up one of their oldest hobbies once more. He was certainly overexcited at the idea. Paper targets of all shapes and sizes would once again meet the wrath of bullets set upon them by the MacManus brothers, all while the air rang triumphant with their shots. He missed the sound of those deafening cracks and pops, and the feel of his biceps tightening at the recoil. Comparing sex with the feel of the power in his palms was debatable, but he might be inclined to choose guns over sweating skin if given the choice.
Rocco, who had been kind enough to drive him to the dealer, was waiting in the car by the curb. When Murphy returned and climbed into the passenger seat, he glimpsed at the packages he carried.
“Shit, you got two of them?” he queried, hope twinkling in his eyes.
“One’s fer Connor,” Murphy said, popping his daydreaming balloon.
Disappointed, Rocco scoffed. “Course. What are you guys planning to do with them, anyway?”
“Shootin’ range. We used to do target practice a lot back at home.”
“What do you do with the skill once you’ve mastered it?” Rocco wondered as he pulled into the flow of traffic, heading back toward Murphy’s neighborhood.
Murphy hadn’t thought much on that before. All he knew was that he loved shooting things. “Dunno. Learn to shoot targets better, I s’ppose.”
Riotous laughter echoed from Rocco’s deep voice, his bearded jaw stretching down as the boom left his throat. “You’re kidding me, right? Why do you need to know how to shoot targets? Admit it, man. You’re practicing how to shoot people.”
“Where da fuck is dis comin’ from?”
“Think about it, Murph. I bet you do all the time. When you shoot one of those targets you imagine it’s a huge fucking guy with a bigger gun.” Murphy shook his head, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. “Nothing wrong with having an active imagination. Or wanting to shoot some people. Some people really do need to be wiped off the planet.”
“Aye,” Murphy agreed, though he wouldn’t get too deep into the discussion. The truth was, he had thought about such things before, but discussing those thoughts with others was a whole other ballpark.
“Hey, I’m not judging you, man. If that’s your thing, that’s your thing. As long as you don’t get me shot, I’m all good with it.”
“I don’ t’ink dat’ll happen,” he reassured.
“Does your brother know you bought them?”
Murphy, busy sinking in thoughts of gunshots, had to take a moment to understand him. Then: “Oh. Nah. It’s a surprise.”
“Is he going to be cool with the fact that you spent your whole fucking paycheck on guns?”
“I guess dere’s only one way I’ll find out.”
“For how much you spent on them, I hope you got them monogrammed.”
This made Murphy frown. If he had gotten them monogrammed, it would have made the purchase a hell of a lot cooler, not to mention a more sentimental gift. When Rocco parked at the curb to let Murphy out, he leaned across the seat so that he could hear him speak through the rolled-down window.
“You guys want to go out for drinks later? I have to get away from Donna. She’s driving me fucking nuts.”
“Sure,” Murphy agreed. “I know Connor will want to, as well.”
“Seven good?” Murphy nodded, taking a hit, the cherry of his cigarette burning. “See you then.” With both gun cases in hand and the smoldering cigarette between his chapped lips, Murphy jogged home, wishing the lift would go faster as he rode it up to the loft. Connor would be home by now, and he’d be happy to see him.
As soon as the door moaned open, Connor, who had been rummaging around in a brown paper bag, looked up at his brother, gleeful. Murphy returned the grin, hauling the cases inside and setting them down on the couch. When he next looked at Connor, his face was vacant of the smile he sprung at the sight of him.
“What’s dat?” He pointed at the shiny, black boxes Murphy had brought in with him.
“I’ll show ya.” Grabbing one of the containers, he unsnapped the latches and brought it over to Connor, presenting it to him like a mountain of diamonds. Connor placed both hands on the lid and eased it back, peeking inside at the handgun, which was nestled on a bed of velvet lining. He failed to breathe when he met the weapon for the first time.
“Murph…” he sighed in equal parts elation and agony. “Where…?”
“Some underground dealer. He gave meh a discount.” Proud of his discovery, Murphy beamed at his brother.
“I…” Connor dragged his hand over his fuzz-covered jaw, then dragged it up over his neck. “I t’ought ya were gonna get food.”
“Dis was more important.”
“What’re we gonna eat? I can’t eat a gun fer dinner.”
Murphy, who had been riding cloud nine since purchasing the firearms, sank along with the nimbus he sat upon. “Well… I… I wanted us to go to da range again.”
Despite how worried he was, Connor couldn’t help but feel warmed at his brother’s attempts at bringing them closer to each other. Still, they weren’t doing too well for themselves, and conditions hadn’t improved. “Ya couldn’t wait a couple more weeks?”
Heartbroken, Murphy shut the case and locked it, bringing it back to the couch to set it against its companion. “I guess not.”
Connor cursed under his breath. Seeing Murphy angry, agitated and frustrated was one thing, but seeing him sad was too much for him. “Look, I’m not angry. I’m touched you got dem fer us. I want to go shootin’ wit’ ya, too. Ya just have to understand we’re not exactly livin’ like kings here.”
“I know dat. I jus’…” He scratched the back of his neck. “I jus’ t’ought it’d be nice.”
“It was. Really. De gun’s beautiful.” He sighed when seeing Murphy standing with his back to him, hearing the fizzle of the cigarette every time he took a puff from it, hiding his face from view. He took a couple of steps closer to him, then planted a hand on his shoulder, giving it a tender stroke. Murphy turned to face him, his emotions unreadable and cold as they sometimes were. Connor reassured him with a wide smile, one that Murphy loved seeing. It was the ultimate sign of confidence and affection.
“M’sorry,” he said. “We’ll go dis weekend.”
“Ya really want to?”
“Course I do! More’n anythin’!”
Murphy’s melancholy mood diminished, and he could smile again. He clapped his arms around Connor’s neck and clung, and Connor was happy to do the same to his waist. When the grip around his sternum became a bit too tight, Connor winced and gagged.
“Easy, Murph,” he grunted. “I like my head attached to my neck.”
“Sorry.” He loosened his hold, then smacked a kiss to his face, leaving a light trace of saliva and heat. Connor, who had already been red enough from all of the hauling and sweating, brightened at the physical contact, though he wasn’t sure why. Murphy had kissed him before, but not with such care or softness. It was new, but not unwelcome.
Nervous at how many tingles were now racing up his nerves, he let his brother go and changed the subject as fast as he could. “So, uh… I got us some new clot’es. Ya wanna take a look?”
Now wearing a smirk that even an ice pick couldn’t break, Murphy followed him to the brown bag he had been fiddling with when he first entered. “Sure. Show me what ya got.”
Connor, refusing to look his brother in the eye in fear that he might see something there he didn’t want him to, pulled some shirts out of the bag, most, if not all of them, in plain dark colors. He passed Murphy some that were in his size, and he nodded in approval as he checked them out. With those, Connor removed some jeans, which looked used and worn. Murphy didn’t express his distaste, knowing their options were limited. They might have been comfortable jeans, for all he knew.
The last two things that Connor retrieved from the bag were two extensive, black Navy pea coats with oversized buttons and thick collars. Murphy dropped the clothes in his hands, in a state of awe at the beauty of the items Connor held onto.
“Got dese on a clearance rack,” Connor told him, excitement in his every word. “Can you believe it? Who da fuck would give dese away?”
Murphy lunged for one of the coats, unfurling it and draping it in front of him, checking it over, tonguing his upper lip. “Oh, dese are sexy, man.”
“Right? I t’ought dey looked professional. Maybe I could wear one to an interview, er some’tin.”
“Fuck, I’d wear it everywhere.”
“It’s da dead o’summer.”
“I don’ care.” He slipped an arm into a sleeve, feeling the soft, slick fabric underneath, then pushed his other arm through the adjacent sleeve before straightening the collar. He smirked down at his own image, then cracked a loud pat to his brother’s shoulder. “Ya did good!”
Connor, grinning, scanned the coat as it now sat on Murphy’s body. “Looks better on you den it did in da store.”
Murphy puckered his lips at him, and Connor turned away from it, dabbing sweat off of his neck. “Roc wants to drink wit’ us tonight.”
“Does he e’er want to do any’tin’ else?”
“Might as well. It’s an excuse to get out of dis… place.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ anywhere ‘til I take a fuckin’ shower.” He paced the room for a moment, looking upon Murphy, who only stood and stared at him. “What’re ya lookin’ at?” Murphy shrugged, slipping the coat off when the heat got too much for him, then lied it on the couch next to the gun cases. When he next looked at Connor, he had stripped his shirt off, and removed his boots. Murphy kept his body turned to the wall and his head turned over his shoulder, finishing the last of his cigarette while watching Connor unsnap the button on his jeans and pull the zipper down.
By the time Connor had slid his boxers down past his ankles, Murphy had already lit up another cigarette and smoked it halfway down. Their eyes met for a brief, awkward moment, and he averted his, looked up at the walls, the ceiling, the filthy, stained carpet— anywhere but at his brother’s groin. As he pinched the cigarette between his fingertips, he feigned interest in the old, busted refrigerator tucked in the corner, which he opened and pretended to look inside of. He wasn’t surprised to find it empty, though he knew he was the one to blame for that. Connor studied him for a moment before walking to the tiled wall and turning on the showerhead.
No, not at all, not looking at your crotch, Murphy reasoned with himself. Why would I do such a thing?
Good question. He didn’t have any answers for his conscience. As he pulled a damp palm over his short hair, he cleared his throat a few times as heard the water running, heard it splashing against bare skin. Overwhelmed, Murphy uttered, “I t’ink I’m gonna go outside for a bit.”
Connor couldn’t help but smile, leaning his head back underneath the stream of water as it streaked in rivers down his chest and abdomen. “Ya sure ya don’ wanna shower, too?”
“Fuck,” Murphy hissed, then threw the front door open before his twin could see how tight his jeans had gotten. When he escaped the scene, he only stood inches from the door, sucking in as much nicotine as he could manage. “Fuckin’ A,” he whispered to himself, scratching at places that didn’t really itch.
Even after hearing the shower shut off in the apartment, Murphy remained outside, unable to calm the tension in his lower hemisphere. If Connor saw it at any time, he’d crack jokes. He had to be in the right mood for his wisecracks, and at that moment, his mood was anything but relaxed.
Connor opened the door, spying Murphy sitting on the floor next to it. They exchanged glances of both confusion and hunger. “Ya comin’ in?” he offered, holding the door open.
Murphy lingered there in his spot, unmoving for a while. “I like it out here… so…” His shoulders lifted, then fell.
“I don’ care, ya know.”
Curious, he tilted his head. “Abou’?”
“That ya…” Connor had no idea how to finish that sentence. There was no appropriate way to address it. “Got… ya know.”
“No, I don’ know. What are ya talkin’ abou’?”
“Ferget it.” Grimacing, Connor went to shut the door, but Murphy leapt to his feet, shoving his way inside, back to his gruff self again. Connor shut the door, or what was left of it, and kept an eye on him as he started pulling his clothes off. Connor, unlike Murphy, didn’t leave the room, but sat on the couch after moving the items aside. When Murphy got under the water, Connor also smoked, but he watched every second of Murphy’s shower like he did one of his many favorite movies. No movie, however, was quite like this one.
Feeling Connor’s eyes on him, Murphy glanced his way, and turned scarlet. “Da fuck ya watchin’ me for?” he snarled.
“Dunno,” Connor answered with honesty, just a touch above a whisper.
I like it, though, his mind confirmed. I don’t know why, but I like it.
“Well fuckin’ watch da birds outside or some’tin.”
He tried to pry his eyes away from the soap suds moving down Murphy’s backside, but he was hypnotized by it. He squeezed his legs together, hoping it might kill the inclining warmth between them, but that only seemed to worsen the problem. A second too late was when he realized he had been biting the filter of his cigarette, as the cleft of his jeans had been biting his crotch.
Murphy checked again to see if he was watching, and when he saw that he was, didn’t know how to feel about it. Turned on would have been the first description, but it disturbed him just how much. Before he could get caught with a stiffened organ, he shut the water off and grabbed one of the dirty towels hanging up, drying his skin off as fast as he could. Connor watched him do that, too, as if his eyes had become separate sentient beings intent on driving him insane. The fact that the whole thing aroused him made him even more perplexed, having seen his brother naked on multiple occasions in the past, and never feeling quite so hot under the collar about it. If his libido could shed tears, it’d be bawling now.
There was a quiet period between them, a moment of emotional affluence, when Murphy hesitated reaching for the clean clothes waiting for him in a pile on the bedspread. He chucked the towel, locking eyes with Connor, who had let his cigarette burn down to the filter without noticing; who hadn’t blinked once since Murphy started washing himself.
“Ya gonna jus’ sit dere?” Murphy sneered at him, planting his palms onto his hipbones.
Connor’s mouth dropped open, and prepared to respond, but his loosening fingers dropped the burning filter into his lap. “Fuck!” he screeched, leaping off of the couch and batting the tiny stick of fire off of his clothes. Once he found it on the floor, he scooped it up and took it to the ashtray, stamping it out. When the smoke quite literally cleared, he glanced at Murphy, whose right eyebrow was raised, as was the corner of his mouth. Connor grinned and started chuckling. Murphy joined him, harmonious. Then, after a few breaths, Murphy was the next to speak.
“Ya got a stiffy.”
For a second, Connor didn’t believe him, but when he looked downwards he saw that he most certainly did. Poppies speckling over his whole body, he pulled the tail of his shit down over the revealing evidence. “Put some fuckin’ clot’es on,” he mumbled, opening the fridge for the same reasons Murphy did earlier.
Murphy did get dressed, but the most obvious thing he wore was the massive smile on his face. The night wasn’t yet over, but so far, it was one of the most interesting he had in a long time.
=====
McGinty’s was crowded that night, mostly with regulars and repeating customers, half of which Connor and Murphy knew the names of. By the time they and Rocco arrived, everyone was already partially inebriated, and couldn’t pronounce their names without slurring or choking. They chanted a few familiar names as well, but were drowned out by the music overhead, so they planted their rears in a couple of stools, side-by-side, the way they liked it. A fellow drinker slapped Murphy on the back, making both him and Connor flinch. Neither of them got the chance to ask him anything, because he passed out on the bar afterward.
Rocco squeezed between Murphy and the fellow who collapsed onto the bar, also giving Murphy a slap. He grunted, wondering why everyone was so interested in touching him. Perhaps it was the new clothes drawing everyone in. “What can I get you guys?” he bellowed.
“Whiskeh,” Murphy told him. Connor asked for the same. Rocco ordered them what they wanted, and many more after that, until the both of them were laughing at things that weren’t very funny, grabbing one another and cracking jokes with Doc, who was twice as amusing when they were under the influence.
Rocco also didn’t take long to get hammered, slamming the MacManus’ with taunts that they responded with mocking in various languages that Rocco couldn’t speak in. “I fucking hate when you guys do that,” he spat. “It’s like you’re fucking cheating.”
“beruhigen Sie sich, Roc,” Connor said with a snicker. “Es ist nicht unsere Schuld, dass Sie dumm sind.”
“Ja, in der Tat,” Murphy agreed.
“Fucking stop!” Rocco protested. “That’s really annoying!”
“No, it’s German,” Connor corrected, then after a beat of silence, Murphy fell onto him in a fit of laughter, Connor draping an arm around him and giving him a powerful squeeze, enchanted by his mirth.
“Assholes,” Rocco growled. “I’m Italian descent and I speak more English than you micks.”
Both Connor and Murphy lowered their jaws, which almost smacked against the bar. “Well dat was uncalled fer,” Connor hiccupped.
“He’s jus’ jealous of us, Connor. He knows we can do e’erythin’ we put our minds to, and he can’t do no’tin’.”
“Fuck,” dismissed Rocco with a toss of the hand and blow of a raspberry. “The only things I’ve seen you two do are, A: drinking yourselves to oblivion, and B: speaking in funny accents.”
Murphy, all humor gone from his face, now hunched over in his stool like a gargoyle on its perch, glowered at their friend. “What can you do, eh? Workin’ for da mob don’ count, ei’ter.”
“I can do a lot more than you two can.”
“Name one t’ing you can do dat we can’t!” Connor challenged.
Rocco loomed over the bar for a few moments, mulling it over, scratching at his noodles of brown hair and cactus spines on his cheeks. “You can’t play darts for shit.” Puzzled, Connor and Murphy cocked a brow at one another. Then, when they both cocked equal-sized grins and giggled, Rocco swore at them again. “You think I’m being funny?”
“Well, ya are da Funny Man, Roc.”
“Ya are.”
Rocco reached into a basket sitting upon the bar, and removed a handful of multi-colored darts. Connor and Murphy observed his actions like spectators at a zoo’s reptile exhibit. “Go on,” he said, passing the darts over. “Do it.” Neither of them did. “Well, come on, if you’re so proud.”
“We’ve ne’er seen you play a single game o’darts in the time we’ve known ya,” Connor noticed. “I t’ink he’s pullin’ our chain, Murph.”
“Aye,” chimed in his brother, smoking a newly-lit cigarette.
Eyes pointed at the ceiling, Rocco scoffed at them. “You’re asking me to prove it, aren’t you?” They nodded in unison, as if they were one entity sharing the same soul. “All right boyos. I’ll do more than prove it. If I get a bull’s-eye from twenty feet away, you pay me two hundred bucks.”
“No way!” Murphy accosted, getting off of his stool. “Ya know we can’t afford dat!”
“Well that’s how confident I am, Murphy.”
“Easy, Murph,” Connor said to his brother, pulling him back by the tail of his shirt. Murphy peered at him, leaning his back against the bar, colliding shoulders with Connor once again. “How abou’ dis, Roc? If you can do it, we’ll pay fifty, we’ll stop teasin’ ya, and…” He turned his palms toward the skies, smirking. “I’ll kiss my bro’ter.”
Not only did Murphy and Rocco gape at him, but so did everyone else listening in on the conversation. “Um…” Rocco started, then gave it a minute to hang around in his thoughts. “Are you sure?”
“Connor,” Murphy whispered, trembling beneath everyone’s gaze. “What da fuck are ya doin’?”
“He’s not goin’ to get a damn bulls-eye from dat far.”
“How da fuck do you know? He’s sounds pretty fuckin’ confident.”
Connor, with pride, patted himself on the chest. “Trust meh. He won’t.”
“So…” Rocco interrupted. “What do you mean you’ll kiss him? Like kiss him, kiss him?”
“Tongue and e’erythin’.” He leered when Murphy dropped his face into his hands, and clutched at his forehead.
Another long pause drifted between them as the other patrons suddenly became very interested in this bet. “Seriously?” asked Rocco, his nose lifting a few centimeters.
“Yup.”
“Oh boy.” He looked at Murphy, who kept his head down and refused to lock eyes with anyone in the room. “Hope you like your brother a lot, Murph… and if not, you’re about to,” he laughed out, as did several other spectators.
“I’m gonna kill you,” Murphy swore to Connor. Connor only grinned. It wasn’t the first time Murphy made that threat, and it usually followed something embarrassing.
“Go ahead, Roc.” Connor gave the all-clear, in addition to pointing his thumb in the air. On the edges of their seats, everyone in earshot of the deal fell into a suspenseful hush, and the only sound for a while were the Irish jigs echoing from the speakers. Murphy peeked through his fingers at the dartboard, his hands and wrists stiffening, the cigarette in his mouth fizzling down.
Doc, joining in the game now that he had taken fascination with it, came to Rocco with a tape measure and measured the maximum distance. Rocco positioned himself, taking only one dart, standing at the ready with his arm raised. Connor crossed his ankle over his knee and wagged it, and Murphy took a shot of whisky, which tasted sweeter than usual in his “final moments.” Not a peep resounded between the men staring at Rocco, and when one of them shouted, “GO ALREADY,” they all hushed him, including Connor.
After several minutes of preparation, Rocco rocked his wrist back and forth, pointing the dart at the board. Murphy wiped sweat from his face. Connor clenched and unclenched his fists, squeezing his fingers into his clammy palms. Murphy ordered another shot and downed it before the glass was even full. He would be falling on his ass later, but he might also soon have Connor’s tongue crammed down his throat.
After lining the dart up with the red dot in the center of the board, then with the grace of an Olympic pole-vaulter, threw his wrist toward it, as well as the sailing spike. Murphy couldn’t bear to look at it when he heard it strike, but when he heard the cacophony of howls and deep, drunken roars he knew what to expect when he opened his eyes.
“Who’s the man?!” Rocco shouted to his viewers, who cheered him on. “Who’s the fuckin’ man?!” A riotous drum slammed onto the bar as the other drinkers shared a moment of revelation. When the rumble of voices dimmed, Murphy peeked between his pinched eyelashes at the room, seeing a group of haunting eyes fixed on him.
“Aw, fuck,” he groaned, looking at Connor, who hadn’t moved or spoken since Rocco achieved his award-winning throw. “He’s not goin’ to get a bulls-eye from dat faaaar,” mocked Murphy.
“Can ya blame meh?! That’s some stellar shit righ’ dere!”
“All right, Connor,” Rocco said, his every tooth showing with his lips spread from ear to ear. “You made a deal, man.”
“But…” he argued, then sighed, lowering his head. The bar went quiet again. Too quiet. Nothing could possibly be more awkward than this. “Can we… maybeh… take a rain check?”
Swaying in his seat from the number of shots he consumed, Murphy sang, “What’s da matter, Connor? I’m not good enough?”
Connor, dazed, turned his eyes to his brother. “I… well… I’m not sayin’ dat…”
“A bet’s a bet, bro’ter.” Several others agreed.
“Fer fuck’s sake…” Connor moaned. He ordered a shot of whiskey, slurped it down, then looked upon his drunken other half, who couldn’t keep his balance anymore, and who also had a wicked, enamored leer painted on his red face. Connor smirked at him. “Yer right.” He waved his finger, beckoning Murphy closer, and he almost collapsed atop his chest. No one said a word, but almost everyone chuckled. Murphy tipped his chin upwards toward Connor’s, opening his mouth and waving his tongue. Connor hesitated.
“I would have preferred somewhere more intimate,” he confessed.
“Shut da fuck up and do it,” Murphy encouraged, smacking his arm.
Connor didn’t give him the opportunity to finish the sentence before grabbing his chin in his left hand and pulled his mouth closer to his own. Then he shoved his mouth onto Murphy’s, and wrapped his tongue around the one that had been waving at him a few moments ago. Almost everyone in the bar erupted in laughter, including Rocco, who soon stopped when he saw how long they went at it.
“You can fucking stop now,” he told them, but neither of them heard. “Guys, quit it! You’re grossing me out, man!”
It took them a few seconds to even register they were being spoken to. Connor, without realizing he had done it, placed a hand on Murphy’s face and clutched it as their jaws worked together, his tongue fighting against Murphy’s, whose was enthusiastic as it snaked around Connor’s. He could have sworn he heard his twin moan in ecstasy; could have sworn he felt his hands sneaking under his tight shirt. He also couldn’t help the pressure building below his waist.
Something struck Connor in the head— a light, metallic object that rattled onto the floor once it bounced off of him. “Ay!” he yelled, breaking his kiss with Murphy, who frowned in disappointment. When he looked up, he was met with some shocked smiles, disgusted nose-curls, bellowing, deafening laughter and an incredulous Rocco, who seemed to be trying to assess the situation.
“You know,” Rocco said when silence hit them. “If you wanted to kiss each other, you could have just said so.”
“I didn’t… I was jus’… it was part of…”
“Connor’s jus’ shy like dat,” Murphy joked, too sloshed to give a shit about the consequences. Connor passed everyone a nervous smile before climbing off of his stool, hauling Murphy off of his.
“I… t’ink we’d better go now,” Connor told everyone.
“Yeah, please,” Rocco agreed. “Make out in the comfort of your home.”
“We weren’t makin’ out!” Connor defended.
“Whatever you micks call it.”
Connor, while supporting his brother’s weight as he kept an arm swung over his shoulder, paid Rocco the fifty bucks he owed him, then helped Murphy out the door, who mumbled something about Connor being a sloppy kisser. Much to Connor’s surprise, Rocco followed them out of the bar.
“Let me drive you guys home. You’re trashed.”
“What makes ya say dat, Roc?”
“Well, you were just making out with your brother… and enjoying it.” There was a giggle from the inebriated Murphy.
“We jus’ live down da street,” Connor said over Murphy’s laughter. “We’ll be all ‘ight.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll catch you guys on the flip side.” They said their farewells, and Connor dragged Murphy down the alleyways as he stumbled beside him, muttering nonsense. When he got Murphy to their apartment, he spread him onto his bed, then crashed into his own, his head and stomach spinning. He tried to relax, to shut his eyes, and turn off his mind, but he was forced awake by Murphy’s startling question:
“Ya gonna finish what ya started?”
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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings