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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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Shadows obscured Connor’s face as he turned over on his side to face Murphy, who was lying upon his back with his arm draped over his eyes. Through the window, moonlight reached in, granting only partial visibility. Of what he could make out of Murphy’s form, he could see his chest was bobbing up and down, and it was glistening with a fresh sheen of sweat. The night’s weather was mild, and it became clear that his sweating was not due to being engulfed in the earlier day’s heat. He was nervous. They both were.
“What?” Connor whispered into the blackness, not only baffled at what he just heard Murphy say, but also unsure if he heard it at all. He could have sworn Murphy had just come on to him, but that was too ridiculous to comprehend. Sure, they joked around with each other a lot, but Murphy didn’t seem the least bit concerned with amusement.
“Ya heard meh,” Murphy answered, even darker this time.
“I… I don’ know what yer askin’…”
“Yeah ya do.”
Connor, anxious, chuckled at the situation unfolding before him. It was true; he did know what Murphy wanted from him, but the question was whether or not he could supply it. Would he have even bothered asking him for such things if he didn’t have almost a pound of whiskey in his stomach? Connor was one to say “no,” but with what happened earlier, when he watched Murphy showering, he doubted his own mind.
“W…” Words flittered from Connor’s mouth as soon as his brain registered them. Suddenly, speaking to his brother was a feat. “W-why?”
“Why not?”
“Is dat a joke?”
“Admit it, Connor. Ya wanna do it.”
The first thing Connor did was scoff, then he made other sounds of objection, not able to form a sentence that would best argue his point. “Do… you?”
“Fuck,” Murphy snorted, dropping his arm off of his face. “I dunno. Maybeh I’m just drunk.”
Connor tried to remember the last time he had sex. How old was he? Seventeen? Was it even considered “sex” with how impractical and lackluster it was? Since then, he wasn’t too interested in having it. He thought before this point, he had cut his sex drive at the source, and became celibate. For years, he didn’t bother seeking out a partner, as there was no point. He had everything he needed: his television, his beer, his gun, the church, and his brother. Never before did he estimate how his relationship with Murphy could exceed its already well-woven tightness. They were attached at the hip, “glued together” as ma once said. As some siblings are “night and day,” he and Murphy were both night. Murphy wouldn’t do half of the things he did without his brother beside him, and truth be told, neither would Connor.
For Connor, there was no one more important in his life. He would die for Murphy, and would kill for him. If that was how things already were, perhaps it did make sense for them to be closer than they already were, maybe even a little too much sense. They had almost everything in common that they needed to, a lot more than him and someone he had never met. They were a good team, supported one another, and already lived under the same roof. The more Connor thought about it, the more it seemed like it was meant to be.
As he thought it over, Murphy turned over, away from his twin. “See ya in da mornin’, den.”
He hated when he couldn’t tell whether or not Murphy was upset about something. More often than not, he was very well-practiced at hiding his feelings. He’d sooner punch a kitten than admit when things hurt him, and Connor was accustomed to this cold shoulder approach to things, but would have preferred it if Murphy was more open with him. At least he wasn’t hiding behind rage this time.
“Murph,” Connor whispered to the darkness. He saw his eyes peek over the hill of his shoulder. “What’s goin’ on in yer head?”
“Dizziness,” Murphy joked.
Connor laughed, despite it not being the answer he wanted. “If ya want… whatever it is ya want us to do… ya gotta tell me dat.”
Murphy said nothing for a while, focusing his gaze back to the wall ahead. “Do I really have to spell shit out fer ya?”
“I jus’ want to hear ya say it.”
Murphy pushed himself up to a sitting position, palming his face, then pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it to the floor. Connor knew they had reached a pivotal point when Murphy began unfastening his torn jeans and pulled them down his legs. When he got down to his boxers, he slid them off as well, then looked upon Connor, luring him with his eyes. “I want it,” he admitted.
Connor jumped to his feet and ripped his shirt off, kicking his jeans off. “Meh too,” he gasped.
Murphy was elated again, exuberant at his brother’s enthusiasm, and he laughed and cheered. “All ‘ight! Fuck yeah!”
Connor, almost tearing his boxers from his waist, tackled his brother onto his mattress, which squealed underneath them. Murphy had a newfound playfulness in his voice, laughing like a maniac, and Connor couldn’t tell if it was because of the excitement of what was about to happen between them, or if he was laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Either way, Connor was thrilled to see him happy.
“I want ya to fuck meh, Connor,” he told his brother, who had never had a bigger hard-on in his whole life at that moment, or a bigger grin.
Before he could think of his actions, he was kissing Murphy again, this time in the privacy of their apartment, and this time with twice the encouragement from Murphy, who bucked his hips against him in desire. They spent at least a minute battling each other’s tongues while Connor’s hands roamed down Murphy’s sides and ribcage, underneath his lower back, which he pressed in order to push him up against his abdomen. Connor couldn’t contain the smirk on his face when he heard Murphy’s loud jubilation, their voices harmonious, and their skin sticky and dripping with sweat.
This is something to write home about, Connor’s prankster mind enthused. Dear Ma, you’ll never believe what me and Murph are up to these days.
Connor rose into a sitting position, pulling Murphy along with him, placing him snug into his lap where he fit like a puzzle piece, as if he belonged there. Then, he embraced his athletic torso, locking lips with him again. He never tired of the sensation of Murphy’s wandering tongue, which traced every inch of his own with expertise as if they had done it a million times. Of all of the things he thought Murphy was good at, he didn’t think he’d ever compliment his kissing style.
Murphy’s hand found its way into Connor’s spiked, reddish locks, tugging at them in pleading desperation as he hummed and moaned incoherent whispers. He pressed his ass against his awaiting erection, which prodded at him like a spear. Connor spit into his palm, which might have been unnecessary with how much sweat had lubricated it, and applied it to the straining muscle between his tensed legs as it twitched with anticipation. Murphy’s eyes were half-open, his tongue swiping his upper lip, his short hair messed in all directions. When Connor fused them together with the physical bond they felt they waited their entire lives for, Murphy cried out in both surprise and ecstasy.
Connor was eager to quicken his pace, but he didn’t. He was patient, accommodating, and gentle with his twin, whose expressions of pain eventually changed into those of pleasure. He swayed and rocked upon Connor’s lap, pressing their slippery foreheads together as he sighed with every thrust from Connor’s hips. Connor sang out grunts and heaves in unison with Murphy, slapping his hips against Murphy’s rear and thighs, which ached from being jabbed by the bones of his pelvis.
“Fuck,” Murphy reiterated for the fourth consecutive time. “Connor,” he then breathed, his voice thick with raw passion and devotion Connor had never heard from him prior to their tumble. “Garbh, garbh…”
Murphy’s every muscle shook with delight when Connor started slamming against him “rougher” as Murphy requested of him. His moans turned to hollers, and he tossed his head back, drips of sweat falling from his strewn, tossed hair. Connor grabbed Murphy’s neck in his prickled mouth and sucked on the nape of it as their wet skin smacked together, Connor’s thrusts coming to a near halt as he slowed his movements, his arms tightening around Murphy’s waist.
“Don’ fuckin’ stop,” Murphy begged.
“I’m gonna…” Connor warned. “Fuck, I’m gonna…” What was the word he was thinking of? His mind was too scrambled, and his tongue too tied to sound it out.
Murphy, dismayed that their passionate moment was coming to a close, however excited at how much his brother was enjoying himself, kissed Connor on the mouth so they’d go out with a bang. This was enough to push Connor over the edge, which before then he teetered on, ambivalent on whether or not he wanted to end it. “Fuck!” he screamed to the heavens he hoped weren’t watching. He released the built-up adrenaline with a mighty blow that rivaled any of the greatest he achieved when alone, throwing his mouth up toward the ceiling, groans rising from the depths of his throat as he pushed himself to and fro from Murphy’s backside until there was nothing left to give him.
Gasping and wheezing, he dropped onto his back, trying to calm his thundering heartbeat. Murphy hadn’t yet climbed off of him, but he didn’t want him to. He liked having him there, clasped to him. He shut his eyes for a few minutes to allow himself to breathe and relax, but he opened them when he heard the wonderful music of Murphy’s hot, heavy breaths and whimpering voice. He watched him as he was perched in his lap, observed his wrist as it jerked up and down. The view was better than that atop the buildings of Boston they’d sometimes visit when sightseeing.
Murphy writhed upon Connor’s lap where he hadn’t yet detached himself from him, and his moans elevated in speed and in volume. Connor didn’t get the same warning he gave Murphy, however, and before he could make a lustful comment about the beautiful sight, he was blinded by a sting of warmth and dampness, which was followed by Murphy’s high-pitched howls. Connor hissed at the burn in his eye, which he swiped over and over, but couldn’t seem to clear.
“Ya hit meh in da fuckin’ eye!” Connor protested at last once Murphy had come down off of his post-orgasmic high. He looked up at his brother with one blurry eye open.
Murphy, amused, cackled at his misfortune. “Sorry.”
“I have to wash dis out.” He unfastened himself from Murphy’s lower half, and raced over to the shower. Murphy collapsed onto his back, smiling, watching him wash his face under the showerhead. “Good God, Murph, what did ya eat today? Ghost peppers?”
“M’sorry!” He didn’t sound very apologetic when speaking between the ups and downs of laughter.
“Aye, I can tell, ya fuckin’ hyena.” When his eyes were clear, he glanced at his brother sprawled out on the bed. He was gazing at him with an all new amour unshackled by an unsuspecting night of fervor. That smirk was one Connor could imagine doing anything for just to see it on his face. He mirrored it with one of his own, and sauntered back to the small bed that could barely fit the both of them, but Murphy scooted over to make room for him. When he climbed back in, lied down, and shut his eyes, he felt the stubble of Murphy’s jaw and lip scratching his neck, felt his nostrils opening and inhaling, and felt the softness of his lips against his skin. Something about it made Connor so comfortable. He didn’t miss Ireland anymore when Murphy was crushed against him and loving on him.
Murphy looked happy. That was rare. The only other time he saw him as happy was when he told them they’d go shooting together. Connor reached for his cigarettes in his jeans pocket and passed one to Murphy, who clamped it between his lips, and slipped one of his own into his mouth, lighting them both.
The question now was: where would they go from here? One thing was certain in Connor’s mind—he liked this new thing they shared, and he could tell that Murphy did as well. His brother might consider him ridiculous, tell him he watched too many films, but there was something about their new relationship that felt necessary, perhaps even destined. It was his strong belief that he and Murphy were meant to love each other this way, that it could very well have been fate calling out to them. They were supposed to treasure each other’s existence, for something of great importance would one day weigh their shoulders, and it was important that they understand the significant need to protect one another. They’d be even more inclined to do so if they loved each other more than siblings.
They both smoked, kept silent, thinking about what just went on between them. Murphy, unbeknownst to Connor, shared similar thoughts on their destiny. He couldn’t explain it very well, but it felt like the start of something amazing, something greater than them; greater than the world itself. With that in mind, his attachment to Connor meant twice as much to him.
“Ya know we can’t tell anyone, right?” Murphy then asked Connor, who was ripped from his daydream.
“Who would I be tellin’?”
Shrugging, Murphy lowered his voice. “Roc?”
“Why da fuck would I tell him?”
“I dunno, Connor. Jus’ don’ do it.”
“You ashamed?”
Murphy’s mouth twisted back and forth, as did the soft hints of moustache tracing his upper lip. “Dat’s not it.”
“It’s all ‘ight if ya are. It’s not exactly normal.”
“I don’ t’ink he’d understand, dat’s all.”
“I’m not disagreein’ wit’ ya. I know he wouldn’t.”
“Even if we explained… dat it was sort of… I dunno.”
Connor, amazed at his perceptiveness, answered, “S’pposed to happen?”
Stunned, Murphy’s eyes grew round, and he nodded. “Ya feel dat, too?” Connor also nodded. “What do ya t’ink’s gonna happen to us?”
Connor had no idea, but Murphy always looked to him for answers. “I dunno. I’ve ne’er felt dis way before.”
“Me nei’ter. But some’tin’s goin’ to.”
Perhaps that “something” could have been sleep, because Murphy didn’t take long to pass out on top of Connor’s chest, which was both strong enough to support him, and soft enough to be a pillow. Connor pulled the cigarette from his drooping mouth and put it out in the ashtray beside his own. Then he pulled him into his arms, which fit around him in a protective lock, and watched him as he snoozed. Before long, Connor too passed out, and his grip on Murphy never relented.
======
Even with hearing protection, Murphy could sense how powerful the blows of his handgun really were. The targets at the end of the corridor shredded from the impact of flying bullets, and each one he destroyed, the more liberated he felt. What made it better, however, was Connor’s presence. After the night before, he thought things might get strange between them—stranger than usual, anyhow. However, he felt himself rolling with it, as though they had been like that for years without knowing it.
“Four ahead o’ya,” Murphy teased.
Connor leaned over toward Murphy’s booth, trying to determine if he was honest about this. “No way. Yer cheatin’.”
Murphy shook his head, his lips yanked into a smile. “I’m tellin’ ya, I’m ahead o’ya.”
“It’s dis clip dey put in dere. Fifteen rounds, dat’s no’tin!”
“Shut up and take it like a man, Connor.”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck ya back.”
“Again? Didn’t ya get enough last night?”
Magenta swarmed Murphy’s face at the reminder. Neither of them had brought it up all afternoon, feeling pensive and awkward about it, as though they had just seen each other commit the worst of offenses and tried to keep it a secret. It was true that there was something incredible about the night before, something that seemed to make sense of everything they did and felt when around one another, but Murphy couldn’t recall feeling such a powerful emotion before.
“Overwhelmed” was the best way to put how he felt, overwhelmed by the stimulation of needs for love and affection. Murphy, as well as Connor, was always taught that sex was for the loveless, the seedy scum of the world who fulfilled their innermost desires by beating off to the sluts of the porn industry inside of dark theaters that fit their criteria. Last night wasn’t like that at all. It was…
Murphy curled his nose at that word. It didn’t usually enter his vocabulary. Still, it was the best one to use. What he shared with Connor was beautiful, and not at all like how their mother made sex out to be. Why did she want to keep the truth away from them? And furthermore, why had Connor kept it from him? He knew his brother had sex before. He never gave him the details. Well, he supposed it didn’t matter much now. Celibacy, in Murphy’s mind, was still a rational practice, especially for a devout Catholic, but he wondered that now after he and Connor shared such a wonderful thing, how he’d be able to return to starving himself of that physical contact. He couldn’t imagine going back now. Since spending the night with Connor, he wanted it again… and again, and again, until they had out-sexed everyone on the planet.
Murphy did have to admit that part of him had his doubts that it would work. Connor was of course the optimistic type, unlike him. He still had yet to even understand what they had, let alone how they should handle it. What he did understand, however, was that he wanted to hold onto it. Tight.
Connor reloaded the clip in his weapon and fired several more rounds at the targets. “I’m ahead now! Better catch up, Murph.”
When Murphy had lowered his weapon and stared into space as the thoughts of their relationship crossed his mind, he didn’t notice that he had. Connor seemed fine with the whole thing, even seemed happier, so he gathered he too could accept it. He wanted them both to be happy. And now, they were.
Following the gun range, they visited the cathedral, sitting again in the back pew for silent contemplation. Murphy wondered, while holding his head down, his eyes shut, and hands folded how they would look in God’s eyes now. He was sure God didn’t consider what they did as beautiful as he felt it was. Or maybe it was His plan all along. Murphy had no way of knowing. The Big Guy never spoke to him. It was better that way. His thoughts were loud enough without being interrupted constantly by a boom of morality.
The man upstairs never spoke to Connor either, but he had a good feeling that he was doing the right thing in His eyes, and He would continue leading them down a similar path. Murphy relied on him for more than brotherhood now that they were on their lonesome and so far away from their true home, and he too relied on Murphy for the same. They needed each other now more than ever, to sate not only their violent nature, but their carnal appetites which only recently growled with such hunger. Something happened last night, and it wasn’t only sex— something that alternated their course in life, shifted gears, turned tables and made everything right and everything snap into place.
After crossing their hearts, they rose from their seat and left the cathedral, whipping out cigarettes and lighting them. “Sight seein’?” Connor proposed.
“Aye,” Murphy agreed, glad he suggested it.
Connor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and walked him down the street.
For the next couple of days, they had nothing to worry about.
That is, until the eve of Monday, when their new landline rang. Connor, sprawled across the tattered couch like a lounging feline, couldn’t pry his eyes from the television for long enough to care about who was calling. A new Clint Eastwood film was playing on their pirated cable, and he refused to miss a second of it. Murphy was just finishing up with a shower and putting some clean clothes on when he heard the ringing, and he tried to get his brother’s attention, as he was sitting directly beside the damn thing.
“Connor! Answer da fuckin’ phone!”
“You get it.”
“Yer closer to it!”
“I’m watchin’ some’tin.”
Scowling, Murphy stepped across the room to pick up the phone, which by now had almost rung off the hook. Before picking it up, he gave his brother a playful slap on the head, and was scolded with a pout. “’Lo,” Murphy told the caller, speaking into the mouthpiece and ignoring the sour look on Connor’s face, thinking he might burst out laughing at it.
“Murph!” It was Rocco, and the call didn’t seem like a casual one. “Are you guys busy at all?”
He glanced at Connor, who was flinging his fists into the air, timing his jabs with the action hero on screen. Rolling his eyes, he said, “Not per’ticularly.”
“You guys got to fucking help me.”
“Easy, Roc. What’s da matter?” Connor separated his eyes from the screen, now engrossed in the phone call, leaning closer to Murphy to hear the conversation.
“Someone fucking broke into my place and stole half my shit.”
“Ya sure it wasn’t Donna, man?” asked Murphy with a slight sneer.
“I don’t know! All I know is that I came home and my place is missing stuff. Would you guys come by? I could use a little help with the inventory.”
“Sure, jus’ calm down. It’ll be all ‘ight. Come get us.”
“Thank you.” They each hung up after saying their goodbyes.
“Well?” Connor asked.
“Roc got robbed, I guess. He’s comin’ to pick us up.”
“Robbed.” He flinched, thinking of what it would be like to have their home invaded. Then, he wondered what anyone would wish to steal from their place, unless they wanted used beer cans and cigarette butts. “He know who did it?”
“He didn’t seem to. I’ll put my money on his crack whore any day.”
“Don’t call her dat. I know she’s a pain, but…”
“I’m jus’ callin’ her what she is! Dis ain't da first time she’s done it to ‘im.”
“It’s none of our business, Murph. Jus’ like we’re none of his.”
Murphy couldn’t argue with him on that one. He hated when he was right. “Well, whatever. He’ll be here soon, so… put some pants on… and turn dat shit off while yer at it.”
“It’s at da best part!”
“You said dat t’irty minutes ago.”
“Fine, fine.”
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Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings