staring down the sun

[2] memories are just where you laid them

"What do you want, Connor?"

Elena's voice echoes in his head as he lies in bed. He stares at the ceiling, half expecting to see her green eyes staring back at him, slowly digging into his mind. The realization that he is starting to let his guard down with the therapist sits heavy on his chest.

"Connor?"

He exhales quickly as Murphy hovers over him, breaking the view of the thick white paint chipping above him. The dark-haired twin looks down at Connor with a mixture of confusion and concern. "Ye straight, bro?"

Connor blinks hard, sitting up and shifting to lean his back against the wall. "Aye, I'm good."

Murphy narrows his familial blue eyes at his brother. "That therapist finally got to ye, yeah?"

Connor glares at Murphy, shaking his head. "Absolutely not." He's lied to Murphy before, usually to save face and avoid constant teasing, and he knows his brother does the same. But Elena was right; it's hard to keep anything from each other when you've been together essentially 24/7 for over three decades.

Murphy smiles, clearly seeing through the lie. He plops down on the bed next to Connor, bringing his knees up like they're little kids sitting on the roof of their mother's house again. Murphy switches to Irish, his voice still teasing. "Alright, out with it. What did she say?"

Connor laughs, placing his hand over his eyes and replying in the same language. "She speaks other languages. Including Irish."

He looks to see Murphy's reaction, and as his brother's jaw drops, Connor laughs harder.

"Fuck."

"I can imagine the shit ye probably said to her, not realizing she understood it the whole fucking time," Connor says through his giggles. So much for keeping Elena's secret, but he had to tell his twin.

"Same shit ye said, I'm sure." Murphy's jaw is still slack as more curse words fall out of his mouth.

Connor catches his breath, grinning at the new information. "Just when we think we have the upper hand, she's been slow-playing the game with an ace up her sleeve. It's fucking savage, really."

A smirk crawls across Murphy's face, but it fades quickly as he raises his eyebrows, thinking more about their situation. "Do ye think we can trust her?"

Any other day, Connor would say no. He'd say that they could only trust each other. But ever since they killed those two Russian mobsters in self-defense, hell, even since they returned from Ireland, a handful of people have proven him wrong.

"I think so," he tells his brother in Irish. "I hope so."

"But we can't tell her everything."

"No." Connor runs a hand through his hair. No way can they tell Elena about breaking out of prison. Their luck, she'd get them to tell her without them realizing it. Not that there's much to tell her.

They're stuck in limbo with their escape plan. Per the cryptic message they got from their detective allies, Connor and Murphy have to wait for someone to come in and set the plan in motion. Who, they have no clue. A little bird, Duffy had written in code on the back of a postcard. "What the fuck does that mean?" Murphy asked in Irish as his brother examined the postcard. Connor shrugged and said they would just have to wait and see.

Murphy leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and letting out a deep sigh. "I wish Romeo was still here."

Connor raises his knees to mirror his brother. "I know. Me too."

He grimaces at the thought that they must be putting a curse on anyone who joins them. First Rocco, then Greenly, then Da (although he would argue the boys were joining him), and then Romeo. A fucking pulmonary embolism. When the doctors broke the news, Murphy was quick to accuse them of negligence, that they didn't care to save him. The truth was that they were actually prepping Romeo for surgery again when his scans flagged the complication. But it happened so fast, there was nothing they could do. The boys cried themselves to sleep in their cell that night. And it felt like a bit of revenge on Romeo's part, that he was finally getting back at them for laughing every time he'd shed a tear.

"It's gotta be just me and you, brother," Murphy quietly pleads.

Just me and you, brother. Connor closes his eyes, and he can almost taste the cold, damp Irish air again. The boys had just turned 21, and while it was not necessarily a significant milestone in Ireland, it meant they could move to America. Ma knew they had been itching to go all through their teenage years, but she made them promise to wait until they were 'American legal.' Citizenship and visa paperwork weren't the issue since they were born in Boston, it was simply because 21 was the mark of an adult in the land of the free.

On their last night in Ireland, they sat on the roof of their childhood home like little boys, still wearing those ridiculous patriotic skimmer hats adorned with stars and stripes Ma forced on them for their going away party. Connor's hat sat further back on his head, allowing his golden brown tresses to stick out like always, while Murphy's hat rested low on his forehead, pressing his dark chocolate hair flat across his brow. They sat there, drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes as they stared out into the darkness dotted with twinkling lights from the town up the road. The sound of their extended family drunkenly singing along to "Born in the USA" by Bruce Springsteen vibrated throughout the house. Murphy laughed as he dumped a slosh of whiskey down his throat, an indelible sense of pride bubbling up in his voice. "Just me and you, brother. In America."

Land of the free, home of the brave. Only half of that promise remains true now.

Connor opens his eyes halfway. The stale industrial smell of metal mixed with cheap laundry detergent fills his nose as he takes a deep, long breath.

"Just me and you," Murphy repeats, his voice softer yet full of fear. "We can't put anyone else in danger like that again."

Connor pulls his lips inward, looking up at the ceiling again. "Aye."