BRICE. [BOONDOCK SAINTS II NOVELLA]

IN ERIN - 2.

When he awoke Murphy was sitting up beside him, the wild hair falling down his back. He honestly couldn't say whether the look looked good on Murph or not, he just wanted to be assured he'd always find his brother in there. Lifting a hand, he gently placed it on Murphy's back.

"Jaysus fuck, Connor," Murphy whispered softly, bitterly, and almost wondrously. Staring into the dark open plain, Murphy then turned dark eyes on him. "What the fuck are we doin' here?"

He shook his head, holding Murphy's eyes.

Slowly, he sat up, settling beside Murphy. The wind was not so bad, kicking up only ever so often and being halted in its cold tracks by their shearling coats. But catching their rough, over-long hair and raising it around their hair, it chilled their scalps, making them shudder.

"Fucken Ireland," Murph said softly.

And he nodded. "T'd been a while."

"You still think of Fiona Dennehy, Conn?" Murph said, a soft jeer in his voice. "Lookin' her up an' shit."

"Dublin," he said, quietly. "She lives in Dublin. Works in government. Unmarried, still pretty, degrees and accolades all over."

And Murph was quiet. Because that was just too real a connection to their past lives. Same as he'd felt seeing the piece of paper with it. So he just stared out into the plains, and stared some more, but like Murph, he saw nothing whatsoever. No future, no present. And Boston was simply too far to see.

Murphy slowly turned to him, leaning in close, stopping only a fraction of a second before their lips touched. Murphy's breaths fanned his, and he held still, waiting for Murph to do it, to make life sweet again. Then Murphy pressed forward, scraping their dry lips, then did it again. On a third time, despite the cold, cold wind, he responded.

Parting his lips, eyes closed, his body came alive as Murphy's tongue slid inside his mouth, igniting warm life in him. Tenderly the kiss lingered, and it was hard to catch a breath amid these new, unfamiliar sensations with Murphy. Sensations of drifting among a sea of stars when Murphy kissed him. Hypnotic, spellbinding. Like a kiss from a prince in a fairy tale.

He'd be in real trouble were Murphy to get a whiff of his thoughts. But something told him Murphy already knew. Willing to wait for the feelings to pass, he'd done nothing about it. Challenged no aspect of it. But it never did. Willing to wait month, and now years, and it still hadn't. When Murphy touched him now, he could feel it . . . it was just the two of them in the world. And it was. . . He didn't know how it was. It was fairly tale.

Murphy gripped his sweater and pushed him backwards onto the chilled grass. And there they laid for a long time, forever it truly seemed, touching and kissing with this strange, new intimacy. It was truly surreal. And more than a little embarrassing. Nonetheless, he felt himself arching off the ground, eyes closed and softly panting as Murphy touched him, up on his chest under his sweater, then down at his jeans, swirling and dipping his tongue into his mouth.

Beneath their prison of denim and shearling, inside a heap of clothing and around a tangle of wild hair and wilder limbs, they found each other. And as Murphy gripped his jersey, pulling him in and grinding into him, spilling his name into his skin, he knew it would have to pass. This need that seemed to tear at the matter of their souls and feed on these fears in a newfound and uncontrollable life. A need that felt so painful yet so sweet. Unfamiliar— yet familiar, as in their dreams when they stopped facing each other, foreheads touching as when very small. They had not done so in so long, but he knew that feeling well. A vulnerability he was happy as an adult to have long discarded.

Yet now it consumed him. Them. And felt very different, larger.

It too would pass. It would have to.

But for now he held on as Murphy's rough tongue, delicious weight, and grass-smelling mess of a mane smothered him, twisting him ever tighter under the feeling that he was going to die if he could not secure a release of his brother's need. Murphy tightened his grip on his jersey, bringing them closer still and gasping into his neck. Then reaching a cold hand between them, Murphy took hold of him, squeezing, and steadily pulling on him, making him toss like a caged bull. And soon he was pouring himself into Murphy's hand. Arms locked around Murphy's body, legs over Murphy's back, trying to climb him—losing all sense of place and time, he could hear himself, and it didn't matter. Murphy dropped his head to him, and grinding steadily into him, did nothing to curb his soft cries of "Connor, Connor. . ."

"Aye, Murph," he whispered, holding him, kissing his temple, letting Murphy move them both.

Until eventually, they were both still. Murphy's—or maybe his—harsh breathing filling the night air.

And silence returned to Ireland.

Running his hands up Murphy's wool sweater-clad back, then realizing he could get a closer feel, and shoving his hands underneath Murphy's sweaters and jerseys, he felt his twin's hot skin against his freshly warmed hands, against the cold air, and felt that all was right with the world.

He kissed the warm sweat on Murphy's cooling temple, on the side of Murphy's face, letting him know he could relax. With a hard breath Murphy slowly pulled from him, turned and breathed at the black sky, then turned and buried his face again in his neck. Murphy was fast passing out.

Despite the sweaters and jacket covering Murphy's body, Murph was bare-arsed in the cold and likely would not enjoy the results soonish. But pointing out such would currently receive no response, but come night's middle would bring him the blame— for not caring about his brother, for not caring about anyone but himself. Another fight over nothing.

But one he intended to avoid for his brother's sake. Worn out, and certainly confused, he was willing to continue for their sake. For their mother's sake. Reaching as far over as he could to Murphy's other side, he managed to catch the edged of the thermal blankets they had brought with them.

"Conn?" Murphy softy mused. There was an unmissable sneer in his voice. "When are ya gonna stop acting like a girl every time I fuck ya now?"

Pulling the blankets all the way over, he covered them. "Can't say's I know, Murph," he replied with no annoyance. How, when he had the same questions. Because this was not them. "Maybe some day soon."

"Archin' and writhin' an' . . . all fucken that."

He snorted soft laughter.

There was quiet for a minute. "Ya look like a stallion," Murphy whispered, sweeter than Murphy knew. "All ya fucken. . . blond hair."

"And ye look like a wild panther."

Murphy laughed. Softly, sweetly, and for a long time. This was them now. Strangely . . . sweet on each other somehow now.

He took a deep breath, was silent for a while.

"Aya, Murph. . ."

But Murphy was fast asleep now.

With a hard sigh, he laid back. They would have to adjust positions sometime in the night, him prepared for whatever smacks and insults came with that. But they were good at that.

And for as long as it took, they would continue adjusting to their different, suspended lives. Until one day when their father would stir, and then their wait would be over.

Until then, tá mé i mo chónaí in éirinn. They lived in Ireland.

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