Iconography Fic: Smelling The Flowers
Smelling The Flowers
Author: Meixia
Fandom: BDS
Rating: PG-13
Pre-slash, Murphy/Connor
For Iconography Challenge - this was great fun, and a bit of hair-pulling and worrying, but still fun!
Murphy reflects, and the brothers evolve.
Twenty-seven years with his brother, eight of those he spent in silent question. Some feelings are acceptable, and others not. Murphy knows this as clear and sure as he knows the sky is blue. That doesn’t stop the certain protective and bone-deep feelings for Connor that he has from forming, storming their way to the forefront of his mind to mock him. Elusive as they are, he never allows himself enough thought to examine them too closely. Some things, he discovered eight years ago, are better kept at a distance.
The only problem is that Murphy is in constant close proximity with Connor, and it tends to put a damper on the out-of-sight, out-of-mind strategy. He realized a long time ago that he couldn’t control it, and he still can’t, now, and probably not ever. People, on a universal level, feel, no matter how much they try to distance themselves.
Sunday is a beautiful, cloudless day, and after church the twins take a walk in the park, flowers opening up their faces towards the sun, Connor chattering on about some new movie with vigilantes. Murphy watches him with an amused but loving smile. He has always found his brother’s slight obsession with crime-dramas and Charles Bronson endearing.
“He gets the job done,” says Connor, grinning like a fool when Murphy asks for the hundredth time about his fascination with the man, and Murphy is reminded of three summers ago when they bought a lotto ticket and almost won. Connor had been outraged, and threatened half-heartedly to rob the gas station that had sold them the ticket. He had the same half-crazed smile, and the same glittering eyes.
Smiling, Murphy turns his face up to the warm sun, golden light dappling the treetops and trickling through autumn leaves.
“Be right back,” Connor says and steps off the cobblestone path, disappearing into the restroom area just ahead.
Murphy ducks his head, sniffs, and takes out a cigarette, lighting it with a cupped hand. He walks ahead, following the path until a small bike trail that branches off into a cluster of bushes on the right catches his eye. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been paying attention.
Flicking ash into the shrubbery, Murphy extends one boot-clad foot and dips the toe of his shoe into the dirt track, swirling the soil around until there appears a sloppy circle.
“Hey,” Connor approaches at a slight jog, loose change jangling in his pocket. He tilts his head, peering ahead in the direction Murphy is looking. “What’s ‘at?”
“Bike trail,” Murphy says, taking a few final puffs before he tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the cobblestone path and grinds it with his heel.
“Come on, then,” Connor says, taking the role of curious explorer. He bends down to pass under the leaves and brittle branches of a small tree that curves overhead, creating an almost natural archway. Murphy follows his example. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it’s not like there’s a gorge ahead that they will fall into unsuspectingly. Or, at least, he hopes not.
“The intrepid explorer,” Murphy pushes jokingly at Connor’s shoulder, careful not to step on his heels. It’s tricky plowing your way through a narrow space. The crowded overgrowth of the trees and bushes along the sides of the trail is a clear indication that it was never meant to be there in the first place, making for a slight battle with snagging branches and itchy shrubs that like to adhere themselves to Murphy’s clothes.
Connor glances over his shoulder at him. “Are you sure this is a bike trail?” he asks, creasing his forehead.
“It’s the fucking path to the Secret Garden, for all I know.” He doesn’t care where it leads, really. He didn’t actually plan on following it to find out in the first place; that was Connor’s idea.
“I think - ” Murphy begins to say, but his mouth drops open and his voice disappears when they arrive at a clearing. Rolling grass fields tumble before them, and Murphy can see the buildings towering on the other side of the lake. Where the hell did this come from?
“Wow,” Connor says, and repeats for good measure. “Wow.”
“Kind of reminds me of home,” Murphy gives his brother a slight shove, bumping shoulders with him. A gripping nostalgia washes over Murph, silent crashing waves that bring with them memories of Ireland, home like it was when their mother baked cookies and occasionally laced them with some mint liquor from the corner store.
“Aye,” mumbling, Connor takes a step forward, and then another, slowly making his way down to the edge of the lake. Murphy follows, grass getting damper the further he walks.
“You remember that time when Ma made us go hunting?” Connor asks, and there is a slight light in his eyes.
Murphy nods and closes his eyes, the memory playing behind his eyes like an old-fashioned black and white. It was summer, a time of the year where mostly rabbits could be caught, and even if they could catch bigger game, they wouldn’t have done so. They donned the hunting gear and rifles mostly to please their mother, and very rarely did they actually go looking for something to shoot unless it came to them.
That was the first summer, the first time, and Connor had been all bravado and no brains. Murphy remembered the way Connor’s seventeen-year-old hair was just beginning to turn a lighter shade of blonde, and it was slightly longer then, falling in his eyes and his face.
“Yeah,” Murphy responds when the silence stretches for too long. He remembers everything, from the fight through the thicket and the weight of the rifle cradled in his arms to Connor tripping over his shoelaces after they had become untied.
There was a rabbit that day, meekly hopping out from its hole under a rotting log. It was tan and had no tail. Murphy remembers this because Connor was going to shoot that rabbit. He had stopped him at the last minute, pushing the barrel of the rifle gently down until the nose was aimed at the ground. A silent understanding was passed between them, and Connor had nodded, and mentioned that they should stop and sit for a while, make Ma think they were really hunting.
They’d sat against the log after the rabbit had hurried off and set their rifles down, sweating slightly in the summer heat. Murphy remembers this because he could feel Connor’s body warmth radiating off of him in waves, could smell the slight tang of his brother’s perspiration. It was something very intimate, Murphy thinks, even though he has no recollection of anything else than sense-memory. He doesn’t remember what was said after that, doesn’t remember there being a conversation at all. Just the act, the nature surrounding them, the quietness of it all and their breathing, their sticky arms brushing together on every inhale and exhale.
In hindsight, he might even be able to say that that was the first time he’d felt something other than what he was supposed to feel for Connor. But it was so fleeting, just that one moment in that one perfect afternoon, that he can’t really be sure it actually counts.
Connor glances over at him then, remembering that moment too by the distant look in his eyes. Murphy smiles, small and genuine. Connor’s eyes widen in recognition.
“Oh,” he says, clearly surprised but not alarmed. “Oh.”
“We should go,” turning back, Murphy begins walking, not waiting to stick around for Connor to say something to cement the thought that’s going through his head at that very moment. You’ve gone a little too far, and now Connor’s freaking.
“Hey,” Connor grabs his arm while he’s in mid-stride, and tugs on his sleeve until he turns to face him. “That wasn’t a bad ‘Oh.’”
Tight-lipped, silent, and confused, Murphy ducks his head and swallows unnecessarily.
Connor waits and steps close enough to brush his hip against Murphy’s, just slightly. There is a silent understanding in the act that allows Murphy to look up.
“I remember, too, okay?” Connor says but it means something else. Murphy starts to laugh quietly, wondering what will happen if he dares to continue the conversation.
“We should go hunting again sometime,” he suggests lightly, going for a safer route.
It feels like they’re that much closer when Connor smiles and slings his arm across Murphy’s shoulders, but that much can mean all the difference in the world.
end.
Author: Meixia
Fandom: BDS
Rating: PG-13
Pre-slash, Murphy/Connor
For Iconography Challenge - this was great fun, and a bit of hair-pulling and worrying, but still fun!
Murphy reflects, and the brothers evolve.
Twenty-seven years with his brother, eight of those he spent in silent question. Some feelings are acceptable, and others not. Murphy knows this as clear and sure as he knows the sky is blue. That doesn’t stop the certain protective and bone-deep feelings for Connor that he has from forming, storming their way to the forefront of his mind to mock him. Elusive as they are, he never allows himself enough thought to examine them too closely. Some things, he discovered eight years ago, are better kept at a distance.
The only problem is that Murphy is in constant close proximity with Connor, and it tends to put a damper on the out-of-sight, out-of-mind strategy. He realized a long time ago that he couldn’t control it, and he still can’t, now, and probably not ever. People, on a universal level, feel, no matter how much they try to distance themselves.
Sunday is a beautiful, cloudless day, and after church the twins take a walk in the park, flowers opening up their faces towards the sun, Connor chattering on about some new movie with vigilantes. Murphy watches him with an amused but loving smile. He has always found his brother’s slight obsession with crime-dramas and Charles Bronson endearing.
“He gets the job done,” says Connor, grinning like a fool when Murphy asks for the hundredth time about his fascination with the man, and Murphy is reminded of three summers ago when they bought a lotto ticket and almost won. Connor had been outraged, and threatened half-heartedly to rob the gas station that had sold them the ticket. He had the same half-crazed smile, and the same glittering eyes.
Smiling, Murphy turns his face up to the warm sun, golden light dappling the treetops and trickling through autumn leaves.
“Be right back,” Connor says and steps off the cobblestone path, disappearing into the restroom area just ahead.
Murphy ducks his head, sniffs, and takes out a cigarette, lighting it with a cupped hand. He walks ahead, following the path until a small bike trail that branches off into a cluster of bushes on the right catches his eye. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been paying attention.
Flicking ash into the shrubbery, Murphy extends one boot-clad foot and dips the toe of his shoe into the dirt track, swirling the soil around until there appears a sloppy circle.
“Hey,” Connor approaches at a slight jog, loose change jangling in his pocket. He tilts his head, peering ahead in the direction Murphy is looking. “What’s ‘at?”
“Bike trail,” Murphy says, taking a few final puffs before he tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the cobblestone path and grinds it with his heel.
“Come on, then,” Connor says, taking the role of curious explorer. He bends down to pass under the leaves and brittle branches of a small tree that curves overhead, creating an almost natural archway. Murphy follows his example. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it’s not like there’s a gorge ahead that they will fall into unsuspectingly. Or, at least, he hopes not.
“The intrepid explorer,” Murphy pushes jokingly at Connor’s shoulder, careful not to step on his heels. It’s tricky plowing your way through a narrow space. The crowded overgrowth of the trees and bushes along the sides of the trail is a clear indication that it was never meant to be there in the first place, making for a slight battle with snagging branches and itchy shrubs that like to adhere themselves to Murphy’s clothes.
Connor glances over his shoulder at him. “Are you sure this is a bike trail?” he asks, creasing his forehead.
“It’s the fucking path to the Secret Garden, for all I know.” He doesn’t care where it leads, really. He didn’t actually plan on following it to find out in the first place; that was Connor’s idea.
“I think - ” Murphy begins to say, but his mouth drops open and his voice disappears when they arrive at a clearing. Rolling grass fields tumble before them, and Murphy can see the buildings towering on the other side of the lake. Where the hell did this come from?
“Wow,” Connor says, and repeats for good measure. “Wow.”
“Kind of reminds me of home,” Murphy gives his brother a slight shove, bumping shoulders with him. A gripping nostalgia washes over Murph, silent crashing waves that bring with them memories of Ireland, home like it was when their mother baked cookies and occasionally laced them with some mint liquor from the corner store.
“Aye,” mumbling, Connor takes a step forward, and then another, slowly making his way down to the edge of the lake. Murphy follows, grass getting damper the further he walks.
“You remember that time when Ma made us go hunting?” Connor asks, and there is a slight light in his eyes.
Murphy nods and closes his eyes, the memory playing behind his eyes like an old-fashioned black and white. It was summer, a time of the year where mostly rabbits could be caught, and even if they could catch bigger game, they wouldn’t have done so. They donned the hunting gear and rifles mostly to please their mother, and very rarely did they actually go looking for something to shoot unless it came to them.
That was the first summer, the first time, and Connor had been all bravado and no brains. Murphy remembered the way Connor’s seventeen-year-old hair was just beginning to turn a lighter shade of blonde, and it was slightly longer then, falling in his eyes and his face.
“Yeah,” Murphy responds when the silence stretches for too long. He remembers everything, from the fight through the thicket and the weight of the rifle cradled in his arms to Connor tripping over his shoelaces after they had become untied.
There was a rabbit that day, meekly hopping out from its hole under a rotting log. It was tan and had no tail. Murphy remembers this because Connor was going to shoot that rabbit. He had stopped him at the last minute, pushing the barrel of the rifle gently down until the nose was aimed at the ground. A silent understanding was passed between them, and Connor had nodded, and mentioned that they should stop and sit for a while, make Ma think they were really hunting.
They’d sat against the log after the rabbit had hurried off and set their rifles down, sweating slightly in the summer heat. Murphy remembers this because he could feel Connor’s body warmth radiating off of him in waves, could smell the slight tang of his brother’s perspiration. It was something very intimate, Murphy thinks, even though he has no recollection of anything else than sense-memory. He doesn’t remember what was said after that, doesn’t remember there being a conversation at all. Just the act, the nature surrounding them, the quietness of it all and their breathing, their sticky arms brushing together on every inhale and exhale.
In hindsight, he might even be able to say that that was the first time he’d felt something other than what he was supposed to feel for Connor. But it was so fleeting, just that one moment in that one perfect afternoon, that he can’t really be sure it actually counts.
Connor glances over at him then, remembering that moment too by the distant look in his eyes. Murphy smiles, small and genuine. Connor’s eyes widen in recognition.
“Oh,” he says, clearly surprised but not alarmed. “Oh.”
“We should go,” turning back, Murphy begins walking, not waiting to stick around for Connor to say something to cement the thought that’s going through his head at that very moment. You’ve gone a little too far, and now Connor’s freaking.
“Hey,” Connor grabs his arm while he’s in mid-stride, and tugs on his sleeve until he turns to face him. “That wasn’t a bad ‘Oh.’”
Tight-lipped, silent, and confused, Murphy ducks his head and swallows unnecessarily.
Connor waits and steps close enough to brush his hip against Murphy’s, just slightly. There is a silent understanding in the act that allows Murphy to look up.
“I remember, too, okay?” Connor says but it means something else. Murphy starts to laugh quietly, wondering what will happen if he dares to continue the conversation.
“We should go hunting again sometime,” he suggests lightly, going for a safer route.
It feels like they’re that much closer when Connor smiles and slings his arm across Murphy’s shoulders, but that much can mean all the difference in the world.
end.