Look After Your Brother Ch 14
The rain falling from the night sky was piss-warm compared to the cooler air, and not making Connor's task any easier.
"Fuck, Murph, one foot in front a th' other now, eh?"
Murphy's booted feet moved, but he was so plastered that the effort was no help at all.
Connor supposed that Murphy could make this harder if he tried, but he couldn’t quite picture how. He stopped for a moment to pull the near-boneless arm further across his shoulders, and to get a better grip on his brother's waist.
God's truth, if Murphy hadn’t had to stop and puke twice already on their walk home, Connor would have been tempted to throw him over his shoulder and just carry the drunk fuck the rest of the way. He was beginning to think taking Murphy out drinking to get over the end of his three-week relationship with Marc may not have been the brightest idea he'd had in his life.
Murphy's head rolled back and he grinned a debauched-angel smile up at Connor. "Y'always do, Conn. Y'always do take care a me," he slurred, as if answering a question. His blue eyes were almost closed against the steady fall of rain. Water slicked his hair against the edges of his face and sparkled on his eyelashes like crystals or diamonds or something else too fine for a man of Connor's ilk to ever own.
Damp cotton slid up Murph's torso as he stumbled again and Connor had to catch his dead weight. Cool, soft, slick with rain and sweat, the Murphy-skin glided under his palm.
It felt so good he thought his heart would stop. It felt so good he knew he'd burn in hell.
Murphy groaned his name.
"Jaysus," Connor breathed, "Murph, you're enough t' test the strength of a saint."
Murphy laughed. "'m sorry, Conn. Di'n' mean ta." He didn’t look sorry. He looked triumphant.
So close. So tempting. So fucken drunk.
A shadow passed behind Murph's eyes and Connor had just enough time to lean him forward before he doubled over and started to vomit again. By that time there was nothing left but bile and the dry heaves. Connor held his head anyways, and kept him from falling into the gutter.
"Is that better, then?" He asked when Murphy had stopped. His free hand rubbed slow soothing circles between the sharp planes of his brother's shoulder-blades.
"Aye." Murphy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand but didn’t look up. "I love ya, Conn. I mean it, man."
Connor's lip curled at the pain of having what he most wanted, there in front of him, but untouchable. "I know ya do, Murph."
They didn’t speak again as they staggered the rest of the way home.
Not a word was said as Connor helped Murphy out of his soaked clothes and into dry boxers.
A glass of water and three aspirin were offered and taken in silence.
With tender care he rolled Murphy onto his side to sleep. He wouldn’t let his brother drown in the night, as drunk as he was.
Connor was moving away to change his own clothes when Murphy's hand reached out, catching his wrist.
"Don' go, Conn. Don' leave me."
He had to listen to catch the words.
"It'll be fine, Murph. I'll be right there in my bed like I always am." He brushed the fingers of his free hand over the still-damp hair.
Murphy pressed the knuckles of the captured hand against his lips like he was kissing the Pope's ring. "Stay here. I'll make room an' not snore a bit. Stay with me. Promise you'll stay with me." He was holding onto consciousness by the weakest little thread. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open as he begged.
Connor never could stand to withhold anything from his twin. "I promise, Murph. I'll stay 'til mornin'. Just let me change first, aye?"
"Aye," Murphy agreed and let Connor's fingers slip from his.
He stretched out there on Murphy's bed, watched the blue eyes close. As if driven by urges of their own, his fingers stretched out towards the thin, decade-old writing their mother had tattooed on the fair skin. His breathing quickened. He didn’t allow himself to touch. The letters were a single-prick thick, and had been too shallow in places to last through the years. Without remembering them blood-fresh, he would not have been able to read what the ink said. The importance of those words would never fade.
"Virtus Fraternitate."
Strength from brotherhood.
For hours he stared at the tattoo, his fingers tracing the same mark on his own chest.
The whole night through, Connor lay awake at his brother's side, watching him breathe. A yearning that he could not allow to be fulfilled ached in his heart and didn’t let him sleep.
He stayed until dawn, as promised, then dragged himself to the room's other bed to find his own dream-plagued rest.
He woke to the sound of the shower and the smell of coffee. The clock said 3:18 and it was light outside the bedroom window. He closed his eyes and rested for a bit, but there was too much happening in his head for him to sleep again. Memories of the night before were mingling with the dreams he'd had and the fantasies he'd repressed for so long.
He sighed and stretched, trying to ignore the feel of the sheet through his underwear.
Murphy cleared his throat and Connor realized the shower had stopped minutes ago. He startled and sat up, lifting one knee to stop making a damn tent.
"Wha'?" He asked, surprised himself at how irritated he was to see Murph standing there in a bathrobe and looking none the worse for wear after his binge, while Connor was tired and sore from carrying his drunken brother across half the fucken city then staying up to make sure he lived through the night.
A worried look flickered across Murphy's fine features. "Conn, last night...Did I...I mean... Look. If I was a right bastard to ya, then I'm sorry."
Connor shook his head. "Not a bastard, but a fucken chore to be carin' for, I'll tell ya. You were fucken legless. Yer never t'get that drunk again, Murph."
"Not on purpose, I can promise ya that."
"Fancy some breakfast?"
That earned him a crooked Murphy-grin. "Aye, if yer cookin'."
Connor groaned and threw the nearest thing, the bottle of aspirin, at Murph's head.
Of course he missed.