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BDS
Prayer
Connor's sporting ten crescent nail bites in the curves of his hips, and moaning and begging him for more, and please, Murph. Mother of God, don't stop.
Flood
Murphy can remember the spring the rains didn't stop for weeks on end, and the fields and yards had an inch of water covering them all the time. He and Conn stripped naked in the backyard and had a mud-fight that lasted two hours before Ma came home. She hosed them down outside, asking God for strength, and demanding to know what she had done to deserve such children. No supper for them that night, but Connor crawled into his bed that night and cuddled against him. "It was a grand day." he whispered before falling asleep.
Truth
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." I have sinned. Time and time again. Willingly. Joyfully. Exuberantly. Dear lord, how can something, someone that brings me such joy be a sin? "It has been one week since my last confession, and these are my sins." I have killed. I have brought justice. I have lied, stolen, I have felt sorrow that left me without breath or will to live. I have loved another more than I have loved you. "I confess..." I have loved my brother. He is all I need, and if that is blasphemy, I accept my punishment for that as well. I confess. I have sinned.
Peace
Il Duce's dead. Connor says last rites over the body, and Murphy provides candles and whiskey for the wake. They get drunk, the motel walls thin enough that they can hear the couple next door fucking, and talk. Connor's an Irish drunk, cheerful at first, then beligerent, patriotic, slightly manic, then ended up maudlin. He's piled on top of Murph, whimpering softly against his shirt, tears making tiny damp patches, and snuffling about how "those fuckin' bastards didn't fight fair. He never had a chance." Murphy pets his brother's hair, making soothing noises until Connor passes out, still on top of him. Later, he'll wriggle out from underneath Conn, carry his brother to bed and watch him sleep. They're free again.
Pitch Black
Hard
"What was your name again?" His captor's voice is a feral purr.
"Go fuck yourself." He braces for a blow that doesn't come, suprised to hear a mocking laugh instead.
"I thought you learnt manners a few hours ago." A hand's wrapped around his throat, pressing his neck back against the wall as the other man leans in to lick a line from his collarbone to jaw. "But maybe you want to try that again?" A hard bite to his neck, enough to make him gasp softly. "Seem to remember not being the only one who liked it."
He shudders despite himself. Won't tell him. Won't. Wo...ah, fuck. The shiv's back, digging into his chest, and he doesn't want to feel his blood drying on his skin again. He closes his eyes.
"William Johns." he says. And then he bleeds anyway.