backup- paronymous/sepulchral
A/N: And to make up for the fact that I don't have any quotation marks, I have lots and lots of section breaks, which PAINS me in the deepest places of my writerly heart. Any oddness can be blamed on listening to a violin version of "Ave Maria" on repeat, as well as "Humoresque in G Flat" and a dousing of "Meditation de Thais", all of which are missing their fancy little dash and dot marks because I'm too lazy to get the correct font or character to make them look right. Or indeed, my continual listening of "Favourite Violin Encores". And if you've seen the Cantonese film In the Mood for Love, directed by the brilliant and ingenious Wong Kai War, you'll know just how badly I've gacked from that movie, all the way down to some of the dialogue, even if I didn't get a chance to stuff the McManus brothers in Angkor Wat with Japanese tourists and beautiful pseudo-Cuban/Spanish/Latin music with violins and monks with orange robes and stunning ruins of Buddhist like temples-- okay, I'll shut up. Even the summary of this; it's taken from the song "Quizas, Quizas, Quizas", sung by Nat King Cole, and used repetitively throughout In the Mood for Love. (Humor me just a little: for those of you who have seen In the Mood for Love, which as I know of it is just rhoddlet right now, can't you see the music in the scene where Connor and Murphy are making their way to Copley Plaza replaced with that music in the scene where Tony's and Maggie's character-- the main guy and girl-- meet back and forth under the streetlamp, going to the noodle shop? I can. I really should shut up now, before any of you find creative ways to throw rotten tomatoes at me.)
+
Little known fact: Connor is the only one out of the two of them that has had a girlfriend before, and that was way back in high school when they were relatively younger and relatively more innocent.
It may be because Connor is just that much more inviting than Murphy, something about the way he holds his shoulders and walks like he knows where he's going, or maybe because Connor gives off an aura of calm and, to be honest, empathy. That's another reason Connor had taken so well to future priesthood as a child, besides the fact that Connor has a near photographic memory, or that he has a voice that sounds like soft thunder halfway into a dream, or that he sees to embody what everyone thinks the Son of the Lord should look like, or that he is so devoted it seems not even guns pointed at his head can keep him from finishing his prayers, or all the other reasons Connor would have made, and still would make, a good priest. The other reason is that Connor had an air of knowing everything about you and even beyond that, that he understands and forgives and comforts you, if only you would come under his hand and swear that you give up your life and soul to the Lord, if only you would kneel with him with your hands folded and your eyes closed, if only--
Well. Connor is a lot of things, and Murphy would probably spend his lifetime looking for a single sentence to say just exactly what Connor is.
It might also be because Murphy is always under the surface of his own skin, waiting to explode, willing to throw himself at your feet or to throw you to his feet, depending on you or him, that Murphy is always unsure of you or himself, quavering on the edge of all the contradictory things that make up him, and that Murphy makes his decisions in the split instant you think you understand everything about him. So that's another reason why Murphy has always been better at shooting, but little known fact: Connor has always been much better at keeping silent, even though Murphy was the one who went through a period of time when all he would say were his prayers and fuck you. Something to do with their temperaments, and beyond that, the very way they're made, like two mirror images with very specific, very heavy handed, and very deliberate mistakes.
And. It may be that Connor actually likes girls, while Murphy has just never really thought about it. Or anyway, that's what he answered when Connor asked. I've just never thought about it, he had said, and Connor gave up, putting his head back on his pillow and pretending for half an hour to sleep before both of them actually fell asleep. After all, what was Murphy supposed to say? That night, listening to Connor's too-still breathing Murphy tried to fabricate an answer that would make sense, and the only thing he could think of was, just you.
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The town they stop in is one of those little rural places that explode into the side of the road, the kind of town that has a gas station, a convenience store, a church, a movie theatre, and three liquor shops, which Murphy finds too amusing for words. It's a nice place, little white houses keeping sentinel besides huge flat pieces of farmland. Their father keeps sneezing. Murphy wonders if he doesn't have allergies to this kind of place, because it's so serene the sound of their car seems to break the air. They ditch the car somewhere behind the church, and their father is the first to go in to talk with the priest about them staying the night. Murphy just shifts his weight from his toes to his heels and back again. Connor is smoking, because he doesn't smoke inside churches.
So what do you think, Murphy asks, except he's trying to keep his voice low, and there is barely any inflection on his voice to make it a question.
I think, Connor says, punctuating his words with a tap of his cigarette, that only our da would find the only town with a Catholic church in what seems to be the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. Connor nods to the sign by the church, grinning.
Murphy smiles, says, yeah, and shifts his weight more time before going in. Connor grinds the butt of his cigarette into the ground and follows. Their father greets them at the door with an armful of what Murphy assumes to be blankets and pillows. They spend the next half an hour in complete silence, spreading out their makeshift beds on the wooden pews. Murphy takes a little longer because he gets carried away reading the graffiti scratched into the dull varnish of the wood. Connor, while sitting on one of the pews to wait for Murphy to finish folding and tucking his blankets, spends about ten minutes rubbing his index fingers over the words K. R. was here that are scratched in the back of the pew in front of him, but he doesn't think once about reading the words. Although this just makes Murphy suspect that Connor learned somewhere how to read with the tips of his fingers or with the edge of his nail.
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Do you know what people used to do, in the old days, Murphy asks, when they had a secret they didn't want to tell anyone?
Connor takes a moment to think about it, and then bends his head to light his cigarette. He's been smoking more than Murphy lately. Maybe Connor reacts a little bit more to anything than Murphy does. Maybe Connor just needs something to do with his hands nowadays. Maybe to make up for the handle of a gun. Maybe to make up for the silence. We haven't talked lately, Murphy had said to Connor when they stopped at a rest area, waiting for their father to get out of the bathroom, and Connor, not surprisingly, had said nothing at all.
No, Connor replies, inhaling so that his cheeks are a bit hollowed out, and then Murphy has to look away, because it seems obscene otherwise.
They would go up to the mountains and find a tree. They'd dig a hole in the tree so they could whisper a secret in it, then cover the hole up with mud, so that no one ever heard.
That's stupid, Connor says, after a pause.
Why? What would you do?
Connor has developed a maddening habit of taking a moment to breathe before he answers any of Murphy's questions, a habit that pissed Murphy off the first couple of times, but now he uses these few seconds to study Connor's face as if just looking at him would tell Murphy all the secrets in the world, whether these secrets were Connor's, or Murphy's or theirs, or none of theirs. I don't have secrets, Connor finally says, dragging out the I, as if he's trying to stress a point, but doesn't want to stress the fact he's stressing it.
Murphy shouldn't be surprised, but he is sort of, in a completely uninspired and meaningless way. He fumbles in his pockets for a cigarette and catches himself before he actually finds one. Oh, he says, sliding his hands out of his pocket and contenting himself with watching the ash on Connor's cigarette, phoenix-like, build up and get knocked off in turns.
Why? Do you?
Not everyone, Murphy says in a way that he only comes to identify later as angrily, is like you. Murphy thinks about white pool balls and the sound of bone brutally cracking and, wondering who he's trying to spite, puts a cigarette in his mouth and has to use his left hand to steady his right hand when lighting it. Connor doesn't say anything else. That's become a routine now. He learned that from Murphy, and Murphy thinks they both, indirectly at least, learned it from their long-absent father.
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One of those things Connor doesn't know about Murphy: When Connor was dating the only girlfriend he has ever had, and indeed the only girlfriend either of the twins will ever come in contact with, Murphy made friends with a girl in his German class, a clumsy gawky girl with unspeakably thick glasses who memorized movie scripts and loved math.
The only thing Murphy can remember having too much in common with this girl was the ability to communicate through their silences. This girl was brilliant in a commonplace way, but for all her intelligence, Murphy could see she would never really get anywhere in life because her love for the things she loved was too truthful. You give too much of yourself away, Murphy had told her during one of the few succinct conversations he had with her. Yeah, she said, tilting her head back, and another one of those things Murphy sort of liked about her was that she had short hair that ruffled whenever she moved, and Murphy liked it still more because she never brought her hand up to fix it. Yeah, I suppose I do, she said, and Murphy had the chance to think about this a little before she leaned over and kissed him squarely on the mouth.
This girl, who loved movie scripts and math and was nothing like Connor or his girlfriend, is the only person Murphy has ever kissed besides Connor. And sometimes Murphy acts like she's the only person he's ever kissed, because those are the times Murphy wonders if kissing Connor even counts as a kiss. It's rather like leaning over a cracked mirror, trying to kiss your reflection, but coming back up again with your upper lip sliced from the glass.
Another thing Connor doesn't know: Before Murphy got to ask this girl who loved movie scripts and math to be his girlfriend and therefore divvying a total of two between him and Connor, the girl had switched schools to somewhere with a better math program and would let her take a college film analysis class, even though she was still too young. That's another reason Murphy has never had a girlfriend; he has bad timing in everything that doesn't involve a gun or his own blood. Or Connor.
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Connor hasn't spoken since Murphy brought it to both of their attentions that not everyone is like Connor. Murphy feels like he should apologize, but there isn't anything to apologize for, and that grates on Murphy the most. There really isn't much to do, so they walk around the church a little bit more because Murphy doesn't exactly know what else to do with himself and Connor looks like he couldn't care either way. The church is an old one. Most of its foundation is stone, graying now, but comforting to look at because the inhabitants of the town had painted the rest of the church white, so everything blends together and nice, which is always something Murphy has rather liked about the way churches look.
He likes the way this church feels under his fingertips too, and later, under his lips as well. When running his fingers along the wall, he comes across a hole and impulsively puts his lips to it, cupping his hands around his mouth and the wall so that Connor, if he is looking, which he isn't, can't try to read his lips. Connor isn't even bothering, though; he's just leaning against the wall, starting on a new cigarette, staring off into the distance and Murphy gets the impression that Connor is lost in thought. Murphy takes his time, moving his mouth against the hard, rough stone, almost able to taste it, and drawing in the cold air from the hole. It's a bit like being in a confessional because Murphy's voice is loud in his own ears--he can even hear his lips rasping against the stone-- but Connor, Murphy's quite sure, can't hear anything, and for the briefest of moments they are essentially two entirely unconnected people standing no more than a foot away from each other.
When Murphy straightens up Connor reaches a hand over to brush a stray grain of stone that has latched itself to a crease in Murphy's lip. I didn't know, Connor begins, but Murphy is quick to interrupt.
What?
I didn't know it was possible. For you to have secrets, when we're always--I mean-- I just, Connor says as he shrugs his shoulders, leaving it at that. Murphy gets the feeling he should be vaguely offended, except he's not. He isn't sure what he feels, just stands back watching Connor watch him and wondering if he would be able to taste stone if he licks his lips. Not everyone is like you, Murphy reiterates in his head, but he doesn't say it, because Connor already knows that, even if he hasn't quite understood it.
There isn't any mud, Murphy says, gesturing back to the hole, and he presses his thumb against his lower lip where Connor's finger had been just a moment ago. I can't cover the hole up.
Don't worry, Connor answers, throwing a cigarette butt onto the ground for the third time, crushing it with his heel. It's not going to go away, he finishes, starting to turn and go. Murphy thinks that has to be one of the most inane statements his brother has ever made, but, repeating it to himself as he follows Connor into the church, it's also one of the truest.
+
Little known fact: Connor sins with his left hand.
Actually, Connor was born left handed, and he eventually forced himself to use both hands, and he ended up using his right hand to write so much that that became his default hand. But when their mother taught them how to shoot, Connor asked her to teach him how to shoot with his left hand. His right hand caught on quick as well, but never quite as well as his left hand, and neither of his hands can shoot as well as Murphy's, but that has nothing to do with the fact that Connor can use both. So Connor uses his right hand most of the time, to open the door, or to write, or to flick a light switch. But Connor holds his cigarette with his left hand, and he holds his beer can in his left hand as well, and above all, he holds his gun, for the most part, in his left hand, especially when he's reciting the family prayer.
And. When he kisses Murphy, Connor uses his left hand to touch him, and when they do anything else besides just kissing, Connor, most likely than not, is using his left hand.
What do you think you're going to do, Murphy asked him a while ago, cut off your left hand when you die so you can go to heaven?
Something like that, Connor answered, and tucked his right hand neatly into his pocket, as if worried it too might have to do something it had repercussions about.
So you're just going to cut me off the same way, right, Murphy demanded angrily, deliberately putting his right hand to Connor's chest as if to prove he didn't have the same problem with touching his brother with his right hand. No, Connor had said, the fingers of his left hand circling Murphy's wrist, but Murphy didn't believe him, and Murphy figured Connor didn't believe himself much either. I think I hate you, Murphy had told Connor afterwards, and Connor, with the most peculiarly detached and curious expression, had asked, you're not sure? To which Murphy could find no reply, because there really wasn't one. Mostly because it wasn't true.
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Murphy knows it's Connor on the other side of the confessional from the breathing, but also because there isn't anybody else in the church, except for their father, who is, or at least it seemed to Murphy, praying. But then Connor says, putting on a voice that seems much older but incredibly false for that reason, how long has it been since your last confession? And Murphy knows it's Connor, even though he can't see Connor, because this is the type of confessional that only has a slit for the eyes, and besides, Murphy isn't looking.
There's a long awkward pause of minutes as Connor waits and Murphy just stalls. Murphy really isn't looking to confess to anything. There isn't anything that Connor wants to know that Murphy can tell him, and all the things Murphy can tell him Connor doesn't want to know. Back to secrets again, Murphy thinks, hunching over in the confessional and putting his forehead to his clasped hands.
Still more silence. Then, Murphy says softly, I think I'm going blind.
Murphy hears something sliding and what he assumes to be Connor's footsteps before Connor's in the confessional with him, kneeling and pressing himself against Murphy because the place wasn't built for two people to be in at the same time, together. Connor reaches out to grab the back of Murphy's head and turn it so it's facing Connor, kissing him as he says, it's going to be all right.
Except, Murphy thinks, it's not. Because Connor's right hand is gently tracing the shape of Murphy's rosary under his shirt, burning the outline onto Murphy's bare skin, and Murphy knows he's going to be a part of that bundle of sin Connor will cut off before going to heaven, and it's only Connor's left hand that's stroking Murphy's hair, not his right. You're going to cut me out before you die, Murphy says against Connor's open lips, and he uses both hands to grab onto Connor because he's about to cry, his eyes are going blurry, sort of as if he really is going blind.
Connor can't understand what Murphy's trying to say, so he just keeps saying, it's going to be all right, over and over again. That's how their father finds him a few minutes later, bundled up in the confessional, Murphy clinging onto Connor, crying, not the kind of bawling he used to do as a baby, but tears coming down, flow after steady flow, with no aim in mind, and for some reason Murphy isn't even sure exactly why he's crying. He's quite sure, though, that if he keeps crying, he really will go blind, and Murphy decides that may not be a bad thing; he doesn't look at Connor during the entire night because he doesn't want to see the expression on Connor's face.
+
Connor is not only the only one out of the two of them that has had a girlfriend, he is also the only one out of the two of them that has ever broken up with a girlfriend. Little known fact: Connor broke up with his girlfriend because of Murphy.
It's a very simple story to tell. The boys at school dared Connor to kiss the person he loved the most, and instead of kissing his girlfriend Connor went up to Murphy and kissed him lightly on the forehead, gently brushing Murphy's hair back with his left hand. It wasn't like the kisses they shared at home, when their mother was asleep or out; it was the sort of kiss someone might give as a benediction or a blessing, but it proved Connor's point, even though Murphy would never know. Connor's girlfriend promptly dumped him after that. Murphy would never know why Connor was so unfazed, either. In fact, Connor never talked about it, and by now both of them have basically forgotten her name.
So. Connor might have gotten a girlfriend because he, out of the two of them, was the most calm, the most even, empathetic, and actually liked girls, but he also got a girlfriend because he was, out of the two of them, the one who had the easiest time of hiding what he really felt. That's another reason why Connor is much better at staying silent than Murphy is. Murphy, good liar that he is, can only go so far when it comes to needing to keep all his proverbial cards off the table, but Connor can hide one in his shirt pocket, one in his sleeve, and one in his opponents pocket if he has to. Connor is the one who can be anything you want him to be, until you realize what you're really getting is a whole lot of hiding wrapped around secrecy and tied with a string, the whole thing masquerading as a blank, open slab.
Funny, how sometimes one of your secrets could be the very fact that you have some. Except in Connor's case, he hid them so long it didn't even seem like they were secrets anymore, that's how natural and easy they seemed.
+
Murphy wakes up in the morning to see Connor has already folded his blankets up into a neat bundle and left. He throws his own blankets together sloppily and rush outside, having some kind of wild thought that both Connor and their father had left without saying anything and were hoping just to abandon him here. But he spots Connor soon enough, although it's just Connor's back, and then he realizes why Connor didn't wake him up.
There's a hammer and a chisel lying next to Connor's feet. Connor has his face pressed against the stone and his hands raised to they're cupping his mouth, just like Murphy did yesterday. But Connor is whispering to a hole that's left and slightly higher than where Murphy's hole is, and it doesn't take long for Murphy to realize just how Connor made that hole. Murphy stands to one side, straining his neck, and not quite sure if he wants to make an effort to see if he can't decipher just a little of what Connor is saying.
Murphy walks back into the church, slower and shakier than the way he came out, and he doesn't look at Connor when Connor comes into the church about 15 minutes later, the hammer and chisel returned to whoever he had borrowed it from.
But when they're in the car and Murphy's in the front seat because it's his turn to sit with their father, Murphy can't help but sneak glances at Connor from the side view mirror, as if just looking at Connor could still tell Murphy secrets, even if holes in a wall had already swallowed most of them up.
A/N: Theological principles: group things by threes. There are nine little sections broken off by section breaks. 3 x 3 equals nine. The nine little sections of this story can be grouped into three groups of threes with a common theme: secrets = 3, 5, and 9, high school = 1, 4, and 8, and vaguely religious = 2, 6, and 7. Also, I think, although I'm not quite sure about this, the song "Quizas, Quizas, Quizas" uses the word quizas (perhaps) nine times, hence a section for ever "perhaps". Yes, this is what I think about in my free time, damnit. And I actually went back into the movie to see if Connor did have a chance of being ambidexterous. I'm a dork, I know.