Look After Your Brother ch 17
They started riding the train to the theatre district together, splitting up when they hit the station. Connor would wander and see and learn.
He was walking by himself one day and there was a big van parked outside one of the clubs. It was a survey or something, but they were offering fifty bucks if he'd let them test his blood; he just had to come to their office in a week and get the results.
Money was money but more than that he needed to know if one of the men who'd used him had killed him too.
He never meant to tell Murphy about it until he found out the results, but his brother wasn’t stupid and knew something was wrong.
"Leave it, Conn," Murphy pleaded with him. "You're clean. Y'have to be. It's been so fucken long."
It was almost a month before Murphy left him alone for enough time to go find out that his brother'd been right.
"I fucken told ya." Was all Murphy would say to that.
Connor was smart enough not to try to talk Murphy into getting tested too, but the worry preyed on his mind.
Murphy got new tattoos, ones that didn’t match anything on Connor's skin. A pair of demons took flight on his pale shoulder. Connor wondered what their names were. He felt the weight of his own dark needs every moment of every day. It didn’t take having their portraits needled into his skin to know them.
Connor met a few of the men Murphy saw when they were out--an Alan, two Daves and a Frank. None of them ever made it back to where Connor and Murphy lived. None of them lasted very long. With every break-up Murphy's enthusiasm for the next one would be a little faded, a little jaded. He seemed to search more from desperation than joy. Somewhere in there Murphy started wearing a t-shirt to sleep in. Connor wondered if he'd had name of one of those men tattooed on his skin but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
On a Friday night they took the train down, splitting up as usual at the station. Connor's head was hurting, though, even after a few beers. He hadn’t been out long before he found himself back on the train, headed for an empty apartment and wanting nothing more than to crash for the night.
There was a noise behind the door and the knob turned before he put his key in. The headache stopped being important. Everything was quiet, and then from the other room came a sharp noise, a snap. Three seconds of silence, then another one. He took the ashtray off of the end table, reassured by the cold weight of it.
Half of him wished that Murphy was here. The other half prayed to God that his brother hadn’t come home before he did.
He eased open the bedroom door.
The ashtray fell from his fingers to land with a thud on the floor.
Murphy--naked, sweaty, God so fucken beautiful that it hurt-- blinked at him, eyes wide, his face a portrait of startled innocence even as his hand threw the belt he had been wielding against himself across the room.
"Murph..." Connor whispered, trying to ground himself. He took a step forward, then another.
"Don't be angry, Conn. Please, it's not, it's just..." Those restless hands grabbed at the sheets. He didn’t try to untangle the mess, just shoved the pile of them up against his crotch to hide himself. And he'd never hidden himself from Connor before.
Connor reached out to touch the damp darkness of his brother's hair. "Shut it, now, Murphy. I'm no' angry."
Murphy leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. "Fuck..." He seemed almost relieved to have been caught.
Connor looked down at the stripes that criss-crossed the pale skin of his back. Most of them were wide and pink but a few were narrow and red, broken blood vessels just below the surface.
"Christ, Murphy. Y' got yourself with the side o' th' belt."
His stomach clenched at the sight of those red welts. Murphy should never hurt. And yet it was pretty fucken clear that Murphy had done this, chosen this.
For a second he wondered if he himself was to blame, with the rough shows of affection that seem to be all he could bear to show his brother. He tried to remember the last time he had hugged his brother instead of smacking his head or punching his shoulder, and found he couldn’t.
He stepped closer still, his knees coming up against the side of the bed. Murphy scooted over and leaned in, resting his face against Connor's sternum. The heat of that smooth cheek through his t-shirt made Connor dizzy. His fingers reached out towards the striped back, hesitated a moment then gently stroked between the harsh marks. Murphy shivered at his touch.
"How long?" It seemed a sane enough place to start asking questions.
"Since Danny." His brother's voice dropped with soft shame. Connor remembered the name, but had never met the man. Murphy had talked about him once or twice, a while ago. Connor didn’t hate him for getting Murphy into this, but he penciled the man down for a good thrashin' if he ever did meet him, for the self-hatred in Murphy's voice.
"After tha'? Dave, or tha' Frank fellow?"
Murphy nodded and Connor's stomach fluttered.
"Why're ya alone at this, Murph? You could've done yerself an injury, ya dumb fuck." He couldn’t decide which was worse: Murphy doing this on his own or having a stranger touch him, hurt him.
"They fucken did it wrong." The familiar petulance flared in Murphy's voice. "Always wantin' t' make it more than it was or wantin' t' make me less'n I am. I know who me fucken Da is, an' I'm no' a fucken pet or a toy or any a that shite."
He looked up at Connor, and there was rage beneath the shine of his eyes, but fear too. Behind that, was need, deep and aching. Need for release, and Connor understood, from so many nights of loneliness--from being hungry and wanting and unable to have what he needed.
Connor managed a smile and he stroked Murphy's hair again. His fingers went down, a light touch over the angry marks on Murphy's skin. Fuck. If he could give relief to strangers, for money, he could do this. Do it and ask for nothing in return, not make it more than it was, not make Murphy less than he was.
Murphy turned his face down once more, his shoulders tensed, a shiver tracing his spine.
Uncharted territory--but then again, not.
Connor slid his fingers through his brother's hair, held his face close and safe against his chest.
"There's not a thing in this world I'd deny ya. Y'know that don’t ya?" He dragged his thumb over the worst of the marks, to see if it was something he could give to Murphy, something Murphy could accept from him.
A shuddering sigh was an answer to the question he didn’t ask.
"Take whatcha need, Murph." He whispered.
Murphy paused, and then shifted a little as he slid his hand between his body and the crumpled pile of sheets at his crotch.
Connor touched Murphy's back, using his reactions to tell him where and how hard.
Murphy touched himself. It didn’t take long.
Connor expected Murphy to be loud when the moment came upon him, "fuck the neighbors" crying out his joy or at least his release. The strangled little noises he heard instead almost broke his heart.
When it was all over, Murphy tried to talk to him, tried to meet his eyes. Connor couldn't imagine anything they could say to each other making him feel better and he didn’t trust himself to not fuck this up.
"It's fine," he interrupted when Murphy looked up at him with a question on his face. "It's fine." No lie had ever come easier. He helped Murphy to his feet and guided him towards the bathroom. "Get yourself cleaned up now, Murph."
Connor went outside and smoked a cigarette while Murphy showered. He prayed to God he hadn’t destroyed the best thing he'd ever known.