BDS Fic: "The Comforts of Home" - Connor/Murphy, PG-13 for language
The Comforts of Home
by Meixia bionic
pairing: Connor/Murphy
summary: Leaving home and finding it again.
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: not mine, don't sue.
notes: despite the title, this is not a domestic fic. It's more of a hurt/comfort thing. For endless_fever because of her birthday and for the firstlines1000 challenge 'It should hurt, but it doesn't'.
Boston
It should hurt, but it doesn’t. He takes the punch without a sound, without protest, and the sting left by Connor’s fist wraps around his cheek like a warm terrycloth, dipped in acid. It tingles, but it doesn’t hurt. Murphy clenches his hand into a fist and resists the urge to feel his cheek. Connor stares, a horrified expression flitting across his face before quickly receding into his shadowy eyes, contained and hidden by the thin press of his lips.
“You deserved that.” Connor says with a sniff. He stands up straighter and raises his chin. Murphy’s fist twitches, wanting to uncurl and slap that straight line off of Connor’s face, to turn it ugly and twisted in an expression of hurt. He’s never felt so violent in his life, ever - not even when shooting down dirty thugs.
He breathes, and counts to ten. He’s waiting for the ocean of silence that stretches between them to be breached; he’s waiting for someone who can walk on the water.
Sadly, he doesn’t have that kind of blind courage, so he remains where he stands and doesn’t say a word.
Connor merely stares him down until Murphy can feel water gathering behind his eyes, an old, rusty dam that has been holding for years but is now ready to break loose. He hasn’t cried since grade school.
“You deserve it,” says Connor, harshly, the edges of his voice cracking on the last word. Murphy inhales through his nose, feeling pins and needles pricking at his eyes. He can already taste the salt of tears, though his face remains dry, still.
Connor takes a deep breath and seems to gather himself. He lifts his hand, and Murphy flinches, too late to stop himself from doing so, too obvious to try and play it off. Murphy doesn’t say anything when Connor turns and walks to the door, but instead he studies the lines of Connor’s back, the slight bow of Connor’s shoulders, the slow and almost painful walk. He may be projecting, though, and Connor may just be dragging his feet out of anger, not regret.
Murphy doesn’t say anything when Connor turns back at the door to give him one final glare. It hurts, so much, but he sees the crease between Connor’s eyebrows and the twisted line of his lips that cracks through the stern mask on Connor’s face before he walks out. The echoing of Connor’s shoes is loud and soft at the same time, resonating like in a dream, wading through thick water.
It should hurt, but all that Murphy can feel right now is hollowness inside where the pain should be.
**
The rain glistens on the windowpane to the apartment. Murphy hasn’t set foot outside of this sanctuary for three days. He thinks he may be becoming a little stir-crazy, but he’s not sure. There’s no one to talk to except himself, and even then, all the talking is done inside his head. The place is so quiet that sometimes he thinks he may be going deaf.
He misses Connor a great deal, though he is loath to admit it. He writes, cleans his guns, rubs his rosary with his fingers like a monk. He stares out the window like a forlorn child, and now that there is no one to see, he rubs his cheek every now and then. Food tastes bitter on his tongue, worse than beer, something that he never thought he could grow to dislike.
Getting drunk is pathetic, he reminds himself. Drowning his troubles with a bottle of whiskey screams of the melodramatic; he can’t let go of the notion that he doesn’t really need to because he’ll cope with the situation sober. Their mother used to say that a clean man was a strong man, even though she could drink everyone else under the table.
Outside, the rain pelts harder on the window, dropping fat and wet on the glass before sliding down in thin tracks. He wishes the rain would just sweep everything away, and sometimes he wishes Connor would just fucking die. So much pain, now that the room is empty. He embraces it as if it were a blanket of comfort, and not a bed of needles.
“I wonder where that asshole is…” He speaks to the room as if it would speak back. Nothing but a steady roll of thunder answers.
I’ll get over it, he thinks. Tears dry, bruises vanish. It never means anything if it’s only skin deep.
**
Murphy had opened his big mouth and talked. Murphy had practically handed them both over on a silver platter to the thug they were trying to pin. Now, Connor has to haul ass out of town. Their whereabouts have been compromised and sooner or later, word will travel and the friends of the ex-convict that were in the bar with them will talk. They’ll find Connor and his brother, and what goes down will not be pretty. More reason to never let Murphy get so piss-drunk in a public place ever again.
It wasn’t just that, Connor rationalizes. Murphy never knows when to quit, when to shut up, when to stop. He pushes harder every day, and sooner or later, he’ll push over that line. That happened, and Connor punched him in the face for it. Forget the fact that Murphy talked - Murphy was pushing Connor to a place he wasn’t ready to go yet.
Even now, when Connor is away from him, he can still feel him pushing, and it doesn’t get any easier with the more distance he puts between them.
The subtle hints and play on words, twisting them until there’s suddenly innuendo in their conversation, suddenly cryptic looks and a palpable desire that blankets the room - all of that, Connor can’t ignore.
His resistance is giving out. He wants it almost as much as Murphy does now, and it scares him beyond anything else. He knows he is being pushed, and with every inch that he gives, he looses a bit more of his resolve. The less resolve he has, the more vulnerable he becomes, and what’s frightening is that he might just come to enjoy the feeling of recklessness.
He’ll become sloppy, being loved like that. In their line of work, relationships are a distraction, especially if it’s one with your partner. Being sloppy means being dead.
But Murphy will be okay - he’s always been a survivor. Connor can breathe easily because things always seem to come freely to his twin, possibly attributed to his cocky attitude. Murphy can face an ex-convict and a couple of wankers without breaking a sweat when given the right gun-power.
It really doesn’t matter. In the end, he’s in the hands of God.
But Connor doesn’t trust himself with Murphy, and he doesn’t trust Murphy with his feelings. Feelings that are other than platonic are dangerous.
The only way out is to run.
**
Buenos Aires - Two Months Later
The ports in Buenos Aires are draped in a perpetual cloud of fog that rolls in from the sea, and along the docks beside the creaking boats can be seen the orange glow of cigarettes, illuminating the otherwise seemingly navy blue color of the air itself. It feels similar to walking through spider-webs whenever Connor takes a stroll down to the pier through the fog, and the sea-faring patrons nod at him every once in a while, flicking their ashes into the water, a couple of whom have become familiar faces, but strangers all the same.
The pungent stench of fish guts and the grime of dirty, salted water is strong like always, but the underlying smell of piquant spices used to coat and cook the fish is pleasing and comfortable. Connor has grown to like the mixing of aromas, and the cigarette smoke always clings to his clothes long after everything else fades away. He doesn’t shower when he gets home after one of his walks; Murphy always smoked. The smell helps Connor sleep easier.
He’s bought himself a little fishing boat, but he doesn’t use it as often as he’d like to. Douglas, the friend he’s put in charge of maintaining the boat, is a trustworthy and honest fisherman. Connor lives in a sparsely accommodated apartment in the heart of town that is an hours walk away, but when he can, he goes down to the dock where his boat is and talks with Douglas for a while, relearning friendly conversation one small step at a time.
Douglas knows to avoid asking questions about Connor’s past. It hasn’t been that long, so Connor’s wounds are still quite fresh.
He bought a one-way ticket the night after he ran out on Murphy, anger still licking hot at his heels and turning the practical part of his brain irrational. Buenos Aires was just a random point on the map that was posted up at the airport that he’d picked with his eyes closed, finger pointed. He’s incredibly grateful that his mother made her children learn as many languages as possible - he would be lost without it.
When he arrives back at the apartment, he shrugs off his coat and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge before taking a seat on the couch. Friday night, and he finds himself glancing at the phone, glancing at the walls, feeling much alone. He doesn’t know if he’ll go back to Boston yet. He’s not sure of anything.
It won’t hurt if he just called. A simple phone call isn’t going to change anything. But he’s afraid it might. He’s afraid no one will pick up, ever again.
Three rings before he even realizes he’s made the call. The beer bottle rests empty and lukewarm in the tight grip of his hand.
“Yeah?” Murphy’s voice breathes into his ear after the fourth ring. Connor’s hand spasms, and he almost drops the bottle.
What does he say? Hey, it’s me, I’ve decided to speak to you again. Sorry if you were worried I had died, because, well, I’m alive.
“Hello?” Murphy is starting to sound irritated. “Look, you asshole, I better not find out who this is or - ”
“Hey.” Connor swallows the cracks in his voice and tries to adopt a more conversational tone. “Hey, Murph.”
“Connor?” A long, horrible pause, then, “Jesus fuck. Connor?”
“Who else would it be?” He toys with the label on the bottle and starts peeling the edges. He’s trying not to think about the floodgate that has just been opened. And really failing miserably.
“Christ, Connor. Where the fuck are you? You had me worried so fucking much. I thought you were dead! I was planning on buying some flowers and a plot of land at the cemetery, for fuck’s sake.”
“Calm down,” Connor sets the bottle down, not trusting his hand if it should start shaking. “I guess - I should. I’m sorry, Murph.”
“Okay, apologize. That’s good. That’s great, Connor. Fucking great. Next time, why don’t you send a postcard too, huh? You really hurt me, you prick.”
“I said I’m sorry. I can’t do much else, from here.”
“From where?” There’s apprehension in Murphy’s voice, as if he really doesn’t want to know. As if he doesn’t want know how far Connor is willing to go to get away from him.
Connor winces at the thought. “From Buenos Aires,” he says. Not too far, and not as far as he could’ve gone.
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.” He answers, truthfully.
“What do you mean? You are coming back, right? Connor, fuck. You can’t just leave…”
“But I did.” He says, and the line goes deathly quiet for a moment.
“Well, for what it’s worth, you can go rot in Buenos Aires.” Murphy recovers, a little late.
The small jab brings a smile to Connor’s face. “Thanks. I can probably get a ticket back sometime next week.”
Murphy picks it up almost immediately. “Why next week? Why not now?”
“Well, one, it’s two o’clock in the morning, and two, I have some business to take care of before I leave.”
“Connor,” Murphy’s voice has now completely recovered from earlier and is taking on a badgering tone. “Don’t get into any trouble you can’t handle. I can’t back you up.”
“No shit,” Connor teases. Allowing himself to breathe that final breath of relief has never felt so good. He knows things are going to be fine. From Murphy’s voice, from his relief. The plane ride back is looking better and more agreeable than ever.
“Don’t worry, it’s just civilian business. Fishing boats and shit.”
“Fishing? Boats?” Murphy sounds more incredulous than Connor has ever heard him sound before. “Have you gone insane?”
Connor smiles into the phone. He’s surprised they haven’t talked about the punch he delivered to Murphy’s cheek yet. But then, two months is plenty enough time for a bruise to fade away. Flogging a dead horse is never a good idea, so he won’t push the matter.
“I really am sorry about everything. I was a complete asshole.” Connor apologizes.
Murphy chuckles and the sound travels warmly into his ear, curling up inside. “I know. You’re lucky I forgive family. Cause, if you weren’t, I would never speak to you again.”
Connor smiles. “Well, that’s nice of you. Bastard.”
Murphy laughs out loud. Connor holds onto the sound long after he hangs up. As soon as possible, maybe tomorrow, he’s going to sell the boat. Perhaps Douglas will be interested. And then he’s going to see Murphy again, as if he’d never left.
**
Boston - Four Days Later
The airport is crowded, completely crammed, and Connor feels disgustingly like he’s being packed into a can of sardines. He really hates being stuck on an airplane; his ears don’t agree with the altitude shifts, either. At least his feet are on solid ground now, good old Boston Logan International Airport. Looking for a familiar face in this crowd is like looking for a needle in a haystack.
He hopes Murphy is wearing something incredibly garish and bright. He can spot him easier that way.
“Connor!” A yell, and Connor turns, seeing Murphy wave his arms about near a row of chairs, completely where he is not supposed to be waiting.
“You can’t even get the right gate number?” Connor says as he approaches, walking as calmly and casually as possible. The last few feet, though, is rushed, and he grabs his twin in a tight hug, dropping his only piece of luggage, a carry-on, on the floor. Murphy squeezes back and leans further into Connor’s chest. He presses his nose against Connor’s ear and hums, like getting a whiff of some warm, homemade meal, and completely loving the feelings it conjures up.
“Glad you’re back,” Murphy says into his neck, not making a move to step away.
Connor holds on for as long as he’s allowed. “Me too.”
Murphy hums some more and laughs softly, the tiny puffs of air warming Connor’s neck with a tingling sensation. “Never thought I’d miss you this much,” Murphy remarks. Connor gives him a small squeeze around the waist.
“We look like a bunch of idiots,” Connor jokes.
Murphy steps back enough to look Connor in the face. Suddenly the moment feels fuller somehow, more heavy. There’s a serious expression on Murphy’s face, though his eyes are light and smiling.
“Like I give a fuck.”
Connor isn’t expecting a kiss, but he gets one, anyway. Full, deep, and incredibly sweet, none of the stale tastes of beer or the lingering of cigarette ash, it’s well worth the wait. No traces of anger or bitterness, nothing but sweet and warm.
It’s nice to finally come home.
end.
by Meixia bionic
pairing: Connor/Murphy
summary: Leaving home and finding it again.
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: not mine, don't sue.
notes: despite the title, this is not a domestic fic. It's more of a hurt/comfort thing. For endless_fever because of her birthday and for the firstlines1000 challenge 'It should hurt, but it doesn't'.
Boston
It should hurt, but it doesn’t. He takes the punch without a sound, without protest, and the sting left by Connor’s fist wraps around his cheek like a warm terrycloth, dipped in acid. It tingles, but it doesn’t hurt. Murphy clenches his hand into a fist and resists the urge to feel his cheek. Connor stares, a horrified expression flitting across his face before quickly receding into his shadowy eyes, contained and hidden by the thin press of his lips.
“You deserved that.” Connor says with a sniff. He stands up straighter and raises his chin. Murphy’s fist twitches, wanting to uncurl and slap that straight line off of Connor’s face, to turn it ugly and twisted in an expression of hurt. He’s never felt so violent in his life, ever - not even when shooting down dirty thugs.
He breathes, and counts to ten. He’s waiting for the ocean of silence that stretches between them to be breached; he’s waiting for someone who can walk on the water.
Sadly, he doesn’t have that kind of blind courage, so he remains where he stands and doesn’t say a word.
Connor merely stares him down until Murphy can feel water gathering behind his eyes, an old, rusty dam that has been holding for years but is now ready to break loose. He hasn’t cried since grade school.
“You deserve it,” says Connor, harshly, the edges of his voice cracking on the last word. Murphy inhales through his nose, feeling pins and needles pricking at his eyes. He can already taste the salt of tears, though his face remains dry, still.
Connor takes a deep breath and seems to gather himself. He lifts his hand, and Murphy flinches, too late to stop himself from doing so, too obvious to try and play it off. Murphy doesn’t say anything when Connor turns and walks to the door, but instead he studies the lines of Connor’s back, the slight bow of Connor’s shoulders, the slow and almost painful walk. He may be projecting, though, and Connor may just be dragging his feet out of anger, not regret.
Murphy doesn’t say anything when Connor turns back at the door to give him one final glare. It hurts, so much, but he sees the crease between Connor’s eyebrows and the twisted line of his lips that cracks through the stern mask on Connor’s face before he walks out. The echoing of Connor’s shoes is loud and soft at the same time, resonating like in a dream, wading through thick water.
It should hurt, but all that Murphy can feel right now is hollowness inside where the pain should be.
**
The rain glistens on the windowpane to the apartment. Murphy hasn’t set foot outside of this sanctuary for three days. He thinks he may be becoming a little stir-crazy, but he’s not sure. There’s no one to talk to except himself, and even then, all the talking is done inside his head. The place is so quiet that sometimes he thinks he may be going deaf.
He misses Connor a great deal, though he is loath to admit it. He writes, cleans his guns, rubs his rosary with his fingers like a monk. He stares out the window like a forlorn child, and now that there is no one to see, he rubs his cheek every now and then. Food tastes bitter on his tongue, worse than beer, something that he never thought he could grow to dislike.
Getting drunk is pathetic, he reminds himself. Drowning his troubles with a bottle of whiskey screams of the melodramatic; he can’t let go of the notion that he doesn’t really need to because he’ll cope with the situation sober. Their mother used to say that a clean man was a strong man, even though she could drink everyone else under the table.
Outside, the rain pelts harder on the window, dropping fat and wet on the glass before sliding down in thin tracks. He wishes the rain would just sweep everything away, and sometimes he wishes Connor would just fucking die. So much pain, now that the room is empty. He embraces it as if it were a blanket of comfort, and not a bed of needles.
“I wonder where that asshole is…” He speaks to the room as if it would speak back. Nothing but a steady roll of thunder answers.
I’ll get over it, he thinks. Tears dry, bruises vanish. It never means anything if it’s only skin deep.
**
Murphy had opened his big mouth and talked. Murphy had practically handed them both over on a silver platter to the thug they were trying to pin. Now, Connor has to haul ass out of town. Their whereabouts have been compromised and sooner or later, word will travel and the friends of the ex-convict that were in the bar with them will talk. They’ll find Connor and his brother, and what goes down will not be pretty. More reason to never let Murphy get so piss-drunk in a public place ever again.
It wasn’t just that, Connor rationalizes. Murphy never knows when to quit, when to shut up, when to stop. He pushes harder every day, and sooner or later, he’ll push over that line. That happened, and Connor punched him in the face for it. Forget the fact that Murphy talked - Murphy was pushing Connor to a place he wasn’t ready to go yet.
Even now, when Connor is away from him, he can still feel him pushing, and it doesn’t get any easier with the more distance he puts between them.
The subtle hints and play on words, twisting them until there’s suddenly innuendo in their conversation, suddenly cryptic looks and a palpable desire that blankets the room - all of that, Connor can’t ignore.
His resistance is giving out. He wants it almost as much as Murphy does now, and it scares him beyond anything else. He knows he is being pushed, and with every inch that he gives, he looses a bit more of his resolve. The less resolve he has, the more vulnerable he becomes, and what’s frightening is that he might just come to enjoy the feeling of recklessness.
He’ll become sloppy, being loved like that. In their line of work, relationships are a distraction, especially if it’s one with your partner. Being sloppy means being dead.
But Murphy will be okay - he’s always been a survivor. Connor can breathe easily because things always seem to come freely to his twin, possibly attributed to his cocky attitude. Murphy can face an ex-convict and a couple of wankers without breaking a sweat when given the right gun-power.
It really doesn’t matter. In the end, he’s in the hands of God.
But Connor doesn’t trust himself with Murphy, and he doesn’t trust Murphy with his feelings. Feelings that are other than platonic are dangerous.
The only way out is to run.
**
Buenos Aires - Two Months Later
The ports in Buenos Aires are draped in a perpetual cloud of fog that rolls in from the sea, and along the docks beside the creaking boats can be seen the orange glow of cigarettes, illuminating the otherwise seemingly navy blue color of the air itself. It feels similar to walking through spider-webs whenever Connor takes a stroll down to the pier through the fog, and the sea-faring patrons nod at him every once in a while, flicking their ashes into the water, a couple of whom have become familiar faces, but strangers all the same.
The pungent stench of fish guts and the grime of dirty, salted water is strong like always, but the underlying smell of piquant spices used to coat and cook the fish is pleasing and comfortable. Connor has grown to like the mixing of aromas, and the cigarette smoke always clings to his clothes long after everything else fades away. He doesn’t shower when he gets home after one of his walks; Murphy always smoked. The smell helps Connor sleep easier.
He’s bought himself a little fishing boat, but he doesn’t use it as often as he’d like to. Douglas, the friend he’s put in charge of maintaining the boat, is a trustworthy and honest fisherman. Connor lives in a sparsely accommodated apartment in the heart of town that is an hours walk away, but when he can, he goes down to the dock where his boat is and talks with Douglas for a while, relearning friendly conversation one small step at a time.
Douglas knows to avoid asking questions about Connor’s past. It hasn’t been that long, so Connor’s wounds are still quite fresh.
He bought a one-way ticket the night after he ran out on Murphy, anger still licking hot at his heels and turning the practical part of his brain irrational. Buenos Aires was just a random point on the map that was posted up at the airport that he’d picked with his eyes closed, finger pointed. He’s incredibly grateful that his mother made her children learn as many languages as possible - he would be lost without it.
When he arrives back at the apartment, he shrugs off his coat and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge before taking a seat on the couch. Friday night, and he finds himself glancing at the phone, glancing at the walls, feeling much alone. He doesn’t know if he’ll go back to Boston yet. He’s not sure of anything.
It won’t hurt if he just called. A simple phone call isn’t going to change anything. But he’s afraid it might. He’s afraid no one will pick up, ever again.
Three rings before he even realizes he’s made the call. The beer bottle rests empty and lukewarm in the tight grip of his hand.
“Yeah?” Murphy’s voice breathes into his ear after the fourth ring. Connor’s hand spasms, and he almost drops the bottle.
What does he say? Hey, it’s me, I’ve decided to speak to you again. Sorry if you were worried I had died, because, well, I’m alive.
“Hello?” Murphy is starting to sound irritated. “Look, you asshole, I better not find out who this is or - ”
“Hey.” Connor swallows the cracks in his voice and tries to adopt a more conversational tone. “Hey, Murph.”
“Connor?” A long, horrible pause, then, “Jesus fuck. Connor?”
“Who else would it be?” He toys with the label on the bottle and starts peeling the edges. He’s trying not to think about the floodgate that has just been opened. And really failing miserably.
“Christ, Connor. Where the fuck are you? You had me worried so fucking much. I thought you were dead! I was planning on buying some flowers and a plot of land at the cemetery, for fuck’s sake.”
“Calm down,” Connor sets the bottle down, not trusting his hand if it should start shaking. “I guess - I should. I’m sorry, Murph.”
“Okay, apologize. That’s good. That’s great, Connor. Fucking great. Next time, why don’t you send a postcard too, huh? You really hurt me, you prick.”
“I said I’m sorry. I can’t do much else, from here.”
“From where?” There’s apprehension in Murphy’s voice, as if he really doesn’t want to know. As if he doesn’t want know how far Connor is willing to go to get away from him.
Connor winces at the thought. “From Buenos Aires,” he says. Not too far, and not as far as he could’ve gone.
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.” He answers, truthfully.
“What do you mean? You are coming back, right? Connor, fuck. You can’t just leave…”
“But I did.” He says, and the line goes deathly quiet for a moment.
“Well, for what it’s worth, you can go rot in Buenos Aires.” Murphy recovers, a little late.
The small jab brings a smile to Connor’s face. “Thanks. I can probably get a ticket back sometime next week.”
Murphy picks it up almost immediately. “Why next week? Why not now?”
“Well, one, it’s two o’clock in the morning, and two, I have some business to take care of before I leave.”
“Connor,” Murphy’s voice has now completely recovered from earlier and is taking on a badgering tone. “Don’t get into any trouble you can’t handle. I can’t back you up.”
“No shit,” Connor teases. Allowing himself to breathe that final breath of relief has never felt so good. He knows things are going to be fine. From Murphy’s voice, from his relief. The plane ride back is looking better and more agreeable than ever.
“Don’t worry, it’s just civilian business. Fishing boats and shit.”
“Fishing? Boats?” Murphy sounds more incredulous than Connor has ever heard him sound before. “Have you gone insane?”
Connor smiles into the phone. He’s surprised they haven’t talked about the punch he delivered to Murphy’s cheek yet. But then, two months is plenty enough time for a bruise to fade away. Flogging a dead horse is never a good idea, so he won’t push the matter.
“I really am sorry about everything. I was a complete asshole.” Connor apologizes.
Murphy chuckles and the sound travels warmly into his ear, curling up inside. “I know. You’re lucky I forgive family. Cause, if you weren’t, I would never speak to you again.”
Connor smiles. “Well, that’s nice of you. Bastard.”
Murphy laughs out loud. Connor holds onto the sound long after he hangs up. As soon as possible, maybe tomorrow, he’s going to sell the boat. Perhaps Douglas will be interested. And then he’s going to see Murphy again, as if he’d never left.
**
Boston - Four Days Later
The airport is crowded, completely crammed, and Connor feels disgustingly like he’s being packed into a can of sardines. He really hates being stuck on an airplane; his ears don’t agree with the altitude shifts, either. At least his feet are on solid ground now, good old Boston Logan International Airport. Looking for a familiar face in this crowd is like looking for a needle in a haystack.
He hopes Murphy is wearing something incredibly garish and bright. He can spot him easier that way.
“Connor!” A yell, and Connor turns, seeing Murphy wave his arms about near a row of chairs, completely where he is not supposed to be waiting.
“You can’t even get the right gate number?” Connor says as he approaches, walking as calmly and casually as possible. The last few feet, though, is rushed, and he grabs his twin in a tight hug, dropping his only piece of luggage, a carry-on, on the floor. Murphy squeezes back and leans further into Connor’s chest. He presses his nose against Connor’s ear and hums, like getting a whiff of some warm, homemade meal, and completely loving the feelings it conjures up.
“Glad you’re back,” Murphy says into his neck, not making a move to step away.
Connor holds on for as long as he’s allowed. “Me too.”
Murphy hums some more and laughs softly, the tiny puffs of air warming Connor’s neck with a tingling sensation. “Never thought I’d miss you this much,” Murphy remarks. Connor gives him a small squeeze around the waist.
“We look like a bunch of idiots,” Connor jokes.
Murphy steps back enough to look Connor in the face. Suddenly the moment feels fuller somehow, more heavy. There’s a serious expression on Murphy’s face, though his eyes are light and smiling.
“Like I give a fuck.”
Connor isn’t expecting a kiss, but he gets one, anyway. Full, deep, and incredibly sweet, none of the stale tastes of beer or the lingering of cigarette ash, it’s well worth the wait. No traces of anger or bitterness, nothing but sweet and warm.
It’s nice to finally come home.
end.