Disclaimer: Well, I like to believe this is what happens before the events of the movie, but it probably isn't. So there you are.
Summary: A five first times story between Connor and Murphy spanning childhood to adulthood.
Pairing: Twincest, wOOt.
Notes: This is for maypirate, that darling bud of may (excuse me, still on the cough syrup), who was discouraged over a number of different things. Thank you for betaing it, my dearest.
The first time Connor realized he couldn’t live without Murphy was when he was seven and his brother took a plunge out of a tree after Billy McGuinness from up the road— and somehow distantly related—had dared him into it. Murph’s collarbone had only been broken, but his twin had screamed bloody murder and there was blood, so much blood from where he cracked his head on the ground. Connor thought he would die his own self from telegraphed pain and worry.
Murphy can’t leave me alone, he thought as he cradled his weeping brother in his arms. There was snot and tears and blood everywhere, his hands were sticky with it, but he could only think as far as Murphy wailing in his embrace. Ma got there right quick, flushed from the run up the hill to the park, and looked more furious than worried. Said she’d beat Connor within an inch of his life if he ever let his brother do such a damn fool thing like that again as they waited for Murphy to get the bone set. Connor, all of seven, didn’t even hear her; he was too busy going over his own worthlessness to pay attention to Ma doing it.
The first time Murphy kissed him, really kissed him, was at cousin Eammon’s eighteenth birthday. They were fourteen and just the slightest bit drunk from all the cheap champagne, lying up under the eaves in the attic. They could hear Jane Durfee, the first girl in school to get breasts, and the first one to pop up her skirt for that matter, laughing through the floorboards. No doubt some rakehell relative was doing his best to seduce her out of her panties. They’d gone from talking about Kalishnikovs to pin-up models to Murphy rolling over onto his side and leaning down to press his lips to Connor’s own.
Connor hadn’t reacted at first, and years later he still didn’t know what had brought it on, but he accepted it, allowed Murphy to clumsily push his tongue past his lips and plunder his mouth, tasting like alcohol and the cigarettes—menthols—they’d stolen from their mother. Murphy had rolled himself more fully on top of Connor and tangled a hand in his hair, thigh pushing down on his groin, and then the kiss had turned good. He kissed and bit at his brother’s lips, fisted his hand in the worn cotton of Murphy’s grey shirt, and arched up against him.
Murphy had laughed into his mouth and started rubbing himself off against his brother’s leg. Then it had been a contest: who could figure out the other one’s spots better, who could make the other come first, who could be in control, who could be on top. When their orgasms came, they’d become so lost in the game it was almost a surprise. Connor knew he should’ve felt guilty when it was over and done. Should’ve pushed Murphy away and run screaming into the church confessional.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t. It never once felt wrong and Murphy didn’t seem to think so either. They never went there. As in all things, they stood united.
They were just nineteen the first time they had sex. Murphy had slept with quite a few girls by then, being the flirt that he was, and Connor had only rolled his eyes at his brother’s self-indulgence. Connor wasn’t the type for casual sex or antics or really casual anything. But the way it started was so entirely casual they might have been shaking hands. They were in the woods, under a deep green canopy of beeches. It was hot, as hot and heavy humid as it ever got in Ireland, and they’d been working on the new house for one of their uncles on Da’s side. They’d escaped for a lunch of sardines on toast that had devolved into a wrestling match, and, as per usual, Connor had won. He was going to get up and finish his sardines when Murphy got that look in his eye. Connor knew it well. They’d messed around intermittently since that night in the attic, although they’d never gone very far or treated it very seriously.
But Murphy was drawing his head down for a kiss before he could protest and say not now, we’ve got to be back at half past. When Murphy’s cool lips touched his, he was lost, and his brother—the cheeky monkey—knew it.
Jeans were shoved off and shirts stripped and they rolled around in the soft peat. Next thing he knew Murphy was begging him to do it, to just take him, right there, right then. Connor protested, he didn’t know what he was doing. He’d only ever slept with Gertie Finn a few times and it had been awkward and awful and he’d seriously considered crying afterwards, which, as far as he was concerned, was supposed to be the girl’s area of expertise.
Murphy had told him to shut the fuck up and do it, they had to be back at half past, and Connor had snorted and done his level best not to hurt his brother, even if the stubborn jerk deserved it for being so darned demanding. Murphy whined and complained almost the entire way, until Connor seriously considered smothering himself in his brother’s shoulder, but then he hit Murphy’s prostate and the darker-haired twin became a writhing mess of pleasure, practically bucking Connor off of him; he’d been left to hold on for the ride. When it was done Connor spent more time being annoyed at all the peat that had ended up in odd places than wondering what it was he had just done. Honestly, he felt more guilty for not feeling guilty than anything else. Mostly he didn’t even feel that.
When he looked up, his brother’s facial expression told him there was more where that came from. Although hopefully with a bottle of lotion and soft pillow to ease the way.
The first time Murphy said I love you and meant it as more than because they were brothers, they were twenty. Their mother had shipped them off to London to live with their Uncle Jimmy to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid like join the IRA. Not that they would’ve, bombing pubs wasn’t much of a lark and it sure as hell wouldn’t get you sent to heaven. Somehow they’d managed to make something of themselves in that crap village school and now Connor was busting his bollocks at LSE while Murphy pretended to study at Balliol. The only reason they could afford it was because they bunked with Jimmy and made do with pretty much second-hand of everything. It was the first time they’d ever done anything apart, and even though he saw Murphy pretty much every night it still felt like he’d lost an arm.
One night he was up late studying in the library for an oral the next day when Murphy sat down across from him. Lord could only guess how his twin had gotten in, most likely charmed the old lady at the desk out of her dentures (and the half of her brain that would’ve said no to the multiple tattoos and the dark forbidding pea-coat).
Connor had looked up for the barest instant before going back to figures on the stock market. One day he wanted to be a professor and a public policy maker, wanted to go back and help turn Ireland around, and Murphy had better not fuck it up by starting something in the library.
“I love you,” Murphy said when he’d fully immersed himself in the text, and it took him a minute before he realized what it was Murphy had said. He looked up wide-eyed, the heavy book dropping to the table. Murphy smirked at him.
He let Murphy fuck him dry in a library bathroom stall, the first time they’d done such a thing since that ridiculous time in the woods, and came with his brother whispering it over and over in ear. He’d known it, he’d always known it. There was virtually nothing about Murphy he didn’t know. But there was power in the words. Made it just a little bit harder to split them asunder.
The first time he truly worried about their future, they were on a boat, facing West and refusing to look back. Murphy’s hair was windblown and his eyes were hopeful despite what they were leaving behind—everything. Connor couldn’t bring himself to regret it though. He saw difficult times ahead, difficult times where he couldn’t even make use of his hard-won degree. Ma had already taken to the bottle. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret. Maybe they shouldn’t have returned to Ireland, eyes blazing and intent on ridding the world of corruption. Now they were running for their lives, but Connor liked to think the seeds of change had been sown. That at least was something. Even if he was having to turn a new name over and over in his mouth, MacManus, like any self-respecting Irishman would have that orange name with an A in it.
“Níl sa saol ach gaoth is toit,” Murphy said, laying a brazen kiss on Connor’s nape in full view of everybody. Before Murphy could move away, Connor reached out to grab his wrist, pulling his twin back to him.
“Siúd ansin thú, seo dom.” He held fast, his hand over the dark ink of Murphy’s tattoo, the one that exactly matched his own on the opposite arm.
“Aye,” Murphy said, and it was all the reassurance in the world. He didn’t need anything else but that and Murphy by his side.
Níl sa saol ach gaoth is toit – Life Is But Smoke and Wind, so maybe I made our dear Murph into a bit of a poet (well, not actually considering it’s a pretty famous proverb).
Siúd ansin thú, seo dom - There you are, here I am, it’s sort of a nice way of saying I love you without saying I love you. I figure the boys would be all for that.
Like it? Hate it? Want to end my life as a result of it?