Just A Little Pain

Murphy roamed the streets, restless and alone, bundled tight against the cold snow in his coat, his cigarette clenched tightly in the corner of his mouth. The wet snow plastered his hair against his head, making it look black instead of the dark, dark brown it was, running little rivulets down his collar to shiver down his spine—but he didn't mind it. There was a lot that Murphy didn't mind: the little discomforts of life, the fear, the anxiety, the pain. Growing up with his twin in Ireland—both of them always rather small for their age—had inured Murphy to physical pain at a very young age, both of them had such high thresholds for it that sometimes it was scary. Last summer Conner had taken a shot to the shoulder that had required stitches, but the silly bastard hadn't realized it was as bad as it was. He'd insisted on treating Murphy's shallow cuts first, thinking the wound was less serious than it was. Well, at least he hadn't been a pussy when Murphy had stitched him up; that was a plus.

Sometimes, though, life got a little banal without the simple pleasure of actually feeling something. It had been so long since anything had actually hurt him, since he'd actually enjoyed the occasional run-in with a woman—fuck, since he'd even thought about having a good fuck to work the kinks out. Neither one of them had had a woman since this whole mess started, it was just too fucking complicated and usually they were exhausted enough that even the idea of an orgasm seemed to require too much effort. Settling for a little "fun for one" was getting old and he was fucking sick of it. It wasn't like either of them had ever had any problems getting girls, for the love of God. Even rumpled from sleep and not showered from the previous evening's festivities he and Conner had always gotten those sweet, rather surprised smiles from the women they passed on their way to get coffee in the mornings—like they expected the brothers to be mangy scum but instead found themselves pulled in by identical eyes and a charm that was as encompassing as it was automatic.

Murphy trudged past the bar and out into the growing night, thinking that another disappointing encounter with a woman wasn't exactly what he was wanting. It felt good, but something was lacking and he knew exactly what it was—pain. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten his wires crossed and needed that sharp sweetness of pain to really make it all work for him. Not your usual, run-of-the-mill pain—that shit just fucking hurt. It wasn't like he got a hard-on every time he got shot or anything. It wasn't the same thing at all. He just needed it, his nerves screaming and senses spinning to make the climax that much sweeter.

He knew his twin understood—they'd shared everything since birth, it was inevitable that his other self would know him so well. Murphy could never explain how close he and Conner were—closer than most other twins, even, he knew. It was their Calling that had bound them so tightly, even since birth they had known somewhere deep down that they were meant for so much more. Nothing was mutually exclusive between them—Conner's mind was an extension of his own, just as Conner's body and movements and words were just an extension of his own. As they'd grown they'd unconsciously set boundaries, so people wouldn't stare at them. Because they weren't identical twins, it sometimes made people a little leery to see them so easy with one another, and once they'd moved to America they'd had to become more reserved except in the company of people who knew they were twins and not just a couple of fags. As if—Conner got more girls, it was true as Murphy tended to be the more boisterous and noisy of the two, but they never saw Conner puking his guts up after a binge or cutting his toenails. Murphy loved his brother, but Conner was about as sexually appealing as linoleum tile, and he was a guy to boot. Murphy was never one to rule out possibilities, but he sincerely doubted he'd ever move to the other side of the fence—women were just too interesting.

Murphy sucked the last bit out of his smoke and tossed it down, smashing it with the toe of his boot as he strode on, exhaling a cloud of smoke, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Furiously chewing on his thumbnail—a habit he'd had since he'd first found his thumbs—Murphy continued down the brightly lit streets with unfocused eyes and a mounting frustration. He'd tried some things, certain types of girls—but he was too dominant a male to give over control to anyone, and girls like that demanded such things. He found the more tentative ones to his liking, but they were too damned scared to so much as dig in their fingernails, let alone give him what he was after. It seemed there was no way to win, sometimes and he'd be damned if he settled for anything less than feisty in the sack. As Ma always said, if it wasn't fuckin' fun then what was the fuckin' point?

Growling a little under his breath, he swerved and switched directions, moving back towards the hotel room he shared with Conner. Da got his own, the bastard. True, he'd offered the boys their own rooms, but they were so accustomed to living as one that they'd automatically asked for a double without thinking it over.

'If I have to go through one more night of him snoring and me lying there awake, I swear on the Holy Virgin that I will jump outta the fuckin' window,' Murphy thought, hands lighting up another cigarette of their own accord. The closer he got to home the more disgruntled he grew until he was thinking up a good reason to get into a fight with Conner and at least have a good fist-fight to knock some of his aggression out. Conner would oblige him, neither one of them could resist a scuffle and the least little thing could set either of them off.

He took the stairs two at a time and went into the room where Conner was watching the evening news with the languid look in his eyes that meant he'd already been at the whiskey Murphy had bought earlier in the day.

"Ye fuckin' drank it, didn't ye, ye bastard?" he demanded, jerking his coat off.

"Fuckin' drank what, Murph?" Conner asked, turning bleary eyes on him, rather puzzled. "The whiskey? I gave ye money for it, ye fuckin' shitehead."

"Oh, did ye, now?" Murphy asked, cracking his knuckles. "Are ye sure?"

"Aye, I'm sure," Conner said, eyes sharpening and narrowing. He got the gleam in his eye that meant his temper was being riled. "What're ye on about, Murphy? Are ye wantin' t' get trounced, my boy?"

Then, with deliberate slowness, he tipped the contested bottle of whiskey up to his lips and took a healthy slug.

"Ye son of a bitch!" Murphy snarled, fists clenching at his sides. "That's mine!"

Conner snorted, knowing that there was no "mine" in their world, and casually reminded, "Watch how ye talk about yer mother, there, Murphy."

Murphy said nothing, just stood there fuming.

"Well?" Conner asked, putting the bottle down and giving his twin a bored, expectant look. "Look, are ye gonna throw a punch or what? Yer obviously itchin' for a fight, Murph, and ye know I'm always obliged to trounce ye good. So?"

Murphy let his breath come out in a rush and pounced on his brother, knocking the chair over backwards and breaking it as their combined weight came down on it.

Conner's breath came out in a whoosh and he started laughing even as he socked his twin hard in the jaw.

"There's my boy, then!" he cried, and tumbled Murphy off of him.

Murphy clung tight and pulled Conner with him, putting a boot in his gut that flattened him against the wall and stole his breath yet again. But nothing could shake that fighting light in Conner's eyes, or the mad grin he got when he fought with his twin.

"Ye'll have to do better than that, Murphy," he said, laughing breathlessly.

Murphy obligingly swung his fist into Conner's face, and the fight began in earnest.