sufferance

1. easily seen

Pubs aren't bars you just drink in. Pubs are bars you live in. Pubs are family and friends and comfort every hour happy hour, laced in with smoke and laughter and the swill of warm beer. Heavy oaken bar polished must, close air fogged from everyone's breath and brand of cigarettes. Shoulder to shoulder. Rumour to rumour.

Pubs are bars you live in, and that's just what Murphy and Connor have been doing for months (months long enough to be a year) since they first—and that's just the word for it—came here. Here, here. Fuckin' America, and Murphy says it with some kind of drunken affection, right into his shirt sleeve. Muffled and warm air and Connor snorts. Years and years of living with someone, to the point of inside-out (inside out) expectance, exasperation, and it's still surprising you'll laugh. Still surprising Murphy can surprise him, only that doesn't surprise Connor so much anymore. Because this is Murphy. Come on. This is his brother, the brother, the one he loves like he can't love himself. He's decided. Brothers in sin and blood and voice.

They've got a shit job, they've got a shit apartment, but that's good. That's even. That's sliding right off their backs, because they're out for each other, with each other, fine. Siblings are supposed to ware from difference, twins grow apart in independence. But. Connor coughs, clears his throat (round of a joke still getting laughs), and reaches forward to grab whatever drink's in front of him (fixed on washing out the cigarette cling grating his tongue). It's late in the evening and everyone's here—the regulars. Obligatory pub smoke getting to his throat, dry and loud and in his skin, like sucking on sun-baked sand. (But.) Difference has a lot to do with it.

The bottle's cool through his fingers, taste bitter as always and perfect. Turns out though it's Murph's beer and he scowls at him, eyebrows knitting, slowly. Delayed reaction because they've been sitting here since this morning and there was nothing to do. Nothing they haven't done, and done over, and over, and finally needed a drink to settle. Bickering isn't fucking, but the result's the same.

"Don't fuckin' start," Connor says, and no one could miss that tone. No one would.

Suffice to say, though, Connor can warn all he wants, Murphy's still going to shoot an arm out fast (no delay there, surprise) and snap his fingers around elbow. Still going to dig in and stare and seriously what the fuck, because Connor wasn't ready for that. Really, really, grit teeth, bite tongue, heart beating wasn't ready. Didn't have time enough even to say 'whoa'. Only started to, then stopped, because Murphy stopped. Stopped. Just the tips of his fingers on him because his sleeves hang long like when he was a kid, a child, something new, chewing on those like he chews his nails now. (You trade things out with age, but not this. Not the sibling rivalry thing.). Happened and done, and then Murphy's pulling Connor's arm over so it's facing him, level with his chest, even. He goes because Murphy's eyes say he should.

Everyone's watching and quieted down to the expected whisper, the audience. He's still holding the bottle but wants to drop it, to hear the crash and make Murphy startle, knock him sideways. Feels large and small. Feels like he's had too much. Feels like he's had too much.

Murphy's fingers curl away from his skin and net into his rolled sleeve. (Rolled up sleeves for a constantly busy man, or the tough guy, or compulsion.) Murphy's fingers were warm, warm, shock when they touched (get funny ale-addled flashes of fingers in different situations, and Murphy's eyes glazed like they are now but not now). He focuses on that too long and is late for Murph plucking the bottle from his hand. Squeaks as it goes from the condensation, breaking the air, and that's everyone's laughter coming on again, self-imposed. Stall back into reality and Murphy watching him while he takes a drink, swallows. Deliberate.

"Fuck." And Connor's proud it comes off like he lost.

2. said than done

Times like these, times like most (bad times, good times, he's pretty sure he thinks too fuckin' much) he wishes he had enough stamina by the end of the day to fuck Murphy quiet. Quiet's a funny thing, though, in that situation (in any). Murphy's everything but quiet. Murphy's timid above being quiet. He's contained above quiet. It's not a possibility. He'll shut up, he'll zone out, he'll smoke, seconds, minutes, but he won't be quiet. He's the product of being brought up in a family that revolves around the family. Constantly packed into one place and yelling over each other's heads and disagreement and volume. Constant birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, weddings, funerals. It's that key moment of doing something loud that'll get you noticed. But Murphy has his exceptions. And it's church.

Connor changes quiet to comatose, licks Murphy's bare shoulder from behind, and gets what he wants. Enough to take it slow and make Murphy slightly frantic. Make him breathe heavy and moan low. Make him forget names and places, and that tomorrow's another day, when all it is is now and Murphy's legs spread in an angle he'll really feel that another day tomorrow.

3. coming to

Murphy's fucked him before (see drunken, laughing, suddenly too close, not close enough, intimate whatever at one in the morning). And sitting down anytime after, now that's an interesting thing. It's a task. Is sitting straight and squirming and not being able to pull your mind from that. That, that, suddenly sober to remember every drive in, every gasp, every moment of only being able to hear Murphy's voice because of the position, the suggestion, the unusually long nails dragging in, sensitive and numb skin, the—Fuckin' Christ. Connor really has to wonder how Murphy's sitting there now, in the pub, easily, and really looking as if Connor hadn't just fucked him hard into his sheets thirty minutes ago. Thirty. Looks really convincing, too, smug fuck. Normal and loose and hanging over his side of the bar like he's boneless. All until Connor notices the wince when he turns. Lighting a cigarette and watching it burn. Shouldn't be feeling the sideways twinge of heat in his belly (the sideways something else), but does. Brothers in sin.

The pub's thick with everything people. People's voices, people's shadows, people's elbows as you stand, and Murphy is. Heading for the door and fresh air, but. Doesn't quite make it. Someone backs into him while he's going. Quick movement that catches Murphy and pitches him to the left, just enough he has to wobble and out step a foot to steady (can't see it but knows, feels, he winces again). The someone turns immediately, holds his hands up palm forward and says, "Sorry man." He looks sincere enough. Through all the fuckin' hair. Connor lifts his beer to his mouth and watches, missing what Murphy says, but catching the someone's reply.

"Geez, um, I'm Rocco."

They shake hands and Connor turns back to the bar.

4. undone

They know separate people, common or uncommon. Connor has a few Murphy doesn't take to, Murphy has a few Connor doesn't take to. Take it or leave it, that's how they spend most of their time apart. Counting in hours, but it's still time apart. Went out drinking with insert-appropriate-name-here, and Murphy almost always comes back crawling into bed with Connor. Smelling different and strange and Connor could leave that. Would prefer spending how long with a bunch of blokes he doesn't quite like to Murphy not smelling like Murphy.

Rocco's one they both like, not separate. He's interesting because he's eager, tries too hard. Talks more to Connor, watches more of Murph. Eager to please, eager to agree, eager to disagree. He is what he is the second he opens his mouth. You can't mistake him for much. This is clicking right off the bat. This is instant friendship. Certain people just fit like that.

The thing that looms between them, is he doesn't know. (Doesn't know Connor's been so deep inside Murphy... that's that.) The thing that looms between Connor and Murphy is, God, does anyone know. They won't tell. They won't take chances. They'll go on until someone does find out and then. Connor likes to think he'll know by then. He'll deal with it. They'll be fine.

Someone's goin' to find out, this can't last forever, fuck, fuck—Rocco finds out after a year. (Murphy's surprised they lasted that long, got that far. Slight smile and a look up from his head titled and his cigarette turning back and forth between his fingers.) He finds out without actually finding out. He asks. Spend long enough with a person, long hours, long discussion, you get comfortable. Get comfortable with a person, things slip. The little things will hang you. Rocco asks, together drunk (slightly more than usual) in their flat after work for whatever let's-have-a-drink-at-our-place reason. He stares at the table, stares at them—who, let's face it, sit closer than any brothers have a reason to—and. "Do you guys, uhh... Do you... Are you guys—this is goin' to sound weird, but. Are you guys fuckin'?"

You can't answer that, you don't answer that, it's the silence that'll get you. Murphy blushes. Connor can feel it rising through his skin. He can feel panic. (Panic decides, on its own, to make him feel helpless). Rocco keeps staring, open-mouthed, and finally kind of nods his head when all that's happening his nothing, hair dropping the curtain and falling into his face. That was it. Connor has an 'are we talking about the same thing' moment, then blinks, and leans back and bounces a glance to Murphy. He's biting at the side of his thumb, face still coloured one shade up from normal, but alright. He looks like he didn't hear it, leaning forward and tapping his cigarette. Looks over at Connor, looks across the room.

God has a terrible sense of humour. And He doesn't know when to stop.

They don't touch after that. They sleep in their own beds, they give each other looks, but don't. Just don't. And it fucking eats at Connor (it eats at everything). Someone'll know, someone'll see. Vulnerable, cornered, exposed, just the thought is going to turn heads. It never hurt not to touch someone before. Wasn't supposed to feel this wrong to not kiss your brother. It just wasn't, wasn't. How is this right, how is this—he feels like he's choking. Twisted. Picking a bone with morality, normality. Pubs are bars you don't just drink in, but he's found a damn fuckin' good reason just to.

He's more afraid of losing Murph than losing anonymity.

5. knitted

Weekends, you'll find Murphy with Rocco and Connor somewhere inbetween. These are short work days, no work days, more time for cards, movies, church, laundry, food, whatever. Connor finds them shuffling cards in their flat, Murphy watching him come closer, and closer, and then Rocco turning once he notices. It's not thought that keeps you going, but instinct, and Connor leans down to kiss Murphy on the mouth. ("Whoa, whoa," from Rocco.) Firm and there and curling fingers around to the back of Murphy's head, tugging, pressing and sliding tongue to tongue and then done. Sighing easy wet release and Murphy flushed again, breathy breathless intake. It didn't feel weird. It felt... needed.

"Jesus, you guys. Get a fuckin' room or somethin', I swear to God."

"Aye, yeah, I believe this is our room, Roc," Connor says, feels giddy uneven.

Rocco grunts, mutters fuck somewhere in there, and gets up to leave, closes the door behind him, stomping down the landing. He's yelling back, The one fuckin' day I'm not delivering packages, and you fuckin' guys—snaps off once he's to the lift.

Murphy's finally grinning.

"Yeah, don't fuckin' start."