Baptism
dedicated to echo, hope, and shaenie
[ connor/murphy implied ] PG-13
i.
Connor is older, but only by two minutes. He's born blue in the face, with Murphy's umbilical chord wrapped tightly around his neck, his wide mouth open and toothless but silent. Despite the doctor's best efforts, during those first two minutes he spends on Earth without his brother, he does not cry, does not make a single sound.
He waits until Murphy is laid out beside him to take his first breath, his eyes still sealed shut to the outside world, and his tiny hands searching for that which was taken from him so suddenly.
ii.
The table shakes beneath Murphy when Connor applies the red-hot metal, the arm clamped beneath Connor's hand suddenly tense and violent and shaking, the chords of sinew as taut and thick as piano cables. Rocco's got his knee in Murphy's back and holds him steady as he struggles beneath the both of them, Connor watching as his brother's free hand skids against the bloodied tabletop.
They make a massacre of the kitchen - blood on the floor and on the counters, seeping into the pores of all the tiles, rendering itself indelible proof of their existence. Connor's not quite sure where it's all coming from, whether it's him or Murphy or Rocco that's got it worst, but the stains seem too red and too vibrant when set against pale white, making the backs if his eyes hurt with aggressive over-saturation.
It's his turn, and the cloth gag bites into Connor's tongue and the flesh of his cheeks when he cries out and everything else suddenly seems irrelevant and insignificant compared to the bitter smell of his own seared flesh and the taste of blood in his mouth. The heat of the iron is worse than the wound itself; a million pinpricks of pain accumulate on his skin as the capillaries cauterize instantaneously. Despite the cries tearing at his throat, Connor can hear Murphy speaking softly to him, lips pressed up against the outer shell of his ear, comforting him. "You're okay, Connor, you're okay," he says.
The tears rise in his eyes involuntarily, and he reaches back behind him to where Murphy is, his hand groping along the back of his brother's neck, trying to find solace or succor in a single blistering touch. The hair beneath his fingers is damp and sticky, and Connor tugs at it harshly as Murphy tightens his grip on the towel in his mouth, Rocco muttering loudly, "Almost there, kid, almost there."
"I'm sorry," Murphy whispers, quiet as a shadow, and Connor suddenly realizes that this brother is crying with him.
iii.
Weeks later, Murphy crawls into bed next to Connor in some no-name, mangy hotel. It's the kind of place that rents by the hour and has yellow smoke stains on all of the sheets, an unused copy of the Gideon's Bible in the top drawer of the nightstand. In a couple of hours, they will go to work, carefully stalking up and down the halls, looking for rooms occupied by those worthy of their retribution. Connor silently watches the curtains flicker back and forth between hot pink and electric blue in strange, rhythm-less patterns, the windows illuminated from the outside by neon lights on the building's facade. His ribs are bruised, so much so that it hurts if he breathes, and when Murphy climbs onto the musty sheets beside him and pushes his lean body flush against Connor's back, the ache trapped underneath Connor's skin blossoms into a bright yellow pain.
"You alright?" Murphy asks, sensing the wince that isn't there, and Connor nods silently.
"I always thought you had a good back, Connor," Murphy then says, softly, "what with Da's shoulders and your good, sturdy spine. You've always been strong enough to carry the weight of responsibility...to carry me around."
Connor is not sure if there's anything he can say to that, so he just turns over to face his brother, studying his features in the dim light coming from the window, watching his face flash from blue to pink and then back to blue. Murphy's skin has a warm, familiar smell to it - coppery, like coins in his mouth - and when Murphy speaks again, his voice is suddenly rough and tired.
"Don't sleep," he murmurs quietly, and Connor promises that he won't.
