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Murphy's voice, familiar as his own, filled the room as he prayed, fingers tight around his Rosary. Connor's own hung heavy around his neck, the cross warmed from his body. He kneeled behind Murphy, wrapping his arms around his waist. He curled his fingers around Murphy's, moving to the next bead with them when his brother finished the first set of Hail Marys.
"The first mystery," Murphy said, head tilting back to rest against Connor's shoulder, "the agony in the garden."
Friday. The Sorrowful mysteries.
Connor mouthed the Hail Marys against Murphy's shoulder, the taste of his brother's flesh warm and salty, even fresh from the shower. The room, something small in middle America, was nearly frozen over, the heater in the corner busted. When the prayers were over, they'd crawl into one of the beds, huddled together under the covers like they were children again.
They hadn't slept apart since the jail cell. Connor felt safer with Murphy next to him, tucked between his own body and the wall. Murphy was the better shot and would lord it over him until the end of days, but Connor was faster. They wouldn't be caught unaware again.
Murphy smelled like gun oil and iron underneath the no-name soap they'd bought at the dollar store. The smell of blood never went away. Not really. Connor was getting used to it overlaid on top of everything they touched. Beds, clothing, Rosaries. Each other.
God had spoken to them, whispered in their ears while they slept, and if the price to pay was the forever reek of blood, it was a price they'd pay.
"The second mystery," Murphy said, his voice rumbling in through Connor's chest, "the scourging at the pillar."
With his free hand, Connor traced the healing edge of a knife wound in Murphy's side. It had come too close, could have sunk straight into him if Murphy hadn't twisted just the right way. Connor had been busy on the other side of the room, guns aimed forward, dodging chairs thrown his way. Carlos Martinez, a big time drug dealer and sleazeball of the highest order, slashed at Murphy again and got a bullet through the head in payment.
Murphy could take care of himself. Connor knew that, made sure other people with big ideas knew it too, but there was something about him that looked soft and wee and gentle. Connor wouldn't wrap him up to save him, wouldn't hide him from the world. Murphy would rise high Hell for starters, and Connor would be a man down against evil. But he wanted to. Sweet Lord, he wanted to.
Since Da left them on their own, out on his own Holy mission, they'd taken a few bad jobs. Connor had a hole in his leg from a pistol, a scar on his temple from a broken bottle. Murphy's back had become a patchwork of silvery lines after being thrown through a window. He'd shot the bastards dead lying on his back in the glass, bleeding out onto the grass.
After saying prayers for men that deserved nothing but Hell, Connor had taken Murphy home and picked out glass, sewed him up like darning socks, and chased away the shaking in his hands with piss poor whiskey. Murphy didn't call him on it. Murphy didn't call him on a lot of things.
"The third mystery is the crowning with thorns," Murphy said, his voice heavy. Connor slid his fingers from the scar on Murphy's side to his throat, feeling his Adam's apple bob as he said the Our Father.
He kissed Murphy's temple, the stretch of his unshaven jaw. He already felt warm, the frigid air against his back nothing on the fire of Murphy held close to his chest. They would be gone in the morning, off to Illinois to deal with a lead on a trafficker. Fucking snow and sleet and lake effect chill. Murphy shivered and Connor shuffled closer. The cross of his Rosary dug into his sternum, uncomfortable even though its edges had been long worn down.
He rolled his hips, half hard from leftover adrenaline and the smell and feel of Murphy under his weight. Their hands moved to the next bead, Murphy reeling off one Hail Mary after another. They'd done the Rosary before bed since they could memorize the prayers, shoulders and hips pressed together as they kneeled. It was solid. Grounding.
Theirs.
Murphy sat higher on his knees, that scant inch between them made up for as he lined them up properly. The first time they'd done this, bodies pressed together, hands shaking as they learned each other properly, they'd been fourteen. Murphy had been laid up with a cold, shivering under their pathetic excuse for a blanket, and Connor had crawled into bed with him to chase away the pre-winter freeze.
Murphy had kissed him first, eyes wide and lips chapped and dry. They hadn't done much, Connor full of nerves and Murphy coughing every so often, but it had been enough. It had been the beginning of something new.
They've fought and they've fucked and they've killed, a decade of bad decisions prayed away in the morning. Connor wouldn't trade any of it away if he could. Not his brother, not the blood on his hands, not a single second of his life. Not for anything. Not for God Himself.
"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit," Connor said along with Murphy, guilt weighing heavy under his breastbone. He'd lived his life as well as he could, tried to make the world a better place for those in it. He deserved some good. One vice, all his own. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen."
"The fourth mystery," Murphy said, voice hitching as Connor slid his thumb into the loose waistband of his sweats, "is the carrying of the cross." Connor worked the soft cotton down over the tiny swell of Murphy's ass, struggling to do it one handed. His own went down easier, his cock springing free to rest in the crack of Murphy's ass.
He stayed there for a moment, still, just feeling the press of skin from shoulders to thighs. Murphy said his Hail Marys, spreading his thighs wider, enough for to make room for Connor's cock to slide between them. He was all warm, damp skin, and tiny trembles that Connor could feel all across his body.
Connor curled his arm around Murphy's waist, his palm spread out across scarred, pitted skin. He soothed the still healing knife wound with his thumb, felt the ridge of a healed bullet wound low on the jut of Murphy's hip. When he pulled, Murphy rocked back against him, elbows still on the mattress, head dipping forward to rest against his chest.
Connor wrapped his hand around Murphy's cock, heavy and blood warm, and gave it a slow tug.
"The- the fifth mystery is the Crucifixion." Murphy reached back with the hand not on the Rosary, fumbling to grab Connor's hip. Connor buried his face in Murphy's hair, still damp and smelling faintly like chemical strawberries, and thrust forward slowly. Murphy's fingertips dug into his ass, sharp points of pain.
Sometimes, Connor wondered what it would have been like if he and Murphy hadn't been born together. If Ma hadn't had twins on her line, if Murphy had been born a year later than him. It terrified him, deep in the pit of his stomach. Murphy was his everything, his anchor, his stupid fuckwit twin he'd always had beside him.
Murphy's hand shook under his as it moved from bead to bead, his voice going ragged as Connor stroked him off and play fucked his thighs. Slow, slow, so slow his muscles ached and his balls throbbed. He mouthed at the sweet curve of Murphy's neck, teeth sinking in below his ear.
Murphy's hips snapped against his, impatient, always so impatient, and Connor dug his elbows into the bony arch of ribs to hold him still. He thumbed the slick head of Murphy's cock, squeezing when Murphy whined.
"Glory be- ah, fuck," Murphy dug his bitten-down nails into Connor's ass, trying to force him faster. Connor bit him again, harder, pulling back to lick over the red patch of skin left behind.
"Almost there now," he said softly. He pulled back a little, the cold air suddenly between them a shock, and angled his hips. The next time he rocked forward, the head of his cock caught the rim of Murphy's hole. He swore as it clenched at him, trying to pull him in. There was lube in one of their bags, ready and waiting and half full, but Connor wasn't moving away under anything less than imminent danger.
"Hail- fuckin' a, Connor- hail holy queen, mother of- of mercy, our life, our sweetness, our- put it in, you bastard- hope." Murphy tugged at him, the bite of his nails turning vicious, but Connor held fast against him. If he went in dry, if he gave in to the urge to drive into Murphy and fuck him into the ground, the long drive to Illinois would be made even longer.
"Finish your prayers, now," Connor said, fingers closing tight on Murphy's cock. It twitched in his hand, steel solid and ready to blow. His own cock ached, so close from just this, his balls drawing up. "You're almost there."
Murphy stumbled through the rest of Hail Holy Queen, swearing and fighting against Connor's hold on him, back arched and Rosary beads slipping through their fingers. Connor let the tip of his cock slide in, just a little, just enough to feel the hot, sweet clutch of Murphy's hole. Murphy groaned, letting go of Connor's ass to tangle his fingers up with the ones on his cock.
"A-fuckin'-men," he gasped, laughing breathlessly as he came. Connor gave himself one thrust, one little taste of Heaven, and shuddered as he came, Murphy tight and hot around him.
Murphy flinched when he pulled out. Little bastard thought he could have taken a fucking dry, idiot. He helped Murphy up onto the bed, collecting his Rosary and pulling his own off. He tucked them away carefully on the nightstand.
"You're a dirty fucker," Murphy said, eyes closed and mouth quirked up at the corner. Connor kissed him, sweet and quick, right there, and cuffed him when he pulled back.
"Aye, and don't pretend like it's not what you like." He collapsed onto the mattress next to Murphy, ignoring both the drying mess on Murphy's stomach and the screech of the bed against the floor. "And I don't want to hear any of your complaining about being sore tomorrow. Not my fault you're a pushy little twat."
"I'll complain if I wanna complain," Murphy said, reaching over him, fumbling for the half empty pack of smokes. He lit one, lit a second off of it, and handed it over.
Connor pulled in a deep breath, closing his eyes. He said his own prayer, his own pleading to God to keep them safe for just a while longer. God had forsaken his only son. God gave, and God took away. They would die young, die painfully, and have to hope it was enough.
Murphy curled up next to him, breathing smoke against Connor's chest, and Connor held onto him. They'd go together, like they'd always done. Like they always would. Forever and ever.
Amen.