Look After Your Brother ch 6

[ladyjanelly]

Sometimes, Connor reflected, making big decisions after working all night, riding on the bus for another hour, seeing... His mind slid away from that thought ...and fighting with fucken Murphy for half the day, is not the best of ideas.

The once, that was necessary. To keep them together. To not let Murphy leave him behind. But to do it again?

When they woke up, Connor told Murph that they'd find another way, and Murph had just nodded like he'd expected to hear it.

God's truth, they tried. For over a month, they tried. Conn would work, and when he got home they'd go out together looking for another job, but there were few enough around for grown men, much less weedy half-grown boys. When he was at work, Connor couldn’t concentrate for wondering where Murphy was and what he was doing. He fell off a ladder once and twisted his wrist. He missed a day and his boss found himself a new teenager who would take half of minimum wage to do it.

They tried stealing, but they couldn’t bring themselves to take from where someone lived. Stores were easy, especially when Murph would go charm the clerk while Connor filled his pockets. That worked well enough for food, but everything worth pawning was behind glass.

And all the time, their ma was getting more sick, feeling more pain, needing more and more heroin to soothe her suffering. They couldn’t bear the thought of cutting her doses.

They tried hitting a warehouse once, down by the docks. While they were looking for something that was both valuable and portable, the thug that worked as a guard found them, and they had to scatter and run to get away. Waiting for Murphy to meet him in the alley down the block was the worst minute of Connor's life.

When it came down to using Da's gun to rob a store, selling drugs or doing it Murphy's way, Connor gave in and they went out together.

They had some of the worst fights of their lives in those first days. It was hell for Connor, to watch Murph walk down the alley, far enough that he didn’t have to hear the noises, close enough that he could hear a yell if Murph needed his help.

"Let me be the one. I'd rather fucken do it than know you are," he griped, but Murph punched him in the chest and called him a selfish shit.

"I don’t know why y'even started, Conn." He seemed so confused, so hurt as he said it. "You were fucken clean."

There was nothing Connor could say without sounding like it was all Murphy's fault, so they didn’t talk for the rest of the day.

 

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They worked.

Murph was better at it than Connor. He could smile that Murphy-grin and they would go with him. Drawn by his light, Connor always thought. Heat-sensing. Like ticks.

Connor could never quite hide the hate in his eyes. That drew men to him too, but they weren’t the same ones that wanted Murph. They were dark drawn to dark, looking for something rough, something hard, and Connor gave it to them.

It wasn’t easy, living this life. It wasn’t good, but it was all they could do. Ma's pain kept growing, and between the two of them they were hard pressed to keep up with it. They survived by being there for each other. They took turns. One would work while the other would watch for cops, for pimps, for the worst of the deviants.

It felt like his soul was bleeding to death.

When the day was over and Ma was asleep, they would curl together on their bed. Soul-weary, they shared warmth and comfort with each other. They knew this wouldn’t be forever, but they never spoke those words, knowing what it would mean for their Ma.

They played everything as smart as they knew how to. They only worked the lunch crowd. They always paid cash for the drugs they bought for Ma; no exchange of services, no favors for a friend of the dealer. They didn’t leave the street and nearby alleys. No getting into cars, no going back to hotel rooms.

Connor insisted on condoms for them both, and it terrified him to wonder how many times Murphy had done this without him and didn’t use one.

Murph carried an old box cutter. Connor kept an ice pick in his boot, and sometimes a collapsible car antenna in his pocket. They thanked God every day they didn’t need to use them.

Sometimes a freak would want to watch; to see them together. "Tha's not for sale," Connor would tell them. Every time. None of them ever offered enough money for it to be a temptation. He wasn’t sure there was enough money in all of Boston.

He couldn’t understand what was in Murph's eyes whenever that happened, and he was careful to not think about it too much. Not here. Not now.

Their world became very narrow. They worked the street-corner. They took care of Ma, sitting with her, talking to her. Murph made sure she ate and helped her bathe every day. Connor sang to her, and brushed her hair at night.

The pain and illness stole their mother from them. They watched her strength and beauty fade. They watched her become a ghost.

When it began, in the spring, Father Mike would come every few weeks to take her confession and bring communion. By late summer it was twice every week. Just in case.

He would offer the same to the boys, but they always declined.

Above all else, that scared Connor; that they could die with these sins on their souls. They couldn’t stop though. There was no other way, and it wasn’t right to confess to something they wouldn’t stop doing, so they waited.

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They woke up one morning in early October and Ma was cold. She looked peaceful, even more than when the needle went in, and they were happy for her. They lay down beside her on her narrow bed for a long time, feeling the last of her spirit leave the room.

They put coins over her eyes.

They said the words for her.

"Time to go, Murph," Connor said at last. They knew they couldn’t be here when the police came. There were too many drugs in the house. Too many drugs in Ma.

There wasn’t much for them to take. Rosaries and a few clothes. Da's gun. The books were too heavy so they left them. They had no family treasures; no photo albums, no pieces of heirloom jewelry.

Connor saw Murphy picking through their working clothes. He shook his head. "No more a that life, Murph. I'd rather fucken starve."

Murph looked down at the clothes. "Not for money," he said at last.

They found their way to church after evening Mass. They gave their confessions together in a pew instead of apart in the booths. The list of mortal sins, done in full knowledge of their wrongness, was long. Impurity against nature, sodomy. Defiling the sacred receptacle of their souls by selling their sex for money. Deliberate failure to attend Mass for all of the Sundays they had missed in the few months since it all began.

Supporting the actions of evil men with the money they traded for the drugs.

Theft of the wallet and watch. They had allowed anger to rule them at times, and hatred. Connor felt that he had committed the sin of murder, for striking the man with the brick. That Murphy had stopped him before he could complete the task did not erase the attempt, in his eyes.

Murphy made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "That bastard doctor. I'd a fucken killed him if not for you, Conn." He caught his words, crossed himself and mumbled an apology to Father Mike.

They sat silent, the final words "I ask forgiveness for these and all of my sins," unsaid.

"Ma..." Murphy started, but then had to clear his throat as it tried to close on him.

"Aye," Connor picked up for him. "Letting her believe the drugs were from the doctor. A lie of omission."

Murph nodded and fidgeted with his lower lip. They were sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch, but they didn’t look at each other.

"We never tried to shorten her days on this earth," the darker twin began. Connor closed his eyes.

"Just to ease her pain a bit, in the time she had left," he picked up when Murph faltered again.

"If she died before her time, because of us, we're sorry for that too." Murphy's voice was a whisper, but it was loud enough for God and the priest.

"We ask forgiveness for these and all of our sins," they murmured together.

Father Mike's eyes were sad when they were done. "You are only boys," he said, resting his hands upon their heads. "It is a sorrow that such decisions should have been pressed upon ones so young. Forgiveness is yours, though I fear the penance will take you longer than the sin did, and you may need to be older before you can accomplish it. I trust your determination to do what is right. This task is set to you, to find one who cannot walk away from the drug dealers like you can. Help that person to make a new start in his or her life. Take from the drug dealers as much business as you gave to them."

He murmured a prayer over the brothers, his Latin so soft and fast that even they couldn’t follow it. They took communion, and the card for a teen shelter that he gave them.

They knew he would call someone about Ma, but they watched from the stoop across the street just to be sure. The coroner's van came, and some police. They left before anyone could ask them any questions.

Comments

[dejectedmadness.livejournal.com]

"I don’t know why y'even started, Conn." He seemed so confused, so hurt as he said it. "You were fucken clean."

There was nothing Connor could say without sounding like it was all Murphy's fault, so they didn’t talk for the rest of the day.

This was terribly heartwrenching. Though I guess it really was all Murphy's fault, in a twisted way. Conner just wanted to have been there with him.

It felt like his soul was bleeding to death.

I particularly liked that sentence, though I don't know why. I guess it just conveyed the weight of the feeling, the weight of all the emotional pain. It definitely fits, about here.

He wasn’t sure there was enough money in all of Boston.

I'm not sure if this is an inconsistency.... You don't really mention when they move to Boston. If they have lived there since the beginning of the story, where did the Irish accents come from? I am not sure there's not something kind of wrong with this. Maybe clear it up for me a little?

They woke up one morning in early October and Ma was cold. She looked peaceful, even more than when the needle went in, and they were happy for her.

I liked this. No real reason. I just did.

Also, that is a damn long list of sins. Wowly crap.

[ladyjanelly.livejournal.com]

Yeah, Murphy's fault and the situation. Murphy just sorta found the only solution to two teenage boys getting that much money.

He wasn’t sure there was enough money in all of Boston.

I'm not sure if this is an inconsistency.... You don't really mention when they move to Boston. If they have lived there since the beginning of the story, where did the Irish accents come from? I am not sure there's not something kind of wrong with this. Maybe clear it up for me a little?

Gah. Your comment made me realize that Ch 1 was a slightly earlier version. In the one I posted on the BDS_fic community, there's a comment about it being their first year in an american school that they were split up for the first time. Sorry about that.

Even thought they're in the US geographicly, they only spend about 4 months going to an American school, and then it's back to their 100percent irish neighborhood that they dont ever really leave.

I always figured, watching the movie (back before I had the DVD with the extra scenes) that if they spoke so many languages they could probably drop the accents if they needed to, but kept them from a pride thing, a community thing.

Does that make better sense? Again, sorry for the earlier version thing.

that is a damn long list of sins. Wowly crap

Yeah. I had a long talk with a Catholic friend of mine. I was like "That's a sin too? Holy shit." That poor priest.

[yakkorat-fics.livejournal.com]

Re: Boston.

Anyone who has actually lived in Boston will not find this surprising. The Irish neighborhoods in Southie might as well be downtown Dublin. Just like the Italian sections are like stepping into Sicily. You have to remember that Boston is an immigrant city; it always has been. People in a new place band together. They raise their children in this little neighborhood and teach them to have pride in their original roots. My grandparents on my mother's side were both born in Italy. To this day I refer to myself as "second-generation American," as if the Italian heritage is what I really claim... (though I went to St. Patrick's Church all my life and St. Patrick's School and the whole bit... they weren't kidding: everybody's Irish in Boston, whether by blood or association. And Boston Harbor is dyed green every St. Patty's day.)

*sigh* Watching BDS always makes me homesick.

Love,
Julie-Rae