[chanting] twins twins twins

[bluebaron]

Eight Hundred BDS Words

Connor doesn’t remember much except the suspension ropes being cut and falling flat on his face.

“Hey, Conn,” and that sounds like Murphy, so Connor figures he must be hallucinating. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re alright now, I got ye,” and there are arms around him, and another set of hands on his ankles, and he sinks back into darkness, figuring it’s better if he stays unconscious as long as he can before they start in on him again.

The next thing he knows is someone saying “Connor?” That’s Murph’s voice, sounding like it’s filtered through several layers of cloth. “Connor, can you hear me?”

Connor can’t move. His limbs -- hell, his eyes even -- won’t respond properly. “Murph,” he tries to say. Finally, he forces his eyelids open just a bit, and yes, it’s Murph’s worried face above him. The shaking around them is apparently not just his fucked up brain and body, because he can see Roméo’s Jesus bobblehead figurine out of the corner of his eye. “Where’re we goin’?”

“Shh,” Murph says. “You’re safe. We’re almost there.”

“‘Kay,” Connor mumbles, and just as he falls back into a dreamless nothing he realizes Murph hasn’t answered his question.

The next time he wakes up he’s still lost and confused, but at least he’s no longer in a car being bumped about. Instead he’s on -- a couch? Something soft, with a back, and he doesn’t hurt quite so much. “Murph?” he croaks, and fuck does his voice sound broken. “Murph!” he calls louder, suddenly terrified he’s hallucinated the whole thing.

“Shh, I’m here,” and then Murphy is at Connor’s side, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “You’re safe now, Conn. No need for that.” He covers Connor’s hand with his own, careful not to agitate any of the injuries.

He makes a move to stand up, and Connor squeezes his hand tight. “No,” he says hoarsely. “No, don’t leave,” because he’s sure if Murphy disappears from his line of sight he won’t come back.

Murph settles back down. “Okay, Conn. I’m staying.” He makes eye contact with someone Connor can’t see, then says, “I’ll be here as long as ye need.”

That’s comforting enough for Connor to shut his eyes again.

This waking is less painful than the last, but his body hurts. There’s a dull ache everywhere, punctuated by a different, sharper pain in certain areas, notably his ribs, because that produces a hiss of pain when he tries to shift.

The noise startles Murph -- Murph? Shit, his brother had been asleep, sitting on the floor with his head leaning against the side of Connor’s bed-couch, fingers loosely entwined with Connor’s. “Wha’? Conn?” Murphy blinks awake. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, and he’s surprisingly coherent now. “Didn’t mean to wake ye.”

“Nah, ‘s fine,” Murphy says, and helps him sit up enough so he can drink the glass of water Roméo brings.

“Hi, Rom’,” Connor says, dully.

“Hey, Connor,” Roméo says, and touches Murph’s shoulder as he whispers something into his ear.

Connor wants to protest, wants to tell Roméo that Murphy is his, but he suddenly realizes how dry his mouth is. “Murph,” he rasps, trying to reach for the water.

“Shit,” Murphy says, and hands it to Connor. “Drink.”

He takes a sip, and almost throws up. “Fuck,” he says, unable to muster any sort of emotion or tone. “Why?”

“You’re dehydrated,” Murphy tells him. “Now drink up.”

“Don’t wanna,” Connor says, and he’s aware that he sounds like a petulant child but right now he doesn’t care.

“You gotta,” Murphy says, shifting so he can hold Connor closer. Connor curls into it until the strain on his abused ribs is too much. For once he feels like the younger twin, with Murph holding him and gently coaxing him to drink water.

“Have you done water?” Connor asks, trying to put off taking another sip.

“I’m fine.”

"Not what I asked,” Connor says.

“I’m taking care of myself,” Murphy says. “And if I’m not Rom’ will bug me about it. Don’t worry about me.”

“So you haven’t eaten.” Connor knows the evasion tricks Murph likes, and knows how to counter them.

Murph sighs. “No,” he admits, “I haven’t eaten.” There’s a pause, and then, “And I won’t, until you drink all that water.”

Connor twists to look up at him. “Bastard,” he says, but manages another swallow of water.

“Mm.” Murphy is unrepentant, smiling at Connor with a quiet gentleness he usually reserves for plants and insects -- and Connor.

Connor sits and drinks, and finally he stops gagging every time he takes a sip. Murphy is warm against his side and back, fingers gently tracing over Connor’s skin, until Connor tips his head back to drain the glass. “You better eat something,” he warns. “Roméo will kill you if you don’t.”

“Alright,” Murphy says. He drops a kiss into Connor’s hair, and helps him lay back down. “We’ll get you clean after that.”