“Mother Mary comes through again,” Connor replies, flexes his wrists until he can feel the blood rush back to them, working its way through his veins. Makes his way around again until they’re side by side, thigh by thigh, and raises hands that still feel unreal—like they belong to someone else—to touch Murphy’s face in the dark. He doesn’t need light for this, can trace a face dearer than his own with his mind alone, touch just an aid to memory. Presses a finger against the tender flesh of Murphy’s split lip and feels the familiar outrage that floods him still at the thought of being powerless to stop any harm that comes to him.
Murphy turns just a little into it, lips pulling back as he smiles, smooth enamel of his teeth against Connor’s fingers now, and he resists the urge to press between them. Now is not the time, he knows that rationally. Murphy lunges and catches his thumb before he can withdraw and presses into the curve of his cheek instead. Worries it just a little, blunt dent and press of his mouth that’s always wicked, and is practically indecent given the circumstances.
Blast from the past – codependent twincest with more than a little folie à deux thrown in for good measure. A+.