
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/60472.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Boondock_Saints_(1999)
  Relationship:
      Connor_MacManus/Murphy_MacManus
  Character:
      Connor_MacManus, Murphy_MacManus
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon
  Series:
      Part 5 of Already_Crazy
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-09-11 Words: 3216
****** Carnival Ride ******
by stewardess
Summary
     The MacManus brothers decide it's time they got drunk. Connor/Murphy,
     age fourteen.
"How much of it do we have to drink?" Murphy asked.
Connor held up the nearly empty whiskey bottle. "We should drink it all to be
sure."
"Put it in a jar or something."
Connor poured the whiskey into an empty, clean jar and screwed on a lid. "Let's
go outside and walk around. When's Ma getting back?"
Murphy shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Her friends are coming over, so she
won't notice we're gone."
They left the house at eight in the evening. It was late summer, still light
out until ten. They walked for half a mile before Connor unscrewed the lid of
the jar and took a gulp of whiskey.
"Fuck!" His face wrinkled up and he shuddered. He wiped his mouth on his
forearm. "Your turn."
Murphy held his breath while taking a sip. He coughed and most of it dribbled
down his chin.
"Ya didn't have as much as I did," Connor said. "Do it again."
Murphy swallowed it this time. The whiskey burned all the way down to his
stomach. He'd had sips of beer and wine, but never the hard stuff. Being drunk
must be really fun, if people drank this shite to get that way.
Getting thoroughly drunk was their plan. They had never been drunk, and it
seemed time. And Ma had somehow forgotten the existence of this particular
bottle of whiskey, maybe because it was so foul tasting. There was about a cup
of it left. Murphy hoped it was enough to make them drunk.
They walked, sipped, walked, sipped. Half an hour later, the whiskey was nearly
gone. They stopped so Connor could light a cigarette, lighting one for Murphy
at the same time. As usual, the cigarette made Murphy light-headed and giggly.
Connor dropped the empty jar into a bin. "Is it working for you yet? I feel
funny."
"Aye," Murphy said. He stepped into the street and fell on his arse.
Connor pointed at him and laughed, then fell over. Murphy crawled back up onto
the pavement, where there was a patch of grass, and Connor followed.
"I can't stand up," Murphy said. He giggled uncontrollably. His body felt
strange, like it was floating. That was the problem: gravity was broken, so he
couldn't walk.
On his hands and knees, Connor crawled. Murphy pursued him in the same fashion.
After twenty feet, they were able to stand. They leaned against the side of a
building for a minute or two.
Trying to walk down the street was like being on a carnival ride. It took them
more than an hour to stagger home.
Murphy felt a little better. He could walk in almost a straight line. They went
into the kitchen, which was packed with relations and people Ma knew from The
Anvil. Ignored by the adults, they grabbed food and drank Cokes, then used the
toilet and left again, walking to a small park. They lay down on the grass and
lit cigarettes.
"We're drunk," Connor said with satisfaction.
"Yeah." Murphy crossed his arms under his head and tried to smoke without using
his hands, holding the cigarette between his lips. Ash fell into his eyes, and
he sat up and flailed at himself.
He wondered how long being drunk would last. Should they drink more, just in
case?
"We should get something else to drink," Connor said.
They stood up and looked around. There was a pub nearby frequented by people so
old they barely even moved. Connor headed towards it and Murphy knew what he
was going to do, so he stayed close to him.
They entered the pub and went straight up to a table near the door. The old
couple sitting at it looked at them in astonishment. Connor picked up the man's
beer glass and Murphy picked up the woman's, which had more in it. They ran out
the door, spilling beer as they went.
They stopped sixty feet away and drank the beers down without pausing to take a
breath. It was heavy stuff, like Guinness. Connor hurled the empty glass into
the street, where it made a satisfying smash, and Murphy threw his as well.
They ran farther away from the pub, but no one came out after them.
They were more than a mile from home, and it was close to midnight, so they
finally headed back. Murphy felt fucking cool. They were drunk, they were out
late, and they were smoking cigarettes. When he turned to look at Connor,
Connor was already smirking at him.
When they were a couple of streets away from home, they stopped at another tiny
park, this one with a bench and a bronze statue of somebody famous and dead.
They sat down on the bench and lit what were likely to be their last cigarettes
of the night. Ma would beat them if they smoked in front of her.
"What are we going to do now?" Murphy said. Going home to bed seemed a letdown
after getting drunk for the first time. Too bad they weren't old enough to go
out to a club. That would be really cool: drinking with other people, listening
to music, dancing.
Connor stood, then looked up and down the street. "Let's streak."
Murphy choked on his cigarette smoke. "What do ya mean, streak?"
"Take off our clothes and run home, idjit. Streaking."
Murphy stared wide-eyed in surprise at Connor for a moment, then finally
laughed. "Fuck, yeah."
"We won't get caught," Connor said confidently.
They took everything off but their socks, then put their shoes back on. They
bundled up their clothes; they would have to carry them while they ran.
"Go!" Connor shouted.
Murphy staggered after him, laughing so hard he could barely take a step. But
then it felt good, running with nothing on, so he picked up speed. It turned
into a race, both of them running as fast as they could, trying to beat the
other.
Murphy couldn't stop laughing, thinking about the old ladies in the houses
lining the street. He waved up at the windows as they ran. "Hey! Look!" he
shouted. "We're fucken streaking!"
Running full out, they were home quickly. They stopped on the stairs, pulled
off their shoes, put on their jeans, then went inside the house. The place was
deserted: no Ma, no nothing. The party had moved elsewhere.
They drank more Cokes, had toast with butter and jam, then finished off a few
half empty drinks left on the kitchen table.
In their bedroom, Connor pushed the window open so they could lean out of it
and smoke cigarettes. Murphy wondered if any old ladies had seen them
streaking. He hoped they had.
Connor burst out laughing. "Their fucken faces."
Murphy pictured the surprised old man and woman in the pub and fell on the
floor, laughing. Connor fell on top of him and tickled him. Murphy punched
Connor on the arms and legs until Connor let him alone and retreated to his
bed.
Murphy lay on his back on the floor. The carnival ride was back. Only this
time, it wasn't feeling good. The floor was moving, the whole fucking room. He
groaned and rolled onto his side.
Connor knelt next to him. "What?"
"Make it stop turning." Murphy grabbed Connor's knee. Connor wasn't moving, so
that should make everything stop spinning. For a second it did, then Connor
started going around with him.
"Jesus fucken Christ. Oh God!" Murphy wailed.
Connor laughed uncertainly. "What's wrong with ya?"
Murphy tried to think of the words. Suddenly his body was drenched with sweat
and his mouth flooded with saliva. Connor stood up and dragged him into the
bathroom, where Murphy vomited into the bathtub. Then he vomited into the sink,
and finally the toilet.
Connor held his head while he retched. Murphy could feel a thick string of
saliva hanging out of his mouth, but he couldn't do a fucking thing about it.
Connor wiped his face with a towel while Murphy knelt in front of the toilet.
Connor flushed it, then cleaned up the bath and the sink.
"Fucken hell, Murph," Connor whispered while he rinsed everything off. He left
and returned with a tall glass of chocolate milk. Murphy shuddered, but drank
it down.
"Get in the bath," Connor said. He helped Murphy pull off his jeans, and Murphy
realized they were spattered with vomit. Connor pulled the rosary off over
Murphy's head, took off his own, undressed, and stood in the bath with him.
Using the jug Ma used to rinse her hair, Connor poured hot water over Murphy,
then refilled the jug and drenched himself.
Murphy was still shivering. "I'm never doing this again," he vowed. Even after
vomiting, he felt drunk. Abruptly, he sat down in the bath. Better to sit down
than to fall down. The bath felt fucking freezing on his arse.
Connor sat down and kept pouring hot water over him. He closed his eyes so
water wouldn't get in them, not opening them until Connor stopped pouring water
on his head, only onto his body.
Every once in a while, Connor poured water over himself, then went back to
drenching Murphy. Murphy was glad Connor hadn't put the stopper in the drain.
If he saw any bits of vomit floating in bath water, he was sure he would puke
again.
He had a sense of déjà vu, then he realized this was the first time in years he
and Connor had been in the bath together.
It was fucking cramped. Their knees were touching, and Connor must have the tap
sticking into his back. Connor's sun-darkened skin contrasted with the white
porcelain of the bath, and his face was full of concentration as he refilled
the jug over and over.
Connor had underarm hair, arm hair, leg hair, and even chest hair. There was
hair running from his bellybutton down to his pubic hair, which was dark brown,
the same color as all of his body hair.
Murphy still didn't have a single fucking hair on his chest, though he had
underarm hair and pubic hair. But he didn't look anything like the eight-year-
old who had last shared a bath with Connor.
He stopped shivering. Connor looked at him questioningly, asking him if they
were done. When Murphy nodded, Connor stood up, turned around to reach for
towels, and Murphy averted his eyes. Connor's thighs and arse were right in his
face. He didn't look eight-years-old anymore, either.
They stepped out of the bath and dried off with towels thankfully free of
vomit, brushed their teeth, then returned to their bedroom.
When Murphy lay down, he almost cried. His bed was spinning.
"Connor!" he called out. "I'm still sick."
Connor got on the bed with him, so Murphy moved to give him room.
It wasn't fucking fair. When he had thrown up in the past, he always felt
better afterwards. And things had never spun around like this. It was the most
horrible feeling ever. He wanted to die.
"Lie on yer side," Connor said. "Does that help?"
Murphy tried it. "Maybe." He felt Connor touch his back, scratching it lightly,
and realized they were both still naked. But he didn't care. And they had just
fucking streaked anyway.
He rolled onto his back and put his hands on his stomach. "It hurts."
Connor put a hand on his belly and rubbed in slow circles. "That okay?"
"Aye," Murphy breathed.
Connor's hand was cool and dry, moving lightly over his skin. He closed his
eyes. As long as he concentrated on Connor's hand, he was fine. It was as if
Connor's hand held him still, kept him from spinning.
He sighed in relief, but said nothing because he didn't want Connor to stop. He
could feel Connor's knees touching his legs, and Connor's breath on his cheek.
"How come ya didn't get sick?" Murphy said.
"Must be cause I came out first."
Murphy laughed weakly at the old argument.
Being drunk was weird. At first he had been full of a strange energy. Now he
felt floaty again, but also heavy, the way he felt when he was lying in the
bath while the water slowly drained away.
"You can stop if ya want," Murphy said.
"I'm not tired," Connor said. He turned off the lights, then moved to the other
side of Murphy so he could switch hands.
Murphy's brain was foggy, but even so he could tell Connor's hand felt
different.
Connor had scratched and rubbed his back many times, and it always felt good.
Now his twin's touch felt strange.
The circle Connor's hand made got bigger and bigger, up high on Murphy's chest,
down low under his bellybutton. Every time the circle widened, Murphy felt
himself get shivery, but a good shivery, not like being sick.
He spread his arms and legs out and tilted his head back, but there wasn't
enough room on the bed. He had to slide one arm under Connor's neck, and one
leg under Connor's legs.
When Connor's hand went higher, over his nipples, he shuddered.
He was suddenly aware of Connor next to him, breathing slow and hard. Why was
Connor still rubbing him? Why were his hands moving so slow—both of Connor's
hands now—over his chest, his nipples, down low over his belly, but not low
enough?
Not fucken low enough.
Connor's hands were setting off the strangest feeling in him, like Connor was
touching him everywhere at once. Without him willing it, his body moved up
against Connor's hands, and he made pitiful sounds. Every stroke of Connor's
hands intensified the feeling, made it build and surge through him. His eyes
were closed, but he could still see Connor, see his tanned lean thighs as he
stood up in the bath.
It was fucking weird. It must be happening because he was drunk.
Connor's hand swept up slowly over his chest then down, lower and lower,
grazing the top of his pubic hair. Then Connor's hand stopped moving, only his
fingertips touching Murphy's pubic hair.
Murphy started to tremble, even though his body felt too heavy to move. Touch
me there, Connor. Fucken touch me. Please. He held his breath, and Connor's
hand slid down. Cool fingertips brushed his cock.
It felt amazing. He gasped loudly and tried to stifle the sound. If he was
quiet, Connor wouldn't think about what he was doing, and keep doing it.
Connor's hand wrapped around his cock. When had it gotten so hard?
His breath shuddered out. Connor was half lying on him, his face directly over
Murphy's, studying him.
"Feel better now?" Connor whispered.
Murphy groaned. Just wait until I do it to you, you bastard. Then you won't be
so fucken smug. He bit Connor's chin and panted.
Connor's face was full of concentration again while his hand moved on Murphy's
cock. Murphy tugged his arm and leg out from under Connor and gripped him. If
he didn't feel all of Connor, he was going to fucking explode.
All of a sudden Connor was lying on top of Murphy, kissing him, licking his
face and neck. Murphy jerked his body upward, moving his cock in Connor's hand.
The fog in his mind changed to cloudy euphoria. Connor moved down him, kissing
and licking his chest, his stomach, his pubic hair, his thighs. He was sure
Connor wouldn't do it right up until the moment he felt Connor's mouth on his
cock.
His mind stopped and ecstasy took over. Connor's mouth was warm and tight and
wet on him, Connor's hands were on his belly, rubbing. He forgot to be quiet.
He cried out, his fingers moving in Connor's hair, stroking it, pulling it. It
wasn't fair that Connor was too far away for him to touch. He reached with his
hands and demanded, "Connor!"
Connor slid up and kissed his mouth, his hand back on Murphy's cock. Murphy
twisted against him until Connor lay on top of him again. He had to feel Connor
like this when it happened. He opened his mouth so Connor could lick it.
Connor was lying on him, his chest resting on Murphy's. Both his hands were
moving. He was fisting his own cock at the same time, right up against Murphy.
He could feel the wet tip of Connor's cock against his thigh.
"Connor," Murphy half croaked, half howled. His body jerked and trembled,
Connor's hand controlling his world until the white-hot jolt roared through
him, out of him, all over Connor's hand.
===============================================================================
Murphy opened his eyes, which felt full of dirt. He blinked over and over, but
the feeling didn't go away. He got out of bed, surprised to find himself naked,
pulled on briefs, and went to the bathroom. He pissed, flushed the toilet, then
drank gallons and gallons of water out of the tap.
He went back into the bedroom. Connor rolled over and looked at him, his face
wide awake considering they had stayed up most of the night and got drunk for
the first time.
Everything rushed back. Murphy's knees trembled and he sat on his bed, then
pulled the covers up over himself, his eyes not leaving Connor.
"Ya still feel sick?" Connor said.
Murphy shook his head and groaned at the pounding that resulted. "Head hurts.
That's all."
"Ya were really sick last night," Connor said.
"Lucky I don't remember it." Murphy lay flat on his bed and closed his eyes.
Connor had fucking kissed him. He didn't know why, but that scared him more
than anything else they had done. He felt a sick shiver go down his spine as he
recalled the fervor of Connor's mouth on him, the way Connor's mouth had loved
him.
"Yeah. Lucky for you," Connor said. His voice was dull and thick.
I remember every second, Murphy cried silently. I'll never forget it. He kept
his eyes closed. Don't let me fucken lie to you. Make me stop. He didn't open
his eyes even when he felt Connor get on his bed with him.
Connor's fingers lightly touched his face. What the fuck was Connor doing? Why
was he touching him like this, so slow, so soft?
"You said the floor was spinning," Connor said. "You threw up all over. I
washed you off. You got into bed, and I rubbed yer stomach until you went to
sleep."
Relief flooded Murphy. Connor knew he remembered everything, but was going to
let him pretend so they didn't have to talk about it, think about it.
"Sorry ya had to clean up after me," Murphy said. Connor's hand came to rest on
his forehead.
"It's my fault," Connor said. "It was my idea to get drunk. You've got nothing
to be sorry for." His tone was final.
"I don't care if it was yer fucken idea or not," Murphy said. "I wanted to get
drunk as much as you did. So shut the fuck up so we can sleep."
Connor said nothing more, and after a while his breathing changed. He was
asleep.
Murphy knew he understood. I wanted it as much as you did. Wanted your hand,
your mouth, on my cock. Wanted you to kiss me. Wanted everything.
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