Title: Progression

Author: Sinhe Fandom: BDS

Pairing: Connor/Murphy

Rating: PG-13? Something?

Warnings: Twincest. Slash. Yes, this has two twins, two male twins, feeling lust and love towards each other. Be warned! I know this doesn't float everyone's boat, so don't read it if you don't like it,

Disclaimer: Yeah, this didn't happen. Plus, I don't own anything either.

Summary: A progression of events.

Notes: For the hidden-orange-stain challenge (from contrelamontre).

i. – Age: 13

As brothers, as twins, they try not to share everything. People think they do, that they should, but some things need to remain hidden. Some don't need to be said. Some shouldn't be said.
Murphy never told Connor why he got beaten up that one time at the end of seventh grade. Murphy had been leaving the classroom. He has slung his dirty yellow backpack over one shoulder, and had trotted outside to meet Connor. A group of eighth grade boys had snickered as he passed, shooting him dirty glances. Abruptly, Murphy stopped walking, glaring right back at them.
"You got a problem?" He asked them, one hand casually digging into a pants pocket.
"Naw," One of them had said, "We got a question. 'S it true you and your brother're fags?" The boy had giggled, and looked over at his friends. Looked to them for approval. They snorted and laughed. Murphy had stared at them in silence. Then another spoke up.
"So, what's it like, huh? Fuckin' your brother, I mean." Murphy hadn't said anything in reply; he'd just launched himself forward, arms flailing and punching, his voice jumping a few octaves as he screeched in anger. The odds weren't in his favor, but he didn't care. Honor was at stake here. His, and more importantly, his brother's. When he had met up with Connor, lip bleeding and eye swelling, he had shrugged off all explanations. It was better to keep some things to yourself.

ii. – Age: 19

When they have oranges, Murphy always asks Connor to peel his for him. Murphy's fingers are clumsy and blunt; his nails are always too short. Connor's hands are nimble, agile. He often forgets to cut his fingernails, giving his fingers purchase on the pebbly rind of the orange. Murphy watches him. It's half the fun of having oranges in the first place. Connor starts at the top, delicately sinking a fingernail into the skin, peeling away the edge. Murphy sits next to him, head propped up on the palm of his hand. He's just staring intently at Connors hands, watching the way they bend, the play of tendons, the tightening and slacking of peachy skin. He's watching him bare the naked orange, skin covering a layer of orange pulp. Connor holds the peeled orange in one hand, throwing the discarded rind over his shoulder. He splits the orange in half, and pulls one section away, stuffing it into his mouth. Murphy blinks, rising from his reverie. "Hey! Tha's my orange! You have your own!" Connor grins at him, still chewing. "Interest," Connor replies, as he wipes dripping juice from his lips. Murphy scowls at him. Connor just licks his fingers.

iii. – Age: 25

It's always Murphy who needs to move about, he's the restless one. His body reeks of movement, unspent and unused. He twitches, his legs jiggle constantly. His hands wander over his face, winding though his hair, scratching his chin, finding their way between his teeth. His head never stays in one place, always looking over his shoulder or out the window or at his feet. He gets up, paces, sits down again. Shifts in his chair.
His knuckles are almost always scabbed over. The stains on the walls are from his punches. Smudged blood, a dark reddish-brown. There are always leftover bruises. The yellow around his eye from the bar fight last week. The cut across one cheek, a scrape on his arm. A mouth- shaped bruise, complete with teeth, where his neck meets shoulder. He's vibrating silently in his chair, staring out the window to the cloudy sky and the city covered in mist. He looks up briefly as the door behind him opens, and then shuts quietly. He turns back to the window, one hand pinching and pulling at his bottom lip, and the other drumming a beat onto his thigh. He can hear shuffling going on behind him: the 'fridge opening and closing, the clink of empty bottle being shuffled around, an almost imperceptible sigh. He fidgets, leaning forward, picking at his scabbed knuckles, and cleaning the dirt out from under his nails. He gasps, sucking in breath, as two cold hands slide under his loose black shirt, and trail across his back. Fingernails drag against his sides, and he sits up, wriggling in his chair. Lips find his neck, pressing softly against slightly salty skin. As the fingers scratch up his chest, and teeth sink into his neck, he can feel the warmth of the body behind him. He presses against that warmth, murmuring quietly, unintelligibly. "Hey there," says the voice behind him. The words smile at him. Murphy leans farther back, scabbed hands reaching behind him to grasp at the head against his neck, fingers digging into silky hair, pulling the other man forward. Their lips meet; Murphy sinks his teeth into them, before pulling back. "Hey yourself, Brother," he replies, and laughs.