records of the world

The world revolves around simple news, simple plans, simple minds, simple motivations, simple words, simple marketing, and one simple notion.

What you don't know, can't hurt you.

And maybe it was Connor's motto ever since first hearing it, and first knowing, learning, realizing—following the inkling—that Murphy and him didn't have your normal brother-to-brother relationship. They've got the modified version. Something you do, in fact, wake up with, because it's under layers and hiding until it's there. I might be in love with you.

When you say simple, you mean point A, to point B. Straight line. No detours. No questions. You're not mentioning the "oh, by the way," or the, "but this could happen" side dishes. Your lips are sealed, your arms are open, and doesn't it look so simple, anyone could do it, even you.

The only thing about it is—when you're children? Who knows what the fuck you're thinking exactly. Exactly, it's Murphy sleeping next to Connor, so close his breath is Connor's breath, and his arms are tight around him. He has his own bed, you see, but Connor's feels warmer and softer and just right. And age perverts everything. Because then it's a kiss, a line crossed, and five years up from eight you're grinding hips under the covers and bumping faces because all you know is you need it.

Separation takes a toll. Takes a chunk out of you. It's only just a week, and you're eighteen, but feels like a year, and a day, and seven hours too long for you to realize, I need this person because it's something else.

Connor didn't feel the need to tell anyone. It wasn't a guilt taking the form of weight on his shoulders, weighing down, hovering, 'til he explodes in a confessional and eats his brain raw wondering why God would do such a thing. But it is guilt. And doesn't guilt just make everything ugly, and depraved, and wrong, and stones in your gut. It's not about knowing it's wrong, deep down. It's knowing everyone else thinks it's wrong, deep down.

Murphy says fuck it between the curls of grey from his cigarette, and Connor's got a new motto.

I condemn none other than my self and mine, who gives consent. Aren't we one. Let's fuck, kill bad men, and fade in purgatory until Fate we were bred on decides us.