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On a note of no importance, I'm eating Raisinets.
So here's my third attempt at writing a good-length BDS fic. No, the previous two haven't seen the light of day yet. I started writing this one for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre's 'water' challenge, but went way over the time limit. Also, it turned out to be gen. So there went that.
But first, 'cos it's shorter: Downward Slope. BDS drabble I wrote for contre's 'earth' challenge, which also turned out to be gen.
Mmmkay!
Title: 3000 Miles to Graceland
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The fic has nothing to do with the movie I stole (possibly ill-advisedly) the title from. Neither Elvis nor Memphis make an appearance in. While we're at it, Connor and Murphy McManus are the creations of Troy Duffy.
Summary: Big movements and small movements and Ireland in isolated moments.
-
3000 Miles to Graceland
Jesus could walk on water, and He was the only man Connor knew of who could. This was the kind of thoughts that ran through his head sometimes when he found himself down by the waterfront. Thoughts of stepping onto the Atlantic and walking straight across the water back to Ireland.
Connor and Murphy were almost six feet tall. One afternoon during a heat wave in July, when Murphy lay on his back on the floor with his shirt off, Connor walked the length of floor beside him and discovered he could cover six feet in two steps.
"How many feet are there in a mile?" Connor asked, and Murphy didn't know. "How many miles from here to Ireland?"
"Three thousand," Murphy replied. "Thinking of home?"
Connor smiled a vague and distant smile. "But we are home, aren't we."
+
There are 5280 feet in a mile, 2989 miles between Boston and Dublin and, "Murph, we're five-million two-hundred sixty-thousand, and six-hundred forty footsteps away from home."
They were at McGinty's, slouched over a corner table where the lighting was worst and the tabletops were stickiest. It was not one of the bar's more outgoing nights although Connor wouldn't have minded the loud voices and drunken idiocy. Connor and Murphy were different but the same, as twins were, and one of the things that made them the same was their love for movement. Not necessary traveling, because Connor lost love for that sort of thing when they came to America and the motion sickness had him vomiting for most of the way. Connor liked smaller movements. A waving hand, an unopened bottle flying through the air, or loud laughter among lights that alcohol and a quixotic love for everything made too bright.
"Five million?" said Murphy. He looked at the pencil in Connor's hand, then at the scribbles on the napkin. "What's this?"
Connor shrugged. "Just some numbers. I was thinking. Isn't anything else to do."
Murphy picked up the napkin and skimmed over the calculations, amused. "Home is where the heart is, Connor, dontcha know?"
"Where is your heart?"
"San Francisco."
Connor snorted. "You're full of shit."
"Aye," said Murphy, and held his bottle up for a toast.
"To Murphy's shit," said Connor. They clinked bottles. "Jesus."
"What?"
"D'you know that was the first time I'd done maths in ten years?"
They traded blank looks, at a loss for a reaction to such a revelation. Murphy was the first to grin. Connor reciprocated with a wider grin. Then there were tipsy giggles escalating into laughter, and they were rendered helpless by it as they slumped over the tabletop, or threw their heads back, or just looked at each other and got high on whatever it was that manifested whenever good friends get together. The entire scope of things boiled down to movements that are not so big, but are perhaps more grand.
+
"So you want to go back to Ireland."
"What?"
"Well, you've been talking about it--"
"I haven't."
"Ever since we set foot in Boston."
"I've not been talking about Ireland, what are you on?"
"Sure you have," said Murphy.
"Why are you suddenly asking me this?"
"Because you were looking at the sea."
"A man can't look at the sea?"
"A man can look at whatever he wants."
Late afternoon brought thinner light and cooler breezes. The two of them were down by the water again, the water on one side and Boston on the other as they leaned against the railing. Murphy was right, but Murphy was also wrong. Connor wasn't just looking at the sea, he was looking at something beyond it. Something beyond him and behind him at the same time.
"Hmm," was all Connor said.
Murphy started talking about the weather, an uncharacteristic mundanity for both of them. Neither seemed to mind. Murphy said it looked like it would be a clear night though he doubted they'd be able to see stars, what with all the lights in Boston and such. Connor nodded, and said yes, agreeing.
+
It was rare that it happened, but when it happened, it wasn't questioned or turned away: they would end up sleeping on the same mattress, sometimes side by side and sometimes with their shoulders overlapping and their legs tangled. Murphy kicked in his sleep but Connor hogged the blankets, so they were both justified when they cursed at each other whenever one woke the other up.
There were no curses tonight. Murphy was already half-asleep and just beginning to drool on the mattress, but Connor didn't notice. On his back with one hand behind his head, Connor talked into the darkness.
In his head, the streets back home were always a rain-slicked dark grey, spattered with puddles. The sky was off-white after the rain, with thin hints of blue that peeked through the clouds, and the air was cool and damp. There would hardly be anyone about. Just a row of identical, boxy housing bordering a street that seemed to stretch forever both ways, because Connor couldn't remember what lay at the end of them anymore. Specifically, he remembered one spring afternoon exactly like this, with the rain lifting only ten minutes prior, and he and Murphy walking on the pavement, on their way to the livelier part of town.
Seemingly out of the blue, Murphy had said, "What do you think of America?"
"America."
"Aye."
Connor shrugged. "I like the movies."
"What do you think of moving to America?"
"Moving?"
"Aye."
Back at the flat in Boston, Connor suddenly found himself cut off in mid-ramble by Murphy's hand over his mouth.
"...htp," said Murphy.
Connor's muffled reply sounded like, "What?"
"Just... shut up," said Murphy. "Fuckin'… shut up, a’right?" He patted Connor's mouth as if giving him a pat on the back. "Fucking talking, and… maths, and... shut fucking up, fucking sleep." He patted Connor's mouth again. "Else I'll kick you out of bed."
Murphy rolled away, and his breathing deepened and slowed until there was no doubt that he was asleep. Murphy was always the first to fall asleep. Connor followed a few minutes later, as he always did, and the last thoughts in his mind were of three thousand miles of sea and the only big movement that he suspects might still mean something.
[end.]
* Jeeves told me the distance between Boston and Dublin. Jeeves is truly mighty.
* Yes, you did see an allusion to 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco', but you don't need me to tell you that. :)
contrelamontre's 'water' challenge, but went way over the time limit. Also, it turned out to be gen. So there went that.But first, 'cos it's shorter: Downward Slope. BDS drabble I wrote for contre's 'earth' challenge
Mmmkay!
Title: 3000 Miles to Graceland
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The fic has nothing to do with the movie I stole (possibly ill-advisedly) the title from. Neither Elvis nor Memphis make an appearance in. While we're at it, Connor and Murphy McManus are the creations of Troy Duffy.
Summary: Big movements and small movements and Ireland in isolated moments.
3000 Miles to Graceland
Jesus could walk on water, and He was the only man Connor knew of who could. This was the kind of thoughts that ran through his head sometimes when he found himself down by the waterfront. Thoughts of stepping onto the Atlantic and walking straight across the water back to Ireland.
Connor and Murphy were almost six feet tall. One afternoon during a heat wave in July, when Murphy lay on his back on the floor with his shirt off, Connor walked the length of floor beside him and discovered he could cover six feet in two steps.
"How many feet are there in a mile?" Connor asked, and Murphy didn't know. "How many miles from here to Ireland?"
"Three thousand," Murphy replied. "Thinking of home?"
Connor smiled a vague and distant smile. "But we are home, aren't we."
+
There are 5280 feet in a mile, 2989 miles between Boston and Dublin and, "Murph, we're five-million two-hundred sixty-thousand, and six-hundred forty footsteps away from home."
They were at McGinty's, slouched over a corner table where the lighting was worst and the tabletops were stickiest. It was not one of the bar's more outgoing nights although Connor wouldn't have minded the loud voices and drunken idiocy. Connor and Murphy were different but the same, as twins were, and one of the things that made them the same was their love for movement. Not necessary traveling, because Connor lost love for that sort of thing when they came to America and the motion sickness had him vomiting for most of the way. Connor liked smaller movements. A waving hand, an unopened bottle flying through the air, or loud laughter among lights that alcohol and a quixotic love for everything made too bright.
"Five million?" said Murphy. He looked at the pencil in Connor's hand, then at the scribbles on the napkin. "What's this?"
Connor shrugged. "Just some numbers. I was thinking. Isn't anything else to do."
Murphy picked up the napkin and skimmed over the calculations, amused. "Home is where the heart is, Connor, dontcha know?"
"Where is your heart?"
"San Francisco."
Connor snorted. "You're full of shit."
"Aye," said Murphy, and held his bottle up for a toast.
"To Murphy's shit," said Connor. They clinked bottles. "Jesus."
"What?"
"D'you know that was the first time I'd done maths in ten years?"
They traded blank looks, at a loss for a reaction to such a revelation. Murphy was the first to grin. Connor reciprocated with a wider grin. Then there were tipsy giggles escalating into laughter, and they were rendered helpless by it as they slumped over the tabletop, or threw their heads back, or just looked at each other and got high on whatever it was that manifested whenever good friends get together. The entire scope of things boiled down to movements that are not so big, but are perhaps more grand.
+
"So you want to go back to Ireland."
"What?"
"Well, you've been talking about it--"
"I haven't."
"Ever since we set foot in Boston."
"I've not been talking about Ireland, what are you on?"
"Sure you have," said Murphy.
"Why are you suddenly asking me this?"
"Because you were looking at the sea."
"A man can't look at the sea?"
"A man can look at whatever he wants."
Late afternoon brought thinner light and cooler breezes. The two of them were down by the water again, the water on one side and Boston on the other as they leaned against the railing. Murphy was right, but Murphy was also wrong. Connor wasn't just looking at the sea, he was looking at something beyond it. Something beyond him and behind him at the same time.
"Hmm," was all Connor said.
Murphy started talking about the weather, an uncharacteristic mundanity for both of them. Neither seemed to mind. Murphy said it looked like it would be a clear night though he doubted they'd be able to see stars, what with all the lights in Boston and such. Connor nodded, and said yes, agreeing.
+
It was rare that it happened, but when it happened, it wasn't questioned or turned away: they would end up sleeping on the same mattress, sometimes side by side and sometimes with their shoulders overlapping and their legs tangled. Murphy kicked in his sleep but Connor hogged the blankets, so they were both justified when they cursed at each other whenever one woke the other up.
There were no curses tonight. Murphy was already half-asleep and just beginning to drool on the mattress, but Connor didn't notice. On his back with one hand behind his head, Connor talked into the darkness.
In his head, the streets back home were always a rain-slicked dark grey, spattered with puddles. The sky was off-white after the rain, with thin hints of blue that peeked through the clouds, and the air was cool and damp. There would hardly be anyone about. Just a row of identical, boxy housing bordering a street that seemed to stretch forever both ways, because Connor couldn't remember what lay at the end of them anymore. Specifically, he remembered one spring afternoon exactly like this, with the rain lifting only ten minutes prior, and he and Murphy walking on the pavement, on their way to the livelier part of town.
Seemingly out of the blue, Murphy had said, "What do you think of America?"
"America."
"Aye."
Connor shrugged. "I like the movies."
"What do you think of moving to America?"
"Moving?"
"Aye."
Back at the flat in Boston, Connor suddenly found himself cut off in mid-ramble by Murphy's hand over his mouth.
"...htp," said Murphy.
Connor's muffled reply sounded like, "What?"
"Just... shut up," said Murphy. "Fuckin'… shut up, a’right?" He patted Connor's mouth as if giving him a pat on the back. "Fucking talking, and… maths, and... shut fucking up, fucking sleep." He patted Connor's mouth again. "Else I'll kick you out of bed."
Murphy rolled away, and his breathing deepened and slowed until there was no doubt that he was asleep. Murphy was always the first to fall asleep. Connor followed a few minutes later, as he always did, and the last thoughts in his mind were of three thousand miles of sea and the only big movement that he suspects might still mean something.
[end.]
* Jeeves told me the distance between Boston and Dublin. Jeeves is truly mighty.
* Yes, you did see an allusion to 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco', but you don't need me to tell you that. :)
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Sigh. I suspect I'm going to have to find the canon to go with this, eventually.
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Dude, that's my story with The OC. I was in the US the summer they showed the teaser ads, but I was gone before I ever saw an episode. (Also: I knew it was going to be a popular slashy fandom, I just knew.) So yeah, thanks for reading it anyway :). I'm please you like it.
Eee!
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I especially liked the "A man can look at whatever he wants." line.
You're one of the few people, I think, who makes me enjoy reading gen. Though that could be because something in the way you write makes it sound like it's all about to become slash at any moment. *grin*
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Haha! I'm a sucker for gen of the "MAYBE it is but PROBABLY it's not but LOOK WHAT THEY JUST DID GUH" variety, and I guess it shows in my writing sometimes. :) Chemistry and tension, gotta love 'em.
I'm glad you enjoyed them! Thanks.
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Score! I knew those one-handed push-ups would pay off one day.
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They traded blank looks, at a loss for a reaction to such a revelation.
I adore that whole paragraph, it's just perfection.
Although, at the same time, I hate it, because it makes me want to go and rip up every word I've ever written, because it's not worthy to share the same genre space as stuff like this.
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*offers chocolates*
...:-)?
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~sighs at own writing~ meh.
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