staring down the sun

[1] how could you realize?

He's just as stubborn as his brother, that's for sure. He'd sit there silently for the whole hour if he could, just out of spite. But Connor can't keep his mouth shut, even when he wants to. Blame it on his natural charisma. And just when it seems like he's about to be honest, he smiles and says something in another language, followed by that annoyingly contagious laugh.

It's the same routine during every session. Someone sure had a sense of humor when they ordered mandated therapy for the MacManus brothers. Still, their therapist, Elena, remains persistent when faced with their resistance.

"How are you feeling today, Connor?" she asks as he settles in his chair at the opposite end of the table.

He scoffs and seems to lose himself in a memory. Connor shifts his body, clad in the navy blue prisoner scrubs that ironically complement his blue eyes. "Real men hide their feelings," he says matter-of-factly with his thick Irish accent.

Elena takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the patience needed to deal with Connor's shit. "Why is that?"

A cunning smile spreads across his face. Typical. "So we can get shit done."

"Like murder criminals." Her response is so blunt, almost clinical, and Connor has the gall to look offended. It's not the first time Elena has brought up what he does...what he did before finally getting arrested. She's looked at the brothers' respective files, seen the news reports, and knows why they kill. What she doesn't know is what's underneath the surface, what Connor and Murphy feel deep down, beyond spiritual calling.

His voice is low, poetic. "Destroy all that which is evil—"

"—so that which is good shall flourish." Elena finishes his statement like she's rehearsed it with him too many times. Feeling slightly miffed, she flips open her hardbound notebook. "I know, Connor. You heard it from God."

He lays the hurt on heavy in his Irish accent. "And ye don't believe me."

She shoots her eyes up at him. "I never said that. I think there's a psychological reason in there, too." His accusation gets under her skin enough to tense every muscle in her back. Finally, she finds the page: notes on Catholicism, various verses Connor referenced, and a sketch of the rosary he's occasionally allowed to have during therapy.

It's not the only drawing Elena has hidden in those pages: a drawing of both Connor and Murphy when they sat silently for the entire first and only session they did together. What else was she supposed to do? She asked a couple of questions here and there, but they held their tongues like they had some incredible superpower in each other's presence. After that, she told the warden she had to do her sessions with the MacManus brothers separately.

"What do ye have against my religion?"

She rolls her eyes. "Connor, I'm Catholic too, remember? Born and raised. I also understand that our brains work in mysterious ways."

He pauses and then smiles warmly. "Our hearts, too." He pats his chest with his left hand, the tattoo along his index finger perfectly aligned to read veritas.

"True..." The word slides out of her mouth and morphs into a chuckle as she realizes she's subconsciously translating Connor's tattoo in a sense. Connor grins, still holding his hand over his heart. But as touching as this moment is, Elena lets her psychoanalytical side speak up again. It's her job...she has to ask hard questions. "But real men hide their feelings, right?"

His face falls a bit, and he puffs his chest out as if putting his armor back on for battle. "We have to."

"No, you don't. If anything, real men show their feelings." She presses her lips together, a part of her wanting to avoid the suggestion just as much as Connor wants to avoid his feelings. "I think you're afraid to let anyone in."

He looks away with a furrowed brow as he brushes off the statement. "I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it. But you're trying to take care of everyone else, too, yeah?"

Connor shakes his head. "Not Murph. He can take care of himself."

"You two take care of each other."

"Aye. That's what brothers do."

Yes, Connor and Murphy are fraternal twins, and their mother took the answer of which boy was born first to her grave. But something in Connor made him seem like the older brother, and not just by a few minutes. He was the thinker, the planner, even before their killing spree as the Saints of Boston. Almost like he had to live up to the meaning of his Irish given name: wise.

Elena has to choose her following words carefully and hopefully get Connor to see he's carrying more on his shoulders than he'd like to admit. She opens her mouth, but the words fail to form.

He stares at her, his blue eyes worn and despondent. "Ní bheidh tú a thuiscint," Connor mumbles in Irish, the foreign words leaving his mouth without the usual hint of snark.

You'll never understand.

The air hangs heavy between them, and he drops his gaze to his fidgeting hands in his lap.

"Ansin cabhrú liom a thuiscint," Elena softly retorts back in Irish.

Then help me understand.

Connor's eyes widen, and his cheeks instantly blush. The therapist smiles. "And what was it you said last week in Spanish? That you'll be out of here before I can break you?" Elena lowers her voice teasingly, also in Spanish. "I will break you, Connor."

He rubs his face as if trying to wipe away the embarrassment. "Fuck me. Does Murph know?"

Elena narrows her eyes. "Not if you can keep a secret."

Connor pretends to zip his lips, but they curl up to bear a boyish grin. He can't keep his mouth shut; Murphy will know the instant Connor returns to their cell.

The thought of it stirs Elena, and she leans forward, her arms resting on the cold metal table that separates them. "Do you have any secrets from Murphy?"

He pauses, his face twisting in contemplation. "I wouldn't call them secrets...just shit that he doesn't know."

"And you won't tell him."

Connor shrugs his broad shoulders. "I will if it comes up." He takes a long, deep breath. "But there's not much he doesn't already know."

"Being as close as you are, I'd imagine it's pretty hard to keep anything from each other."

He twists his mouth, his voice pleading without rising in volume. "Just once, I want something that's mine and not ours, ye know?"

The confession surprises her and intrigues her. "What do you want, Connor?"

He swallows hard as he stares intently at Elena. She feels the blood rush into her cheeks, and she's unsure if it's from the sheer weight of Connor's gaze or from the fear that she's opened up Pandora's box and Connor's heart will spill out in front of her.

He opens his mouth, but the secured door behind him buzzes open with an armed guard stepping in. Time's up. Connor still can't say anything as the guard handcuffs him, but Elena assures him it's okay. "I'll see you next week."