Memory is a Catholic Thing

Disclaimer: Oz is property of HBO productions. I am not affilated with them and am making no money from this piece.


MEMORY IS A CATHOLIC THING

"Memory is a catholic thing." That's what his high school guidance counselor--Miss Richards--had said when his mother died. The word had confused his tenth grade mind. He'd wanted shit to do with Catholicism then. Hell, he only wore the cross to see how close he could push God to His breaking point. Well, also because the golden cross had been hers, but he didn't see a need to tell anybody that part.

So far Ryan hadn't been struck by lightning, but he figured it should be coming any day. That was okay; lightning couldn't be any worse than the wrong side of his father's fist.

At least lightning never struck twice in the same place.

"No," Miss Richards had explained, "catholic means universal. Everything we have ever experienced or heard is locked away in the mind somewhere. Memories of your mother, and everything else as well."

Great, just great: a memory with no filter, no flush and no fucking off-switch.

"Do you want to talk about it, Ryan?" Her voice had been soft soothing, like the one he used to lure stray dogs for a little fun with firecrackers. It was also the same voice priests used when inviting you to spill your guts and then slicing them open until the stink of shit was everywhere and tossing them back in your face.

"Fuck, no!" He had pushed his chair back so hard it hit the wall. Priests, counselors and therapists, they were all the same: they always hosed you in the end.

Now Cyril, on the other hand, Cyril had it good these days. It was like that blow on the head had jarred all the best stuff loose and sent it floating to the top like the layer of cream on new milk.

Most of what Cyril remembered before he got slow were the parts that were as good as it got--sort of like crunching down on a fresh-picked apple, being careful to eat around the brown hole and the worm that must be in there somewhere.

For instance, Cyril remembered the July 4th family picnic where they played for hours on the tire swing over the lake. There had been an ice cream churn too. Brigit McConoughy had shown them her tits and their cousin Matthew had stolen moonshine from his dad. It had a peach in the bottom and it had been clear and so good that they drank the whole jar and later Ryan puked strawberry ice cream and peach chunks all over the back seat of Aunt Brenda's Country Squire with the fake wood paneling. Cyril liked to tell that one a lot.

All the bad crap, well it just kind of settled to the bottom and out of sight. Out of sight--out of mind. Cyril said that he remembered in flashes. Sometimes they were unexpected and far away like a shooting star in the evening sky. Sometimes, especially if the shit on the bottom was stirred or shaken the flashes exploded with a blinding force, like the chemistry lab that finally got Ryan expelled: dropping potassium into water.

Sometimes those flashes were clearer than others. At night, of course-- when it's dark and they stand out in the quiet contrast--flashes are perceived the best.

They can be a little scary then.

It was easy to tell when the flashes took Cyril back the farthest. Those times he wouldn't say anything, just huddle beneath the sheets with the occasional whimper like they had done when they were kids and Dad was on a tear. They had hoped that if they kept very quiet, Dad would forget they were in there. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn't.

In preparation for the times that it didn't, they squeezed their bodies together, trying to become as small and insignificant a lump as possible and praying silently that Dad wouldn't care enough to pull them out.

Sometimes that worked, and sometimes that didn't either.

See, Cyril was the lucky fuck. He only had those flashes. Ryan, well, there was nothing wrong with his brain. He got the whole shebang--and no fucking off-switch in sight. If memory was a catholic thing, it was time to turn fucking Protestant.

Ryan remembered all the times he tried to save his little brother, and he remembered all the times that he failed. He remembered one time--what were they? Maybe nine and eight? Ryan had still been the bigger brother then, so it couldn't have been much later than that--lying face down on his pillow because boys don't cry and trying not to move because it hurt too much with the broken rib he didn't know he had.

"Ryan, are you okay?"

"Yeah." Boys don't cry.

Cyril had crawled up on his bed and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Ow! Not there." Ryan pulled in his arm to protect his chest.

Cyril had moved his little arm down around Ryan's waist instead. This time Ryan didn't protest.

"I hate him." Cyril's whisper was tight and focused, sounding eerie in his childish voice.

"Me too," said Ryan. He sniffed into the pillow.

Cyril pulled a little closer.

"Ouch! Careful. I'm sore there."

"Sorry." Cyril slid over just a bit.

"It's okay."

"I have a new Hulk comic book," said Cyril. "You can have it if you want."

"No." Ryan sniffed again.

Cyril took his arm away. "It's a special edition. I just thought maybe you might like it is all."

Even with his face pressed into the pillow, the sound of rejection was clear enough. Ryan rolled over halfway, taking care to stop before his sore spot hit the bed. The eye that had appeared was swollen nearly shut. The blood under his nose and on the pillow was already crusting a dead and dry brown. "I can't see too good. Maybe you could read it to me, and I could just look at the pictures?"

"Sure!" Cyril's tone brightened and he hopped off the bed to fetch the book--stolen from Tanner's Grocery, Ryan hoped. That fat old man--Tanner--was an easy mark. All you had to do was go in with a group of niggers, and he would watch them so hard you could lift about any little thing you wanted. Not like the towelhead at the 7-11 that had had them picked up twice. He hoped that Cyril knew better than to try that 7-11 without him.

"Here it is." Cyril climbed back on the bed and plopped down on his stomach with the book and a box of chocolate peanut clusters. "Want one?"

Ryan's lips were swollen on the left and the bleeding had just stopped. "Maybe later."

Cyril put the bag on the floor. "I'll save them for you."

"They're your favorite; you don't have to."

"I know." Cyril opened the comic and slid over next to his brother.

Ryan winced.

Cyril hesitated. "Will it hurt your side if I lie here?"

"No."

"Okay." Cyril put his finger on the first panel and started to read. "'What are you working on, Dr. Banner?' It's Rick talking. Can you see?"

"Sort of. Go on."

"'It's an ex...per...iment in....'" Cyril screwed up his face. "I might need you to help me with some of the big words."

"Forget it. Just go to the part where he gets mad and turns into the Hulk."

Cyril flipped through the pages. He stopped on a panel nearly filled with a green snarl. "Here's one. 'Grrrrr!' I can't tell what he's mad about."

"That's okay," said Ryan. He propped up on one elbow revealing a second eye not much better off than the first. "It's still the good part. I want to be like The Hulk."

"Yeah," said Ryan. "Me too."

The best thing about being slow, thought Ryan, is that Cyril seldom remembered the bruises; it was only the warmth of their bodies under tented sheets and the triumphant superheroes that stuck.

When they were older, comic books turned to porno mags. Tanner's didn't carry them, so stealing them from the towelhead was one of the things that had gotten them thrown into juvie together. Titles that they stole, he didn't remember; only the pictures held his interest.

One girl he remembered was Miss Candie Apple. That apple had been lovingly peeled smack down to her perfect, round, sweet, tasty white, flesh. He and Cyril sat on the bed, cross-legged, both jacking themselves. Ryan had made up the rules: first one to fill Miss Apple up between the tits won.

Cyril came first this time. His aim was a little off, but good enough to take the shine off of Miss Candie Apple's gloss and leave her smiling all spread out and sticky.

"Fuck!" said Ryan, and he came too. Catching his breath, he assessed his little brother sitting in his muscle shirt looking quite a bit too cocky. When had Cyril become the bigger of the two?

Cyril wiped off the jizz. "Thanks, Candie: you were sweet." He kissed her titties with a dramatic smack and pulled his jeans back on. "Ryan, have you ever done it for real?"

"Yeah, sure. Lots of times."

"With Bridget?"

"Bridget, Shannon, Lucy, Mary Theresa, Kat--" Ryan made up most of the names as he went along. A big brother had a rep to uphold. He liked it when Cyril looked at him like he was God. "Too many to remember."

"I never have," said Cyril. He flipped through the pages with a wistful sigh.

"Well, you should; it's great. How about Fran Harper? She's a hottie and she'd hike her skirt for you in a heart beat."

"Yeah?" Cyril looked up. "You think?"

"Yeah, for sure."

"I guess." Cyril closed the magazine and watched as Ryan wiped off and zipped up. He swallowed. "Hey, Ryan, have you ever thought about...."

"What?" There was silence. Ryan turned. "What, Cyril? Have I ever thought about what?"

"Nothing." Cyril shook his head. "Just thinking out loud." He reached under the bed and dragged out a case. "You want a beer?"

"Yeah. Is it still cold?"

"No. But I could get a bowl of ice from the kitchen."

"Dad still home?"

Cyril shrugged. "If you count passed out on the couch."

Ryan pulled on his shorts. "I'll go. He's got it in for you today."

"I wish I could stand up to him like you do." Cyril popped the top on a Busch and took a swallow. Warm.

Ryan shrugged. "There's not much to it. You just have to not care whether he kills you this time or not."

"He won't; you're smarter than he is."

Ryan scoffed. "That cum towel is smarter than he is. But, yeah, you don't have to worry about me; I can hold my own.

"Put that panda piss down," said Ryan as Cyril took another swallow and made a face over the top of the can. "Beer's no good warm. We'll ice it and have a party--just you and me. And I'll tell you how to get Fran Harper begging you for some of that dick."

Cyril flopped down on the bed and smiled. "All right! I always said that you were the best brother a guy could have."

"Damn straight I am; and don't you forget it." Ryan tossed him a cocky grin and closed the bedroom door behind him.

---

Ryan O'Reily may have been a fucked up prick with a heart of silly putty and a mind only for himself, but he wasn't stupid. No one except his useless dad had ever claimed otherwise. He saw the whole thing coming. Who wouldn't? Hell, Hector Rivera could have seen it with the bloody sockets he now had instead of eyes.

Ryan saw the whole thing coming; he just didn't have whatever it took to duck.

They say a boy's first love is his parents--but they also say that parents shouldn't beat the shit out of you on a regular basis. Or hide behind a rosary and do nothing but pray while someone else beat the shit out of you. That pretty much put dear old mom and dad--and even good old Aunt Brenda--out of the running, so Cyril's first love was his big brother. He loved the big brother who fed him and protected him. The brother who was smart and tough and had a smile that could charm all the snakes out of Ireland and anything else he wanted. Cyril worshiped that big brother with a fullness that only the very lonely and empty have to give.

And Ryan had loved him back, of course. They were all that each other had ever had.

"Don't do anything for yourself that you can get someone else to do for you." That's one thing that Dad had said that made perfect sense. So why jack yourself when there was a perfectly willing hand nearby on someone else? Ryan told himself it was just the same as beating off together, really. Nothing wrong with that--just a good bit more fun.

"You always play with my hair," said Cyril, as they lay together after a rewarding threesome with a two-page spread of Miss Trudy Cupp. One staple had landed most unfortunately right inside of her belly button, but she didn't seem to mind. Quite a woman, that.

"Do not," said Ryan, letting his hand untangle from the blond lengths and fall loose.

"Do so," said Cyril. "Why? Do you think it makes me look like a girl?"

"Fuck no!" Ryan spat out the words. "What do you go? One-fifty?"

"One-sixty-two," said Cyril with pride. "There's a scale in the church gym. I weigh every time. Father Michael says I'm doing great." Cyril made boxing feints with his arms.

"Yeah," said Ryan. "I'm sure." Soaking wet, he would barely make one-thirty, and that was before a dump.

"Aren't lighter boxers supposed to keep their weight down to make class?" Ryan added.

"Yeah, but I don't care; I'm building up. I'm going to beat the crap out of Dad the next time he touches either one of us," Cyril said, as if in way of explanation

"I like your thinking, but I'm planning on getting out of here anyway," said Ryan. "I'm talking to Matthew about moving in with him."

"Without me?" Cyril's voice rose, sounding exactly like a little brother trying to act like he wasn't.

"No, of course not. We'd go together; Matthew needs to get a bigger place first, is all. I wasn't going to tell you until it was all ready and we could go." Ryan reached his hand up and wrapped it in Cyril's hair again. "We're a team, you and me."

"Mmm." Cyril relaxed under the touch. "That feels good. Do you think Carolyn's hair would have looked like mine?"

Ryan jumped up from the bed. "How do I the fuck know? She died. Why do you keep bringing it up?" The floorboards squeaked where he paced, punctuating his words unpleasantly.

Cyril sat up. He pushed back his hair. "I'm just talking is all. Like you were about Matthew, you know. It's not like we have that many family members worth bringing up."

Ryan came back to the bed and hugged his brother to his chest. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get mad. You and I are all we have. We have to stick together."

"You have Shannon," said Cyril.

"It's not the same. She's not blood."

"You like her better than me."

"Nah." Ryan hugged him tight. "Never. It's just that she's a girl, and some stuff is expected, you know? And if it doesn't work out with Matthew, I figure I can marry her and her folks will set us up in an apartment. You could come too.

"Shannon is just, a girl; she's not like us. We'll never love each other like I do you."

"Promise?" Cyril turned trusting eyes up. Even before the accident, he still knew how to use those eyes.

"Of course, I do. We're brothers. Nothing will ever come between that." Ryan kissed him on the forehead. "And I will never let Dad hurt you again either, I swear--" Ryan's voice cracked and he stopped.

Cyril kissed him back--on the lips. Ryan's mouth opened to him; muscular arms wrapped around solid chests and they held each other tight.

"I can cut my hair, if you don't like it," said Cyril when they broke apart. "I don't care. I mostly just grew it to piss off Dad.

"Good enough for me," said Ryan. He threw himself down on his own bed.

"So--you like it?" Cyril came over and sat on the side.

"Yeah, I like it." Ryan held out his hand and ran through a section of hair again. "It's soft and it feels good. It looks good on you, too."

Cyril shifted his hips. "I'm glad you like it."

Ryan smoothed the long hair again. "Yeah, I do." He put one hand on Cyril's thigh and moved it high enough to be sure it was okay.

Their eyes met. "Good," said Cyril. "I love you, man. I love you so much." He leaned down and lay himself on top. Long blond hair fell across both their faces, as it became silent except for the shuffling sounds of skin and mouths and hands.

---

The girl that finally did it was Miss Ivana Suckya. The glossy center pages showed her with one dick in her cunt while she slurped at the one in her mouth like the greedy little whore she was.

Cyril had blown almost at once, but Ryan was taking his time. He'd had Shannon behind the high school gym less than two hours ago, so he was in no hurry. Ladies like Ivana appreciated that.

"Ryan, have you ever done that?"

"Huh?"

"That." Cyril pointed at Ivana's lovely mouth where it made a perfect O around some lucky guy's pole.

"Nah," said Ryan. "Bridget won't." Shannon either. Both had said it was a sin. Apparently God had specific criteria: fucking and sucking were sins, but He didn't mind every guy on the football team fucking their tits. Maybe God had an issue with holes.

"I would," said Cyril quietly.

"What?" Ryan stopped his strokes.

"I would--do that, if you wanted. You could tell me what it was like."

"Geez, Cyril, what are you thinking?" Ryan said. He resumed his hand action, his dick now harder than ever.

"I love you, Ryan." Cyril said. "I just thought maybe..." He laid his head down on Ryan's chest, stuck out his tongue and licked a wet circle around the nearest nipple.

Ryan sucked in his breath and stiffened. His hand had reached a frenzied peak. With his left he cupped Cyril's head and pressed him down--past his chest, his stomach until his mouth met the head.

Ryan screamed out despite himself. It was over in less than five seconds. "Cyril, no, stop!" he cried. With a confused motion he tried to push back Cyril's head, but Cyril had long since become more than his match in strength. With a dying cry, Ryan blew into his brother's mouth and crumpled depleted on the bed.

Cyril eased up beside him and kissed him, his mouth still full of Ryan's own spunk.

"Christ, Cyril, what did you do?"

"It's okay; I love you, Ryan." Eyes closed, Cyril laid his head on Ryan's chest.

"I know you love Shannon, but do you love me too?"

"Of course I do." Ryan ran his hand in automatic circles over Cyril's back. "It's just that--" His throat closed and no more words would come.

"Fuck!" Ryan sprung up from the bed and paced. "Do we have any beer?"

"Dad does," said Cyril calmly. "I'll go get us some."

Ryan looked over in dismay. "Cyril, he'll whip the shit out of you!"

"No he won't. He won't touch me again. You should have seen his face when he came to pick me up at the police station and the cops told him what I did to Leonard Liptz." Cyril laughed without humor and flexed his arms and chest. "He went to see Leonard the next day. He knows what I can do. He should be proud: he raised me just like him, but better."

Ryan looked at his baby brother with fresh eyes. His body was still lithe and sharp and he carried it with athletic grace, but there were muscles everywhere now. His little brother was changing right before his eyes.

"Damn, Cyril. Maybe I should have taken up boxing."

"Nah. You suck. You move like a dishrag and you can't fight for beans."

Ryan couldn't find anything to argue with there. He'd been born with the gift of Blarney, not Dempsey.

"Don't worry. He won't touch you either. I've already told him, I'll kill him if he does." Cyril's voice was so calm. It was not something an O'Reily said in jest. "He beat the life out of Mom until there wasn't anything left to fight the cancer; he's not going to take you from me too." Cyril put his hand on the door.

"Cyril."

"What?" Cyril turned.

Ryan had a crumpled bit of white in his hand. "You're going to the kitchen without your shorts?"

"Why not? It's just us guys now." He scratched himself and stretched. "Just you, me and dear old dad."

Cyril turned back to the bed. He wrapped his arms around Ryan's chest and kissed him hard. "Fuck, Ryan, what would I do without you?"

"You'd be okay."

"No, I wouldn't." Cyril's voice had a funny edge. "I love you, man." Cyril hugged him hard.

"You want your shorts?" Ryan wiggled his arm out from the hold and tried to pass them again.

"Nah. Screw it. Look out, Dad. Here I come." Cyril straightened up. Dick flapping, he strode down the tiny apartment hall.

---

It had finally happened on a muggy summer night when it happened. It was too hot to go out, too hot to do anything, really, so they directed the pedestal fan at a bed and lounged naked under the breeze. It felt fresh and cool on the skin, a big relief, and soon they both perked up. Then Cyril turned on his side to face Ryan with a hard-on in his hand and a hungry look in his eyes.

"Come on," Cyril dropped his cock and grabbed Ryan's instead.

"It's too hot," said Ryan, but he closed his eyes and rocked along with Cyril's strokes.

"It'll just take a minute," Cyril rolled on top and pulled them face to face. Soon after that, sweat was dripping from the both of them and the entire room was heavy with the reek of sex.

"Do me," Cyril whispered hit into his ear as they moved together on the bed. Like always, Cyril had come fast--maybe too fast--like he we never really satisfied, still looking for something more.

"I am," groaned Ryan as he slid along the thick of Cyril's thigh. It was too hot to come and much too hot not to try, so Ryan shifted his hips and changed his pace.

"No, I mean do me." Putting all his breath in the word, Cyril spread his legs.

"What?" Glistening in sweat, Ryan stopped. "What the fuck did you say?"

Cyril grabbed his head and pulled Ryan down in a grip Ryan couldn't even start to try to break. Cyril kissed his face, massaged his shoulders, slid his hands fervidly up and down his side. "Do me," he repeated in Ryan's ear. "Don't tell me you don't want to. I can feel that you do." He grabbed Ryan's cock and jerked it hard for emphasis.

Like a man possessed, Ryan thrust into that grip, but Cyril was too strong. He couldn't get enough friction. "Don't be a prick, Cyril." Ryan gasped as he rocked his hips in vain.

With agonizing deliberation, Cyril moved his hand slowly up the length of him.

"Fuck, Cyril! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"That's right," said Cyril. "You know what I want." With his other hand, Cyril fondled Ryan's balls.

"Okay, okay." Ryan broke. "Just stop this shit." He reached for the tube of Ortho-Gynol jelly that Shannon made him use. Condoms were a sin, but jelly was all right because she said she wasn't using it for birth control, just to loosen her up. Yeah, whatever. Ryan didn't care as long as the cunt put out.

He spread the stuff along his shaft wanting nothing more than to dip it in the nearest hole.

Ryan looked down at his brother, spread eagle and face expectant and hungry. His cock flagged down several notches.

"Fuck, Cyril. I can't do this," he said.

Cyril grabbed his cock and began to stroke it, sliding his fingers through the slick of the foam and along the sensitive groove the way Ryan liked it. Ryan closed his eyes and groaned as his cock again billowed to full mast.

"Yeah, you can," said Cyril. "I know you can. I need you."

Ryan pushed his hand away and took his own cock in hand. "Turn over," he grunted through closed eyes.

"Why?" said Cyril. "I want to see."

"I don't!" Ryan erupted. He took a breath. "Besides, Ricky Travers says it's better that way."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Cyril rolled over and raised his ass.

Ryan opened his eyes and groaned. He took hold of Cyril hips and started to push.

"Fuck!" Cyril swore into the pillow.

Ryan stopped. "Does that hurt?"

"What the fucking fuck do you think?"

"You want me to stop?"

"No. Just go slow."

Ryan pushed a bit. Cyril sucked in his breath.

"Okay?"

"More." Cyril's voice still sounded tight.

"Does it hurt?"

"More!"

"If it hurts--"

"It's fucking awesome," Cyril gasped, but his hands still clenched tightly at the sheets. "Now move."

"Cyril--"

"Move!" With another sharp intake of breath, Cyril began to rock his ass.

Now it was Ryan's turn to gasp. His eyes flew open at the heat of the muscle sucking him in and holding him tighter than Shannon ever had. His pelvis began to thrust despite his better judgement as his brain spun dizzily away from his body. "Oh, Cyril, you're so hot, so tight..." Words fell away as his breathing began to take all his effort. "I love you," he managed just before he spewed.

With a soft cry, Cyril sagged beneath him and then, sticky and sweaty, they both collapsed into the already stained sheets.

"What's the matter, Ryan?" Cyril reached over to the nightstand for his pack of smokes.

Ryan peeled his arm off from across his eyes. "You're kidding right? I just fucked my little brother, and you're asking mw what's wrong."

"You don't have to make it sound so ugly." Cyril offered him the pack, but Ryan waved it away. "I love you. I don't think it's a sin."

"Who died and made you God?"

"When did you start to give a shit? Don't tell me you're all of the sudden worried about hell."

"Nah. Not going there; only of spending eternity with the old man."

Cyril laughed. He put aside the cigarette and lay back down, grabbing his brother around the waist. "You're always so uptight."

"I have to be. I've got to run this family now. I can't just be shagging my baby brother--"

"Drop it," said Cyril. His eyes were angry now. "I am not a baby. I'm only a year younger than you, so stop making it sound so dirty. It's not dirty. I love you." Cyril put his head down on Ryan's chest and turned his face to the wall. "I love you," he repeated. "I love you, Ryan. Fuck."

It was too hot and sticky to lie together, but Ryan didn't try to make him move. "I love you too, Cyril. I love you best of all. I'm just trying to do right by you, man."

Cyril grabbed his hand and squeezed it so hard that he thought it might break. Ryan thought he heard a sniffle, but his chest was already so sticky with salt and sweat that it was hard to tell.

"It's okay. It's okay." With one hand Ryan picked up the remains of Cyril's smoldering cigarette and popped it between his lips. With the other he smoothed Cyril's hair rhythmically and he repeated the words until he almost believed they might be true.

Just the memory of burying himself inside his brother's body made his limp dick try to twitch again already. This wasn't any fucking game anymore. Ryan stabbed the cigarette out violently.

Maybe it was time to get his own place.

---

When Ryan got engaged, it--whatever you called what was between them--mostly stopped.

"Congratulations," Cyril had said. "I guess you're a claimed man now."

"I guess I am," Ryan answered. They shook hands and that was pretty much that.

Pretty much.

There was one night parked out by the lake in a jacked Pontiac with too many bottles of Thunder Bird and either one girl too few or too many for the two of them, depending on how one counted.

Ryan and Cyril sat in the front seat, sharing the fourth bottle between them. Shannon was passed out in the back. She could hold his schlong just fine, but not her booze.

"Do you ever think about it?" Cyril asked, staring straight ahead at the moonlight dancing on the lake.

"Think of what?"

There was only telling silence and the chirp of cicadas outside in the bushes.

"Yeah," said Ryan. "All the time."

"We could--"

"Shut up. She might hear you." Ryan's voice meant business.

"Okay," said Cyril. He laid his left hand on Ryan's thigh.

Ryan tipped his pelvis and slid forward in the driver's seat. Hands curled and face clenched, he let Cyril work him until he creamed his favorite 501s.

Ryan drove home and stayed with Shannon. Cyril finished the last bottle and a half by himself and fell asleep on the stairs leading up to Dad's apartment.

When Ryan rolled home the next day, they split a handful of aspirin and talked about everything but the night before.

Any outsider would have figured that with the hangovers, neither one remembered a thing.

---

The wedding went off without a hitch. Well, one. Seamus didn't show until the vows were over and communion was half done: in other words, just in time for the food. Not that Ryan gave a flying fuck. He hadn't invited the shithead anyway. Who the fuck had?

Cyril was his best man.

"How do I look," he asked as Cyril pinned the boutonniere onto the rental tux.

"Gorgeous," said Cyril. He straightened the lapels.

"I guess this is it," said Ryan. It was the only time in his adult life he could have said that he felt nervous.

"Not too late to change your mind," said Cyril. "She's not--?" He made a rounded motion over his belly.

"Nah," Ryan waved the idea away. "She can't have kids. Can you fucking believe it? All that stuff we went through and it would have been okay anyway. I really love her. I want to do this."

"Good," said Cyril with a curt nod. "Good." He looked up with a little smile, "But not as much as you love me, right?"

Ryan drew him into a bear hug. "Of course not, little brother." It had become their standing joke. Cyril was at least one-and-a-half times his size. "I told you that before."

"Good." It was only ten in the morning, but close like this, Ryan could smell the whiskey on Cyril's breath. Cyril held him clamped in an iron hug. He licked a loop around his ear and nibbled at the edge. "Good," he whispered one last time and stuck his tongue deep into the ear.

The organ music changed its tune.

Cyril pulled away. "I think that's my cue."

"Yeah." Ryan swallowed. "I'll see you down there. I love you, Cyril."

Cyril looked back from the open doorway. "I love you too," he said in a voice that was maybe just a little too loud. Then he turned for the head of the aisle where Shannon's sister was watching him and waiting.

---

Ryan liked to tell people that Cyril got slow protecting him. It might have been true, he supposed, or then again, it might not. Ryan had been shagging the girl--what was her name? Stacy? Tracy? Trudy?-- and her new boyfriend had hadn't liked it. Okay, that was fact number one. Cyril had heard a commotion and come over to find something he didn't like: fact number two. Cyril had hit a wise guy: fact number three.

Aside from that, things weren't all that clear. Boxers hit lots of things out of displaced anger, and Cyril always had been the jealous type. Taking a wife was one thing, but taking a cunt on the bathroom sink, well, let's just say Cyril had blown up over less before and had the rap sheet to prove it.

Ryan would have liked to think the issue was the pissed off wise guy who was swinging at him, but again, Ryan O'Reily wasn't stupid. He had a better idea about what had really made Cyril mad.

As he had grown older, Ryan had traded in unused heart for extra brain. That's what kept guys alive on the streets--and, conveniently enough, in Oz as well.

Unlike Ryan, Cyril never had. Even before he was made slow, Cyril had never given up his heart. That's why he would never be a player, only a follower of his big brother. That was okay with them both.

So Ryan had suspicions, but could never prove what it was that set Cyril off at the funeral. Not that it mattered. Either way, what happened to Cyril then was all Ryan's fault.

Coming to Oz was bad enough. Well, maybe not considering that Cyril's choices were staying with was the dipshit of an excuse for a father, Aunt "I'll-pray-for-you-but-I-won't-do-a-fucking-other-thing-about-it" Brenda, or funny cousin Matthew. Here, Cyril would have Ryan. Ryan would make sure it stayed that way.

Getting Cyril sent to the hole had been hard, but nothing like leaving him with Schillinger and those sadistic Nazi fucks would have been. When Ryan had literally given his blood to get Cyril out and into Em City, he thought he had done his job. My blood for his brain. It seemed like a Biblical deal, eye for an eye and all that. It seemed that God should approve and maybe lighten the fuck up off of his ass. But blood cells regenerate; brain cells don't. Back then it hadn't really sunk in, not on an elemental level, what "slow" really meant.

When Cyril got out of the hole, Ryan had hugged him hard. He smelled like piss and his hair was matted in places in a way the old Cyril never would have tolerated.

"Come on; let's take a shower."

Cyril had gone as complacently as a puppy dog.

They washed themselves, but after donating four pints of blood, the warm steam left Ryan woozy. He sat down before he fell down on the moldy tile floor.

"Are you okay?" Cyril crouched down beside him and took his hands.

"Yeah." Ryan's ears rung and his vision was charging down a rapidly darkening tunnel. He hung his head forward and Cyril shook him hard.

"Ryan!"

"Knock it of in there. No fucking. Come on; break it up." Murphy banged on the panel with his stick.

"He's sick," said Cyril. His voice sounded sad and lost.

"No I'm not." Cyril struggled to stand, but didn't make it past a crouch.

Murphy grabbed his head. "You don't look so good."

"I'm just weak. Must be the blood."

Murphy jolted and looked down at his arm. There was still small bruise where the phlebotomy line had been. "You're the one that saved Rivera."

"Yeah," said Ryan. "Too bad it worked."

Murphy screwed his face. "Let's get you lying down. You don't need to be in the steam." He put an arm around his back.

"Get Cyril," Ryan said. You can't leave him alone. He's slow. He needs me."

"I'm coming, Ryan," said Cyril. He had already picked up both their towels and followed Murphy and Ryan into the pod.

Ryan didn't make it onto the upper bunk. Cyril didn't try to. He sat beside him on the lower bed. "Ryan, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Get me some water, will you?"

Cyril did.

Ryan sat up partway, and Cyril lay down beside him. "Now do I smell better?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you smell just fine."

Cyril put a hand on Ryan's package. "I'm glad; I didn't like it in there in the dark." He began to move his palm in circles.

Ryan picked up the hand and moved it. "Don't Cyril; I don't feel too good."

"I want to make you feel better," Cyril said. "I'm glad I'm back with you."

"Me too. And you do make me feel better," Ryan said. "It's just that I'm still a little dizzy. I'm not up to...." Ryan shook his head.

"Okay," Cyril. He nestled in along Ryan's side. "Can you tell me a story?"

"Sure," said Ryan. His hand moved reflexively to stroke Cyril's head. "What do you want to hear."

"Something where the good guys win."

"Batman and Robin?"

"Sure."

"Okay; here it goes." Ryan made up some pile of shit about Bruce and Dick and The Joker. Cyril hung on every word.

Later, Ryan brushed out Cyril's hair. He used to do the same for Shannon when she had been in high school and worn it long. He'd had to trade Fiona a whole pack of smokes for a ninety-nine cent drugstore plastic brush with several of the bristles broken off.

"I can do that," Cyril said.

"That's okay; I don't mind." Ryan combed through it until even the smallest tangles were gone.

"That feels nice." Cyril dropped his head back against Ryan's chest.

"Sit up; I need to reach the back."

Cyril straightened again. "Matthew never used to brush my hair."

Alarm bells went off. Ryan put down the brush. "Cyril, did Matthew touch you?"

"Not like you."

"Like Vern?" Ryan's voice was dangerously normal, but his grip tightened on the brush until all the blood was forced from his fingers."

Cyril shrugged. "Matthew was nice, but not like you." Cyril flipped around on the bed and threw his arms about Ryan's neck. "I love you, Ryan."

The brush clattered to the floor and Ryan let it drop. He returned the embrace instead. He'd kill Matthew later; right now it didn't matter. Cyril was with him and Cyril was safe again.

Cyril's hand appeared between Ryan's thighs. Ryan moved it away. "Let me finish your hair," he said. Reaching down, he found the brush. He began to stroke again, counting the passes out loud, beginning where he had left off earlier in his head. "Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine..."


One day in Oz was so much like another, that Ryan couldn't keep track of the days. They'd had fish sticks for dinner. That's the only way the day stood out. After five had been a different thing.

"Do you still love me, Ryan?"

Sometimes Cyril was worse than a fucking girl. Holed up every evening with anyone--even your brother--could wear on anyone and it wasn't often that Ryan wasn't grateful for lights-out.

"Of course I do, Cyril. Now go to sleep."

"You used to love me more." Cyril's voice had that hopeless sound that promised this one would not be an easy night.

Ryan swung down from the top bunk and slid over on the lower to sit by his brother's head. He stroked his hair. "Not better, Cyril. Just different. I've never loved anyone more than you." He kissed his brother's forehead.

Cyril turned his face up. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do, Cyril. In fact, I love you even better now. I didn't love you right back then. I didn't know how, you know? I was just going by Dad and Mom, and they were both more fucked up than me."

"I liked it," said Cyril. He placed his hand high inside Ryan's shirt.

Ryan stiffened and gently moved the hand back to the bed. "We can't do that any more."

Cyril's face clouded. "Why not?"

"God doesn't like it."

"He didn't mind before."

It must be nice to be slow, thought Ryan, and to only remember the cream. Memory is a catholic thing, unless you're lucky enough to get brained at a funeral. He kept his voice patient. "But he does now. Because we're too old."

"Is that why you used to call me 'baby'?"

Ryan laughed under his breath. He had almost forgotten that part. "Yeah, maybe it is." He pulled Cyril's head onto his lap, and continued to pet his hair. Baby. Baby. Baby.

"That feels nice," said Cyril.

"Good."

"Ryan?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I wish we weren't so old."

Ryan bent down and kissed his head. Yeah, baby, so do I.


Maybe Cyril could only remember in flashes, but Ryan remembered everything. Call it a catholic thing, or call it a curse, the experience was the same. Ryan remembered every time, every touch, every kiss and every feeling from those salad days before the brain damage, the guilt, and the responsibility. He was now his brother's keeper and maybe it wasn't too late to have something in his life he could be proud of. Purposefully ignoring the pressure in his groin, he held his brother and soothed his hair until Cyril fell asleep.

Kareem used to say that a man who believes in nothing greater than himself cannot feel guilt. Christ, who needs prayer rugs and Allah to tell you that? Ryan had figured that out at sixteen. That's why he had traded in his fucking heart. Guilt was the best way to screw your own self and Ryan was much too smart to fall into that trap.

As Ryan sat on the lower bunk letting Cyril's hair drizzle through his fingers like he had when they were kids, he knew it hadn't worked--not even back then. What else would you call that binge that had landed him here for twelve to life? He'd been too young or too high to recognize the feeling then, but with his hand in Cyril's hair, no booze, no drugs and nowhere to run, the truth became uncomfortably clear.

This was big, much bigger than himself, and now Ryan O'Reily was totally screwed.

Fuck! He did not need this kind of weakness in here. And Cyril-- Cyril would never survive in here if news like that got around.

Ryan hopped up to his own bunk and beat off until he came with a force that he thought would pull his guts through his dick and turn him inside out.

---

He was doing good, he thought, until the day they let Cyril out of the hole for that fight with Robson. Cyril had come back to Em City disoriented, confused, and looking utterly lost. The flashes came so hard and relentless that night that no decent soul could lie three feet away and let him lie alone. Certainly a brother couldn't.

Put two hot coals close together, and any backyard barbecue man knows what happens next. Flash turned into fire and in the turmoil that was over before Ryan even knew what had happened, he had taken his brother just like the old days--on a rough blanket, in a tiny cubicle, finally, the one place their sack of shit for an old man could never reach them.

The hacks! Fuck, he hadn't even been watching. When did he get so careless? He'd been down here at least fifteen minutes; they should have seen. Who was on tonight? Was it Hughes? That little weasel would screw them over just for spite--if he was observant enough to notice.

"Cyril," Ryan said, kissing Cyril's neck, "I gotta go."

"No!" Cyril rolled over and clutched desperately at his arms. "Stay!"

"I can't. If they catch us, we'll be split apart."

"No we won't. It's all right. They know we're brothers." Cyril looked at him with that wide-eyed ingenuousness--not so different from that cocker spaniel, right before--

Ryan put that thought from his mind. "Yeah, Cyril, they know we're brothers." Ryan sat back against the wall and cradled Cyril's head in his lap. "Go to sleep."


Memory is a catholic thing, and in the semi-darkened cubicle, every single one with Cyril came back: the good, the bad and the ugly--and most of all, the sublime. They had so little here; was it possible that they could still have this?

New meat came to Oz and died every week trying to apply outside rule to the inside. Ryan had never been blind or stupid enough to make that mistake.

Kareem was right; this feeling was bigger than himself and he had no power over it. If the two of them were going to get hosed for love, they might as well enjoy the ride.

Ryan held him until his soft snores were deep and regular. When the hack looked in, it was Mineo. Ryan threw him a bird. He walked on down the row. It took a lot more than two brothers sitting on the same bed to get the old guys' dander up. Likely that was how they got to be old guys--knowing that the official rules are only guidelines and making up their own as they went along.

If it wasn't hurting anybody, who the fuck really cared?

Letting his mind drift, Ryan fondled Cyril's hair, so fine and soft, doubtless just like Carolyn's would have been. He thought about her more and more these days. He bent his head. "I promise you, little brother, I'm going to make it all right."