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Malachy O'Reilly and Ardal Quinn had kissed on school property. Everyone had seen it. Everyone knew. Or that was what people were saying. The reality had been that only a few people had actually witnessed the kiss, which had indeed occurred. Then those few people, who Malachy had flipped the bird for their efforts, had gone and told everyone they knew, who had told everyone they knew, and the entire situation got blown out of proportion. In the end, people were saying that Malachy and Ardal had been rolling around on the ground, locked in the midst of passion. And that certainly had not been the case.
The truth was that Ardal and Malachy had kissed. And they were happy, as the deepening of their relationship was long overdue. Both of them knowing that the other boy felt the same way was liberating and now they spent every moment they possibly could with each other, sometimes doing absolutely nothing, a concept which would have been well beyond Mal's experience only a few months ago. Now, as long as he was in Ardal's presence, nothing else mattered. Not what they were doing, not what anyone else thought, absolutely nothing. He was smitten. And he was quite surprised that he felt things for Ardal that he never felt for Rage.
Their date had been perfect. Mal had arrived at Ardal's door, carrying a sad little bouquet of wildflowers he had picked by the side of the road, roots and dirt still attached. And Ardal loved them because Mal had thought to bring him flowers. They had gone to dinner and a movie and afterward they had spent hours talking about the images they had only halfway seen because they had been too busy playing a 'should I hold his hand or not' game for the entirety of the film. And since that night, they had spent rather a lot of time holding hands.
Frances O'Reilly did not approve. He could see now why his little brother Malachy had turned away from them. Ardal had poisoned his mind. His brother hadn't been a fag before. He certainly hadn't been a pussy. And now he was both and it was Ardal's fault. Frankie was angry. And Frankie wasn't very nice when he was angry.
A week after their date, Ardal and Mal had gone out again. Ardal had walked Mal home, their gait leisurely as they smoked and chattered quietly so as not to disturb the night. When Malachy left him, Ardal turned around, headed in the direction of his own house. He pulled out another cigarette, but he never had the chance to light it. As he passed an alleyway, he was pulled into it by five arms and a sixth slammed over his lips, silencing his panicked scream which still fought to free itself despite the blockade of fingers which seemed to be cast from stone. He was pushed roughly back into a brick wall and his head was turned so his cheek was pressed hard against the rough surface.
Ardal whimpered and he tried to struggle, but he could no more move than he could sprout wings and fly away. He was stuck. And while his eyes searched frantically for a face or anything to distinguish who was doing this to him, he saw nothing but black. It wasn't until later he realised they had been wearing masks over their faces. Black masks pulled all the way down so it looked like he was being attacked by the darkness itself. "Please!" He finally managed to cry out, lips grating against the brick. "Let me go!"
"We don't take kindly to yourself taking our brother away." A dark voice floated into the night. The streetlight above them crackled and flickered.
"Frankie." Ardal breathed. It wasn't a question. He knew. And he was aware that Frankie would know exactly who he was too. The masks were for the stigma of the thing, and not to hide themselves from him. They wanted him to know they were responsible. Better than he was.
"No one takes a man away from us."
"He took himself away!" Ardal hissed, and that was the absolute truth. Leaving the PIRA had been Mal's idea and Mal's alone. Ardal had perhaps been the catalyst, but he had never once told Mal he should leave. Only that Ardal himself wouldn't be involved and Mal had reached his own conclusions. Truth or not, it still earned Ardal a kick to the gut. Pain flashed through him and he fell to the pavement on his hands and knees, groaning.
"You poisoned his mind! That's what you fags do! If you see him again, do you know what we're going to do to you?"
Ardal shivered, and it certainly wasn't from the cold. The tone of Frankie's voice was deadly and he had a very good idea what exactly they would do to him. He whimpered again, but he said nothing and then he was yanked upwards, strong hands clutching him by the collar. He felt his body shaken and his head ached as it bounced around.
"I said...do you know what we're going to do to you?!" Frankie growled, his face now inches from Ardal's own, even if it was covered by a mask.
"No." Ardal said, his voice barely audible.
"We're going to finish the job." Frankie released his grip on Ardal and he crumpled to the ground. Before he had even settled, they were on him, coming from all directions. There were only three of them, but it felt like he had been mobbed by twenty men and a herd of stampeding wildebeests. The pain never let up. Blow after blow was rained down on him, pummeling his chest and his head and his back. His legs scrabbled uselessly against the pavement, but they were seeing their fair share of the punishment as well. Pain flared out around his face as Frankie unrolled him from the protective ball he had somehow curled himself into, and they slammed his nose flat. He was kicked in the stomach and then in a place lower and much more tender than the stomach and after seeming hours of pain and torture and gasping for air and finding only more pain, it was over. Ardal was alone in the alleyway, and he couldn't move an inch.
Ardal didn't even remember if he had screamed. But now the ability to do such a thing had been stolen from him and all he could do was cry helplessly into the ground and hope someone found him.
The truth was that Ardal and Malachy had kissed. And they were happy, as the deepening of their relationship was long overdue. Both of them knowing that the other boy felt the same way was liberating and now they spent every moment they possibly could with each other, sometimes doing absolutely nothing, a concept which would have been well beyond Mal's experience only a few months ago. Now, as long as he was in Ardal's presence, nothing else mattered. Not what they were doing, not what anyone else thought, absolutely nothing. He was smitten. And he was quite surprised that he felt things for Ardal that he never felt for Rage.
Their date had been perfect. Mal had arrived at Ardal's door, carrying a sad little bouquet of wildflowers he had picked by the side of the road, roots and dirt still attached. And Ardal loved them because Mal had thought to bring him flowers. They had gone to dinner and a movie and afterward they had spent hours talking about the images they had only halfway seen because they had been too busy playing a 'should I hold his hand or not' game for the entirety of the film. And since that night, they had spent rather a lot of time holding hands.
Frances O'Reilly did not approve. He could see now why his little brother Malachy had turned away from them. Ardal had poisoned his mind. His brother hadn't been a fag before. He certainly hadn't been a pussy. And now he was both and it was Ardal's fault. Frankie was angry. And Frankie wasn't very nice when he was angry.
A week after their date, Ardal and Mal had gone out again. Ardal had walked Mal home, their gait leisurely as they smoked and chattered quietly so as not to disturb the night. When Malachy left him, Ardal turned around, headed in the direction of his own house. He pulled out another cigarette, but he never had the chance to light it. As he passed an alleyway, he was pulled into it by five arms and a sixth slammed over his lips, silencing his panicked scream which still fought to free itself despite the blockade of fingers which seemed to be cast from stone. He was pushed roughly back into a brick wall and his head was turned so his cheek was pressed hard against the rough surface.
Ardal whimpered and he tried to struggle, but he could no more move than he could sprout wings and fly away. He was stuck. And while his eyes searched frantically for a face or anything to distinguish who was doing this to him, he saw nothing but black. It wasn't until later he realised they had been wearing masks over their faces. Black masks pulled all the way down so it looked like he was being attacked by the darkness itself. "Please!" He finally managed to cry out, lips grating against the brick. "Let me go!"
"We don't take kindly to yourself taking our brother away." A dark voice floated into the night. The streetlight above them crackled and flickered.
"Frankie." Ardal breathed. It wasn't a question. He knew. And he was aware that Frankie would know exactly who he was too. The masks were for the stigma of the thing, and not to hide themselves from him. They wanted him to know they were responsible. Better than he was.
"No one takes a man away from us."
"He took himself away!" Ardal hissed, and that was the absolute truth. Leaving the PIRA had been Mal's idea and Mal's alone. Ardal had perhaps been the catalyst, but he had never once told Mal he should leave. Only that Ardal himself wouldn't be involved and Mal had reached his own conclusions. Truth or not, it still earned Ardal a kick to the gut. Pain flashed through him and he fell to the pavement on his hands and knees, groaning.
"You poisoned his mind! That's what you fags do! If you see him again, do you know what we're going to do to you?"
Ardal shivered, and it certainly wasn't from the cold. The tone of Frankie's voice was deadly and he had a very good idea what exactly they would do to him. He whimpered again, but he said nothing and then he was yanked upwards, strong hands clutching him by the collar. He felt his body shaken and his head ached as it bounced around.
"I said...do you know what we're going to do to you?!" Frankie growled, his face now inches from Ardal's own, even if it was covered by a mask.
"No." Ardal said, his voice barely audible.
"We're going to finish the job." Frankie released his grip on Ardal and he crumpled to the ground. Before he had even settled, they were on him, coming from all directions. There were only three of them, but it felt like he had been mobbed by twenty men and a herd of stampeding wildebeests. The pain never let up. Blow after blow was rained down on him, pummeling his chest and his head and his back. His legs scrabbled uselessly against the pavement, but they were seeing their fair share of the punishment as well. Pain flared out around his face as Frankie unrolled him from the protective ball he had somehow curled himself into, and they slammed his nose flat. He was kicked in the stomach and then in a place lower and much more tender than the stomach and after seeming hours of pain and torture and gasping for air and finding only more pain, it was over. Ardal was alone in the alleyway, and he couldn't move an inch.
Ardal didn't even remember if he had screamed. But now the ability to do such a thing had been stolen from him and all he could do was cry helplessly into the ground and hope someone found him.
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