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Most of all, 2D remembers what he heard that day. The island groaned as it sank, long at times, broken up at others. It gurgled and croaked as it split apart like the death rattles his mother would describe when she would talk about her dying patients. He listened as the flames crackled and the windows of the old studio shattered. The debris hit the water in loud slaps.
He remembers how he lingered in the face of the destruction. The death of the most miserable year of his life coming to pass in front of him. It didn’t go quietly, and he didn’t expect it to. It’s the dull clack of his heels on the metal steps of the lighthouse that ground him when he finally leaves.
And then there was Murdoc.
The bassist had never been a forgettable presence, but 2D has never had a memory of him that’s been so vivid. There were his nails that scraped 2D's skin through his shirt as he pulled him to the top of the building. There was the frantic look in his eyes as he, too, tried to make sense of an entire year of misery crumbling in front of them.
2D had never seen Murdoc look the way he looked that day, dark eyes wide with terror. He was twelve years his senior. And yet, as the distance between them grew, as Murdoc's form got smaller and smaller, 2D struggled to see him as anything other than a child. Murdoc, who had all the answers, all the ideas that he imposed on others without hesitation, all the arrogance that he would fling at 2D through words or fists, suddenly a lost, crying child trapped on a piece of sinking debris in the ocean.
And all the while, 2D watched him from above. It wasn’t a position he was used to, being so high up while Murdoc sunk and begged.
Murdoc didn’t have any solution that day. 2D knew this from the way he stretched out a hand he would never offer otherwise and screamed not to be left behind. The Murdoc he knew would have never let them see him reduced to nothing but his nerves. As far as he knew it, that was another man trapped on top of the sinking lighthouse, going under with the regrets of Gorillaz bassist, Murdoc Niccals.
Perhaps that’s the reason he has the sudden urge to go back.
But it was Murdoc. It was Murdoc who had helped him reach Russel and Noodle before helping himself. It was Murdoc who stood behind him, watching as flames consumed Plastic Beach, his eyes misty, his brow beaded with sweat.
2D didn’t try to process those two conflicting ideas in his head when he turned around and reached back through the portal. He remembers the strain in his shoulder as he stretched beyond what his body was used to, the sweatiness of Murdoc’s palm as his fingers curled around his hand. That day marked only the third time 2D remembers seeing Murdoc genuinely smile.
After the portal closes, the momentum sends him crashing into 2D’s chest. Murdoc's hair carries the smell of salt and smoke. 2D inhales it and winces at the sting in the back of his head as they both hit the ground. But despite the pain, he wraps his arms around him and hugs him close.
And at that moment, 2D felt like a superhero.
2D doesn’t stop thinking about that day. He couldn’t have even if he wanted to because it’s all anyone else seems to think about too. However, after months of discussion about his choice to save Murdoc, he has yet to be called a hero.
“ Lol, they should have just left Murdoc to drown ,” one comment reads. “ He should have died, ” reads another. “ Poor 2D and his Stockholm Syndrome .” There was only so much he could tolerate.
Eventually, he has to limit his online browsing to a select set of Youtube channels Noodle was kind enough to put into a private playlist for him just to avoid the endless commentary from social media.
Why did he save Murdoc? It certainly wasn’t because he owed him anything.
2D slouches into the sofa in their studio, scrolling through some of the latest videos from the tabletop gaming section of Youtube, something about how to build the most realistic wargaming board in two days. He isn’t paying attention as closely as he usually does. Months of watching the same kind of content could eventually bore even him. He wonders, idly, if he could have browsed more freely had he left Murdoc behind.
The bassist in question is nowhere to be seen today, just like he hadn’t been seen the day before. 2D didn’t want to think he was avoiding him, but they had hardly spoken since they got back to the studio.
“Yo, D, you still on the couch?” Russel raises an eyebrow at him as he passes.
“It’s comfy here.” He doesn’t bother looking up from his screen. “And I can always get a bite to eat if I’m hungry.”
Russel laughs at this. “That's what I'm talking about. Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Right, English,” he says without thinking. Russel knows better than to interpret it negatively, or at least he hopes he does.
The drummer regards him with amusement and sympathy. “Yeah...English.”
2D stares at his phone screen harder. Eventually, Murdoc would get hungry too.
It wasn’t as if Murdoc hadn’t shown his gratitude...in his own way.
He slunk into his bed that night, the same way he always did. And almost immediately, 2D slipped into his role, shifting to make space for him, throwing an arm across his chest like they shared a bed regularly. It was a song and dance they had partaken in over two decades, muscle memory. It was also a relief because it meant that the natural order of their dynamic was returning.
But Murdoc didn’t stay at his level for very long. He pulls away quickly, harshly, as if he knew that staying a moment longer would have made 2D feel at ease enough to talk to him or brush his fringe out of his eyes to “see his face.”
The sudden change in their physical contact doesn’t tell 2D a lot, but it tells him enough. Murdoc wanted intimacy on his terms, or perhaps he wanted to pretend 2D wasn’t there. He doesn’t want to believe the latter, but as much as he wants to ask him, something in his gut warns him to avoid the topic.
There was no kissing, no eye contact, no conversation, just hands, nails, and tongue on skin. 2D shivers at the sensation of the bassist’s jagged teeth pressing into the skin of his inner thigh. He has to bite back a whimper when he bites. That was going to leave an ugly bruise.
From beneath the sheets, Murdoc chuckles.
“Arse,” he pants, his voice not sounding nearly as forceful as he wants it to be. “Are you going to get on with it or not?”
“And you call me the impatient one.”
It isn’t long before his legs are hiked over the bassist’s shoulders, and his cock is deep in his throat.
"...I'll probably pick up some red peppers to give it a little kick." Russel is still talking to him, probably about dinner.
He blinks, pulled out of his reflection. “Uhh...yeah, I guess,” he says, hopeful that it makes sense as a response.
The drummer just shakes his head. “Okay, I’ll see you later then.” And with that, he takes a box of leftover takeaway and leaves.
Murdoc left him unsatisfied in more ways than one that night. In hindsight, it could have been avoided, but 2D was only human. The last time he had touched Murdoc before that night was when he pulled him through the portal. All he wanted to do was feel him, warm and breathing, beneath his fingertips. He just wanted to know, for sure, that he was alive.
His hand had barely grazed Murdoc’s hair before the bassist jerked away for a second and final time that night. He left 2D’s room in a huff, glaring back at him as he wiped his mouth.
2D had been in shock for a second before feeling his own irritation grow. He saved his life. He was shouldering the praise and backlash of that decision. The energy of the universe was supposed to be acting in his favor. He wanted his relationship with the band, fame, and Murdoc to change. Instead, his world felt like it was stagnating at best, regressing at worst. He had saved Murdoc because the thought of losing him made his mind go blank. Now, it seemed like Murdoc had been lost anyway.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He wonders if he did something wrong, to Murdoc, to Russel, to their fans.
Life was never clear with him. It didn’t matter how much he meditated or how many tidbits of Buddhist wisdom he committed to memory or jot down on sticky notes he stuck around his room. In the end, 2D was only left with more questions than answers.
The next morning, 2D decides to take one of their team’s marketing slogans to heart and "Be the Change."
He orders some plywood and baseboards off of Amazon along with other materials and begins to set up a workspace in the living room.
There always came a point where thinking became hopeless, leaving him with nothing but a migraine. At the end of the day, 2D preferred to work with his hands. Wood was tangible. Hammers and nails were tangible. There was a sense of control and accomplishment that came with putting something together. There were clear solutions. It wasn’t like having to rely on his brain to decode the glint in Murdoc’s eyes or slouch of his shoulders.
No, his course of action for this project was clear.
“Bloody hell! You fucking Lord of the Harry Potter game? Really?”
2D jumps at the familiar voice. “Muds?”
The bassist has plopped down onto Russel’s drumming stool, inspecting the bottom of his foot. 2D sees the offending game piece still rolling on the floor across the room.
“What? Did you break lockdown restrictions to raid a Wickes?” His eyes narrow at the different cuts of wood in the middle of the room.
“I didn’t break any covid-restrictions. And that’s not one of my Warhammer pieces.” He gestures to the piece across the room. “Actually, you just stepped on Callum Hudson-Odoi from my Chelsea team set for Subbuteo.”
Murdoc’s attention already looks like it has drifted. His finger rubs at his heel, and he grumbles inaudibly. “...Can’t even restock my room with rum without something going wrong. Don’t you have your own room to destroy? This is our practice space.”
“We haven’t used this room in months.” 2D brandishes a roll of measuring tape and starts to count out the length of wood he’ll need for the table legs. If he looked at Murdoc too long, he would remember every idiotic thing he wanted to say to him. No way would he tell him he picked their practice space, hoping he could see him again. “We’ve hardly seen or spoken to you in months. It’s hard to practice when part of the group is missing.” He couldn’t stop that one.
“Speak for yourself,” Murdoc spits. “I talk to Noodle frequently enough.”
It’s a petty remark that likely wasn’t true, but it stings all the same. “Do you want to talk now?” 2D asks, scolding himself as he does. “If you bring Callum over here, we could play a quick game on the floor and, uh, catch up. But you have to play as Liverpool.”
Murdoc growls and pushes himself up. “You can shove that plywood up your arse and take your kid toys somewhere where I never have to see them again. Unlike you, I’ve been spending my time productively. I should have new songs to practice by next week, so I better not see this heap of junk again either.”
2D doesn’t respond. He doesn’t trust his racing thoughts or his turning stomach. But he did know one thing: there was a minuscule chance that Murdoc had written or composed any music.
Satisfied with the silences, the bassist stumbles towards the kitchen and gathers up as many alcoholic beverages that he can. When he passes the discarded Subbuteo game piece, he kicks it again, and it disappears under the refrigerator.
Of course, Murdoc is different the next day when they meet with a journalist from Indie Magazine over Zoom to promote their latest brand deal with Fred Perry. Of course, he glides through the interview with his usual charismatic demeanor, his eyes shining like the keys on his keyboard after a good polish. Never mind the fact that he had barely acknowledged him for the past few months.
“2021 marks the 20th anniversary of Gorillaz. How did you celebrate? What’s your idea of a good party?” She asks.
“Don’t use the ‘p’ word.” He cringes to underscore his distaste.
2D keeps his eyes on the wall in front of them and tunes him out. If he daydreamed long enough, he could forget about the weight of his confusion listening to Murdoc describe a life they weren’t living.
“We stayed in and played Minecraft.”
No, we didn’t .
“Seeing as we’re still in the throes of a pandemic, we should probably start with the obvious: How’s your health?” She asks next.
2D makes a point to answer before Murdoc. He gives a brief overview of Russel and Noodle and then can’t help but add, “It’s hard to tell with Murdoc as he always looks green and not well.” Then he wonders if Murdoc notices the slight irritation in his voice.
If he does, he hides it well.
2D plays his part as the “lovable halfwit” (a description he reads the next day that leaves him both pleased with himself and slightly chagrinned) for the rest of the interview, uncertain of Murdoc’s mood.
The years of surviving in Stoke, and then in prison had strengthened his ability to hide his true feelings. The bassist was masterful at performing when he wanted to be. There were times when 2D thought he had him figured out. However, it was hard to figure out a person who in his early life, survived by being inscrutable.
“Okay, last question,” the journalist says. “2020 was a wake-up call in many ways for many people—Murdoc, do you relate? Any revelations? Any personal growth?”
They both take a section to digest that question.
“Bollocks to personal growth, just surviving 2020 was a win.” Murdoc handwaves her away “A year that will go down in infamy. Any revelations? Sure. Being in a band and not being allowed to play in front of fans is a dreadful state of affairs.”
“I’ll bet,” she remarks.
But Murdoc isn’t finished.
“Never thought I’d say this, but we need each other.”
We need each other .
It was concealed enough that one could assume Murdoc was talking about their fans, but something in the way he says it reminds 2D of the way he looked the night he crawled into his trailer, drunk, distant, and lost.
2D keeps his eyes on the wall even as his palms begin to sweat. Where was he now? Surely, it wasn’t the same man sitting next to him. Weeks passed and he felt farther and farther away. 2D floated up towards the sky while Murdoc was a spec on a sinking lighthouse.
Murdoc closes the laptop with a satisfied grin. “Well, I’d say that was a right good show.” He seems to be talking to himself as he stretches. “Never hurts to have a conversation with another human being.”
“How have you been, Muds?”
“What?”
It was risky, but there was no telling when he would have another chance. “I asked you how you’ve been. Like I told Harriet, it’s hard to tell how you are since you’re green and also nocturnal on most days, and, uh, I haven’t seen you.”
Suddenly Murdoc’s eyes widen, and he jumps. His gaze is fixed on the cityscape beyond the deck. “Bloody hell. Did...did you see that?”
“See what?”
“Out there.” He points, his voice steadily gaining a frantic tone. “See it? Wha...what the hell was that? Is Russel trying to cock up our satellite dish again?”
“I don’t see anything.” The deck is empty save for some dying plants, a hammock, and a collection of full ashtrays on the ground. Whatever it was clearly had all of Murdoc’s attention.
The chair scrapes against the floor as he rises. “I’ll show you. Christ. It’s bad enough listening to him rattle on about 5G surveillance or whatever. Total crackpot.”
Murdoc, as crooked and unappealing as he is, is self-assured when he walks.
2D trails behind him like he always does. It wasn’t because he always believed him - though he always held on to an inextinguishable hope - but because regardless of how it ended, he would always walk away knowing something new. Murdoc was like a living, breathing story, and 2D wanted to know the ending.
“I bet Russ has a good view from up there,” he says as Murdoc slides the door open. “Hey, Muds, what if - “
Suddenly a hand shoves him forward. He stumbles and turns just in time to see the door slide shut and Murdoc back as he walks away. 2D doesn’t even try to open the door. He knows it’s locked.
The morning after that, 2D decides that he regrets his decision to save Murdoc.
Murdoc didn’t have strangers debating about his intelligence level or his autonomy every day. Or if they were, Murdoc was too much of a sociopath, too drunk, or too high to care. He was famous, yes, but he could shirk his duties, commit crimes, curse, get a doctorate, and more, and no one would think anything of it. 2D could choose a different favorite color to share in an interview, and fans would start debating over whether or not he was possessed. Murdoc had it easy.
But the reality was that 2D was normal. He had spent most of his life in the public eye rather than out of it, but he still liked to think of himself as a regular person. He was late to doctor’s appointments. He got bad indigestion from spicy food. He misplaced his credit card. He was just like everyone else.
He tries to remind himself of this as he examines himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes appear more pronounced than they usually do. His hair appears thinner and lies flat on his head. The beard he’s been waffling about growing is growing in uneven. There’s no clock in the bathroom, a small blessing that saves himself the embarrassment of knowing how long he’s been staring at himself.
He squints his eyes at his reflection as if he’s one of those paranormal investigators he always watched on the Travel channel, examining an EMF reading in near darkness.
Zak Braggins. Yeah. That’s who he was...or who he could pretend he was for today. Zak Braggins yelled at malevolent entities all night without fear. He didn’t waste his time perplexed by the new wrinkle in his forehead or disturbed by his own hairline. He wouldn’t just sit idly by and allow a co-worker to boss him around. If 2D hosted his own ghost hunting program, maybe he could be just as fearless.
Or maybe he could be Callum Hudson-Odoi, first-string winger for Chelsea. He used to imagine himself playing that position when he was younger. He would be the one running down the field with a focus on scoring. He would be the one everyone cheered for when he scored. He might even make it on a cereal box or two.
But he wouldn’t be getting locked out of his own studio and stuck on his deck for three hours until another roommate found him.
His thoughts are interrupted by harsh banging on the door. And then, a pause followed by distinct grumbling and groaning coming from the other side. And then, words.
“Let me in.” Murdoc only sounds half-awake. 2D is surprised he’s even made it out of bed and up the stairs.
He knocks again.
2D stares at the door, oscillating between bitter and, to his own annoyance, worried. For whatever reason, Murdoc didn’t want to talk to him even though he had saved his life. Murdoc was also perfectly at ease opening up to a nameless journalist while pretending 2D didn’t exist. But why would he say anything when he knew he could hear him?
Eventually, he gets tired of thinking and opens the door. It doesn’t occur to him that he hasn’t done any of the things he meant to do yet.
Murdoc glowers at him, his hair is disheveled and askew, eyes red. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, and he’s close enough that 2D can see the blemishes on his chin.
He only studies the bassist briefly before turning back to the sink and picking up his toothbrush. He doesn’t get to look long enough to decide whether Murdoc was at a baseline level of irritation, or particularly angry at him.
“Dullard,” Murdoc remarks as he stumbles past him. “Who d’you think you -? “ He’s stopped by his own retching.
This time, 2D doesn’t acknowledge him. Again, he simply listens to the cough and convulsions pulled from the man on the floor beside him, below him, on his knees bent over the toilet. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses how his back arches like an angry cat with each dry-heave. Internally, he shifts between thoughts, unsure of what role to take. Was he going to be the famous ghost hunter who stood his ground or the famous pro-athlete who charged forward in search of opportunities to win? Or was he going to be the famous singer, stuck letting life happen to him rather than the other way around?
Beside him, Murdoc hacks, eyes red and watery.
2D picks up his toothbrush and spreads toothpaste across its bristles. He had tried to be the hero, he had tried to be the best mate, tried to be the go-getter. He had crouched next to Murdoc in situations nearly identical to the one they were in patting his back and offering him water. Nothing ever worked. Murdoc always hated him the next morning.
If he needed anything from 2D this time, he would have to tell him. However, fully ignoring Murdoc was a near-impossible feat. Decades of fear, fixation, and caution had established that, but even if he couldn’t bring himself to leave, he could at least finish his morning routine.
So while Murdoc pukes his guts out, he brushes his teeth and washes his face.
When he finishes up, Murdoc is quiet. 2D continues to watch him out of the corner of his eye as he dries his face. The bassist’s face is pale and damp, beads of sweat indistinguishable from tears still running down his cheeks in tracks.
It takes everything in his non-existent will to leave him there. But this time, one foot at a time, 2D is successful. Minutes later, he’s sitting at the workstation he set up in the band’s practice area. The Subbuteo table will be finished when he glues to felt pitch to the plywood base and mounts it onto his table frame. Then he could fish Callum out from under the refrigerator, and he would be free to play the game whenever he wanted to.
The next night, Murdoc finds him again.
“Oi, 2D.”
“Huh?” 2D looks up from the floor. This time, he’s the one on his hands and knees, though it isn’t because he couldn’t control his alcohol intake. No, he was retrieving the missing Subbuteo game piece Murdoc almost lost for him using one of the pool sticks from their pool table in the basement.
“Thought I told you to get that piece of junk out of the studio.”
“It’s not junk.” 2D glides the stick along the floor until it brushes up against the missing piece. “You know, some people make their living playing table football. Watch, I could play enough that I qualify for one of the Subbuteo clubs.”
Murdoc laughs. “Not without basic hand-eye coordination.”
2D pulls the stick towards him, guiding what he hopes is his game piece closer to the light.
Almost there.
“2D.”
He sighs. “ What , Muds?”
“Don’t give me that face. You’re the one blocking the pathways to our only food source.”
“Like you’re here to get food.” Thankfully, his piece emerges with another pull.
“Guilty. But you could have done this yesterday. You took up enough time practically wanking it over your half-arsed football table with Russel.”
Of course, Murdoc couldn’t just grumble and wait. He had to make sure 2D heard him. “I might not have had to do it all if you hadn’t kicked it.” He focuses on his goal to retrieve his game piece. It was easier that way.
“Right, and I wouldn’t have kicked it away if you had kept your pipedream of professional sports superstardom to yourself in your own room.”
Finally, the piece emerges. 2D grabs it with haste and gets up. A retort reaches the tip of his tongue, but he stops himself.
Focus on what you can touch, on what’s real, not hopeful daydreams about a man who never gave you any answers.
“Where are you off to now?” Murdoc’s voice reaches him just as he reaches their living room.
“Dunno,” he says as he places the missing piece on the table. His “team” is complete on the pitch now, ready to play. He supposes he’ll practice with them for a little while, maybe play a few games with himself. It would be a quiet night alone as soon as the clacks of Murdoc’s boots on the ground disappeared.
“So, do you play this the same way you would play actual football?” He’s right across the table from him now, inspecting it. The light from the kitchen eclipses around his head, creating an almost celestial aura around him.
But this was Murdoc, and there was nothing divine about him.
“Sort of,” 2D answers as if he were answering a journalist. He remembers what his therapist said about “focusing on the positive.” Well, the only positive thing here was his ready-to-use Subbuteo table and his complete Chelsea football team set. “Just like in professional football, you’ve, uh, got to have a coin toss to determine the ends, and the losing team kicks off. But since we’re not actually on a pitch, you don’t kick anything. You use your finger like this.” He demonstrates by flicking one of the pieces forward. It glides across the pitch and bumps against the ball. “That’s how you ‘kick’ the ball.”
“Boring,” Murdoc says, but he still tries it himself. “So, you said I had to play as Liverpool, right?”
2D can feel his heart speed up in his chest. “We have to do the coin toss.” He roots around on the floor for the ten pence coin he thought he left on the table.
“Don’t bother,” Murdoc says. “I’ll just start here on the side I’m already on.” He waits until 2D starts arranging his players so that he can copy what he’s doing. “You can flick first or whatever.”
He doesn’t seem very interested in playing, but he’s sharing space with 2D without any cursing or yelling. In his chest, 2D visualizes a tiny fire sparking to life. Murdoc’s words are kindling, hope that he wishes he could extinguish because he’s drained and frustrated. But Murdoc doesn’t move. He stands across from him, eyes on the table surface, fringe hiding most of his face from this angle.
Keeping a wary eye on him, 2D extends his hand toward his player on the board, uncertain of what events he’s about to set into motion. But at the very least, he knows what to do on the board, and he pushes his piece forward into the ball at the center of the table and watches it roll.
“This is shit lighting.” Murdoc squints and slides one of his players towards the ball. He misses. “Was sitting in the dark with your football table alone all night?”
2D shrugs. “Might have.” He slides another player forward, and then another. Murdoc seems to react to his moves rather than predict them. The result is 2D moving steadily down the table towards Murdoc’s side.
“Ever heard of personal space, Faceache?” Murdoc lets out a frustrated noise as another one of his players runs into the wall. “This game is stupid.”
“Can’t blame your controller this time, eh?” 2D smirks, but his smugness is short-lived. Moving closer to the player he wants to flick results in his hip bumping up against Murdoc’s.
Their contact pulls a chuckle from Murdoc. “Ohh...missed me more than you let on.”
“I’m moving my players down the pitch.” 2D concentrates on the table even harder now, trying to pretend his palms aren’t sweating. Yeah, he really should have left Murdoc on the lighthouse. Then he would never be stuck in this miasma of longing, confusion, frustration, and sexual tension that Murdoc left in his wake ever again.
He flicks his player towards the ball. The ball rolls right between the goalposts. “Goal,” he says. “One point for Chelsea.”
“You built an entire table just so you could have that moment?” There’s a crack as Murdoc opens a can of beer. He takes a long drink before setting, no, more like slamming it down on that table hard enough that some of the liquid spills out onto the felt.
The sound causes 2D, who had been leaning close to the pitch planning his next moves, to flinch. Then, he’s angry.
“What’s the matter now?” Murdoc sounds genuinely confused, but there’s a look in his eye that 2D recognizes. He knows it well.
“Do you want to play the game with me or not?”
“Of course I do, Stuey,” Murdoc coos. “You’re the one upset that he’s winning.”
He wasn’t going to put up with it the way he did when he was twenty. “I should be the one asking you what’s the matter.” He moves his pieces back to their original formation. “But if you want to play, then we have to reset the field.”
“Oh, I’ve never felt better.” Murdoc takes a glance at 2D’s formation, fast enough that he might not have noticed if he wasn’t already watching him like a hawk.
“Okay, then maybe when we’re finished this game, we can talk.”
“We’re already having quite a lovely chat.”
“Yeah. And I don’t know why you’ve chosen now, in the middle of the night, to have it.”
“I didn’t expect to see you crawling around on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night. I guess we’re even.” He eyes the pitch. “Why aren’t you starting?”
“You get to start now,” 2D says. “And you know I like to stay up sometimes. I get caught up thinking, and then I have to distract myself.”
“Do I ever. Thinking is pretty hard for you.” Murdoc glides the ball directly into one of 2D’s players.
2D steals the ball back.“I built a Subbuteo table. Then I fished out my game piece from under the fridge. What have you been doing, Murdoc? Did you make any progress on those songs you were talking about?”
This remark seems to strike a nerve. Murdoc frowns and flicks his piece so hard, it knocks a few over. “That’s a pretty bold assumption to make when you haven’t seen me.”
“You’re right.” His heart is hammering in his chest. “I haven’t. I’d ask you why, but it's obvious that you don't want to answer.”
“You should try doing it alone some time.”
“Huh?” Now it was 2D’s turn to pause. “Are you saying I’ve had it easy? Are you telling me you think I’ve been the one ignoring you ?”
“Just as daft as always.”
It’s a common Murdoc tactic, one that he had discussed with his therapist ad nauseum for nearly his first year of sessions. A year. It had taken him a year and beyond to train his brain to think twice before taking Murdoc’s word for it. And even still, four years later, he couldn’t bring himself to cut him off and end this chapter of his life. He could distract himself, ignore him, throw jabs at him, but nothing would stop him from remembering their times at the pub together, the drive he saw and admired when he saw Murdoc throw himself into writing, working sleepless nights to perfect the mixing on their album. He had achieved so much feeding off of that energy and Murdoc’s compliments, his adoration that he showed only when they were alone, in the dark.
“No,” he says. “You haven’t been talking to me. I haven’t got a clue what’s going through your head.”
Sort of like they were tonight.
“I’m trying to have a chummy evening with my best mate. But, well, he's acting out worse than my ex-girlfriend. And he won’t turn on the lights. I guess he forgets how much of a creep he looks like in the dark.”
“How are you Murdoc?” 2D asks. “Can you answer me this time? Because the last time we were together, you left the room in a huff.”
Murdoc narrows his eyes at him. “I’m here. Just like you wanted me to be. But all I get is another one of your tantrums.”
“I saved your life!” 2D finally yells.
“Yeah, and who said I - ?”
“You did!” 2D doesn’t let him finish that thought. “When you screamed for us to not leave you behind. When you took my hand. When I caught you. You were grateful. I was relieved. For once, it started to make a bit of sense…”
For a good minute, Murdoc is quiet. He avoids eye contact.
2D can feel himself tensing, preparing to block or punch or run. “‘We all need each other,’ huh?”
His face scrunches into a scowl. “Ugh.” It was the same face he made when Noodle made him clean Katsu’s litter box.
“And all I’ve got is shit to show for it. I could have left you. I could have avoided all our fans picking me apart and Noodle and Russ’s...disappointment.” He had never said that out loud, didn’t really have concrete proof of it either. But it was something he felt. “And you think I’ve got it easy. You always think that.”
Murdoc is mid-drink when he addresses him. He tosses the now empty can aside and wipes his mouth, chuckling. “You’re so bloody worried about me. It sounds like you should be worried about yourself, mate.” He takes a step sideways, around the corner of the table.
“No. I’m trying to let you know it isn’t about you or your stupid music now that you’re finally in front of me.” 2D stares at their now abandoned game. He doesn’t want to play it anymore. “And that’s the end of it.”
“The end of it.” Murdoc hangs on to the phrase 2D is least certain about, of course. “Because I haven’t talked to you enough after you ‘saved my life.’ We’ve got to be even better mates now. Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s the only way the universe makes sense to you? But I haven’t given you that, so now you’re mad.”
2D clenches his fists tighter but doesn’t say a word.
Murdoc takes another step more into his personal space, chest-bumping into his side. He’s close enough that he has to tip his head back to keep his gaze on 2D’s face. When he speaks, his breath puffs strands of his hair away from his ear. “You must be pretty peeved.”
He doesn’t want to dignify that with an answer. It should have been obvious enough. He turns slightly , just enough to glare at him. Murdoc’s eyes twinkle back, his grin widening and exposing his jagged teeth.
2D hates how his cheeks heat up in response, how his body seems to move without thinking. Murdoc shouldn’t be smiling. Not after using his own rescue as another avenue to mock and confuse him. That’s what runs through his mind when he brings up his hand and grabs his jaw. It isn’t a tight hold. He’s just...touching him, warning him. His fingers are slippery against his skin.
“Right,” Murdoc freezes a second before he puts his front back up. “Peeved.”
2D just stares back at him.
“What are you going to do?” Murdoc’s eyes shine with manic glee. “Do it.”
When 2D doesn’t answer, Murdoc pushes forward, breaking his hold and half kissing him, half headbutting him. It’s over in a second. 2D can't fully process it. He only sees Murdoc licking his lips as he waits.
“Do it yourself,” he says. “If it’s something you want that bad.”
Murdoc leans forward again, this time with more fervor, but 2D is a step ahead of him. He grabs the fabric of his shirt and pulls him so hard that he stumbles, falling into him like he’s saving him again. But this time, he has a table to lean into to help him hold them up and give more time to just...feel Murdoc, to remember what it’s like to have him so close again.
The peace is temporary. The bassist jerks and growls against him like a feral animal, devouring his mouth sloppily. There’s no finesse or attentiveness in his kisses, just need. Still, 2D can feel his own breath quicken and heat stirring in his stomach, the familiar tightening in his pants.
When they separate, they’re both panting.
Murdoc leans into him more, palming at his erection through his pants. “That didn’t take long.”
Of course, it didn’t. Because as unappealing as he makes himself, Murdoc knows how to use his body. He knows where to rub him with his knee. When he laughs, he makes sure his breath hits 2D’s neck right below his ear. When he bites his skin, he applies just enough pressure to leave a mark, but not enough for it to hurt too much.
“Wanker,” 2D mutters. But he grabs his hip anyway, pressing clothed skin upon skin. Slowly, he begins to rut against him. He can barely contain the whine in his throat at the friction.
Murdoc’s tongue snakes a wet trail around the shell of his ear. “Let’s make this a little easier,” he says, and 2D feels the prick of nails on his skin as the bassist fumbles with the button of his pants.
Murdoc might have fallen into 2D arms the same way he did months ago, but a voice in the back of his head tells him that what they were doing now was doing the opposite of saving him.
“I’ll do it.” He swats Murdoc away. “You’re not even watching what you’re doing.”
“Fine by me.” Murdoc nips his earlobe. “We can get to the main event sooner that way.” He wastes unbuttoning and pushing down his pants and underwear. Then he turns around in an uncharacteristically dutiful manner and bends over.
From where he’s standing, 2D has a good view of his arse. Forgetting about his pants, he stares, hands frozen at his zipper.
Sensing his gawking, Murdoc swipes the once-neglected game pieces off of the table.
“What the hell?” 2D snaps. It would take forever to pick all of them up.
“Do you want to shag or not?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” 2D unzips his pants. “I was going to have some time to myself.” He positions himself behind Murdoc, groping his exposed ass roughly before trailing his hands down his thighs. Gripping them, he pulls them apart.
“There we are.” Murdoc shivers when 2D slides his dick between them. “And here you are.” He reaches a hand back with a small tube of lube.
On the surface, it’s a simple gesture, a helpful one even, but it ignites something beyond irritation in 2D. “Is this all you came for?” He grabs the tube from him.
“Does that make you mad?” Murdoc smirks at him from over his shoulder.
2D stares him down in return. He doesn’t ask him if he’s cleaned himself. He already knows the answer. Smearing a coat of lube on his fingers and his dick, he presses a finger into his entrance. It had been a while for both of them, he reminds himself. As much as he wants to, as Murdoc had said so eloquently, “get to the main event,” he would have to go slow.
Murdoc presses back, impatient. “Do I have to spill another beer on your kiddie table? Or are you going to take control for once in your life and fuck me?”
Without thinking, 2D grabs his hair with his other hand and presses his head down, forcing his cheek against the felt of the pitch.
The bassist lets out a surprised grunt but recovers quickly. “Is that your answer?”
2D doesn’t say anything back. He focuses on working him open. It seemed that Murdoc, for unspecified reasons, wanted this from him before anything else - talking, processing, anything 2D had wanted. For now, he thinks as his fingers find the spot inside Murdoc that makes his eyes mist and his noises more desperate, he would give it to him. It wasn’t for Murdoc, he decides as he feels his own arousal twitch in anticipation. It was for him.
He presses the head of his dick into his entrance, thrusting into him until he’s fully sheathed in Murdoc’s heat.
Below him, Murdoc groans as he adjusts to the girth. “Good,” he says.
It’s all 2D needs to work up to what he thinks is a healthy pace. He’s enjoying the tight heat around his dick when Murdoc interrupts his daze with a swat to his side.
“Can barely bloody feel that,” he says between pants.
“Not my fault,” 2D says, but rocks into him harder anyway.
“It isn’t a difficult job, dullard. You just have to fuck me so hard my insides are rearranged.” Murdoc pinches him this time, right below his hip. “Christ.”
That was it. 2D grips his hips and thrusts into him hard enough to shake the table. “Is this what you want?”
Murdoc’s body contorts beneath him, his back twisting and arching as he tries to find a comfortable position. The noises that squeeze their way through the cracks of his gritter teeth almost sound pained. Almost. But when he turns to catch 2D’s gaze, his eyes are firey. It only spurs 2D on. He keeps his hand tangled in his hair as he slams into him. He thinks of the beer stain on his newly made Subbuteo table. He thinks of Murdoc’s insults. He thinks of the years of his life that he spent living the bassist’s dream, in a constant guessing game, a back and forth between hate and something deeper.
Did he love Murdoc? Perhaps not now, but at some point?
“Hate me...don’t you?” Murdoc’s voice is slightly garbled by how mashed his face is on the table.
2D can’t tell. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in a normal, long-term relationship. His hand is locked into Murdoc’s hip, probably hard enough to bruise. The thought makes him feel a little better.
“Is that what you want to hear?” The table shakes, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin. “You want me to say I hate you?”
It’s a strain on his own body to fuck Murdoc this hard. Years of crouching over his keyboards have given him a sore back. Age makes him tired before midnight. But he does his best to give Murdoc the aches and bruises he seems to yearn for.
He fucks all of his frustration into him. They would never be able to communicate normally it seemed, but maybe if he could meet the bassist where he was...2D mutters a curse. Another piece of wisdom from therapy, inappropriately applied in his current situation. First, his head was filled with Murdoc’s demands and insults, now he had his therapist’s gentle commentary. It couldn’t ever just be his thoughts.
Murdoc groans as his body slides back and forth on the surface of the table with each thrust. His nails scratch into the felt.
“Do you want me to tell you that you’re a shit bassist?” 2D twists his hair until he yelps. “That all your songs are shit? That you’re worthless and don’t deserve anything?”
A dark part of him wants to push Murdoc to the point of telling him to stop, to make him deal with the same hurt he had felt emotionally and physically since he forced his way into his life. But, as he had already acknowledged to himself, that was what Murdoc wanted. Whether he confirmed it from him or not, this was what he wanted.
It’s at the point that 2D stops moving and pulls out of him. Before Murdoc can ask him any questions, he grabs his shoulder and turns him on his back.
“What the - ?” His face, half of it red and rug-burned, wears a confused and irritated expression.
2D repositions himself back between his legs.
“No.” Murdoc squeezes his eyes shut.
“No? Oh...well, okay.”
Murdoc’s legs wrap around his waist before he can walk away. “Not that,” he snaps. “I just…” He throws an arm over his eyes. “Not like this.”
“What do you mean?”
Murdoc doesn’t answer, just tries to turn over so that he’s on his stomach again.
“Wait...Muds.”
“Why? You get to fuck a hole either way.”
“I want to look at you.” 2D cups his cheek, taking in his flushed face, slightly parted mouth, and half-open eyes. “It’s been, well, I guess it hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it’s been years since we’ve had a moment like this.” He can kiss him more easily like this, can touch more of his body, brush his hair out of his face. He knew what Murdoc wanted, but perhaps it wasn’t what they needed.
“Please,” he asks. “I mean, if you really don’t want to, we can do it your way, but…” He leans over him, nuzzles into his neck, and listens to his breathing quicken and relax. Murdoc smells the same way he did on that day, like burnt cigarettes and salt. He’s alive, so alive beneath him. He isn't lost.
Murdoc sighs, his head falling to the side.
2D can’t see his expression, so he stops. It wasn’t a not, but it was a clear yes either. “Muds, I - ”
Murdoc squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck…”
With a gulp, 2D waits for him to open them, waits until his eyes flash from guarded to resolved.
After and long minute, Murdoc extends his hand, pulling him down by the back of his head until they're kissing, tongues moving against each other lazily. As they do, 2D guides himself back into him, fucking him, slow and deep.
“...Missed you,” 2D finishes his sentence against his mouth. He’s cradling his face in his hands, not wanting Murdoc to avoid his gaze.
Murdoc whines, his arms lie on the table like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“You’re so bloody frustrating.” 2D lets go of his face to grab his hands, intertwining their fingers. He holds them against the table. “You never talk to me.”
“Nothing to...say.” Murdoc’s voice hitches, and he gasps. He isn't grimacing like he was in the beginning, and for that, 2D is grateful. He would rather see him blissed out and satisfied. “M’bad. What else is there to say?”
“Can’t believe that.” It’s getting hard to hold out. Every time Murdoc arches, his muscles clench, pushing him closer and closer to his finish. He leans down again and places a kiss on Murdoc’s chafed cheek.
The bassist flinches.
Beyond the point of being deterred, 2D asks, “What?”
“S’wrong...all wrong.”
“...Not.” Unconsciously, 2D drops his head down. His forehead cracks against Murdoc’s chin, but he can hardly remember his own name. All that registers are Murdoc’s gasps and pants and the tightness of his walls around his dick. He feels the bassist shift and his fingers tightening their grip.
“It...is,” he insists. “Idiot.”
“It’s okay.”
Another roll of 2D’s hips, and Murdoc’s thrown his head back. He yanks one of his hands out of his hold and hides his face again. “Fuck!” The bassist’s voice cracks. It’s anger mixed with pure bliss. “Feels...good.” His mouth quivers. “Fuck!”
“Stop?” 2D doesn’t know how he’s managing words right now.
Murdoc lets out a frustrated noise.
“Muds?”
“Fuck...you.” Murdoc’s legs tighten around him, pulling him as deep as he can go. “...Don’t know anything.”
2D thrusts up into him again, and it’s enough to bring Murdoc to his peak, air stuttering in his chest, his hands clenched into fists. He can feel the sting in the skin of the hand Murdoc’s still holding. Everything about him is taught and defiant.
It doesn’t take long for 2D to follow, his whole body fire-lit. He collapses on top of him.
They lay there, nearly naked and sticky, chests heaving against each other. The light can’t reach Murdoc in this position, and only then does 2D slide his arms underneath his shoulders in a strained hug.
Murdoc makes a choked sound and jerks, but it’s half-hearted. In the end, he allows him to hold him like he did that day he had yet to speak of out loud.
“Were you scared?” 2D remembers asking him.
That question had earned him a swat on the head at the time.
“I was scared,” 2D remembers admitting to him.
“You didn’t need to be.”
2D tenses up briefly when Murdoc embraces him back. He gulps when the bassist’s grip tightens. In response, he rests his head on his chest. Somehow, though he was bent over a table, balls-deep in Murdoc, their position feels more intimate than anything he can recall. There’s something, despite the confusion, undeniable and final about it, like it’s drawing a line somewhere that he doesn’t have the energy to think about just yet. Or maybe it was just the afterglow.
“Stu…”
“Hmm?”
The arms around him squeeze tight. “...Don’t leave.”
“What do you mean?”
2D can feel the frantic beat of Murdoc’s heart in his chest, and he remembers. Murdoc’s wide eyes, his outstretched hand. 2D only had to turn away, and Murdoc would have been gone. In another universe, he is. He disappeared with the lighthouse into the opaque water into nothingness. 2D can’t imagine that universe, can’t imagine a situation where he didn’t pull Murdoc out. Maybe that made him pathetic, but nothing can take away from how right it feels to have the bassist alive, warm, and breathing against his body.
“ Don’t leave.” Murdoc exhales, and his breath is shaky. He sniffs. 2D knows better than to look at him right now.
He doesn’t doubt it anymore. Murdoc was with him, and he would always be with him so long as 2D kept pulling him out of whatever trouble tried to drown him into nothingness. He only hoped it would get easier. It had to get easier.
“I never did, Muds,” 2D says.
“Thank you.” Murdoc breathes a ragged breath. His fingers tangle in 2D’s hair like he, too, is trying to convince himself that he’s alive, and 2D is real. “Thank you.”