The Thing About
Chapter: Prologue. So yes, it's gonna be short.
Warnings: Foul language, very light angst, and slash (Murdoc/2D) in future chapters.
Disclaimer: Albarn's and Hewlett's.
The thing about Murdoc was his mouth.
That had to be it. That mouth - as decided rather randomly one evening, upon sitting next to the man on the studio kitchen's couch and attempting to watch television while instead chancing brief but frequent glances at him - and the way it worked. It wasn't an attractive mouth, by any means. It was a mouth that held a set of drug-stained, crooked teeth, an abnormally long tongue, the foul odor of too much nicotine with a hint of alcohol and caffeine, and the ability to unleash a slew of words so vulgar and offensive that it was almost surprising the man hadn't been killed off already for aiming said words at the wrong person at the wrong time.
How he survived in a world and society like theirs with a daring mouth like that, 2D hadn't the faintest.
However, the verbal rottenness of Murdoc's mouth was also what drew people to him like helpless little moths to a blazing inferno. It was difficult not to respect the guts, the balls the man possessed whenever a thought of his voiced itself aloud. To someone who had been around him long enough, it became easier as time went on to tell that he was always, always thinking before speaking, although he never really acted or sounded as such. Murdoc knew that his words had power. He knew they could intimidate. His mind worked much quicker than people generally tended to assume, and 2D had never witnessed a moment in the man's presence when what he said was something he didn't mean.
It was fascinating, really. It was fascinating to know that such a repulsive mouth could also be such an intriguing one.
"You're starin at me."
There was a fleeting, brief moment of eye-contact, 2D's gaze raising and Murdoc's swinging over from the television. The singer smiled and laughed despite the slight embarrassment trickling through his cheeks and warming them, and turned his dark, damaged eyes back to the TV. Murdoc was no fool. He knew when eyes and attention were on him. It was what he lived for, after all.
2D mumbled an apology.
Murdoc half-shrugged and returned to their program, already bored with it but lost on anything better to do.
And they sat like that, side-by-side, for another hour or so until Murdoc's apparent boredom became a bit too much and the man rose to his feet with a grunt. He paused to scratch at his inner thigh before moving away from the couch and toward the kitchen.
2D hesitantly craned his neck around to watch. "Wotcher 'avin?"
Murdoc opened the refrigerator and peered inside. "Piss." he growled, after a gloomy, glaring moment. "There ain't nothin to eat aroun'ere."
2D watched him turn away from the refrigerator and shuffle toward the door. The proverbial black rain cloud over the man's head was nearly visible. "Why don't we's go out t'get somefink?" he tried helpfully. "No sense n'starvin ourselves, hey?"
Murdoc stopped in the doorway and turned to grin at his band mate over his shoulder. The grin was unreadable. "Unless you wanna try goin out there in th'blacka night wif all the zombie problems we been 'avin, that don't sound like a good idea."
Point. And a good one, at that.
2D tried again. "Maybe we's can order it? Get som'mun to bring it 'ere."
"Daft," came the quick reply. "Do you 'eaven an'ell expect anyone to come 'roun'ere wif them things wanderin 'round?"
Shot down a second time. A third would just be another bruise on his already re deflating ego that he didn't need. Instead of going for the third strike, 2D stopped trying and slowly turned back around to face the television that he knew he wasn't going to watch.
Once again, Murdoc's mouth had caused him to shut his own. That damned mouth. And the pointless, uncomfortable obsession with it that just wouldn't quit.
After 2D's head was turned, Murdoc stayed a moment longer, his eyes lowering to what he'd been stealing his own (better concealed) glances at all evening. It was hard not to look, as it was very clearly there and big enough to catch anyone's attention from across a bloody room. Was 2D really that oblivious to it, or was the wank just showing off?
Murdoc's unhappy, unimpressed gaze lingered.
Then he turned away, leaving the singer and the large, red and purple hickey marring the pale skin on the side of his neck to the empty, meaningless glow of the television set.