Disclaimer: I don't own the Gorrilaz. To be honest with you, I don't even own my own house.

Author's Notes: Wow... I just recently got back into the Gorillaz, and I must say, I feel sort of dumb for not remembering them. I mean, I was pretty young when they first came out, but, still. There's no excuse for forgetting such amazing characters such as Noodle, 2D, Russel, and Murdoc.

Warnings: First Gorillaz fanfiction. The writing style may be a tad weird, but I'm trying to get a taste for 2D and how to put him into writing, so if you have any suggestions or constructive criticism, go ahead and send me a message.

This fanfiction ( still debating whether it will stay a strange oneshot or be expanded) is SLASH. As in BOY/BOY, MANBITS/MANBITS, and all that other good stuff. Thought you should have a headsup.

Also: Written really late, whilst listening to Melancholy Hill and reading the fanfiction The Fool On Melancholy Hill. It's fabulous, by the way, and I think you should all read it.

I'm a bit of a review monster. So...review.

xxoxxoxx

Because there's no such thing as sweet dreams, babe

only a monster stuck in your sheets.

xxoxxoxx

It's a sickness, he's sure of it - a ghastly, all encompassing viral infection. It corrodes his mind, burning the thoughts of every day life out of his mind, leaving his mind a patchwork of unwanted ideas.

Too often is he awoken with all the signs of fever: clammy palms, eyes wide, lips panting, blood boiling beneath the pale cloth he calls flesh.

This time when he awakes, he's shaking. Violent tremors slam through his body, throwing him back into the sweat-swaddled sheets, and it takes every ounce of strength in him to drag his body forth from the bed and onto the floor. He lands with a groan, hissing when the cold clutter of the floor jams into his back.

He just lies there awhile, struggling to get a hold on his thoughts. The dream is coming back to him in vibrant flashes.

-hands run up his thighs-

He squeezes his eyes shut

-eyes, glittering, looking at him head on-

Crescent shapes appear on his palms

-and he can't say no, can't say no because he doesn't want to say no-

He feels like screaming.

2D opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

No.

Oh god no.

But it happened and he doesn't know why but it happened and he hates it but it happened, and in his anger he bites his tongue. The warm, bitter sensation distracts him for awhile.

But he can't hide from his mind forever, and far too soon for his liking the dream is popping up, like little gray-green flowers at the edge of a graveyard.

2D bites the inside of his cheek and sits up. The fabric of his jeans are uncomfortably tight. The panic in him rises again at the sight of his familiar friend. He hastily sheds the clothing he fell asleep in and flings it across the room.

He thought that ridding himself of the clothing he had dreamed in would make himself feel better, but now the result of his dream is staring him straight in the face. He can no longer ignore its unwanted presence, nor its source.

Cursing angrily, 2D throws himself onto the bed and onto his side. He… he could pretend it didn't happen. He could push this dream to the back of his mind, with the others, and he can walk and talk and smile and say No, nothing's wrong, I totally didn't get a boner when I had dream about you last night, no, not at all, and would you like some tea?

He tells himself lots of things, lying there in the prison that was his room, but none of it does him any good.

Because, come morning, 2D would still dread seeing Murdoc Niccals.