A/N At long last, my first Gorillaz fic has materialized. I'm kind of going back and forth between loving and hating it, so any reviews would be much appreciated, especially constructive criticism!
Rated T for alcohol use, language, and sexual references
Disclaimer I don't own Gorillaz or any associated characters, events, etc.
2D was almost afraid to approach Murdoc, even with praise in mind, simply because, in the past, he had been pushed back so violently—sometimes in quite the literal sense. The leader of their band wasn't the sort to that one would walk up to with fluffiness in mind. He usually didn't bother to listen to what 2D happened to be thinking at all, dismissing him with snorts of "he's an idiot" and "nobody really wants to hear what you have to say right now, you know that?" and "pay him no attention, his brain hasn't functioned properly since I rammed into him with that car…and it's just the first time I'm talking 'bout, mind you…" And, on the rare occasions that the blue-haired vocalist was heard out, his comment was immediately crushed under an avalanche of irritation, disbelief, and exasperation. Noodle used to listen to him—but, no, he couldn't think about Noodle, not now. Just the mental whisper of her name was like a blow to his heart and lungs, seeing as, of course, he hadn't seen her in person for over five years now. Had it really been that long? That long since he'd pressed his face against the grungy glass of the tower in the Feel Good Inc. video, listening to her cheerfully strum a guitar on her floating windmill…that long since he'd watch her skip through that cemetery of zombie gorillas and deliver the kick of the century to one…that long since he'd pressed his ear to the floor of Kong Studios to hear her brightly piping out "DARE" a floor below—that time, it hadn't just been for the cameras—that long since he'd watched in mute horror when they searched for her in the wreck of that final, horrendous nightmare of a music video, for hours, finding nothing, nothing…
He shook himself quite physically, resulting in a spin of dizziness. His thoughts had always had a habit of drifting, ever since he'd come out of the second of Murdoc's car crashes, when he'd fractured his second eyeball and, admittedly, a hint of his mind as well. Right now, it was Murdoc himself that 2D had to focus on. He had to do it, had to go up and talk to him, had to get the thoughts plaguing him off his chest and into reality. Swallowing, he took the last few steps into the bar, widening the distance between himself and the rather dumbstruck-looking interview woman who was still sitting there like a complete idiot. He shouldered the door open—Murdoc could never close it properly—and shut it behind him with a tap of his heel. The bass player wasn't there—oh, no, there he was, returned from the loo with an apparent burning need to replace the liquid which had recently departed his body. It was only after examining the various bottles of alcohol he had made sure to stock up on—rum, gin, cognac, the like—and carefully selecting a particularly fat, nasty green-shaded one that he noticed 2D standing in the doorway. He blinked and the bottle slipped from his fingers to shatter on the floor. The vocalist yelped, stiffening at the loud noise.
Murdoc swore and stumbled back from the mess of shattered glass and oily-looking rum, making sure to grab another noticeably thinner bottle before dancing away. "Fuck this," he hissed, raising his eyes—both a dark amber color, though they had been mysteriously mismatched around the production of Demon Days—to furiously glare into the darkness where 2D's used to be.
"What in Satan's name was that for?" he spat, waddling over to plunk down in an armchair situated nearby, probably for the purpose of cushioning those rather frequent intoxicated collapses.
"I didn't mean to scare you," 2D protested, voice warbling a little with trepidation.
The bassist snorted, popping the cork with his pinky finger and taking a long, slow swig of whatever was in the deadly-looking bottle, which seemed to be labeled in Spanish. Or something like Spanish—2D had never been particularly good with languages. "You didn't scare me, idiot. I was…" His eyes, already little more than bloodshot slits, narrowed yet further. "…Upset. Thought you were that sodding interviewer back for another go. Bit perky, wasn't she? Can't believe the people they send in. They ruin my flow of creative genius," he added delicately, taking another deep sip from the mysterious bottle.
Yeah, and of my blood in several select places, 2D thought grudgingly, wincing as one of the twelve or so bruises accumulated in the last half hour throbbed painfully. He had never been able to cover his emotions properly, so Murdoc watched the brief affair unfold on his face, and snorted amusedly.
"Hurting that bad? Damn, I've done worse to a lady or two in bed—purely loving, of course—and they haven't whined a bit. Seemed to rather enjoy it, actually."
Why any woman would want to bed with you… he tried to shove the negative emotions from his mind, recalling the purpose that he had sought Murdoc out in the first place. "Well…so…anyways…"
"Anyways? Are you implying that, in fact, you have an actual thought of your own creation to offer?" Murdoc mock-gasped, his voice rasping slightly. He gave a quick, hoarse cough quickly followed by a downed swallow of the death-liquid (2D had just noticed a small skull and crossbones in one corner of the label), and it suddenly struck the vocalist how he was aging—how they were both aging. He was in his thirties, now, and Murdoc in his forties. Both very much adults, both old enough to have children—which they did, as a matter of fact, perhaps four of five to 2D and an absolute minimum of twenty-eight to Murdoc. Not that they ever hung around to father them, though. 2D never really thought about it, actually. It seemed to be a rather small portion of his life to go getting worked up over—Murdoc certainly didn't, after all.
"Yeah. I wanted to say…" Spit it out, sodface. He could see the very words in the dark eyes that were boring impatiently into his. "That…thing you said at the end of the interview there. That was…" His stomach twisted uncomfortably. What was I thinking, doing this? "Pretty?" It came out as a squeak, almost like a question.
"Ah. That. Eh…it was nothing. Just rambling." He seemed to be articulating himself slightly more clearly than usual, and it suddenly occurred to 2D that perhaps he had struck something here—maybe there was something he was approaching, some part of Murdoc previously undiscovered. The idea excited him, and, almost unwillingly, he took a couple of steps closer. The green-tanned bass player drew back instinctively, and there was a sort of…wariness, almost, in his eyes. "What're you doing?" he asked cautiously.
"I…" 2D froze. What was there to say now? He felt his face begin to burn. "Um…I was…checking to see…if you bruised…from when…"
Murdoc gave him such an odd look that he wanted nothing more than to run around and zip out the door. But, somehow, he held his ground, swallowing noisily.
"From when you took it upon your stupid sodding self to whack me in there? That was right obnoxious. Not like the Paula Cracker business is exactly new news anymore, eh?" He chuckled to himself. "New news…"
2D decided not to point out that he couldn't even count how many times Murdoc had taken it upon his own'stupid sodding self' to do much more than 'whack' him. "But…it still…it makes me feel…jealous," he quailed.
Murdoc squinted at him disbelievingly. "Jealous, really? Huh. And here I was expecting you to feel…" He hesitated for a moment, clearly trying to think of a completely random emotion. "Euphoric."
"Eh, it's nothing. An entirely normal part of the puberty process."
Yeah, never mind that I'm thirty-three…
"I mean, you really haven't grown into a full adult until you've wanted to become sexually involved with someone like my glorious self," he continued, licking the bottleneck's rim with the tip of his absurdly long tongue.
"What?" 2D squeaked, his dark eight-ball-fractured eyes paling to a sickening white color with as he was assaulted by a surge of disgusted anxiety. "B-but…no!" There is no way that anyone can be that dense. No fucking way! "I'm not jealous of you!"
"No, I mean…I mean, I'm not jealous of her! I'm angry! I'm angry that you…that you…she was my girlfriend!" he wailed.
"You really are remarkably clumsy with your words, aren't you, Faceache?"
"I don't want to have anything like that to do with you!" he choked.
"Oh, sure you don't." The bassist dropped the death bottle, which managed to stay in one piece as it rolled away, that vile liquid trailing out of it. Cyborg would have a hell of a job cleaning up later. He paced closer to 2D, eyes gleaming in an almost hungry way. Expecting another beating, 2D whimpered and shrunk backwards, flattening himself against the wall.
"I'm s-sorry…" he mouthed.
"But I don't believe you," Murdoc purred back. "I don't think you're sorry at all that you said that, because it's the truth, isn't it?"
"And the earth orbits the sun." He lifted an arm and twined his long fingers into 2D's silky, almost feathery blue hair. "Soft," he mumbled, then his eyes flickered back into focus. "Right now, you don't want to have anything to do with me. But that's going to change very, very soon, isn't it, now?"
Though 2D's trembling lips could no longer form words, his thoughts ricocheted violently around his skull, not restrained in the least. His mind was practically hysterical. He's really drunk, drunker than drunk, this is beyond…he wouldn't be doing this in his right mind, he probably isn't even aware of what he's saying, of what he's doing…but if this was trivial, if this was nothing more than a display of whatever effects that death liquid gave…then why did 2D feel something more than squeamishness? Why was there something else inside of him, something very faint, whispering, pleading that something happen…but did it want to run, or to stay put? To remain passive, or to respond to the smirking look that Murdoc was giving him…?
"Heh. Knew it. Nobody can resist for that long, hm? Not even the great 2D…"
His lips moved, but there was nothing coming out of them. Everything seemed vaguely fuzzy around him. He didn't want to resist. Perhaps there really was something wrong with his brain…after all, this was Murdoc…they hated each other, right? Didn't they—
His thoughts were cut off as Murdoc pressed in closer to him, rubbing his thigh between 2D's legs and eliciting a low moan from the vocalist, which sounded a thousand times rawer than the most soulful lyrics he'd sung. He realized that his eyes were squeezed shut, and it seemed to catapult his sense of touch infinitely high, so that he could practically feel the contours of Murdoc's body as he leaned in closer…closer…and then there was another emotion surfacing inside him, like their shark submarine breaking the crust of the ocean…anticipation…
All at once, he was alone. His eyes flew open to see Murdoc already on the other side of the room, retrieving his bottle of death liquid and holding it up to the light, checking how much remained inside. His entire body burning with an indefinable emotion, 2D sunk to the ground, shaking all over.
"See?" the bassist grinned on his way out of the room, tossing the words over his shoulder with an air of unmistakable carelessness. "You're as susceptible as anyone. Don't play tough." And he sauntered out, softly whistling the chorus to "Clint Eastwood" under his breath, death bottle swinging casually from his fingertips.
2D took a long, deep gulp of air, realized that he was still shaking, and wrapped his arms around his thin shoulders. Whatever had just happened, Murdoc didn't seem to be taking it too seriously. Which could only mean one thing: that deeper bit of the bass player that he'd glimpsed earlier certainly hadn't surfaced this time around. He'd been being played with. That was all.