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The sounds of a shitty horror movie are playing lowly, light from the screen bleaching his already pale skin so unnaturally white it looks blue. Stu is slack against the sofa, vapid eyes peeled open in interest. His mind is starting to work again as the painkillers wear off, rusty cogs turning despite the brain-damage. He’s almost at the point he longs for most; when the migraines aren’t quite waxing head-splitting, but the pills have worn off enough for him to think a little. So he thinks about the movie soundtrack.
The door opens in the other room and he hears uneven footsteps stumble inside, the clink of a bottle hitting glass. Stu sinks further into the couch, pressing away growing anxiety. Seconds later Murdoc comes stumbling into the door frame, leaning heavily and absolutely smashed. Stu peers at him through the dark, knitting his eyebrows together.
Murdoc is breathing too deeply, chest visibly moving under the tight black shirt. His eyes slowly raise until a focused glare sets on Stuart, the red one shining like his inverted cross. It’s intense, like Murdoc is tracking his every move, waiting to kill. Stuart gulps and sinks even deeper into the couch. Murdoc walks towards him, so sure of himself that Stu almost doesn’t notice how badly he’s swaying. He steps in front of the screen just as another character dies, obscuring Stu’s view with his long legs. Stu raises his hands in defence.
“2D…” Impossible to tell, Stu’s eyes shift upwards and meet an expression he’s never seen before on that face. There’s something wrong with it. It’s twisted into something more open, more honest than normal. It looks unnerving on him.
And then he falls.
Stuart lurches upwards to catch him, but he’s not up enough to support deadweight collapsing into his chest. They land with Murdoc, of course, on top of 2D and hardly coherent, fractured nose pressed into his shoulder. 2D holds his liquor upright, burying it between the couch cushions out of Murdoc’s reach, his other hand resting on his back. There’s a moment of awkward silence between Murdoc relearning how to use his limbs and 2D not knowing how to react to his kidnapper pressed against him.
Murdoc begins to stir, almost nuzzling into him as he tries to push himself up. “What’s this?” Stu asks as Murdoc’s back presses more firmly into his hand and he drags himself to sit in his lap. His sad eyes are piercing as the man tries to glare again, hands suddenly seizing Stu’s shirt in uncompromising fists. Stu doesn’t know what to do but stare back, uncertain and abyssal. He gives up and drops his head into Stu’s shoulder again, loosening his grip with a heavy breath. Stu shifts to accommodate him, because what is he but accommodating? He slowly begins to rub circles into Murdoc’s back, his other hand coming up to rest on Murdoc’s bicep. “Mudz? Y’alright there?”
“...You’re so good.” Murdoc croaks out after a minute. “Dents, you’re so good.”
2D is more confused than before. “Uh… I don’t-- I’m not all that good at a lot of things,” and as an afterthought he adds “At least that’s what everyone says.”
He chuckles into Stu, softly. Sardonically. “You fuckin kidding me, mate?” His breath reeks of alcohol, his syllables slur together. “You’re the bloody embodiment of sympathy.”
“Sympathy? What’s that mean?” 2D can’t remember a lot from high school, but he’s pretty sure that he’s using that word wrong.
“Compassion. Mercy. Kindness. Like a star, fuckin… glow in the dark.”
“Uh… Murdoc, you should probably go to sleep.” Stu says, continuing to stroke Murdoc’s back but now shifting to prepare to lead him to his room. But Murdoc is obstinate to the core of his being. He peels away and steadies himself by putting hands, firm despite the drunkenness, on 2D’s shoulders.
“No. Listen here, dullard. You’re a chronic fuckin optimist. And you're too forgiving, and you're too nice. You're good.” His face screws up in something more hurt than angry and he leans back into Stu’s neck. “You're too fucking good, Dents.” He whispers. His hands slip down his front to his sides and his fingers press gently like he's trying to morph through Stu’s shirt, through his ribs to his heart. It feels like Murdoc is somehow constricting his soul.
“Thanks, Murdoc….” Stu hums, knowing that such things will disappear with sobriety. But it’s fine for now. It’s fine until Murdoc nods off.
“Believe me, you dense fuck.” Murdoc growls and lightly punches his chest. 2D hisses in response, momentarily clenching his hands into black fabric.
“I-- ah-- alright, fine.” He gives up and loops his other arm around Murdoc’s torso. The violent bastard would never allow this sober, however much God (er, Satan?) knows he needs it, so he may as well do it now. “It’s alright then. Everything’s fine.” He mumbles lowly, comfortingly. He doesn’t know why he’s comforting him. He should probably just get him to bed, leave whatever this was to a later date.
He feels the misshapen nose pressing into his neck and the hot, vodka-scented breath there before he bothers to compute what that means. But a minute later he realises Murdoc is very close-- almost touching his neck with his mouth, not his hands, and his insides keen. He swallows. “H-Hey, Murdoc?” A grunted response. “What’re you doin’?” Stu tries not to move.
“I don’t know, pet.” He shifts and bites softly into the junction of 2D’s shoulder and neck. 2D’s eyes widen in shock and he tenses, a short puff of air escaping his throat.
“Mudz! You can’t do shit like that just because you’re hammered.”
But Murdoc pulls back to challenge him with mismatched eyes. He swipes his long tongue across his lips. “Why not? You’re into this shit, yeah?” Blood rushes to Stu’s face.
“What? I’m not-- forget it. Murdoc, you’re smashed and you’ll probably just regret this in the morning. And then… uh, hit me for it. Let’s just get you to bed.”
“Come with me. Feel the quality of my sheets.”
“Oh. Um, I think maybe not?”
“2D. Look at me.”
“Well, er, the thing is that I am looking at you and, uh… y-you seem utterly plastered. And I… I think consent doesn’t work like that....”
“And if I weren’t drunk you’d let me fuck you?”
“Jesus Christ Murdoc, I don’t know. Can we just--”
“No.” He growls with a tone so dark it makes 2D freeze again. “No. I want…” His eyes drift to 2D’s mouth. “If we ain’t gonna fuck, can I at least kiss you?” Stuart blushes darker.
“I…” He’s torn. He doesn’t know if he wants to, but his brain is clearing up nicely and he knows he’s certainly not objecting. It’s not like a kiss means anything, anyway. “Are you gonna hit me for it tomorrow?”
Murdoc’s face reverts back to that pained expression that doesn’t belong. “No, love. I won’t hit you for kissing me. It’s my idea, isn’t it?”
“You’re… you’re sure?”
“Positive, love.”
So Stu leans forward and waits, parting his lips slightly and tilting his head. Immediately Murdoc is pulling him closer into a heaven that tastes like vodka and rum. His tongue is too long and his teeth are too sharp and everything about Murdoc’s movements are sloppy and seemingly blurred, but it feels like getting high. When they break, Murdoc mouths at the corner of his lips, his jaw line, down his neck whispering endearments. Beautiful. Sweetheart. Pet. Pretty boy. Blue-haired god. Black-eyed angel. He sucks into his collar bone and 2D can’t help but let out a soft, low groan that reverberates in his chest. He realises when he opens his eyes again that his one hand is curled in Murdoc’s hair pressing him flush against his skin. He lets go instantly, blood rushing and mentally preparing for ridicule at being turned on so much from a fucking hickey. But when Murdoc meets his eyes, his pupils are blown wide.
“S’like you’re singing.” Sounds caught between cockiness and awe. He kisses him again, ardently and roughly, yanking 2D’s slender form against his body. “Sing for me again, yeah?” Sounds caught between an order and begging.
Stuart smiles into the kiss. Of course he can sing. Of course, when his voice puts Murdoc in a fervorous trance. He moans into his mouth.
Hands press into his sides again, this time directly stroking his skin, warm like memories by fireplaces. The shirt is pushed up, off over his head and soon Murdoc is running his fingers across prominent ribs and pectoral muscles. So 2D drags his own hands across Murdoc’s abs and chest, tugging briefly on the cross and never touching skin without cloth.
Murdoc notices though and grabs 2D’s hands, forcing them under his shirt to press against his pecs. “Fucking Christ. We're getting it on, and you can even touch me?” He blushes and looks down at his hands, observing the stark contrast between ivory and green-toned brown. He brushes his hands down and thumbs his nipples, minding the almost imperceptible shiver that runs through Murdoc.
“S’not that, I just didn’t know if you're okay with me touching you.” Stu mutters absently as he explores the other’s chest. Slowly and softly, like butterfly wings pressing against cheeks, delicate and beautiful. “Plus, I thought it might ruin your shirt.” He adds.
He expects to look up to see the very clear ‘you're an absolute fucking idiot’ face but instead he is met with this expression of adoration and guilt that doesn’t quite sit right on Murdoc’s features. Then, for the first time in a long time, he’s wrapping his arms around 2D and hugging him; he buries his face in his spit-slicked neck yet again.
“You're an angel. You’re so good. Fucking Satan himself, how are you so good?”
“Oh. I don't know. I'm just a regular person, really. You do nice things too sometimes.” He gingerly pats his head.
“...Mate, I'm a fuckin monster.” He runs his abnormally sharp teeth across his skin, followed by his abnormally long tongue and it's tapered tip. 2D clenches and sighs, because of course Murdoc would figure out exactly where he was most sensitive immediately. He always did.
“I think we're both just humans.” They sit in silence, still like forgotten toys on the floor. Stu thinks about a thousand things, carding his fingers through thick black hair. Murdoc is tensing, drawing tight like a bowstring until his gripping fingers start forming bruises on 2D’s skin and his breath is shaking.
“Hey, Mudz, it's alright.” Stu prys those hands off his sides, wincing as he does so. He pins his arms together by holding him, feeling like he's the only thing keeping Murdoc from falling apart. So he starts to sing. Gentle ‘ooh’ sounds in the tune of some lullaby he doesn't recognise. Murdoc resists. Then Murdoc eases, slowly like candle wax melting. It would make sense that sound is his tranquillizer. He’s small and vulnerable in Stu’s arms, so unlike wolf teeth bared like he usually is and Stu doesn’t know what he can do besides hold him so he doesn’t shatter his brittle heart. He finishes the song, oh so softly and mollifying, in Murdoc’s ear and he plants a kiss to his temple. “Let’s go to bed, Murdoc.” Murdoc only hums.
Stu hoists him and leads him to his room, drunk steps uncertain and unsteady. He sits him down and kisses him chastely, as chaste as anything with Murdoc can be. He lays him on his side and when he turns back as he’s closing the door Murdoc is already asleep.
He trudges back through the dark, feet heavy from fatigue, to turn off the TV and grab his shirt, carelessly discarded somewhere. He finds it behind the coffee table. Finally he plucks the half empty vodka bottle from between the couch cushions, making a face at it.
He pours it down the sink.