Chapter Text
2D groaned as he stretched his stiff limbs, the cold air of the attic room stinging his skin. The memories of the previous night's argument with Murdoc flooded back, stirring a mix of anger, embarrassment, and something else... a strange, unfamiliar feeling that he couldn't quite name.
As he climbed out of the bed and dressed in his usual attire - black skinny jeans with holes at both knees from years of wear and tear; scuffed black boots caked in dried mud from countless tours around Europe; a faded gray band T-shirt once printed with bold red text reading *“Soviet Squid”* but now so washed out it looked more like static than letters—each article clung to him like armor. Not physical protection—no fabric could shield what lived beneath—but an emotional boundary. A shell.
He stared into the cracked mirror hanging crookedly above an old chest drawer made from recycled studio equipment crates. His reflection stared back: wide eyes too large for his face framed by moppy blue hair falling across one eye—the right one swollen slightly from where Murdoc had punched him during their fight last night when things got heated after he dared say *"You don’t own me."*
That phrase always triggered him.
And yet this time… this time it hadn’t ended in blood or locked doors or days without speaking.
No mocking of his past mistakes no pointing them out
This time there’d been silence—long seconds where Murdoc just stood there breathing hard before storming off down to Hell’s Kitchen—the basement lab beneath Kong Studios full of bubbling vials, stolen occult books wrapped in chains, and machinery that hummed at frequencies only bats could hear—and shutting himself inside without smashing anything for once.
No glass shattered.
No speakers blown out.
No Noodle yelling upstairs about noise pollution again.
Just stillness—an eerie kind that hung over everything.
And then later—hours after midnight—the soft creaking of footsteps returning up through darkened hallways followed by a hesitant knock on 2D’s door that startled him half to death because Murdoc *never* knocked unless something was wrong… or worse—he wanted something disguised as peacekeeping.*
The voice was low when it came: “Stu? You awake?”
Not “Hey tosser,” not “Open up before I kick it down.” Just… soft. Quiet. Almost gentle—if you didn’t know better.*
“I’m awake,” 2D replied carefully into darkness,* sensing how fragile whatever moment they were stepping into might be.*
Murdoc entered slowly—not barging—and held up two plastic mugs steaming faintly under dim light leaking from hallway bulbs behind him.* One smelled sharply medicinal (tea brewed too long), but the other carried familiar hints of honey vanilla cream—the kind only ever used when someone needed comforting but wouldn't admit it aloud.*
“You look like shite,” said Murdoc plainly while setting both drinks near bedside table cluttered with sketchbooks filled half-finished lyrics drawn sideways between doodles.
“And yer giving tea?” asked 2D warily,* pulling knees closer to chest—a subconscious defense mechanism born over twelve years living under same roof as unpredictable bassist who sometimes forgot whether love meant holding close or breaking apart.*
“I made mistakes tonight.” The words tumbled unevenly off tongue unused to apology—or any form vulnerability stronger than sarcasm cloaked thinly as honesty.* "I shouldn't have shoved you onto floor just 'cause ya questioned my production choice for a new track."*
"Ya called me useless onstage during rehearsal," said 2D softly,* fingers tracing bruise forming along left cheekbone now tingling hot whenever touched—even lightly.*
"Yeah…” admitted Murdoc*, scratching neck awkwardly while avoiding gaze entirely.“Didn’t mean all o’it.”
“But you meant some.”
Silence fell heavy
“We have an interview today anyways so look better than you do now” stated murdoc returning back to his old self