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"So, that's my crib, baby! Hey, listen, I hope you had a wonderful time and gained an insight into the wild, wild ways that Gorillaz live, you know? But, hey, listen, I've got some- some work to do, and it's pretty important, so... you lot better fuck off."
Murdoc slammed the doors in the MTV crew's faces. They had just been dragged through Kong Studios, Murdoc grumbling, wishing he were elsewhere. He must have agreed to the tour drunk and was now caught off guard. The rest of the band simmered—Murdoc never clued them in on his promises.
Tension clings to the Essex house, seeping from Murdoc like a slow poison. After LA, the band's fracture stretched on for years—a wound that refused to close. Noodle gathered the scattered pieces, stitching them together and conjuring Demon Days from the ruins. Russel and 2D watched her in awe. Even the most stubborn among them—though pride would never permit a confession—felt the old ache of admiration.
Russel, Noodle, and 2D move together with an ease Murdoc can't touch. Noodle, the youngest among them, has become the anchor, holding the others together and keeping disaster at bay. Only Noodle still bothers to look out for Murdoc, the band's outcast. Once merely disliked, he's become poison; lashing out, drowning in drink, clawing for credit that isn't his. A warrant for him in Tijuana. It's no wonder the others keep their distance, wary of contamination.
The kitchen is tense as footsteps stagger in—Murdoc, dishevelled, enters where Russel and Noodle stand at the stove. A silent nudge from Noodle to Russel says everything. Alcohol's sharp tang blends with a sour mood. At least the pretence of a shower has washed away the worst of his sweat, leaving only the scent of old habits.
"Sorted. Now that's finally off my plate. What the hell are you two incinerating this time? Going to feed me your latest disaster—or just bloody poison me?" Murdoc wrenches open the bar and hurls a stiff one before either can object. "Where's that useless tosser skulking now?"
Russel keeps his eyes on the stove. "He's in his room."
"He looked sad," Noodle says from the counter.
A spark of anger flickers in Murdoc's chest. Even 2D's absence is enough to set his nerves alight. Was he always this raw, this volatile? The origins blur: childhood, prison, the long shadow of LA. Memories rot inside, ghosts that refuse to leave.
Murdoc slams the cabinet, the sound shivering through the glasses. Russel and Noodle flinch; Russel's glare is sharp, but Murdoc is lost in the fog of his own anger. He grips a vodka bottle in one hand, the other curled tight, and storms toward 2D's room. Noodle slips in front of him, arms outstretched, a fragile barrier. Russel mutters, barely believing his own words: "2D will be fine." Since Eastbourne, 2D's new defiance has only fed Murdoc's temper.
*
Hunched over on the bed, 2D coaxes a mournful melody from the synthesiser. After Murdoc hurled a can at their head, they retreated here, muttering curses under their breath. It's one thing to be bullied at home, another to have it caught on camera. At least Noodle and Russel offer small kindnesses. Even the people in Eastbourne welcomed them back with open arms. No one else would ever treat them the way Murdoc does.
Fighting back was never easy—scratches, insults, even a wild, useless punch. Still, it's always me, 2D thinks. Why does it have to be like this? Weren't they friends, once? Before Frankfurt, before everything soured?
2D's fingers hover, frozen above the keys. Has it really been four years since Frankfurt? Four years since Murdoc turned down their confession? Murdoc wanted them to forget, to let the past rot in silence, but how could they? Every attempt to bridge the distance was met with coldness. LA still burns. Too many nights spent swallowing tears in the dark. Murdoc is a wound that never closes.
Lost in thought, they don't notice Murdoc standing in the doorway. He barges in, as usual, slamming the door behind him. 2D keeps their eyes down on the keys, which only annoys Murdoc. The tune shifts upbeat as the music fills the room, an attempt to forget. The air thickens with the sharp click of Cuban heels and the scent of alcohol.
"Oi, 2D!" Murdoc snaps. "You having a stroke in here, or just sulking? Those sprogs made food, so drag your sorry arse upstairs and eat—unless you're actually trying to starve."
"Jog on, ya knob."
Murdoc blinks. 2D's words are another rejection. He hates this new, defiant 2D. He remembers showing off his purple cape, and 2D mocking him: "Looks proper dodgy if ya going for the 'ten-year-old' vibe." The memory makes Murdoc angry. Even with 2D's attitude, he expects obedience.
"Why are you moping in here like a kicked dog?" Murdoc sneers. "Still whining about before? Pathetic. Try growing up; you're a bigger drama queen than Noodle."
2D's fingers tremble above the keys, caught between frustration and longing. Once, they saw Murdoc as a saviour, blind to the rot beneath his charm. The man who used to tangle his fingers in their hair, who pressed soft kisses to their neck, is gone—swallowed by drink and bitterness. There was a time—a radio interview—when Murdoc was sober, and laughter came easy, real and bright—the memory aches.
Even from across the room, the stench of alcohol clings to Murdoc's breath. 2D shouldn't have to endure this, but Murdoc seems to savour the glare he receives. 2D grinds what teeth they have left, and Murdoc's smirk only grows sharper.
"I told ya to sod off, you drunkard! Or I swear on me mum, I'll... I'll-" Without a second thought, 2D lifts the synthesiser to intimidate Murdoc.
Two thousand pounds—the price of the instrument—echoes in Murdoc's mind. If 2D smashes it, he won't replace it. He doubts 2D would ever go that far.
Murdoc grabs hold of the synthesiser. 2D's grip tightens, their knuckles whitening as they pull back. The two struggle, each trying to take control—Murdoc yanks hard, while 2D braces their feet, not letting go. Suddenly, as Murdoc pulls, the edge of the synth smacks 2D's nose. 2D winces, pain twisting their face as their hands slip away from the instrument.
Murdoc wrenches the synthesiser free—a hollow victory. He shoves 2D onto their back and hurls the synth to the foot of the bed, where it lands with a dull thud. He climbs over 2D, hands closing around their neck. At first, he tells himself the grip is gentle, but when 2D starts to choke, the truth crashes over him—fear and guilt surge, cold and sharp. Stop! You're killing him! The thought hammers in his skull. Shame slices through him, dragging him back to Los Angeles—pinning 2D while Russel and Noodle try to pull him off. He doesn't want to be that monster again, but here he is, choking 2D—again. His skin crawls, panic and shame twisting together in the haze of alcohol.
Suddenly, the situation reverses. Murdoc finds himself on his back—2D has overpowered him, shifting their positions with a quick movement. Straddling Murdoc, 2D, driven by anger, wraps their hands gently around Murdoc's throat; his expression is determined, but his grip remains light. Murdoc, surprised and almost amused, watches the unexpected reversal unfold.
Blood drips onto Murdoc's face from 2D's nose. The taste of metal fills 2D's mouth. Murdoc has made nosebleeds a regular punishment. Swallowing and sniffling do nothing; their head is tilted the wrong way. At least the blood isn't soaking their sheets this time.
Murdoc doesn't mind. There's a strange peace in this reversal. He could throw 2D off, but instead, he lets himself sink into the moment—maybe this is what 2D felt, all those times. His mind is a tangle of contradictions. Control is his shield, but just this once, like in the Winnebago, he lets it slip. Part of him almost wishes 2D would squeeze harder, enough to silence everything inside.
But 2D doesn't squeeze tighter. Instead, Murdoc leans up unexpectedly and licks a streak of blood from his own lips—salty, like tears. Shocked, 2D immediately snatches their hands away, pulling back. Murdoc lies there grinning up at them, completely unfazed.
"You prick..." 2D mutters, the words meant for Murdoc and for themself. They fought back, if only for a moment. Anger simmers, but they could never wound Murdoc the way he wounds them. He is the source of their longing and their ruin.
"Mmhm, had your fill of japes, eh?" Murdoc feels a sudden weight on his lap—perhaps 2D didn't realise they're sitting down. He glances at 2D's face, still smirking. "Must say, that's a good look on you." An honest compliment; he's always fancied rough-looking people.
The compliment only makes 2D bristle. 2D swipes at the blood with a sleeve, but there's still more to clean.
Murdoc repeats the lie that it was only a one-time thing, but with 2D straddling him now, the pull between them is impossible to ignore. He pretends the past was just a drunken mistake, tries to brush away the memory of 2D unravelling beneath him—but it never really ended. He's always found excuses: you don't sleep with your bandmates. Still, he's spent years haunted by thoughts of 2D. Now, with 2D in control, Murdoc feels his armour cracking.
Carefully, to test the waters, Murdoc slides his hands on 2D's tights, making them flinch. 2D realizes they're sitting on Murdoc's lap. Still, they're not getting off. They look down at his hands, then his face. "Wha' are you doing?"
"Ain't this what you were after?" Murdoc gives 2D an encouraging push with his hips as he grinds. "Me, you..."
2D grunts quietly from the movement and close their eyes. They're unsure if Murdoc means this moment or the time they had confessed to him. Either way, the answer's the same.
"No... Yes-" They shake their head and blink. "I mean, nah! I mean...yes, but-"
"Which one is it then?" Murdoc continues grinding 2D, impatient with their indecisiveness.
"I'm still pissed off at you."
"Good! Nothing wrong with a bit of narked nookie."
Of course. It's just sex—no promises, no tenderness. 2D sighs, remembering the brief, foolish hope that Murdoc might change. Their mind begs them to push him away, to build a wall, finally. But their heart betrays them, always. No stranger's touch ever soothed the ache Murdoc left behind. Only Murdoc could ever kiss that pain away. But to him, it's nothing, even as 2D's heart shatters for him.
2D surrenders to weakness and leans in, pressing their lips to Murdoc's, desperate to erase that smug grin. The kiss is intoxicating, almost reckless—a kiss that makes the world fall away and lets desire take the wheel. They linger, tasting each other for the first time in ages, the flavour now a heady mix of blood and vodka.
Between the kisses, 2D whispers curses. Murdoc groans into their mouth when their tongues begin wrestling for dominance. Murdoc, of course, has the upper hand with his long tongue. 2D pulls away to pant and look at Murdoc with a frown.
"Just so you know, I ain't gonna stop hating ya guts, not eve' after this..."
"Yeah, yeah, that's old news." Yet, judging by the way their hips press closer, Murdoc can tell his kiss is having the desired effect. That knowledge brings his smirk back. His hands wander, sliding from thighs to ass for a squeeze—until they're swatted away with a glare.
"What the hell?"
"No..." Their grip tightens around Murdoc's wrists, brows knit in determination. "If we're doing this, I'm the one who's going to shag you."
Murdoc can only blink, stunned by the audacity of what he just heard. Surely 2D must be joking—he watches for a telltale smirk, a sign this is just another wind-up. But the determination in their eyes doesn't waver. They're serious. It's been ages since Murdoc let anyone top him; trust never came easy, and he's grown used to the safety of toys over real vulnerability. The idea of surrendering, letting 2D take control, is almost laughable—yet some reckless part of him is tempted to say yes.
"You? Knacking the legendary Murdoc Niccals?" The usual belittling falls flat against 2D's unwavering resolve. 2D isn't bluffing—either they'll fuck him, or neither of them will get any relief. For once, Murdoc hesitates, considering the power shift. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let 2D take charge—hell, it might even be thrilling. A slow grin spreads across his face as he hooks his legs around 2D's waist and pulls them closer, foreheads nearly touching. He peers into those bottomless, inky eyes and gives in, just a little.
"Fuck it. Alright, I'll give you a go, muppet."
*
If Murdoc had known how torturously slow 2D's hands would be, he might have second-guessed surrendering control. Maybe this is 2D's way of getting even for all those years of mistreatment. Murdoc clutches the sheets, struggling to contain the noises slipping out as 2D's fingers work him open—not rushed, but attentive, almost reverent. The touch lingers, exploring, learning every response. It's maddening, especially since Murdoc's already stripped bare while 2D remains mostly dressed, a detail that suddenly feels intentional. When Murdoc reaches to tug at 2D's shirt, 2D bats his hand away, keeping command of the pace.
"S-Satan, Dents, get a wiggle on, yeah...?" Murdoc's voice wavers as 2D's fingers curl inside him. The sensation went straight to his neglected erection.
"Shut up."
Murdoc hates this new 2D—the one who talks back, who looks at him with nothing but annoyance. This isn't the 2D who used to cling to him, grinning like a fool. Now there's only a dried nosebleed and a cold stare. Murdoc tries to bury the thoughts that gnaw at him, insisting it's just another hookup. He knows he's the reason 2D is distant now, and the knowledge stings more than he'll admit. It's nothing, he tells himself, just one more time. But the doubt eats at him.
When the prepping finally ends, 2D withdraws slick fingers, leaving Murdoc to sigh with impatient relief. He half expects a slow, teasing striptease, but instead, his singer only shoves jeans and underwear to mid-thigh—hardly the show he'd hoped for. Still, as 2D lines up, Murdoc can't help but steal a look. He's seen them naked before, but something about this moment—this anticipation—makes his heart stutter unexpectedly.
"No rubber? Haven't you learned sod all, mate?" He smirks at 2D after referring to the child support email they had received. A little tease helps him regain his control.
But 2D's focus narrows to the task at hand: pressing into Murdoc with aching slowness. Only the tip breaches him, and already Murdoc's composure crumbles, letting out noises he'd struggled to hold in.
"Well, it's not like you were rockin' one last time." 2D sighs as they're pushing deeper inside him; it's a warm welcome. They're maintaining balance with one hand on the mattress while the other is holding Murdoc's waist. "And ya couldn't even be arsed to clean up your mess..."
All of it's true, and under different circumstances, Murdoc would have a sharp retort ready. But the effort of taking 2D inside robs him of words—he's reduced to panting, vulnerable and raw. Sensing his struggle, 2D offers a literal helping hand, stroking him with practised ease. Murdoc's eyes flutter shut as pleasure overtakes him, helpless sounds slipping free. Maybe it's been longer than he cares to admit since anyone touched him like this, but his body is quick to remember.
For 2D, seeing Murdoc beneath them is everything they once dreamed—powerful, exposed, painfully real. There's a rush in holding the reins, in every sound Murdoc makes. But even as desire burns, something is missing: connection, tenderness, the hope for something beyond tonight. 2D's hands tremble as they trace Murdoc's skin, craving more than flesh. They wish Murdoc would look up and truly see them—not just a body, but someone starving for affection. The moment is bittersweet, suspended between pleasure and emptiness, and 2D is left wishing it would last forever, even as they know it's already slipping away.
The haze of sensation drags 2D back to the present, where Murdoc's hand has taken their hand up to his chest. They squeeze his pec, thumb teasing a nipple, delighting in the contrast—lean, but softer than their own body, something solid to hold. Murdoc welcomes the touch, a low sound rumbling in his throat. 2D's hand glides to his neck, fingers splaying in a gesture that's almost tender, not meant to choke but to hold him close.
"Oi, give it some welly, Stu. Screw me 'ard, you sod..."
Murdoc's taunt barely leaves his lips before 2D drives in with a force that shatters any pretence of restraint. No more gentleness—if it's rough he wants, it's rough he'll get. Overcome by sensation, Murdoc throws his head back, a strangled cry breaking free, raw and desperate. One hand covers his mouth, stifling the noise; the other presses into his neck, grounding him in the feverish present. 2D bites down on their own lip, riding the intensity, while Murdoc, lost in the onslaught, grabs himself for more, chasing every last jolt of pleasure.
The bed groans beneath them, a dirge for unrequited love. Murdoc is lost in sensation, but 2D fights the urge to lean in, to press a kiss to his lips and spill every secret. In the end, they do everything but speak the truth.
"You're cruel..." They whisper instead. "Dunno why I ever thought you were all that..."
Murdoc's ear burns at the sting of those words. He tries to twist them into something filthy, anything to keep the pain at bay. But the hurt is real, and it frightens him. He grabs 2D's hair and pulls them close. 2D crouches over him, face hidden in his neck, breath ragged—the end is close.
Release hits with a final, shuddering thrust—2D spilling deep inside, their whole body quaking with the effort not to collapse on top of Murdoc. The pulse of warmth is all it takes for Murdoc to snap, coming hard across his own stomach, vision sparking with white-hot pleasure. Both are left gasping, breath ragged and uneven, their bodies still tangled. A few lazy thrusts linger, drawing out the last waves of sensation until 2D finally stills and slips free. For a heartbeat, their eyes meet—something raw and vulnerable flickers in the space between them. 2D almost leans in for a kiss, but the moment passes; the afterglow is thick with everything unsaid.
2D pulls their jeans up and collapses onto their back with a sigh. Murdoc stays frozen, staring at the mess drying on his stomach. He can't even find the words to ask for a tissue. Why does something so small feel insurmountable? Maybe he deserves it.
2D reaches for the nightstand, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. Murdoc watches, tempted to ask for one, but the words die in his throat. The moment is gone. If he ever belonged here, that time has passed. He dresses in silence, Cuban heels dangling from his hand. At the door, he hesitates, glancing back at 2D, the smoke curling between them like a question left unanswered.
"Right, so, grub's up then, innit?"
"M'not hungry." 2D blows out the smoke, not meeting Murdoc's eyes.
He tries to pull his usual grumpy face, but it feels forced. "Yeah, uh, right..."
Leaving 2D's room stings. Murdoc is used to being abandoned, not to being the one who walks away. He mutters to himself, bitter at how distant 2D has become. He aches for the old 2D, the one who filled the silence with nonsense and looked at him with wonder. But that version is gone, and Murdoc knows the fault is his. Maybe another drink will dull the ache, at least for tonight. Still, as he lingers at the threshold, a thin thread of hope tugs at him—maybe it isn't too late to fix what's broken. It's a small thing, but it gnaws at him, refusing to let go.
Once Murdoc is gone, 2D lets the tears fall, silent and hot, just as the blood had before. They'd promised themselves never to cry over him again, but the promise is empty. The ache lingers, stubborn as ever.