Chapter Text
Although it’s now considered a rare occurrence, a screaming match erupts nonetheless in their mansion's living room. 2D clutched the right side of his head. The pulsing migraine has spread to his teeth and jaw, and all the grating voices are making it worse.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Noodle shrieked. “That's way too long! They'd easily find us again in three weeks!”
“Whose fault was it that you got arrested, huh?!” The bassist’s voice grated on his ears. “If you weren’t such idiots, you would’ve run when you had the chance!”
Of course, Murdoc is the instigator, like ninety percent of all their fights. 2D is surprised this hasn’t happened sooner.
He’d give anything to make this happen sooner. Or later. Any other time when the head on his neck isn't actively trying to kill him.
“You ran because you're a fucking coward!” Noodle shot back. “I don’t know why I expected better from you. It's like you don't care about saving 2D at all!”
At the mention of his name, 2D looked up at his two bandmates. 2D hasn’t seen Noodle this furious in years. And Murdoc…
“Well, I came back, didn’t I?” the guy asked, indignant. “You should be thanking me for busting you out of that police station. S’not like I planned to leave you there for good.”
He's grateful that he can't roll his eyes right now. Murdoc's eerily skilled at sensing when he's doing it, no matter how subtle.
“Whatever,” she sighed. “Why do we even need three whole weeks, anyway? Can’t we just fly back to England in the morning?”
“We'll need new IDs and passports for that, sweetheart. Top quality ones, too,” Murdoc shook his head in a dramatic show of burden. “It'll cost time to make. And a bloody fortune. Satan, the things I do for this band…”
It can be argued that Murdoc’s technically the one who got them here, but 2D would rather not concern himself with the details. The cult stuff is too wildly fantastical to explain in court, and neither he nor his bandmates has the enthusiasm for that.
Satisfied with the lack of protest, Murdoc nodded.
“It’s settled, then. We'll hit the road again in ten, so you lot better hurry. Wouldn’t want the LAPD to get us before we’re ready to dip out.”
For the first time since their escape from the police station, Murdoc’s eyes landed on him, and long enough for 2D to take in the dark, bitter scowl on his face.
“Too bad we'd have to stick around the sodding city for this,” he muttered. “Though you'd like playing here for a little longer, eh, Dents?”
Before 2D could think of a response, Murdoc turned on his heels and walked away, slamming the door shut behind him. 2D winced, cursing the man in his head.
“What was that about?” Noodle asked.
“Hell if I know,” he grumbled. “Just let the bloody sod think what he wants. I don’t want to deal with this.”
Her eyes moved away from where Murdoc was last seen standing, irritation melting away into concern once they fell on 2D.
“How bad is it?”
2D groaned. “The drugs' flushing out hurts. Damn all of this cult kidnapping stuff. Damn that sodding tea.”
“Do you–” Noodle paused. “You don't need your pills for this, do you?”
God, he wants to take one so badly.
The pain isn’t going to die down. Just one of those little things, and he'd be good to go. He needs to function properly if Murdoc wants them to get the hell out of here.
He could feel the plastic container in his left pocket. It’ll be so easy to take one of the pills out now. Just the one.
Warmth enveloped his fingers. 2D’s eyes snapped back up to meet Noodle's firm ones. His hands were shaking.
“2D,” she said, both a warning and a plea.
“I know. I'm sorry,” he hissed. “The drug is probably a bit of a trigger.”
“Don't be sorry. They were horrible for doing this to you,” he felt her grip growing tighter. “Should I hold onto your pills for now? Just in case.”
His first instinct was to say no. The rational part of him knows she should. He’s done this with Noodle or Russ before, relying on those pills less and less, only taking two of them most days. It took many painful years to get here, and a painful start to it all.
Plastic Beach, when he was forced to go without the pills for months on end.
He shook his head. He doesn't want to think about Plastic Beach, especially this close to a possible overdose. He can't let a cup of tea throw all of it to waste.
Pulling one of his hands free, he dug into his jeans pocket, grabbed the orange-colored plastic container, and passed it to Noodle before he could change his mind.
“I don’t know how much I’ll shove down my throat if I have this on me right now,” he said. “Thanks, Noodle.”
“Anytime,” she nodded, then added, “Need any help packing your stuff?”
Normally, 2D would appreciate the assistance, but he could see from her stiff gait that she was well exhausted. The poor girl deserves to take it easy for the night.
He shifted to look at Russel, the one who had been passed out for the entire interaction. The guy most certainly needs the help more than him.
“It's fine,” he shook his head. “Don't really have that many things to pack, anyway.”
“If you're sure,” she smiled. “Just take it easy, alright? Call me if you need anything.”
Noodle walked up the staircase to her room. Before she could vanish away from view, 2D looked up.
“Noodle?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For saving me,” he said. “Don't think I've said that yet.”
Noodle smiled wider.
“Anytime,” she said, repeating her earlier sentiment, and walked away.
The night went on to be full of moving and arguing, 2D’s opioid cravings draining him to his core all the while. They found an isolated little motel somewhere he can't remember, each getting their own dirt-cheap room. 2D had crashed immediately upon contact with his bed, too tired to even tear yesterday’s clothes off his sweaty body.
At least they had their rooms right next to each other. He appreciates that. It always feels lonelier when his bandmates’ rooms aren't nearby nowadays, even though they're all in the same building.
2D tries to ignore how Murdoc chose the room furthest away from his, failing miserably.
Groaning, he propped himself up and checked his phone. 7 AM. Too early, but his mind won't let him sleep again anytime soon. Instead, he looked around. He hadn't taken a proper look at his room until now.
Funny how he didn’t think LA would have motels this shitty, but if anyone's going to find a dump like this in the City of Angels, it's Murdoc.
The room is tiny, with the only other piece of furniture being a beat-up desk in the corner. The dirty orange-coloured walls are enhanced by the white, dimming fluorescent light, adding to the dreariness of the whole interior. A brown-cream patterned rug sits in the middle of the room. It would be a commendable attempt at luxury if the stains on it didn't make it look gross instead.
A glance into the bathroom shows it's also too small to be comfortable. The tiled walls are stained with some variant of piss-yellow, and while 2D was never a germaphobe, he's positive the shower will give him deathly rashes if he so much as touches it. And was that a cockroach he just saw crawling out of the tiny window?
At least the toilet and sink are clean. Plus, his sheets were fresh and didn't smell like anything unpleasant. Soft, too.
Small blessings, he thought. It was almost enough to make the place forgivable.
Almost.
Cleaning himself up at the sink and putting on a white tank top, 2D slipped out into the parking lot under the morning sun. He leaned against their car, lighting up a cigarette in lieu of digesting anything of substance.
It's an old habit from when he was still a younger, more irresponsible adult. He's not much more responsible now, though as he remembered how his hands shook in Noodle’s, he couldn't help but feel he was regressing all the same.
Though you'd like playing here for a little longer, eh, Dents?
He puffed out the smoke at the memory. He's definitely not the only one falling back into old habits.
That's what upsets him most about this whole cult fiasco. For all his talk of being a “changed man”, Murdoc is the closest he's ever been to acting like his old self again.
He wasn't a saint back in Studio 13, but there were laughs, hugs, and conversations where they were equals. In Silver Lake, Murdoc only had him paint obelisks and dig holes, and he barely left the house unless Murdoc told him to. Now, Murdoc can't even look at him without sneering. What changed?
Was it Moon Flower?
He almost jumped when another hand landed on his shoulder. It was Noodle's. She's a sight for sore eyes, as ever.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “Didn't expect to see you up and about this early.”
“...Lumpy mattress,” he said. “Shower's gross, too. Had nothing else to do, I guess.”
Noodle grimaced, likely facing the same problems. There goes his plans of taking a shower before midday.
“Russel's still out,” she said. “Murdoc’s gone off somewhere, I think. A note on the door said he'd be missing for a bit.”
2D can't tell whether he's more relieved or annoyed at Murdoc's avoidance.
“But look,” Noodle pulled something out of her jacket pocket, jingling it in her hand. “Car keys!”
2D shook his head, smiling. “What, you just up and snatched it from his room?”
“Not my fault he left it for the taking,” she grinned. “I'm getting everyone something from the waffle place I saw on the way here. Wanna come?”
And that's how 2D ended up in a cozy breakfast restaurant with a steaming stack of waffles in front of him.
Noodle wouldn’t have it when he said he wasn’t hungry. It’s important to keep a healthy diet when recovering from drugs, she said. He doesn’t think the marmalade ice cream he’s having with the waffles counts as healthy. Noodle stayed mercifully silent about it.
The dish stared at him, daring him to stab a fork at it and have a bite. 2D frowned. A stack of waffles really shouldn't be this sassy, or hard to eat.
After he nudged the food with his fork for the fifth time, Noodle spoke up. “You good?”
He would be. That is, if his mind would stop showing him images of red and white robes flowing under flashing lights. Last night's high didn't make him forget about that goddamned kiss in the police station after all.
“Just thinking,” he mumbled.
Noodle hummed. “About Murdoc?”
Trust Noodle to see right through him. “You know how it is.”
His bandmate sighed. “He doesn’t deserve the amount of thinking you do about him.”
“Maybe not,” he replied. “I can’t stop it, though. Believe me, I've tried."
He knows full well what he’s feeling and why. They both know. He never bothered denying the epiphany he had from assembling The Now Now to himself, and Noodle was always quick to catch on. They talked about it often when they produced the album, and he wasn't the only one on edge the day Murdoc finally listened to it in full.
Yet Murdoc never said anything other than what he told the tabloids. It's always about how the music would be better if it had him in it, how it's all just about 2D missing him. Never a peep about how Murdoc himself feels about the songs, and by extension, 2D.
Murdoc was simply incapable of that kind of affection, he concluded. 2D thought he'd made peace with that.
And yet…
“I just don’t know why it's different this time,” 2D ran his fingers through his hair, gripping it slightly. “Have you ever seen him try to give a bird flowers? I thought I was going mental!”
“It was kind of funny,” she snickered. “Him bumbling around trying to get a woman's attention like that. Didn't think I'd see the day.”
“Neither did I,” he mumbled.
“I mean, it's been a while for him, hasn't it?” She took a bite of her own breakfast. “He never once hooked up with anybody since your album. Have to admit, I thought that meant something.”
“But it's a bit of a reach, innit?” 2D slumped on the table. “That geriatric's age probably just caught up with him. And someone like him wouldn't bother doing old-fashioned courting if all he wanted was a shag.”
“So you think it's different different,” Noodle emphasized by pointing her fork at him. “Like, love different.”
Those words might as well have just tied a barbed wire around his chest and pulled. Hard.
“Say the word ‘different’ again and I'm gonna flush these waffles down the toilet.”
“Aw, don't be like that,” Noodle teased, but she was sympathetic. “For what it's worth, I don't see him being serious about her. It’s more likely he was just being… Well, Murdoc.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
Noodle opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Now it's her turn to play around with her food. She still twirls her utensils the same way she did when she was ten.
“It's hard to say,” she mutterred. “On one hand, Murdoc going out of his way to make a genuine connection to someone has the potential to be good. But with his behavior recently–”
That means Noodle also noticed Murdoc's backslide in attitude, but that's not what 2D’s mind chose to focus on.
“Him pursuing Moon Flower is good?”
Noodle eyed him in annoyance. “It would be good if the way he treated us also improved. Evidently, it has not.”
“Right, right,” 2D backed down. “Sorry.”
“It's fine,” she sighed. “Look, I know you're upset, but if the presence of someone new actually makes him better, we're gonna have to accept that as a win.”
2D frowned. “What?”
“I said what I said,” her eyebrows furrowed. “When, and if it happens, we'll have to accept that, in his eyes, we're not the people who we thought we were.”
“You seriously think he'll sort himself out for someone other than the band or himself?”
“I'll have to see it to believe it,” Noodle gazed down. “But we've known him for two decades, 2D. If it's not us, then I sure as hell hope something exists out there that can provoke him to change and make it last.”
2D’s frown softened. He sees that, like him, Noodle is also affected, though not necessarily the same way. Noodle is, in Murdoc's words, like his estranged daughter. It's hard not to grow bitter when someone you’ve hoped would change for so long, changes for a stranger so fast without them doing any amount of effort.
He grabbed one of Noodle's hands, heart aching at the tiredness in her eyes. She had to wrangle the band when Murdoc was going mental, Russel was incapacitated, and 2D was running around doing fuckall. He can't keep that behavior up now.
“This is getting too unpleasant for breakfast, eh?” he asked, gesturing at their plates. “How about we take these to-go and hang out somewhere else? Food for the others can wait until we head back.”
Noodle considered it, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“Sure,” she said. “Do you have a place in mind?”
2D caught a few people staring at them at his periphery, likely recognizing him in particular. His electric blue hair really isn't ideal for laying low, and they still have three whole weeks to go.
In his eyes, we're not the people who we thought we were.
“I might have an idea.”
They made it back to their motel at around 5 PM with some apology Chinese takeout. Murdoc is at the front porch, almost comical in his lack of patience with his boots tapping on the tiled floor. Russel's also there, roused from his shuteye on one of the armchairs by the sound of the car's approach.
Murdoc was already on them before they killed the engine. Arms crossed and scowling, he pounced at the first chance to berate them as they opened their car doors.
“There you are, you little shits!” Murdoc pointed a sharp finger their way. “What makes you think you had the right to hog the car yourselves, huh?! I could've used it to–”
2D slipped off the bucket hat on his head, revealing medium brown hair, framing eyes with blue irises underneath.
Murdoc can't be described as anything other than “stunned”. His eyes flit between 2D’s hair and face. The pointed finger twitched, losing its severity.
“...What the fuck?!” he said.
“Shit, Dee,” Russel whistled as he walked over to them. “Gotta say, the new look's kinda freaky.”
“S'not that bad, is it?” 2D played with a strand of his newly dyed hair, feeling self-conscious from the stares. “Thought I looked pretty nice.”
Russel said, “I dig it,” at the same time Murdoc cried, “Of course you did!”
“Why the hell did you get a hair transformation when the album is getting released?!” Murdoc continued. “You look like a right middle-class hippie-wannabe from East London!”
“Oi! I used to have brown hair, you know?” 2D grumbled. “And how come you're not saying anything about Noodle? She's done more hair transformations than I have!”
Noodle herself is sporting a shorter, sleek bob, now with indigo black hair instead of her previous red. She has an elbow on the hood of the car supporting her weight, watching the argument with mild amusement.
“Noodle's different,” Murdoc waved. “Changing looks is her thing. You’re supposed to be a constant! What are the fans going to say when they take a look at your sorry mug?”
“We don't have any concerts planned, Murdoc. We're on the run, remember?” 2D sighed. “And you were the one who told us to lie low. I'm just doing as you asked!”
“Obviously, that's not what I meant!”
“Then what do you mean?” 2D scowled. “You wanna keep me in my shithole of a room? You're not gonna let me see other people and just make me do every single bullshit that comes to your mind?”
2D was surprised by the following silence. He'd only referred to the treatment he received at Silver Lake. It shouldn't warrant this kind of tension.
Then he remembered. Plastic Beach.
“Do whatever you want,” Murdoc snarled. “None of my business if you want to look like the little twat you were back in Crawley. Just don't steal the fucking keys again.”
2D watched Murdoc's back until he disappeared into the motel. His two bandmates watched with him, both with various degrees of annoyance.
“I texted you that we'd be back late, Russel,” Noodle said. “You didn't tell him?”
“I didn't,” Russel grinned. “It was fun watching the asshole squirm. He's really more worried than he let on.”
“So worried his solution is to insult my face, apparently,” 2D mumbled. “What else is new?”
“Hey, don't take him seriously, yeah?” Russel gave him a thumbs up. “The brown hair looks good on ya. Dunno what Murdoc’s complainin' about.”
“Yeah,” Noodle gave him a look. “Don't worry about it. He probably likes your blue hair better.”
Her tone of voice is trying to tell him something. 2D doesn't know if he should figure it out.
Two days had passed since the hair dye argument. His buzzing, melancholic mind won't let him enjoy his game console or books properly, so he decided he needs some action.
He's going to write a song.
Being a musician comes with the obligation to shout one's heart out to the world. At least, that's how he felt about it. He's a musician, a vocalist at that. This is the one true outlet where his pain and suffering can actually mean something.
Plus, he's written about Murdoc many times before. Maybe this song could be an angry one instead of the usual mellow. That would be a nice change of pace.
Humming a potential tune to himself, he took the case containing his keyboard from the car and walked back to his room. Giddy, he speedwalked through the hallway, hoping no one would catch him on the way. This is his project, and it's going to be fully personal, dammit.
Alas, the universe disagrees with him, for he ran into the bassist himself.
Murdoc is dressed down in a pair of jeans and a black cardigan. The inverted cross rested on his bare chest. His hands, partially covered by too-long sleeves, are holding a hot mug of coffee.
He looks soft. It's a good look on him.
“What’cha doin’ with that?”
2D froze. Murdoc always gets touchy whenever he writes songs without his input. He debated telling him, but he doesn't want this song to be tampered with by anybody. Least of all Murdoc.
Lying might spell worse scenarios. Murdoc might take away his keyboard if he finds out. Or worse, demand to hear the song and inevitably laugh at his face. His heart won't be able to handle it.
So, he told the truth. “I'm writing a song.”
Murdoc stared at him. 2D tries not to gulp.
“There are worse ways to kill time, I suppose.”
“Huh?”
“You're being productive, or trying to. Either way, it's better than doing nothing,” Murdoc shrugged, handing him his coffee mug. “Gimme the keyboard.”
“Why?”
“Don't want your clumsy arse to drop that heavy thing on the way. Bloody thing's expensive,” he waved his hand. “Hand it over.”
The keyboard is one of his smaller ones, not heavy enough that 2D struggled to carry it. And they have more than enough money to easily buy another keyboard if they want to. 2D doesn't get why Murdoc is so insistent.
“Hello?” The bassist snapped his fingers. “Earth to Stuart?”
The sound of his name snapped him out of his questions. He quickly grabbed Murdoc's coffee with one hand and passed the keyboard with the other, almost mechanical in his movements.
“That wasn't so hard, was it?” Murdoc said, smirking.
“You're not mad?”
Murdoc frowned. “What?”
“I'm writing a song!” he flapped his empty hand for emphasis. “Without the band! I figured you'd be mad, or you'd ask to join in or something.”
Murdoc tilted his head. “Do you want me to join in?”
“No,” 2D blurted out, much to his chagrin. “A-at least not now… Maybe later?”
“Fine by me,” Murdoc heaved the case's strap over his shoulder. “We're taking this to your room, then?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Right. Come on.”
2D could only trail behind. He watched as Murdoc opened the door to his room and set the keyboard down on his desk. Gently, like it was his possession instead of 2D’s.
“There,” he said. He stepped back and looked around. “This room is disgusting.”
“Tell me about it,” 2D said. “You haven't even seen the bathroom yet.”
“Eh?” Murdoc stuck his head through the bathroom door. “Satan, no wonder you're so smelly. I wouldn't touch that thing with a three-meter stick.”
2D discreetly sniffed his armpits. The butterscotch perfume he wore is unsuccessful at covering the smell of his stale sweat. Despite his poor track record of showering regularly, not having the option is quickly becoming agitating. He really needs to take a shower.
“My bathroom's not that bad,” Murdoc said, returning to the desk. “You can take a shower there, if you really need to.”
Again, 2D can only blink.
Murdoc rolled his eyes. “Or don't. Stay rank, if you prefer.”
“You don't get to talk to me about being rank,” 2D said, then shook his head. “I might take you up on that offer. Thanks, Murdoc.”
“Arse,” he grunted. “I'm leaving, then. Try not to be too noisy with that thing, yeah?”
Murdoc stopped in the doorway, mismatched eyes boring a hole in 2D’s face.
“And take off those contacts, will you?” He said. “Can't imagine why you'd keep them on in this shithole.”
He shut the door, leaving 2D sitting on his bed, utterly stupefied.
Murdoc had essentially helped him carry his keyboard here for no reason at all. And then there's the bathroom offer. Most importantly, he's not mad at 2D writing a song without involving him.
Not that he needed the permission, but it's nice to have the validation. It always is.
If this is Murdoc's way of showing regret over blowing up at his face two days ago, it's working horrifyingly well. 2D can feel a pleasant clench of his heart at the small acts of courtesy. Too quickly was he growing less upset at the bassist, like the argument never happened at all.
He feels sick. Time and time again, he's always too damn easy to please.
Looking down, he realized he was still holding onto Murdoc's coffee. He had a feeling that this, too, was by design.
He took a sip of the bittersweet liquid. He was more likely to write something mellow after all.
It goes like this for the following week: 2D would mind his own business, and Murdoc would do something nice like make him tea or remind him to have lunch.
It doesn't happen every day, as he and Murdoc would frequently leave the motel to do their own thing. Otherwise, it would almost always happen. When it doesn't, Murdoc would only stare at 2D, then leave him to his own devices.
Creepy. It's better than getting into arguments like they usually do.
And Murdoc hadn't lied when he said he got the better bathroom. It's far more decent than his other bandmates'. He wondered if that was the real reason Murdoc chose this particular room. It didn't matter now. He’s happy to say that he’s been showering once every two days.
2D is growing to prefer staying in the shitty motel rather than going out. Part of him is rattled by his change of heart. The other doesn't want to think about it.
The fluctuation in his emotional state makes it hard to write something cohesive. More than that, it's getting hard to write something new.
The lyrics in his notebook talk about longing, mild jealousy, and timid hope. Sometimes his drafts would evoke deep feelings of despair, other times they sound surprisingly happy. All the same, they always echoed feelings from all the songs he's written before.
Sighing, 2D unplugs his earbuds from the keyboard. His current draft feels too similar to Tarantula. A change of working space should do him some good.
He crawled over to the lobby, which now serves as a makeshift common room for the band. The motel owner is all too happy to let them be, since they're the only visitors staying for the foreseeable future. It's quite the miracle.
2D tries and fails to suppress his delight at the sight of Murdoc's raven hair. Russel and Noodle are there, too. The three are hunched over the coffee table, surrounded by cans of beer, each having different amounts of playing cards in their hands.
“What'cha doin’?” 2D asked.
“Go Fish,” Russel replied. “You can jump into the game soon, Dee. Won't take long till I get this in the bag.”
“You wish,” Murdoc's playful grin turns downright wicked. “Russ, you wouldn’t happen to have any queens, do ya?”
“Man, I just got one!” Russel whined, throwing him the queen of spades. “How did you know?”
“Sold my soul to the Devil,” Murdoc cackled, slamming the rest of his cards on the table. “Full set, baby! I win!”
The sound of Murdoc's true, carefree laughter could rip his heart out and tear it to shreds. It's infectious, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes only make him look happier. He looked radiant.
When the laughter died down, Murdoc's eyes met his. 2D’s face hurt. He's been smiling just as wide as the man did.
He's well and truly done for.
“Man, this sucks,” Noodle said, but it's clear she's enjoying the moment. “Join us, 2D! It'll make the next round harder for the sore winner.”
“You're just jealous I defeated you first try,” Murdoc said, then gestured to the empty spot next to him on the sofa. “What say you, Stuart? Care to try kicking me off my throne?”
2D had to fight back a shiver.
“Sure, why not?” he drops himself beside the man. “You better not put me here just to peek at my cards, though.”
Murdoc puts a hand over his chest, gasping in mock offense. “I would never.”
When was the last time the band hung out together like this? Murdoc's not drunk, and neither Noodle nor Russel is trying to fight him off. 2D could float in the stream of peace of the room. He wants to stay like this forever.
Russel dealt them all the cards and shuffled the draw pile. Just as Murdoc was about to ask Noodle for a card, all of their phones buzzed at the same time.
“That's weird,” Noodle said, taking out her phone. “Might be an email from the record label. Why don't they just send it to Murdoc?”
Curious, 2D checks his phone as well. It's not their record label. The subject reads “Saturday night?”
His stomach dropped. The sender was Lady Eleanor Hollodown. Moon Flower.
It confirms a movie date for tomorrow night.
“What the fuck, Murdoc?” Noodle glared at the bassist. “Is this what you've been up to out of the motel?”
“You scumbag,” Russel slammed his fist on the table. “If the reason you stuck us in here is because of that old hag–”
Murdoc is going on a date with Moon Flower.
“It's not!” Murdoc raised his hands. “I swear, I've been working with my contacts for our passports. They're on their way! This– This is just something else!”
“Oh, yeah? Why have you never updated us on your progress, then?”
2D’s breaths are coming faster.
“It's confidential!”
He could feel the first signs of tension in his head.
“Fuck you mean, 'confidential’? That shit's made for us, too!”
His heart is pounding. He needs to say something.
“How could you?”
He stood up, and the sofa screeched from the force of it. His bandmates paused. All three are looking up at him. He only had his eyes on Murdoc.
“How could you?!”
And 2D punched as hard as he could.
“Not like that, Dee. Your form's all wrong,” Russel shook his head, grabbing his arm and shoulder. “You want to turn your whole body in the direction of your fist. Let your shoulder follow through with the movement. See?”
2D does the instructed movements experimentally. “Like this?”
“Don't forget to shift your legs in the same direction,” his bandmate, and now gym partner, raised his target gloves at him. “Now, try again.”
2D does. Russel's hand vibrated at the impact. His throw is much more powerful.
“Better,” Russel nodded. “Keep training and you'll start knocking some teeth out in no time.”
2D grunted. His fists hurt. The deep satisfaction he felt from the impact was worth it.
It's almost the end of their second week of hiding. 2D’s songwriting had become too angry, too messy. They're nowhere near the level of eloquence he had with Tranz, New Genius, hell, even Shy-town. The scratching and ripping off papers from his journal only serve to make him more frustrated.
A particularly hard punch pushed Russel back further than they anticipated. His bandmate's eyes widened.
“You're mad as hell, aren't you?” He said. “I've ever seen you this angry at Murdoc before.”
“I’ve scrapped with him before, actually,” he said. “Kicked him off his chair and everything. Got a few good punches in, I think.”
“Shit,” Russel said. “Did'ja win?”
“Nah,” he shook his head. “The old git knocked me out with a chloroform rag.”
“Shit,” Russel hissed. “So, you wanted this training so you don't lose again?”
“Pretty much. At least so we'd be more equal,” 2D shrugged. “You don't think I should get in a fight with him again?”
“On the contrary. I'm rootin’ for ya. That bastard will have it coming,” the drummer grumbled. “Just didn't expect you to be this mad over him dating a girl. Punch again.”
2D does, though he raised an eyebrow. “You didn't know?”
“About what?”
“How I feel about Murdoc.”
“I didn't want to say it,” his bandmate winced. “I had my assumptions, but you never told me anything. Figured it was none of my business.”
2D punched again. “You're a saint, Russ. Anybody told you that before?”
“Like I said. You never made it my business, so it was none of my business,” Russel said. “But since we're talking, it's been like this since The Now Now?”
“That's when I realized it,” 2D sighed. “Dunno when it actually started, though. Might be the Spirit House. Might be sooner.”
“Shit.”
2D laughed. “You're usually more well-spoken than this, Russ.”
“Hard to be well-spoken when faced with the thing you two got going on,” the drummer shook his head. “You ever thought of just, I don't know, ditching him?”
“What, like leaving the band?”
“You said it, not me,” Russel shrugged. “Have you?”
The only times 2D has ever left the band is whenever they all split together. That hasn't happened since 2017. Truthfully, leaving the band by himself has never crossed his mind. The notion felt as outlandish as an elephant in a dodgem arena.
“Not really, no,” he said, throwing another punch. “Have you?”
“Sometimes,” the drummer said. “I think I'd leave if either you or Noodle dipped. Go back to Brooklyn. Start a solo career, all that jazz.”
“Solo career?”
“Yeah. I’d join the hip-hop scene as myself, add my own little spin on it,” he said. “You should consider that, too.”
“I don't know, Russ,” 2D’s brows furrowed. “Can't say I believe I'd be suited for it.”
“You kidding? You're the most suited out of all of us!” Russel nudged him with his gloved hand. “You got the looks and skills, and you're the most popular band member. You'd be set if you ever decide to go out Noel Gallagher-style.”
2D couldn't say anything in response to that. Russel, detecting his distress, lowered his arms and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder.
“I'm not saying you should do it,” he said. “I just want you to know that if things go bad, you've got plenty of options to choose from. You don't gotta stick to Murdoc like he's your only alternative.”
2D understood the unspoken words, "He's bad for you." He couldn't argue with that. It's him who always chooses to come crawling back, like Murdoc's the opioids he used to be hooked on.
Wait.
Addiction. That's it.
“Hey, Dee,” Russel tapped his shoulder. “You still in there?”
“Huh? Yeah,” he said. “I'll think about it, Russ. Promise. Punches up?”
Russel smiled, raising his arms back up again. “Go nuts.”
“Cheers.”
Days passed by. 2D is out of the motel more often than not. When he has to stay in, he made sure to avoid Murdoc, who, by all intents and purposes, is doing the same thing.
He'd still catch the man staring when he thinks he's not looking. It made him angrier. Angry at Murdoc for not leaving him well enough alone, and angry at himself for still relishing in the attention and wanting more.
Murdoc coming home with an ornate urn was the last straw. 2D left without a word about where he was going or when he was coming back.
He arrived at Venice Beach near evening. Sighing, he let the warm, humid air hit his skin before taking off his shades. His brown hair is enough for him to be a different person tonight.
In his eyes, we're not the people who we thought we were.
2D doesn't know who he is in Murdoc’s eyes. Probably never did.
Sitting on an empty spot at the shore, he opened his notebook, highlighting the new direction his lyrics had taken. Addiction. You keep craving the thing that will be the death of you, yet you keep choosing it, over and over again, because withdrawals hurt like nothing else does.
His lyrics hardly ever touch the complexity of choice. They never touched the side of free will. Always helpless. Always at the mercy of the universe. Never about how one has the power to choose something else for one’s sake.
Because that's what he's been doing. He'd never given other choices his time of day. It's always the same one. That is Murdoc, without fail, getting his fix so he could float, all warnings of all painful aftermaths vanishing once a dose is dangled in front of him.
The seawater reached his legs, casting a faint reflection of his face in the sunset. 2D could choose to go solo. He'd keep his hair brown, change his stage name to just “Stuart Pot” and make mad synthpop or neo-country music. Who knows, maybe the song he's currently writing can be his first single.
He could be successful enough to live a nice life. He'd have all the time in the world to reset, find a nice woman, and settle down before finally retiring.
2D could choose it, but his heart doesn't think that's right for him. He couldn’t break the barriers of withdrawal to form a better future.
He’s trapped in an endless, agonizing cycle of attachment. He’s in a bloody brilliant song.
He just needs to find the proper words for it.
2D hears the crunching of wet sand behind him before his peripheral vision catches the sight of green skin.
“Thought I'd find you here,” Murdoc said.
2D kept his eyes fixed on the scribbles in his journal.
“What words can you use in relation to choices and free will?”
“This for the song?”
“Yeah.”
“Let's see,” Murdoc hummed. “Volition, independence, self-determination, liberty. How's that?”
2D shook his head. “Too clinical.”
“The only other word I have is autonomy.”
The condition of self-rule. It was arguably more clinical, but it's distinctive in its rigid compact and impact. It sums up the concepts of power and choice he wanted to convey in one sharp perspective. A song around that word might just become a hit.
“That's a nice one, actually,” he said as much.
“Course it is,” Murdoc huffed. “I used it in a song before.”
“No you didn't.”
“You don’t remember?” Murdoc asked. “To Binge, from Plastic Beach.”
He hasn't thought about that song in years.
“My heart is in economy, due to this autonomy..."
A declining heart from making choices that hurt it.
“Rollin’ in and caught again,” Murdoc finished. “Was that the feeling you're looking for?”
“I don't get it,” he said, hoping his voice didn't quiver. “Wasn't that song about your thing with alcohol?”
“It was,” Murdoc kicked the sand underneath his feet. “But you're a songwriter. You know a song can have multiple meanings.”
2D had a complicated relationship with lyrics in Plastic Beach. He'd sing them with all his heart, yet he was loath to wander the writer's psyche. To him, Murdoc was a damn good poet, but also an insane man under a prolonged alcohol-induced psychosis. Trying to make sense of his mind would be nothing more than an act of self-harm.
When he received the lyrics for To Binge, he’d latched on to the title, the only thing he'd accept as the meaning of the song. He sang about his overdose in Crawley and the people he subsequently disappointed. Murdoc never asked for a retake. 2D never figured out why there was a declaration of love there at all.
As if reading his mind, Murdoc spoke. “It was about someone I had with me on that blasted beach.”
His eyes sting. 2D turns around.
Murdoc is hunched next to him, hands in his pockets, balled into tight fists. The seaside air blew softly over his bangs, and the setting sun pressed a gilded kiss on his skin. It enveloped him in a warm glow. He’s looking straight into his eyes. He's in pain. He looks ethereal.
“Why Moon Flower?” 2D asked.
“That's the question, isn’t it?” Murdoc licked his lips. “I thought it was high time for me to make a choice.”
“A choice?”
Murdoc sat down beside him.
“I could continue dancing around you and kill myself in the process, or I could try forgetting you by being with someone else,” he said, looking down. “The answer was clear to me at the moment.”
“Oh,” he said.
“She said we're both rotten souls, though not quite to the core,” he mused. “I wanted to believe it. Maybe if we were similar enough, it could work.”
“She's nowhere near as awful as you, I reckon.”
“Which one has a body count, me or her?” Murdoc flashed a sardonic smile. “It wasn't really happening. Almost didn't go through with all of it."
“But you did,” 2D mumbled. “What changed?”
“You'd think I'm an idiot if I tell you.”
“You are an idiot,” he pointed out. “Just tell me.”
“Satan, fine,” Murdoc huffed. “It's your hair.”
2D blinked. “My hair?”
“You just had to go and get yourself a dye job. Bloody hell, I thought I was going proper senile when I first looked at you.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Isn't it obvious? There you stood, Stuart Pot, with a face I nearly didn't recognize,” Murdoc gestured at him. “I thought you'd thrown the band away. Thrown me away. You were going to leave me as this new person, one that would forget me as easily as you forgave me.”
2D could only sit with his mouth agape.
“It was stupid, but for a second I truly believed it,” the bassist said, shutting his eyes. “I know I can't keep sticking to you like a vice, and I needed to leave you before you could leave me. I couldn't do it, anyway.”
Addiction. To Binge. The song was written about him.
“It's because you love me.”
Murdoc gritted his teeth. He said nothing else.
2D wants to demand why Murdoc never said anything when all but poured his heart out five years ago. Yet Murdoc had told him everything first in Plastic Beach, far sooner than he did. 2D was the one who didn't want to listen.
He wants to listen now.
“Have you been to this place before?”
Murdoc looked up at the non-sequitur. “Can't say that I have. Why?”
“This was where I wrote Humility,” he said, looking out at the shore. “It was your first week in prison, and I was so delighted I bounced all over the place like a nutter. I've never felt that kind of freedom in my life.”
Murdoc frowned. “Cheers, I guess.”
“I'm not finished,” he clicked his tongue. “I could take on the world and conquer it then. You weren't there to drag me back down. It's probably how my life was ought to be.”
His fingers itch for a cigarette. Shame he left them in the motel.
“But if it was,” 2D said. “The album would’ve turned out way different in the end.”
2D shifted to face Murdoc in full. He tilted his head down slightly, lifting a stand of brown hair with his fingers.
“See this?” he asked. “The color’s not as dark as it was three weeks ago. It’s more of an ash brown now. You can see the blue roots growing already.”
“I see that,” Murdoc took hold of the strand from him. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to be a Billie Eilish copy. You’ll look like a twat.”
“No, you arse,” 2D lifted his head, his hair falling softly through sharp nails. “I’m saying my blue hair’s coming back. You don’t have to worry about being left behind by the Stuart you don’t know.”
Murdoc dropped his hand. “And am I getting left behind by the Stuart I know?”
“I won’t leave you,” he said. “I'll keep choosing you despite, or rather, in exercise of my free will. I just hope you’ll learn not to take this constant for granted.”
“That’s a nice turn of phrase,” Murdoc commented. “You adding that to your song?”
“Nah,” 2D said. “I’m not writing it anymore. You’ve written all I needed to say.”
Murdoc huffed a wry laugh. “If you tell me the song I wrote in a drunken, depressive, psychotic episode would result in me making us official, I would’ve smacked you upside the head.”
“You don’t get to do that anymore, damnit,” 2D chastised, a small smile blooming across his face. “You’re serious about this? About us?”
“I’d be a wanker if I put it off any longer, no?”
“Yeah,” 2D said, scooting closer. “Yeah, you would.”
A hand cupped the back of his head, nails scratching at the short hairs there. Murdoc gently pulled him closer, locking their lips together. It was almost too easy. Like addictions, it’s always easier to go deeper than to get out.
He’s choosing the same thing again. This time, he is hopeful.
Their IDs and passports arrived two days later. The band complained about the dumb fake names they were given, but were more than happy they could finally leave the country.
2D was surprised to find he’d miss this shitty motel. Still, he’s more excited by their next destination, chosen by Murdoc himself. They’re flying to Mumbai, as he reasoned they were long overdue for a proper vacation.
He can’t be happier to tag along. He hopes he’ll be adept at playing sitar when they get home.
And if in their new home, 2D painted the lyrics that got them together on the door to his room, it would be nobody’s business but his own.