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He could barely breathe. He was panting more than he ever had in his entire life. Every movement made him groan, and his thighs trembled beneath him. How much longer could he do this? How much more could he take? It wasn’t his first time, clearly, but it had never been so exhausting, so sore on every muscle in his body. His skin was shiny with sweat, and even the olive tint of his skin couldn’t hide the flush on his cheeks. He just hoped he still looked good for the man in front of him. Just a minute more, he was so close to finishing. He could hold out, he wanted to hold out. He-
“5-6-7-8, we’re done!”
Murdoc Niccals grinned, and collapsed to the floor of the Wormwood Scrubs dance studio (a shoddy, old recreation room with ‘dance’ slapped on the door) with a satisfied grin and a thumping heart. He never missed Zumba class. As much as every part of him ached, this was one of his few ways to access any sort of music in this grey cinderblock hell, and as a consequence, he was now (as far as Murdoc was concerned) pretty good at moving his body. Though, if he knew anything, it was how to move to please. The other prisoners scoffed at his exhausted form, and walked off, leaving the sweaty mass of green skin crumpled on the floor. Murdoc wasn’t exactly well liked, known more-so for being further up his own arse than The Soap Sisters had been during his first visit to the shower block, but that hardly bothered him. Who needed them? Not Murdoc Niccals; he didn’t need anyone. He never had. All relationships with anyone had ever brought him was misery and suffering, which had been proven once again when he’d heard 2-D’s voice floating out of the speaker during Zumba last month, and realised even Gorillaz was abandoning him. He didn’t owe loyalty to anyone, nobody had ever shown any to him.
Murdoc sat up slowly when he heard someone clear their throat, pushing his sweaty fringe off his forehead as he looked up, eyes meeting those of Keith, his Zumba teacher. Well, not his, but let a man dream.
“Here,” Keith mused, extending a water bottle to the older man, and watching him gulp down the contents of it, before taking Murdoc by the wrist and helping him to his feet. Murdoc’s favourite thing about Keith was his eyes. It felt like they looked through him, all the grime, and years of bullshit that he’d put up as a defense, and actually saw Murdoc as a person, instead of an egocentric bassist for a band that he wasn’t even sure wanted him anymore. But then again, Murdoc guessed the only reason he liked Keith’s eyes so much was because he’d never seen the other man undressed, having assumed that if he ever did get to witness that, he’d quickly find a new part of his Zumba teacher to swoon over.
“Well done today, nice to see you back on your feet, Niccals,” Keith smiled, and despite himself, Murdoc felt his heart flutter in his chest. Alone in the pseudo-studio with Keith, Murdoc felt safe, and he wanted to hold onto that feeling before he returned to the long grey hallways where he had no choice but to watch his back at every turn, lest someone appear claiming revenge that Murdoc was sure was just a mix of masked homophobia, envy, and maybe just a bit of headassery.
“Well, can’t keep me down. Little eye injury is hardly going to affect my dancing,” Murdoc grinned, sliding a hand into the back pocket of his shorts, hoping Keith didn’t mind how clearly his shirt was sticking to his chest. But, then again, he supposed his body had become objectively ‘nicer’, since he’d gotten locked up; a combination of routine starvation as governed by law enforcement, and unwanted workouts in the form of fighting other men off in the cafeteria, the toilets, the library, any communal area seemed to become a boxing ring, despite the lack of a referee. So, despite how unhealthy it was, he’d lost weight, and maybe he could find a way to be okay with that, since according to most folk, losing weight was always good. As far as Murdoc was concerned, that sentiment was absolute bullshit, and he hoped Keith felt the same way.
“So, you missed having me in class, eh?,” Murdoc smirked, hand rubbing at the back of his own neck as he shamelessly let his eyes trail along the other man’s body, taking a step closer. The room smelled like sweat, and even the general odour of piss wafted through the door, but to Murdoc, it was almost nice, since he’d gotten so used to it.
Keith rolled his eyes, but smiled, stepping into Murdoc’s space, close enough that their breath was mixing. Now Murdoc could smell something new; peppermint, and cologne, warm and earthy and absolutely perfect. It made him hum, and, feeling brave, he moved to trail his nose along the other man’s neck up to his jaw, pausing to let a breath put against his skin. The room was hot, hotter than when they’d been stretching and pivoting to the beat of Ke$ha’s ‘Tik Tok’, and the tune had changed from upbeat and fun, to monotonous and heavy, dictated by the pounding of Murdoc’s heart in his chest, which he was sure Keith could hear. He very rarely got nervous when it came to shit like this, having had his fair share of flings and one-night stands, but Keith was Murdoc’s only tie to kindness in the prison, and the thought of losing that made him nervous. Keith was all he had right now.
“I guess. It’s nice having such an enthusiastic student,” Keith murmured, tilting his head to the side to allow Murdoc’s nose to trail along his skin, dark with stubble. Neither of them were worried about being caught; the prison was ridiculously underfunded, to the point where prisoners went practically unmonitored except for designated meal times, and even the security cameras didn’t work, the budget having been pulled so the warden could take his wife to Florida after having been caught screwing his secretary in his office. So, things had worked out in this moment. Murdoc and Keith were absolutely, one-hundred percent, alone.
They moved together, almost as if those Zumba classes had trained Murdoc for this. Hands came to his waist, and Murdoc’s fingers tailed along the back of Keith’s neck as he was walked backwards, mouths brushing but kisses not being exchanged. It was a dance, and this was only the beginning, there was no need to rush to the dip. Murdoc gently scraped his sharp nails down along Keith’s neck, making the man hiss, and suddenly shove Murdoc up against the hard, stone wall.
Suddenly, this wasn’t fun. Suddenly, Murdoc went from excited (and very, very horny) to absolutely fucking terrified.
He was back there. Back in the showers, held tight and fast against wet stone, unable to squirm away. He could hear the echo of the cold water hitting the tiles, smell the sweat and breath of the men around him, their hands practically burning his skin, and their laughter and jeering ringing in his ears. His eyes were squeezed shut, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he was trapped.
“Murdoc?”
And then he wasn’t.
Murdoc Niccals, bassist of Gorillaz, Satanist, and self-proclaimed god, fell forward, face buried in Keith’s chest as a sob tore itself from his throat, hands sliding down to fist in the other man’s shirt and twist up the fabric. Hot tears slid down his cheeks, and he swore they were burning lines into his skin from the heat of the shame. Shame birthed from the pressure never to cry because of his gender, and from breaking down at a touch that he once found arousing. He felt broke, and lost, and he was sure Keith wouldn’t stick around to try and put him back together. Nobody else had, why would a man that only knew Murdoc as a criminal see him as anything but that?
So when arms gently encircled Murdoc’s torso, and he felt himself pulled into warmth as two bodies collapsed to the floor, Murdoc didn’t know how to react. Not to the hold, not to the cheek against his forehead, or the long fingers gently carding through his hair.
“I’ve got you, Murdoc. You’re okay.”
Murdoc decided that hearing that was worse than the flashback, and let himself melt into Keith’s body, and sob into his skin. He wasn’t okay, he was broken, and he’d never felt so lost in his entire life.
He sniffed, pulling back and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to laugh off what had just happened, but Keith was having none of it.
“Hey,” Keith hummed, reaching up to thumb away a tear track on Murdoc’s cheek, before allowing his hand to migrate to cup the bassist’s jaw, “Talk to me, tell me what’s going on.”
Murdoc stared at Keith, felt the hand on his cheek and saw the sincerity in the other man’s eyes. So for the first time, Murdoc spoke.
He told Keith everything. He talked about his childhood, living as a puppet under his father, terrified of his every drunken movement , and escaping into substances as young as possible. He talked about running away, trying to make a life for himself, failing and trying again. He talked about watching his friends die of an illness that was advertised as a divine punishment for loving men and learning that he would never be safe because of who he loved. He talked about crashing his car into a kid’s head, and that kid becoming the closest thing he had to a best friend. He talked about all the people he hurt, all the pain he’d caused because it was easier to shove people away than to let them get close. He talked about the other crimes, the other prisons, the other times he’d been held down and made feel hopeless. He talked about being alone.
When he was done talking, Murdoc just leaned into Keith and fell silent, hearing the soft thump of the other man’s heart in his chest. It was like a clock, ticking away and calming Murdoc down. He’d never said half of that shit aloud before, too scared and too ashamed to let those words move past his lips, but nobody had ever held him close like this before, and some part of Murdoc knew that Keith wouldn’t leave, no matter what Murdoc blurted out.
“You need help, Murdoc. It’s okay to need help. You can heal.”
Nobody had told Murdoc that before. He’d always seen himself as irreparable, too broken to put back together, too fucked up for anyone to even attempt to poke through the mess and find him, the real him, curled up and terrified beneath a mask he’d created so he could grow up. So he could leave. So he could survive.
“I’ll help you.”
Murdoc looked up at Keith, and saw the sadness in his gaze. It made Murdoc feel nauseated, having very rarely acknowledged when people looked at him with those eyes. He ignored it when 2-D did it, when Noodle did it, even when Russel did it, because he had to be strong in front of them, he had to be tough and powerful. He had to be King, because otherwise they’d leave him once they realised it was all a terrible defense mechanism, learned from years of trauma and survival. But he couldn’t ignore it now, when he had nowhere else to look, or to go. He was trapped here, but for once, he felt safe right there, and he knew if he really wanted to, he could go.
“Okay,” Murdoc breathed, feeling more like a child than a fifty-two year old man as he laid his head on Keith’s shoulder, shutting his eyes as he concentrated on his shaky breaths.
“Okay.”
He’d be okay.