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Every second Thursday of every month, Stuart Pot knew to stay out of his tiny apartment that he shared with a hit-and-run Satanist for as long as possible. For some reason, Stu would always end up the victim of some extra blows, or particularly sharp words if he hung around during these days, when Murdoc would be sat on their ugly brown sofa, looking as though even the air was agitating him. Stuart used to joke about it, nudging Murdoc in the shoulder and asking, “Time of the month, mate?”, which quickly earned him a new gap in his already wonky teeth, so, he’d learned to shut up about it pretty quickly.
Of course, Stuart hadn’t expected this to happen when the pair pooled their savings and started renting the shitty apartment in Stoke-On-Trent. Other than when he sat comatose after that first car accident, the twenty-year old hadn’t really spent extended amounts of time with the man that had effectively stolen his life away from him, but he felt a strange kinship with Murdoc; a desire to stay near him, create with him. It was something primal deep within him, that knew despite all the pain Murdoc caused him, the man had something special inside, and Stu figured it couldn’t hurt (well, not too much) to see where that went. So, after waking up on the wet carpark tarmac, vision blurry and blood running down his face, every part of him aching from being thrown through a windshield, he’d looked up at Murdoc, and felt a sickness within himself, but that wasn’t enough to quell his curiosity when the man asked him to join his band. Sometimes, Stuart thought he’d made a mistake, agreeing so quickly to pursue music with this clearly insane man, but then they started writing, and Stu knew this was the beginning of something special.
That was how it had started. Stuart woke up, and got writing almost immediately. Murdoc came over, batting his eyelashes at Stuart’s mother to get up to her son’s room so they could create together. But that wasn’t enough, so off they went. Stuart never thought he’d share his first apartment with another man, let alone a man that subjected him to abuse on the daily, but the again, he never imagined he’d naturally have blue hair either. Moving in with Murdoc made him realise that he barely knew the man at all; he wasn’t all leather jackets, and smug smiles. He was also a lazy oaf that didn’t get up until 3PM and lived off caffeine and cigarettes. Except, for that one time of the month, when Stuart typically found the freezer stocked with cherry liqueur ice-cream;(He’d stolen a tub once. The bruises on his ribs afterwards almost put him off ice-cream altogether).
Stu couldn’t figure it out. Sure, Murdoc was easily set off, and quick to anger, but these few days every month were something else altogether. Stu could be minding his own business, and suddenly he’d be attacked by the other, or ignored completely. There was no telling what would set Murdoc off on these days. And yet, in retrospect, the few days beforehand, Murdoc was often softer, leaning his head on Stuart’s shoulder when they sat and watched crap on MTV, and telling the blue haired man that he was glad they were doing this. It almost made it all bearable.
Stuart hadn’t realised what day it was when he walked into their flat at 10PM, only alerted as a hoe flew by his head, and a shout accompanied it. Ah. Time of the month. Fuck. He sighed, dumping his keys on their shitty, crumb-coated kitchen counter, and quietly made his way over to the sofa. Usually, he’d text before he got home to let Murdoc know, but he’d forgotten tonight, so what he saw surprised him.
Murdoc was curled up in a blanket, arms encircling his stomach with hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes squeezed shut. It made Stuart’s heart drop, was he alright? He looked like he was dying, or at least, like he was suffering. Maybe he would actually benefit from a couple of Stu’s migraine pills that he always seemed to be looking for during the few days before those torturous few days after every second Thursday.
“Eh, Murdoc? Y’alright? What’s happenin’?,” Stu asked, sitting on the armrest. He’d never seen Murdoc look so, vulnerable, or so shitty. Murdoc was no looker, but hell, he was pretty close to garbage right then, much more so than usual.
Murdoc just grunted in response, rolling on his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. The blanket slipped away from his grip, and as Stuart looked down at Murdoc laying there on his back, something clicked. All of a sudden, things seemed to fall into place.
Stuart often noted how Murdoc seemed to wheeze, and had asked on occasion if the man was asthmatic, or needed an inhaler. Murdoc always scoffed at him, smacked him upside the head and told him to buzz off, but now, Stu could see. Murdoc’s chest wasn’t actually flat. Two small mounds were apparent under his baggy shirt. Things were falling into place. Was Murdoc not cis? Stuart had never thought to question it, but why would he? He’d never actually met a trans person, he probably would never have known if it wasn’t for this oversight on Murdoc’s part. Maybe that’s why the other had told Stu to always let him know when he was on his way, so he could pull on a, binder (that’s what they’re called, right?), and never let Stu know. He couldn’t help but stare, transfixed on this new information. It wasn’t like it mattered, really, it was just, surprising. Murdoc was the last person he would have suspected to be trans, what with the man’s hypermasculinity and tendency to beat the ever-loving fuck out of the younger man on a near daily basis, but he figured that trans people weren’t all the same, so it made sense that some of them would be absolute arseholes.
During this long stream of thoughts, Stuart hadn’t noticed as Murdoc tensed up, and slowly rolled back onto his side, effectively hiding his chest again. He didn’t look up at Stuart, eyes focused on the plain wall opposite him, cheeks darkly tinged with what Stuart figured was shame. It made his chest tighten, in a way he was sure Murdoc was familiar with. It couldn’t have been easy, hiding this for so long, and from his bloody flatmate, but Stuart knew it made sense. From the few things he’d read about trans folk, he was aware that they didn’t have it easy, that stealthing was better than being out.
So, Stuart didn’t say anything. He got up and disappeared into their small shared bedroom. He clattered about for a few minutes, sure that Murdoc could hear him searching and pulling out various things, followed by the click of their second-hand kettle in the kitchen. Some minutes later, he returned to Murdoc, offering the man some of his ridiculously strong painkillers, and a hot water bottle. Stuff his mum had always asked him to get her when she was bedridden by the god damn hormones in her body. He also had a tub of ice-cream out on the counter, defrosting so he could bring it over when it wasn't practically a solid block of sugar.
Murdoc stared up at Stuart, and didn’t move for a long few seconds, before slowly accepting the offering. Snuggling the hot water bottle against his abdomen, Murdoc dry swallowed the pills, and let out a sigh as he curled up a bit tighter. Despite the absence of a verbal sign of gratitude, Stu knew the small smile on the other's face was a thank you in its own right.
This became routine, and Murdoc turned out to be far less violent now that he had one less secret to keep in his own home. Once a month, Stu would give him pills, and make him little meals to quell his nausea, and when it was over, Murdoc repaid him in compliments, and encouragement, and even little acts of kindness now and again (He would usually pick up those herbal teabags that Stu liked so much when he felt able to wander out to Tesco again.) Neither of them ever said thank you, but they had their own language, made of basslines, and washed binders, and warm cups of tea on nightstands. For two young men that only had each-other, that was enough.