Archive of Our Own

They say you don’t register how important a moment is until it’s over and you’re sitting alone, mulling it over, wishing you could be there again.

One thing Stuart remembers from the most eventful night of his life is the colour of the sky; instead of a dark blue, it appeared a dreamy purple, with shining golden stars that resembled tiny fish, swimming in the abyss. His mind feels like it’s also swimming in the abyss, but a solid weight against his side helps keep him grounded, as his eyes dart back and forth towards passing street lamps and blinking aeroplane lights.

“Is she asleep?”

The voice, barely above a whisper but appearing booming in Stuart’s vibrating ears, seems miles away. He lifts his head from the icy car window, checking his shoulder. Indeed, Noodle is fast asleep.

“Yeah,” he croaks, then clears his throat when it irks him too much for comfort. “I think so.”

“Man…” Russel trails off, sounding like he wants to add something, but Stuart can’t bring himself to stress about it right now. He’s flying; no, swimming, into the black holes, the abyss, the Milky Way. Russel eyes him through the rearview mirror, “Hey… How many pills you take?”

His reflection quivers like the glass is tranquil water, and Stuart imagines he’s throwing tiny stones in it, so his reflection waves again. Noodle shifts on his side; right, he’s still on planet Earth.

“Hey, Stu-Pot!” Russel whistles, as low as he can so he doesn’t end up with a backseat full of a groggy teenage girl. “Man, how many pills was that?”

Stuart blinks like he’s been awakened from a deep slumber. He’s ready to slip under again, but sweet Russel whistles again, and his head bangs against the window.

“Huh? Two.”

“No, I told you to take two. There’s no way two pills can get your brains slappin’ that high.”

Stuart laughs and refrains from shushing himself when Noodle stirs. His eyes meet Russel’s through the mirror; he gives him his best toothy smile.

Russel’s eyes return to the road. “Why’d you even bring the kid, man? What’s she gonna do in a goddamn pub?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Stuart shushes him softly, careful not to wake Noodle as he wraps an arm around her. Her elbow is bony and jabbing against his forearm, but it only helps him stay down. “Her mum asked me, ‘cause she and her husband are like… I don’t remember,” he giggles to himself. “She’s some lady, her mum. Has hair down to her back and all. I asked her if I could brush it once; she only laughed at me. Have you ever heard a girl laugh, Russ? Oh, boy... “

Russel doesn’t budge. He only narrows his eyes at him through the mirror, “How many pills was that?”

“Oh, my days, I don’t know! Four?” Stuart’s voice raises momentarily, but then he does shush himself. His eyes flit down to Noodle, who merely stirs again. He sighs in relief and starts whispering: “The first hour.”

“The fir-” Russel pauses, blowing the frustration out of his nose, as it seems. That man has some big nostrils, Stuart thinks. He makes to touch one but realises his hand isn’t moving. “You’re high off your ass, that’s what’s happening,” he snickers. One last look through the rearview mirror. “I don’t know how you’re gonna be this high and taking care of a goddamn child at the same time.”

“Noodle’s in a band, did you know that?” Stuart brags about it to nearly everyone, or anyone that is interested, at least. He can’t distinguish whether that is interest or defeat on Russel’s face. “Could a child do that?”

“Apparently.”

As if she senses that she’s the subject of the conversation, Noodle slowly blinks one eye open, and her eyelashes are severely tangled up. Sure enough, she looks groggy, but doesn’t actually speak until Russel pulls over, yawning a barely decipherable, “Are we there yet?”

“Kinda why I stopped,” Russel grumbles, fixing Stuart with his narrowed eyes. He’s always narrowing his eyes, it seems. “Don’t let her outta your sight. I don’t plan on babysitting tonight.”

He all but flees out of the car, leaving Stuart to mumble, “That was the plan,” to himself.

He manages to get Noodle to step out with him, and Russel tells him to keep holding her hand as they walk through the road and into Bloaters. He keeps complaining that a pub is no place for a kid or something of the sort - Stuart feels like he needs to sit down all of a sudden. The God-awful screeching that’s coming from the stage doesn’t make it any better; some live band. Music is decent, but the poor sod singing… Noodle tightens her grip on his hand.

“Right, y’all can find somewhere to sit. I need to find Lance,” Russel’s voice seems far away. Stuart’s own body feels far away. “Don’t let her out outta your sight.”

“Heard ya the first time,” Stuart grumbles, all but collapsing onto a stool in front of the bar. Noodle’s hand slips out of his grip, but she just blinks and jumps onto the stool right next to him, admiring the neon lights on the wall with wide eyes.

Another thing Stuart remembers - and this one a lot more vividly, since he’s, bluntly put, high off his arse and his senses are on alert - is Noodle tugging on his sleeve and gesturing for him to observe the live band. You know, the last thing he’d want to be doing right now.

“I don’t feel so good, Noods,” he opts for soft and gathered, though he probably sounds sickly. Well, he is sickly. He feels sickly. Noodle only gestures again, with her chin this time.

For future reference, this is the moment that he remembers the best. Not because he saw spots when he turned his head towards the stage, but because when the spots faded, he thought he saw a lizard.

Well, not a lizard, per se. Someone who resembled a lizard, in the nicest way possible. It’s funny if he thinks about it now, but this is what Stuart first thought of him; what an ugly, goblin-resembling bugger. God, he could play, though. His fingers seemed to fly up and down the fretboard, so much so that he had to stop looking at the knobby little things, so as not to fold down and throw up. He found himself focusing more on the bassline, and all the other sounds started dissipating, even Noodle singing along nasally, still dazed from her nap. He was well aware everything but the thumping bass was going fuzzy, but he just let it all happen; he observed the little guy, who really didn’t look so little. Mid-thirties, probably. Killer fingers.

In fact, Stuart’s muzzy brain seems to have completely focused on the fingers. Without wanting to dwell too much on it - although he was, without a doubt, and without reason - Stuart casted a passing glance on the overgrown nails, chipped and jagged, and decided to close his eyes and try to get his senses together. An abyss, again - this time inside his skull - and it’s littered with tiny chipped stars and purple strobe lights, and basslines with no end.

“Hey, Stu,” it rips through the pitch black, until the abyss is gone and Stuart can see Noodle pulling on his sleeve. “Stu? I’m thirsty.”

Stuart blinks. Right - still in the pub, still high off his arse. Noodle’s thirsty. “Uh... Coke?"

An enthusiastic nod, and then Stuart is spinning around on his stool, taking a moment to settle his pounding head before he flags down the barmaid. She’s snapping her gum as he places his order and pays, observing Noodle as she sips her Coke - Stuart distractedly brushes her fringe out of her eyes as he once again observes the live band.

“That your kid?” the barmaid asks, not looking up from the glass she's polishing.

“Huh?” murmurs Stuart, turning to look at her. She points to Noodle with her chin - little Noodle, who’s swinging her legs back and forth as she takes mental notes of the guitar licks. He snorts, “Nah, she’s…”

The barmaid waits, and offers an answer as Stuart wracks his mess of a brain, “Sister? Is she supposed to be with you or should I call somebody?”

“You could… say she’s my sister, yes,” Stuart says, but she looks unconvinced. “I’m babysittin’, alright? Get me a beer, will ya?”

Having heard him, Noodle leans into the barmaid’s space and advises her not to give him any alcohol, at which she lingers a moment. She says, “We’re all out,” and decides to leave them alone, though she deems it necessary to keep a close eye on them.

“Nice goin’, Noods,” he whispers - probably, to this day he’s not sure he could really control the volume of his voice. “What am I supposed to drink now?”

She pauses, giving him an incredulous look, then offers him her Coke. He makes no movement to grab it, and so she leaves it on the counter, turning to listen to the live act again. Stuart hears her huff as he sneaks a sip of the Coke. “Nice goin’, Stu,” Noodle tuts in a poor attempt at his voice, making him frown into the tin. “The band’s gone. Now what?”

“I didn’t tell ‘em to leave, for Christ’s sake,” Stuart mumbles, grabbing the side of his head as if someone kept pounding on it. Noodle doesn’t look sympathetic.

“That’s what happens when you chew pain pills like they’re sweets.”

“What do you know?” Stuart downs the rest of the Coke, casting a glance at the group of women now hogging the stage. “You’re a kid.”

“And even I know the dosage.”

“Shut up, will you?” Stuart groans, though it’s more playful than anything else. Noodle doesn’t reply, just starts messing with the hairbands on her wrist. Normally, he would be sympathetic towards her boredom.

However, his head is spinning. Not pounding like before, but spinning around like some sort of discus that’s been thrown around into the galaxy, passing all those different planets, bumping against them, gaining momentum, speed. Before he falls onto Earth, he scrambles for Noodle’s hand and makes a run for it, making it outside just in time before he chokes up his insides. He throws up onto the pavement with Noodle in tow, waiting for him to be finished with a scowl on her face. He tries to gain leverage from the nearest lamp post, but finds it hard to when he's puking his brains out and all that.

“Not that I mind tagging along, but I didn’t really need to see that.”

Stuart’s still coughing up chunks of medicine-flavoured vomit, and he’s unable to focus on anything else. He supports his weight on a lamp post a bit more, looking back at her with watery eyes. She stares.

“Was I supposed to just leave you there to get kidnapped by some nonce?” he says after a while, when she’s resulted to kicking gravel around with her shoe. He hugs the lamp post tighter. “You’re thirteen, for God’s sake.”

He coughs some more, but Noodle doesn’t pay him any mind. She looks humiliated, for one. Stuart would be, too, if he had any brains left in him.

“Let’s just go back inside and tell Russel to take us home. That alright?” he asks, and Noodle all but breaks her neck nodding. “Right, let’s just-” he starts, but as he turns around, another body collides with his, along with an unidentified freezing sort of liquid. His eyes pinch closed in frustration - Noodle can be heard drawing in a deep breath from her part.

“Oh, fuck me!”

Now, Stuart believes this is the most important moment of the night. Sometimes he does, anyway, whenever he really thinks about it - but this is the third thing he remembers vividly, the moment he opened his eyes. Stuart blinks and blinks as the little man wipes beer from his leather jacket, and he doesn’t register his own front is soaked.

“What are you staring at, you sod?” he spits at Stuart. It doesn’t sound like the same voice that served as backing vocals a mere ten minutes ago, before Stuart retched his brains out. The little bugger tries to get him to look at him in the eye, but Stuart is left examining the guy’s fingers once again. “Hey, Bluebird. I’m talking to ya. He daft or summat?”

“He’s… ill,” he registers it’s Noodle’s voice - well, he can tell it’s Noodle’s voice - but it just seems miles away. She says something else, at which the old bugger nods, and then he’s moving his hand about his face.

“Sorry,” Stuart says, and the bugger startles when he looks up. Dents for eyes and all, Stuart thinks. “You was… You’s great up there, man. I liked them songs you played, anyway.”

“What are you, a groupie or summat?” he grumbles, looking Stuart up and down. He’s too out of it to notice whether it’s judgmental or not

“Nah, just a fan,” Stuart laughs, for whatever reason. His fingers come into view again. “As of tonight, at least.”

“Stu, can we go now?” Noodle asks, quiet as ever, keeping an eye on the interaction the same way Stuart should be keeping an eye on her.

“Stu,” the old bugger repeats, lingering on Stuart’s face before he outstretches his hand. Stuart takes it without a second thought. Knobby little things. “Murdoc, at your service.”

“Stuart,” he tells him, but he doesn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed. Murdoc grins a slimy grin.

“So I heard.”

“Stu…” Noodle murmurs, tugging at his sleeve again. He looks down at her. “We need to go, remember?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, without really thinking about it. His hand half-heartedly releases Murdoc’s, who’s looking rather amused. “I need to go.”

“Go where? Don’t you think you need to compensate me for my drink?”

“Pardon?” Noodle deadpans. She shuts her mouth, like it slipped out unconsciously, but her icy glare is still directed at Murdoc - her new-found obstacle between spending the rest of the night bored out of her mind and sleeping over at Stuart’s. She’s sad to report no one really pays her any mind.

“Compensate you?” Stuart’s eyes are struggling to focus - more than usual - but it’s clear the look Murdoc’s giving him is a rather slimy one. A chill runs down his spine. “Like… pay for it or summat? I thought you band guys were pretty well-off.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” comes the response, smooth as ever. Noodle is tapping her foot on the ground now. “And no, not pay for it. Say, I’m guessing you’re from Crawley.”

“Born and raised,” he says, or more like slurs, and Noodle elbows him in the ribs. Right. Stranger danger and all that. She really is much brighter than he is. “I mean… maybe. Why’re you asking, anyways?”

“Don’t worry, Stuey, I ain’t about to rip your guts out or anythin’ like that. I don’t get a bang out of that outside the bedroom if you catch my drift,” he winks obnoxiously, until he catches sight of Noodle’s near-murderous glare. “I’m only jokin’, kid, Jeez…”

Stuart only looks at him. He really is an ugly bugger, but it doesn’t put him off, strangely. Without wanting to claim it or anything like that, it wasn’t a coincidence that his token nickname was “Stuart The Maggot Fucker” - he spent years trying to prove that it wasn’t true so people would leave him alone, but the truth of the matter is: Stuart had a habit of getting with plug-ugly people and that was okay. He zones back in when he feels Noodle squeeze his hand.

“Well, since you’re from Crawley and all…” Murdoc begins, acting as if Noodle wasn’t stood right there, “I was sort of about to find someone to show me around the area. Y’know. Crawley’s finest and all. What do you say?”

Stuart chuckles dazedly, “Am I supposed to be Crawley’s finest?”

“Only if you want to, Bluebird.”

He smiles at him. Murdoc smiles back. It’s a while before he comes back to his senses. “Uh, look… Murdoc. I appreciate the offer, but I was ready to go home, you know. Noodle here has no one to look after her.”

Murdoc finally looks down at Noodle, who can’t even fathom to look at him. She just holds onto Stuart’s hand, peering inside for a sign of Russel.

“What are ya lookin’ for, kid?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “None of your business.”

“Aw, feisty,” Murdoc grumbles, casting a glance at Stuart’s face. “Tell me that’s not your kid.”

“That ain’t my kid, I’m only twenty-five,” he says. “She’s sort of like my sister. Been babysittin’ her since she was a baby and all.”

“Touching. Say, I’m sure you can find someone to keep her company. I’m awfully lonely, you know. It’s unfair to let me venture around the area alone, don’t you think?”

Silence. The gears in Stuart’s head are turning - God, Noodle can even smell the smoke - and he bites his lip, in shame of what he’s about to say.

“We did come here with someone else…”

“That’s splendid!” Murdoc’s smile gets impossibly wide, but it’s all but reassuring. Stuart kind of likes it. “Why don’t you go drop her off real quick and then we can get this show on the road, huh?”

“Stu!” Noodle whispers, her eyes peeking out of her fringe as she looks up at Stuart. Christ, he’s so terrible. He really is. And now Noodle even knows it.

“Russel won’t mind, Noods,” he tries to level with her, only worsening the situation. Absolutely terrible. He shouldn’t be allowed to have kids in the future. “And… y’know, we can even ask him to take you to my house. You can stay with my mum, how’s that sound?”

“Am I some sort of burden or something?”

“No, no, no!” he rushes out, glancing at Murdoc before he crouches down so they can be on eye level. He continues, quieter, “No, don’t say that! Look, all I’m gonna do is show him around some so he can lay off. Alright? I’ll be back in no time and then I promise we can go home. Christ, you can even go home right now if that’s what you want. We just need to find Russel-”

“And what will you be doing?” she demands, a bit louder, so Murdoc can hear. She shoots him an icy stare. “Why is he better than me?”

“He’s not, it’s just…” Stuart buries his face in his hands, his voice coming out desperate and muffled. “It’s just so he can lay off. Won’t bother us again. Alright?”

Noodle weighs her options. The truth is that she’s already made up her mind - not that she has any choice - but she thinks Stuart deserves to go through a little hell right now, since she’ll be spending the night with someone who probably hates her guts. At the very least, Russel’s funny.

Again, she looks at Murdoc, “He’s ugly, anyway.”

“Noods!”

“What a wonderful little thing you are,” Murdoc replies, attempting to pat her head. He does, though his nails get tangled up in her hair, and Noodle’s pretty sure she’s intentionally left with a bald spot. “As much as your sister delights me, Bluebird, I ain’t got all day,” he sniffs, looking into his pocket and pulling out a pack of fags. “Or night, rather.”

Stuart hates to be repetitive, but he truly is one of the worst people to ever walk the Earth. He cannot dwell too much on that right now, though, for his own sake.

“I don’t like him,” Noodle tries to whisper, doing a poor job of it. He’s sure he looks about ready to lay down and kiss her feet in begging. “Alright, alright… We can go find Russel…”

“You’re the absolute best!” Stuart says lowly, as much as he can contain his excitement. Noodle pushes him away when he tries to kiss the top of her head and pulls him along instead, so he can barely look back at Murdoc and gesture for him to wait. Murdoc obliges. “God, Noods, you have no idea how much stuff I’m gonna bring you back. Literally whatever you want. I’ll get them sweets you love, just you wait.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Noodle says distractedly, trying to spot Russel and failing. She huffs, “You’re the one that’s six feet tall, how about you look for him?”

“I’m tryin’...” he says, stretching his neck over the sea of people. Thank God Russel chose to wear his ridiculous bright red hat tonight. “There he is. C’mon.”

It’s probably not a good idea, since he’s with a group of people - scary looking people, some even taller than Stuart - and he already looks riled up by God knows what they’re all talking about. Noodle jumps into Russel’s line of vision before he can express his doubts to her.

“Whatcha doing here, kid? Where’s Stu at?” Russel’s frowning, even more so when he catches sight of Stuart. Stuart must be looking at him funny. “What is it?”

“I can’t get into too much detail.”

“I can,” Noodle grumbles, but Stu just buries her into his side.

“I can’t, but, uh...” he continues, and Russel’s eyes are narrowed again, “I need you to sort of… Can you look after Noodle for a little bit? Just a tiny bit?”

“Aw, man, you can’t be serious,” Russel groans, pulling them away from the other lot. “I ain’t no goddamn babysitter, Stu!”

“I know you ain’t, I know that! Please, Russ,” he’s aware he’s pleading, and he’s aware he’s reached rock bottom. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. “Please, I’ll owe you one. I’ll owe you ten, for God’s sake!”

“Where are you going, anyway?” Russel demands, glancing down at Noodle.

“I, uh...” Stuart gulps, glancing out the door. Murdoc’s still standing against the lamp post, putting out his cigarette and lighting another. “There’s this guy.”

“This guy. I can’t believe you.”

“C’mon, Russ, I’d do it for you!” Stuart pleads and pleads and pleads. “He’s a band guy, for Christ’s sake! Killer fingers an’ all. Don’t make me say more in front of Noods, this is embarrassing enough.”

Russel stares at him. As horrible as Stuart is, he doesn’t think this is an overtly ridiculous favour he’s asking of him. And he prides himself in being self-aware most of the time.

Eventually, Russel sighs, and Stuart knows he’s won. “Man, this guy better be peng as shit. I’m telling you.”

Stuart decides not to comment on that. Instead, he crouches down in front of Noodle again, and fixes her with a serious look. “You’ll behave, right? Russel ain’t as good as I am.”

“You’re on thin fucking ice, Stu.”

“I’ll behave, yeah,” Noodle grumbles, tutting in frustration. “Have fun with your edgelord.”

“That’s the best thing I’m gonna get,” Stuart hugs her swiftly, before she can say no, and gives Russel a thankful slap on the shoulder before he runs - it’s embarrassing how fast he runs out of there, like somebody’s chasing him. He supposes his sanity is the one chasing him, trying to catch him before there’s no turning back. He almost lets it, but then he makes it outside and Murdoc’s fingers are still knitting thumping melodies on thin air. His sanity trips over the same thin air behind him, dissipating around him, and he goes to stand next to the complete stranger nervously.

It’s sooner rather than later that Murdoc notices him, stomping on his newly-lit fag. “The kid didn’t like me very much, did she?”

“She’s a teenager, she hates everybody,” Stuart smiles coyly, and he shoves his hands into his jeans' pockets for lack of anything better to do. Murdoc’s slimy grin is back. Another chill down Stuart’s spine. “You know how it is… Hormones an’ all…”

“Seems to like you,” Murdoc says, quieter, more open. He pulls Stuart forward from the front of his shirt as he starts walking down the street, forcing him to follow. “You good with kids, then?”

“What, little kids?” he walks a little faster once Murdoc lets go, since he’s left behind. Murdoc puts his own hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I babysit an’ all. It’s good money. An’ I get to spend time with toddlers and such.”

“You like ‘em?”

Stuart ponders. “Yeah. It’s a bit awkward when some of ‘em wind up saying their first words to me rather than their parents, though. I don’t have the courage to tell ‘em, either.”

“Ha!” Murdoc runs ahead, swinging around a lamp post and landing in front of Stuart, who stares in disbelief with a wide smile on his face. “That’s the thing with kids. You give up your soddin’ life to raise ‘em and they don’t even have the courtesy to tell ya their first words. Terrible lil’ things.”

Stuart stares on, not knowing if he should laugh or take offence.

Until Murdoc breaks into a smile again, “I love them.”

“Oh, wow,” Stuart sighs out a surprised laugh, pushing Murdoc back with a hand on his chest. “You almost had me there.”

They’re already in the busiest part of town, and Stuart does his best not to bump into anyone as he and Murdoc speedwalk through the crowds of people, faster than they need to. Murdoc glances up at him, “Say, Bluebird.”

“Forgot my name already?”

He laughs. “Nah, just think it suits you,” Murdoc adjusts his hair over his eyebrows, ending up not changing it at all. “Say… Unless those piercing eyes of yours are contact lenses…”

“No, not really,“ Stuart stretches his neck - not that he really needs to, freakishly long legs and all - and thinks he spots a Premier further down the street. “I, uh, had an accident a long time ago. Hence the hair, too.”

“Don’t tell me those luscious locks are natural,” Murdoc all but gasps, running a hand through Stuart’s hair. Stuart shakes it off, pretends it’s bothersome. “What sort of accident turns your eyes black, anyway?”

“Fell off a tree,” he says. Murdoc laughs at him. “Oi, shut up! God, that did hurt… And it didn’t turn my eyes black, you wanker. I’ve no eyeballs.”

“No eyeballs!” Murdoc’s neck all about snaps turning to look at him. “Aw, listen to it! You blind or summat, then?”

“No, I can see.”

“How on Earth can ya see with no eyeballs?”

“I jus’ can… Look, rather than obsess over my lack of eyeballs, how about we go in and get some beer or somethin’ instead?” Stuart comes to a halt when they reach Premier, reaching out to grasp Murdoc’s jacket when he doesn’t do the same. Murdoc eyes the flashing neon sign over his head. “C’mon… I’m thirsty an’ all… Damn barmaid wouldn’t give me any beer ‘cause I acted all dodgy.”

Murdoc scratches the back of his head as he peers inside. “That what you want? Beer?”

“Just whatever,” Stuart all but whines, but he does overly play with the part of Murdoc’s jacket he’s grasping. “Mouth kinda still tastes like vomit... C’mon, what do you say? There’s not much to do in Crawley, anyways. Might as well check out the mini market.”

Murdoc still looks reluctant, but eventually sighs in defeat, allowing himself to be pulled inside excitedly. He's at odds with his cheap jacket's resistance to all the grasping and yanking.

"Never really liked Premier 'cause there's not much to see," Stuart said, and indeed, the place was exceptionally tiny. "This is not the one I usually go to… Stuff's pretty cheap, though. Look," he grabs two beers from the refrigerator as he passes by and presents them proudly. "Found 'em."

He's suddenly overly aware of Murdoc not having spoken for a little while. Stuart's ready to comment on it, perhaps suggest that they could go if he really wanted to, when Murdoc sneaks a look around and grabs one beer can, hastily shoving it under his jacket. Stuart stares for a bit.

"Hey," he begins, unable to continue. All he knows is that Murdoc is currently looking around, trying to spot relatively small objects that could be shoved in there, as well. He leans into him, gaining his attention. "What on Earth are you doing?"

"What the hell does it look like?" he whispers back, glaring at the one can Stuart's still holding aimlessly. "Put that under your shirt."

"What? No!" he hopes he sounds as incredulous as he feels. Murdoc kneels down and shoves a bag of gummy bears into his trousers. "Mate, I don't nick stuff, alright? Better put that back, hey. Let's get out of here."

"Say it louder, why don't you?" Murdoc hisses back, standing awkwardly so that the plastic bag doesn't make too much noise. "And it's not nicking, technically. Consider it my first gift to you."

"I don't want it!" Stuart tries to control the tone of his voice. He also tries to conceal the urge to smack Murdoc upright the head, mostly. "Put it fucking back."

"Fine, you don't wanna get free beer? We'll pay for yours," he grins like it's something to be proud of, and manages to pull Stuart towards the till before he's able to shake him off. The little old lady working the till smiles at them as she fumbles for her glasses. Stuart's definitely a horrible person.

"What can I do for you boys today?" she says, awfully unsuspicious and all. Stuart wishes that were him.

He freezes. He automatically glances back at Murdoc, who makes matters worse, naturally. "Aw, c'mon, Bluebird. Don't get all shy on me."

Stuart's glare must be downright murderous.

"Fine, fine, I'll help," Murdoc whispers, like it's supposed to be a fucking secret. He steps in front of him and grabs the can out of his hold, putting it on the counter. God knows how he's balancing that other can in there. "Just this, honey. My boy's a little bit shy, 's all."

"Well, that's alright," she smiles genuinely, reminiscing as she rings it up and looks for a bag. She forgot to ask them if they want one, Stuart thinks. He's really not about to speak up, though. "I remember my own boy when he was little. Shy little bugger, he was. Couldn't get him to talk to anyone but me!" she laughs, tells them how much it is, and furrows her brow as Stuart scrambles for his wallet. "I don't suppose that's your son, love?"

"Not quite, darlin'," Murdoc chuckles, hugging Stuart by the shoulders, his other arm hugging his own front tightly. Not very suspicious, one might add. "How's that wallet comin', Bluebird?" he presses, and Stuart represses the urge to stomp on his foot and run out of there. Even more so when Murdoc adds: "We just got married, actually. Last night in Crawley before we move and all. London, you know how it is."

"Oh, my," she laughs, though she does look a bit confused. Stuart does his best not to scream as he hands her the money. "Well… You do look a bit on the young side, love," she tells him. He only nods.

"Oh, Stuart's older than me," Murdoc presses him further against his side. She almost forgets to cut up the receipt at that. "Just hides it better. Mostly why I fell for him: his looks an' all. Ain't that right, you sexy bugger?"

"Thank you very much," Stuart clips, grabbing the bag and attempting to make a run for it. Murdoc's arm keeps him in place.

"Thank you, darlin'," Murdoc takes the offered receipt, rubbing along Stuart's shoulder for good measure. She eyes the movement. "Say bye-bye, Stuart."

His grip loosens around him, so Stuart grabs his chance and walks out as quick as he entered, with Murdoc hot on his heels. As soon as they're at a safe distance, the old bugger pulls the beer out from under his jacket. Stuart gawks as he cracks it open.

"You just feel no shame?" he says, shaking his head when Murdoc all but chokes from laughter.

He then pulls the old bag out, right out his pants and all. Stuart's nose crinkles. "Eh, what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"It hurts me! I know about it!” he’s so incredulous, is the thing. He’d find it funny if he wasn’t so pissed. “I don’t even know how you got away with that. Your jacket was protruding an’ all. Looked like fuckin’ tits.”

“Well, she was, like, ninety years old,” Murdoc stops walking. Stuart almost walks away from him. “Are you gonna drink that?”

“Yes, I am,” Stuart snaps, opening his tin for good measure. Murdoc shakes his head as he pauses to open the bag, beer left on the ground. “They’re gonna taste like shit with the beer.”

“Never too shit for me,” Murdoc grumbles, cursing the bag for being uncooperative. It eventually rips open, not enough for everything to fall out, though. Unfortunately. “She believed it, though.”

“What? That you’re shit? I believe it more as the night progresses.”

“No, Dents.” Stuart scoffs at the name. “That we’re newlyweds. I should’ve convinced her to give us the stuff for free, since you got your panties in a twist. Surely there’s some type of discount for newlyweds.” He picks up his beer, resumes walking.

“Yeah, like I’d ever marry you,” Stuart snorts, picking up the pace when Murdoc threatens to leave him behind. He wouldn’t dare, anyway. “You know when you see them gorgeous girls out with these ugly, balding, dodgy nonces? That’s exactly what we’d look like."

“Oi, you’re not balding,” Murdoc says, laughing when Stuart scoffs in disbelief. “I don’t know if you really called yourself a gorgeous girl just now.”

“I called myself the equivalent of a gorgeous girl,” he says. “Almost like… a gorgeous man. Crazy, innit?”

“Not gonna disagree,” Murdoc takes a few steps forward, blocking Stuart’s way. Stuart huffs as they come to a halt in the middle of the street. “Hey. Did it bother you that much?”

“Yes! Like… I don’t know.”

“Alright, well, I can take it back.”

“Fucking opened?” Stuart all but shouts, and Murdoc pisses himself laughing. Against his will, Stuart bursts out into laughter as well. “You’re sick.”

“Hell yeah, I’m fucking sick,” Murdoc pulls his by the arm, running, for whatever reason. A bit of beer spills out of both of their cans. “Where to next, pretty boy?”

“I would be able to see if you stopped running!” he shouts, because God knows Murdoc isn’t able to hear him. And he still doesn’t. All he does instead is pull him along, taking a sharp turn into the nearest alley and tugging him into the dark.

Stuart takes a moment to catch his breath. Murdoc’s teeth are shining in the dark, through that ugly grin of his, and he throws his beer can on the ground when he’s done with it. Littering, Stuart thinks. He takes his own sip.

“So this is what you do?” he asks playfully, when Murdoc’s busy looking for a cigarette to light in his pocket. “You nick stuff? And litter?”

“Ha,” he gives up on trying to pull the fag out, approaching Stuart gingerly. “Being talented doesn’t pay the bills anymore, Dents. I’ve got to nick once in a while. I never did no harm to nobody, though, don’t worry ‘bout that.”

“Have you not, now?” Stuart presses. Murdoc finds a keen interest on the brick wall right next to Stuart’s head all of a sudden, picking on it and all, his other arm awkwardly placed on his hip - ready to move any second now. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“No clue,” he replies, mouth all but dripping honey. “I’m pretty reliable. Honest.”

“I don’t think ‘reliable’ is the word,” Stuart registers he’s talking lower than he did before, but he can’t bring himself to snap out of it. “I agree with that other one. Talented. You are, too.”

“Yeah?”

“When I seen you, I thought… Wow. This guy has some killer fingers. Some fingers those are. It’s mad how you can move ‘em,” Stuart is grinning all sweet now. Can’t help it. “I shouldn’t enable you, but… Them fingers, man.”

“You think?” Murdoc spreads his palm at a distance from his face, observing the apparent objects of Stuart’s affection. He looks back at Stuart’s face. “Huh. Never heard that one before.”

“I sure do,” Stuart says - he keeps pressing and pressing and pressing. Almost daring. And Murdoc, observing his fingers as his hand moves, judiciously places it right under Stuart’s jaw. His long finger reaches up to touch his bottom lip, dig into it, like he’s testing something. Stuart’s lip swells around the sharp end of Murdoc’s nail, and his mouth slowly opens in invitation. The opening’s slight, though. He’s not that far gone yet.

“Cheeky, are we?” Murdoc gingerly pushes Stuart’s hair back with his free hand. “Well, you wanna know what I thought first time I seen you?”

 Stuart can barely speak with the overgrown nail pressing into his lip. He gulps, almost chokes. “What?”

“I thought… what pretty eyes this one has. Turns out you don’t even have any. And a little button nose, too,” Murdoc pokes it for good measure. Stuart licks his lip now that he can, since it’s gone dry. “You look like Bowie, mate. You have that sort of… aura. ‘M attracted to that.”

“Are ya?” Stuart slouches down further, so he’s more on eye level with Murdoc. The height difference is proving to be sort of a buzzkill. His bent knees touch his, though. “You liked me eyes, then? Liked how you can’t tell if I’m looking at you or summat?”

“Liked how I can see my reflection in ‘em,” Murdoc jokes, his face moving closer as Stuart laughs. He pauses. “Hey. How old are you, then? You do look a bit on the young side, if I’m being honest.”

“Oi! Didn’t you see my moustache?” Stuart rubs his pathetic little whiskers, drawing a surprised chuckle out of Murdoc. “And I told you, I’m twenty-five. Twenty-six in three months time. And… not that you look like an old pervert or nothin’...”

“I’m thirty-four, before you ask,” Murdoc says. He sighs in relief. “For God’s sake, tell me you're telling the truth. It would be a shame if I was makin’ a fool out of myself for a fuckin’ minor an’ all.”

“Well, I ain’t,” Stuart grasps onto the front of his jacket, but makes no move to pull him forward or anything. Just plays with it for a bit. “Though I am a bit younger than you, definitely. Sort of weird, innit?”

“Tell me how I’m not an old pervert again.”

Stuart laughs, bumping one of his hands against Murdoc’s chest. Murdoc places his own hand on the side of his head. “Not saying you are… Just pointing it out, ‘s all.”

Murdoc pauses for a moment. He contemplates something; places his hand on the wall next to Stuart’s head, then leans in and kisses him.

Stuart, on the other hand, doesn’t pause; he’s been expecting it ever since he cleared his head enough to think. His only free hand curls around Murdoc’s jacket, the other one growing increasingly sweaty around the beer can. He breaks the kiss, puts his beer on the ground.

“Sorry,” he breathes, wiping his hand on the back of Murdoc’s thigh. Murdoc only snorts, obnoxiously so.

“That’s such a turn-on, Dents."

"I said sorry," Stuart's hands pull him by his big head, pecking him a few times. He tells him as much. "You've such a fat head. It's kind of a buzzkill."

"You know how it is," says Murdoc. "Fat head, fat cock."

"Big fat stomach, I think you mean," Stuart corrects, patting his belly, barely keeping it together. What a fucking prick this guy is. "You know I've always been attracted to the ugly guys?"

"This your first time with a hunk, then?"

"You could say that," he refrains from another offhand comment, grabbing him by his little ears and pulling him in another kiss instead. They kiss just for a little, until they both start laughing - for whatever reason.

Murdoc picks up Stuart's beer, much to his displeasure. He downs some of it, then presses the rim against Stuart's mouth, tickling his throat so as to make him drink. It's ridiculous, is what it is.

"You know, I actually paid for that," Stuart murmurs, after he's gulped down most of it. Now that he thinks of it, that might have not been the best idea. He is running on almost half a bottle of painkillers and an empty stomach, after all. "I don't appreciate you stealing it. Go nick your own."

"She's going to be suspicious if I go in again."

"Just say your fucking husband was cravin' some more beer or summat," Stuart clips, slapping him upright the head when his head collapses on top of Stuart's chest, shaking with laughter. "Makin' me sound like I'm some sort of pregnant woman or summat."

"She'd buy it," he defends, diving down to start kissing along Stuart's neck. Wet kisses are being laid on the side of it, travelling up to the back of his ear, hands roaming down his back and lower. Stuart thinks of slapping them off, just for the hell of it, but it feels too good.

Murdoc's about ready to rub one off on his thigh when Stuart's phone starts vibrating. He jerkily pushes him off, startled, and Murdoc only readjusts his trousers from where he'd nearly taken them off.

Stuart lets it buzz for a moment, lost in thought. Murdoc notices. "Are you gonna take that?"

"Huh?" he says, then realises he's technically a missing person at the moment. He pulls it out shakily. "Oh. It's my mum. Shit."

"What d'ya mean shit?" Murdoc laughs. Stuart's too worried to play along. "What? You scared of your mum or summat, hot-shot?"

"What?" he forces himself to snort. He is pretty lame, he can't lie. "No. I mean… I ain't scared of her or nothin'... You know. I don't care."

"You don't care about your mum, mate?" Murdoc pointedly stares at his phone when it stops buzzing. His face is pitiful. "That's fucked up."

"How about you stop runnin' your mouth and we go do anything else but sit here and finger-pop each other's arseholes?" says Stuart, too bitchy for his liking. Murdoc seems to like it, if anything. "Seriously. My mum called, which means I need to be home soon. And you can make fun of me all you want, but I'm visiting at the moment and that means that I go by her rules, so there."

"That was beautiful, Dents," Murdoc replies, with the most monotone voice Stuart's ever had the displeasure of hearing. He throws the half-empty can of beer behind him somewhere, grabs Stuart's wrist. "Let's go, then. Wanna go print off some shirts? Want yours to say Mummy's Little Helper or somethin'? I can make it happen."

Stuart pulls his hand away. "You can either sit here and make fun of me or I can take you to the nearest park where we can sit on proper benches and not against some dingy walls."

"Sounds good, can't complain."

Stuart pulls him by the hand before he can start talking again. They navigate out of the dodgy alley, Murdoc allowing himself to be pulled wherever. It's not long before he pulls his hand out of Stuart's grip and rushes to get by his side.

"So," he starts, observing Stuart's face. He's too busy texting his mum, it seems. "Are we actually going to a fucking park or were you just bluffing?"

"Huh?" Stuart mumbles, too absorbed into trying to explain to his mother what he's doing with a complete stranger. It's even harder than it sounds, naturally. "Yeah, I mean… It's nice there. I had my first kiss there and all. It's nice that way."

"This is taking a turn," Murdoc slaps him on the back, as if to congratulate him. He lets it pass. "I like it. You lookin' to recreate it, then?"

"You wish. You would be far from my first." He looks up. "Kiss."

“You’re a professional mood-killer. You ought to get paid for your services.”

“Right,” he pauses, shoots off a last text to his frantic mother, then pockets his phone determinedly. “I’d like to talk with you, now.”

Murdoc stares at him. “I think that’s what we’ve been doin’, Bluebird, for the past hour or so. With a lovely snog break. Would love to repeat that, by the way - for your sake.”

“I mean really talk. Not your pathetic attempt at flirting type of talk. You was shoving your tongue down my sodding throat before and I don’t even know your surname.”

“Last time I checked, you don’t need to attain a person’s fuckin’ resume or summat to snog’ em or shag ‘em or whatever,” he says, almost running into a pole. Whatever he says doesn’t hold any ground from this moment onward, Stuart thinks. “Bleedin’ poles everywhere... “

“All I asked for was a fuckin’ surname, for God’s sake,” Stuart says, sighing in frustration when he senses it will lead him nowhere. “Fine. Another question for you. Do you usually pull random people and ask them to show you around a town you’ve certainly been ‘round before, or am I the only one with that privilege?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Murdoc raises a finger in objection. “I, indeed, haven’t been around Crawley. And to properly answer your question: I don’t need to make up excuses to pull. I just pull.”

“Seemed to need one with me…”

Before he can check to see if Murdoc’s scowling as much as he radiates, he feels him pummel against his side, almost sending him into the road. People stop to stare at them for a while.

“What are you, fuckin’ mad?” Stuart shouts, trying to keep his voice as low as possible, to his credit. It doesn’t seem to work, and Murdoc’s smiling that obnoxious grin of his. “I could’ve bloody well been hit by a car or somethin’!”

“Oh, come off it, there ain’t no fuckin’ cars!” Murdoc is slightly wheezing with laughter, attempting to pull Stuart along once again. Stuart doesn’t let him. “Look, I had to make you stop talking somehow. I was a desperate man. Forgive me.”

It sounded more like he was demanding it rather than asking. Stuart laughs incredulously, but resumes walking nonetheless. “I’m regretting coming with you more and more as the night progresses.”

“Not my problem,” says Murdoc. He’s nudging him on the shoulder, all of a sudden. “Ain’t that the park you was talkin’ about?”

Stuart doesn’t reply. He does look up, does recognise the park - and then he pulls Murdoc by the hand again, like everything’s forgotten. It isn’t, but the night’s too short to hold grudges.

“Isn’t it nice?” he says, observing Murdoc as he looks around the place. His nose is scrunched up. "Oh, my days, could you look more fuckin' bitter?"

"No, no, it's…" he looks for the words to use. All the while, Stuart has spotted the bench he was looking for. "It's nice, yeah."

"Yeah," Stuart repeats. He lets him off, pulls him along again and presents to him the wooden bench, engraved with all sorts of things, ranging from hearts and dicks to initials. Stuart lingers on a couple of those. "This is it."

"This is what?" Murdoc grumbles, leaning down to read some of the engraved sentiments. He chuckles. "Ha. 'Crawley is bollocks.' Well put."

"This is the bench, idiot," Stuart makes him sit down, then sits down on top of him. "This is where I had my first kiss."

"Oh, that bench," Murdoc laughs, following Stuart's eyes. He's looking at some sappy initials.

Stuart elaborates. "We engraved our initials right… here," he traces them with his finger, a sloppy S + R inside a heart. Murdoc almost dry-heaves. "Romina. She was Russian. Moved back there a few weeks after I kissed her and all. Didn't even know her last name."

"Romina," Murdoc says, not knowing what else to add. "Sounds hot."

"She was pretty," he shrugs, looking down at their bodies. "Was sitting on top of me. Sort of like this."

Murdoc doesn't speak. He's observing the engraved initials still, laughing quietly at the scrawled heart, surrounded by crude drawings. Stuart sort of moves around, trying to straddle him properly. Murdoc helps.

"It's funny,", Stuart continues, once ensured that Murdoc's paying attention. "I remember every sodding thing that happened that day. She probably doesn't even remember me. We were fuckin' kids, for God's sake."

"That's women for ya," Murdoc jokes. "Don't remember nothin'."

"Yeah, 'cause you'd know."

"I've had my fair share of women," he sounds proper old, is the thing. Stuart can't help but laugh. "They're somethin' else. Too much work."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"You wouldn't," Murdoc decides to push him off, much to Stuart’s dismay. He ends up cross-legged on the bench, right next to him. “Naturally. I’m way more experienced than you. Just am.”

“Bet you are,” Stuart opts for seductive, barely containing his giggles, rubbing an index finger softly along the nape of Murdoc’s neck. “Old man like you.”

“I ain’t old. Quit calling me that.”

“I’ve had my fair share of women, my arse. When? In the fuckin’ forties, for God’s sake?”

“I ain’t fucking old,” Murdoc says it like he’s warning him. He can’t do jack shit, Stuart thinks. Not if he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like that. “Ever heard of the phrase ‘Thirty, flirty, and thriving’, ya little snot-nosed brat?”

“You’ve gone past thirty, sir,” Stuart gets cut off mid-sentence by bubbling laughter, since Murdoc’s taken on pushing the hand on the back of his neck the furthest from him he can get. It’s funny, is what it is. He shakes his head. “As I was saying. Terrific kisser, she was. Romina. I was only twelve, but I could tell. And she was wearing those headbands with the little bows on ‘em and all, and she would keep taking them out and then put them back on again.”

“I remember my first kiss with a woman,” Murdoc sort of glares at him when he says it. Stuart chuckles at the clarification. “Yeah. T’was lovely. Really passionate.”

“Aha,” Stuart sort of laughs at the glint in Murdoc’s eyes. “That woman…   What was her name, then?”

“Dakota,” he says, without missing a beat. His voice drips honey with it. “At least that’s what she said. You never know with hookers, do you?”

Stuart pauses. “Pardon?”

Murdoc’s laugh resembles that of a hyena’s. It’s distracting. “Cost me an arm and a leg, that kiss. Well, I suppose it wasn’t the kiss that was costly…”

“How bloody old were you? Jesus, Murdoc…”

“I don’t know - fuckin’ sixteen or summat? She was older than me. In her late twenties, I suppose. Never asked me, just went along with it.”

Fucking Dakota. Stuart has to stare at him some more, to figure out whether he’s pulling his leg or not. You never know with him.

“Are you taking the mick?”

“I’m not! Swear to God,” he crosses himself and all, sends a kiss up to the sky. Stuart has serious suspicions that God - if he’s real, but he’s not going to get into that - wouldn’t want to be associated with this particular narrative. Hell, he doesn’t see how anyone would. Bloody Dakota, though.

“Tell me it wasn’t, like, a gift from your father for your Sweet Sixteen or summat. Please.”

“My father? Nah, my dad never got me any gifts. I’d be happy with a fuckin’ hooker, if he got me one, though. Anything’s better than nothin’,” he laughs like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s said so far. It really isn’t. “But no. Just stole some money from him. You could say it was a gift from him, that way.”

Stuart’s still not laughing. He shuffles a bit closer, drawing his aching legs up and putting them between Murdoc’s open thighs. Murdoc looks at them.

“And how did you go about it?” Stuart asks then, hand resuming the playing with the hair on the nape of Murdoc’s neck.

“Well,” he’s still observing Stuart’s legs, for some reason. “I think… she lived nearby, Dakota. And… You know, everyone kept saying how she was some sort of crack-whore or summat, that she did it for money… And I was like, I don’t know… I guess I thought it was now or never.”

“Now or never…”

“No bird I knew wanted to come near me, ‘s the thing,” he laughs as he says it, again. Stuart laughs along this time. “And, I’d kissed a couple blokes before, y’know… Didn’t even know ‘em, it was one of them… Uh…” he rubs his eye, looking for the words to use. “Them bar bathroom hookups. Used to leave the stall unlocked and all. A bloke would come in, get on his knees. I’d get on my knees sometimes. Whatever.”

Stuart runs his nail further down Murdoc’s neck, under his shirt. He tries not to think about Murdoc on his knees.

“I mean, I’ve no idea what to tell you. I just dropped in on her one day, said I got some money. That was it. Didn’t even mention it was my first time with a woman. It doesn’t really matter when you get down to it.”

"I can’t believe you lost it to a hooker,” Stuart’s tone isn’t accusatory. Sort of soft, in a way; disbelieving. “I mean… You was only half a virgin, weren’t you?”

“That’s one way to put it."

“That’s the only way to put it, mate,” Stuart laughs, and Murdoc laughs with him. The wind’s blowing, and Stuart hasn’t stopped rubbing circles into Murdoc’s skin. “Doesn’t it irk you, though? Losing it to a hooker and all?”

“Why would it? Jesus, Dents,” Murdoc shakes his head. It must be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, then. “I was gonna lose it one way or another. Hold on, let me rephrase this,” he draws closer, and Stuart’s hand pauses for a second. “I wasn’t gonna lose it any other way. Again, the girls avoided me like the plague. The only reason they don’t now is that band guys are automatically hot. Or somethin’.”

“Might be your yellow-ish overgrown nails scratchin’ up and down that fretboard,” says Stuart. Murdoc surprisingly pulls him closer, with an arm around his waist. He doesn’t respond any other way. “I know that got my attention.”

He has barely stopped talking before he’s being grabbed tighter, and kisses are being laid along the side of his neck. Sloppily, mind you. It tickles a little; Stuart sort of titters into Murdoc’s shoulder, his legs folded up uncomfortably as Murdoc inches closer and closer.

“This is a fuckin’ park, for God’s sake, not Dakota’s flat,” he says, when Murdoc seems to be going a bit too far. He slows down a little, admittedly, but he’s still close enough for Stuart’s legs to cramp. “You can’t try it on with me here. Kids come here. And stuff.”

“It’s bloody one in the morning,” Murdoc finally pulls back a little bit. His mouth’s a bit red, but he seems awfully nonchalant on the whole, as if Stuart’s neck isn’t still fucking wet. “The only kid that would come here after midnight is me as a kid.”

“Okay,” Stuart sits up, thinks about it, then goes back to straddling him. He can see it doesn’t phase him. “I have a feeling there’s a lot to unpack about that childhood of yours.”

“Yeah, well…” Murdoc’s hand sneaks back to cradle his lower back, but he still doesn’t look at him. Stuart taps him on the side of his head, so that he glances back at him. “What?”

“What?” Stuart grasps at his shoulders, shaking in a dramatic fashion. It puts a little smile on Murdoc’s face, at least. “You was about to open up to me. I thought we were havin’ a moment.”

“You won’t let me have a moment,” he grumbles, pushing Stuart’s legs back. Stuart frowns a bit at that. “Don’t sulk, now. I wanna get out of here. It’s fuckin’ eerie out here at one in the morning.” Stuart doesn’t move. “C’mon, up you go.”

“Do we have to?” he’s proper whining, he realises. Clearing his throat, he continues, calmer, “It’s rather nice, innit? I grew up on ‘em benches, basically.”

“Come off it,” replies Murdoc, making to sit up. Stuart alarmingly gets off him, in fear of falling over. Murdoc would push him over, too - he just knows it. “Let’s go walk around some more. My leg’s fallen asleep, hey. Get up now.”

Stuart complains, but he does get up, and eventually they find themselves exiting the way they entered. His hand sneaks down to hold Murdoc’s own, but he doesn’t complain. Reality’s altered this late at night, he supposes, so it’s possible Murdoc’s not feeling like himself - mean and snappy. He’s not feeling like himself, really. It all seems like a fever dream; Stuart thinks he’s going to wake up any second now, in a cold sweat, his temperature through the roof and sighing in relief that he didn’t actually agree to spend the night with a complete stranger - and that he didn’t like it, or him. And yet, that possibility seems to fade even more as the time passes.

“Alright, genius,” he says, just to escape from his own thoughts. Murdoc sort of squeezes his hand, to let him know he’s listening (and perhaps acknowledging the term ‘genius’). “Where we headed now? Since the park’s so bad, you must have a better soddin’ idea.”

Murdoc smiles to himself. “I do, actually.”

Stuart pauses, stops walking. Murdoc laughs to himself before he looks back at him. “I didn’t like your tone there.”

“Well, I just… spotted this lovely little bar right down the street, I think, when we was driving here with the boys. Bar 7, I think it was called.”

Stuart takes a minute to mull it over, and cracks a smile once he catches his drift. It’s terrible, really, because now it looks like he’s thinking about it, when it’s the last thing he wants to be doing. He tries to suppress the smile (no, really, he does), but Murdoc’s obnoxiously signaling him over with a wagging finger. It doesn’t help.

“Bar fuckin’ 7,” he repeats, to make sure he’s heard correctly. And, yeah, Murdoc nods. “The bloody gay bar down the street? That Bar 7,” and again, Murdoc nods, though he’s slowly losing it by the minute. “The one with the purple, glittery counters and purple leather settees. With the buff and rude security men that plays fuckin’ Cher and the Bee-Gees and whatnot. We’re talking ‘bout the same Bar 7.”

“Didn’t get a chance to peek inside, but yeah,” he nods again, laughter threatening to bubble out his throat. Stuart’s tempted to bite it just to make him shut up.

“The one straight people hog because it’s just gayful.”

And, yeah, Murdoc positively loses it. “Just what?”

“Fuckin’ gayful… I don’t know,” Stuart’s dead serious, and it must show. Murdoc wills himself to stop laughing.

“Look, if you’re, like, too insecure for that yet, we can just go to another one. Anywhere but that bleedin’ park.”

“I’ve fuckin’ been there before, you little cocknose,” Stuart shoves his shoulder, beginning to walk once again. Murdoc runs to reach him, shoving him a little bit in turn. “This is my fuckin' neighbourhood and all... That’s how I know it’s fucking bad. I got hit on by a girl in there.”

“Oh, no, that’s terrible.”

He couldn’t have said it any more monotone than he did. Stuart shoves him again, to prove a point.

“It’s a bit off-putting, innit? Like, I liked it, obviously,” he continues, and Murdoc’s arm snakes around his waist. They must make a rather funny picture, the two of them, with the height difference and all. Nobody’s around, anyway, he supposes. “But, you know. In a gay bar and all…”

“Not that I don’t care, but I want to talk about something else,” Murdoc decides, but he says it like he doesn’t even want to do that, either. He sounds like he just wants to walk, quietly. Or maybe Stuart’s just projecting.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that, then?”

“Let’s see,” Murdoc takes his sweet time with it. As if he doesn’t know what to say, the bastard. The wheels in his head have been turning for the past minute or so, and Stuart can tell. “Let’s play 20 Questions, shall we? I’ll start.”

“Of course you’ll fuckin’ start,” Stuart grumbles, shaking off the damn arm off his waist. Walking along has never been so hard. “Nothin’ grim.”

“Well, yeah, fucking nothin’ grim! Who do you think I think I am?”

“That your first question, then?” he says, folding his arms in front of his chest. “Easy one, that.”

“Fuckin’ funny, you are, mate,” Murdoc chuckles in faux amusement, but his face falls quickly. It’s rather amusing, if he’s being honest. “Alright, from the top of my head. How many guys have you shagged?”

“I said nothin’ grim!” Stuart groans. He kicks some gravel around as he says it, to let off some steam.

“There’s nothin’ grim about the wonder that is sex, Dents. What are you, fuckin’ three years old? Grow up.”

Stuart remains silent. To his credit, Murdoc lasts about five seconds before he starts pestering him again, calling him all sorts of ridiculous names (including, but not limited to: prude, virgin, buzzkill, and the list would go on if he had the patience and motivation) before he finally cracks.

“Alright, alright!” he basically explodes. Not one of his proudest moments, admittedly, giving into the pressure of a goblin-looking whatever. “I’ve shagged about two guys. One, two. Happy?”

“Two?” Murdoc’s grinning like a fucking madman. Stuart hasn’t been more tempted to punch him all night. “Is there a specific reason for that? Am I in for the shock of my life or something?”

“You’re not in for anything - and, frankly, I’d love to know where you got that impression,” Stuart is talking through gritted teeth at this point. “I’m seriously thinking ‘bout turning around and leaving you here, if I’m honest.”

“Wouldn’t work, I’d follow ya,” Murdoc says dismissively, returning to the subject at hand. Ruining Stuart’s nervous system. “Well, if you don’t have any questions, let’s move right along-”

“I do have one, actually,” Stuart interrupts. He looks him in the eyes, then, for the first time in a while. “Have you always been such a fucking arsehole?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough time to go into depth for this one, darlin’,” Murdoc grins again, the sodding bastard. “To make a long story short: yes. My turn.”

“No, I’ve another one,” Stuart says, and puts a hand over Murdoc’s mouth when he makes to complain. He smiles again under the (huge) palm. “Shut up. How many guys have you shagged, then, hot stuff? Must be well over two dozens, right? Fuckin’ sleaze like yourself.”

Murdoc hasn’t stopped smiling. Finally, Stuart removes his hand, and Murdoc takes his sweet time answering, once again. They’ve somehow kept walking - passed Bar 7, in fact. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he says, in that conceited manner of his. Bloody sleazeball, alright. “Well, I don’t know whether you’re right, actually. I’ve lost count, at the moment, I’m afraid. It’s less than the ladies, though, I can tell you that…”

“I doubt women approach you, ya sleazeball,” Stuart can’t keep it in any longer, it seems. Murdoc seems to be enjoying it. “They just think you’ve killer fingers, I bet. Which you don’t, by the way. They’re fuckin’ knobby as hell and barely synchronised. When’s the last time you cut your bloody nails? Don’t know why I liked ‘em in the first place. I swear I’m fuckin’ mad.”

“You’re hot when you’re a brat. Have I told you that?” Murdoc shuffles closer, it seems. Stuart wouldn’t be surprised if he was sporting a stiffy, sleazy little shit he is. “You thought I had killer fingers, huh? You’ve said that before, I swear.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m mad,” Stuart repeats. It makes Murdoc laugh. “I’m probably still high on those painkillers or summat. Probably the only reason I followed you in the first place.”

“Look,” Murdoc says lowly. So low, in fact, he sends an involuntary chill down Stuart’s spine. “There’s another pub right over there. What do you say?”

Normally, Stuart would stomp on his foot and keep walking, just for the sake of proving his point. Now, though - now Murdoc’s practically breathing down his neck (that’s a little less of what he can reach, he supposes) and his hand is squeezing his hip, so he’s under a lot of pressure. If he says so himself, at least. He ends up nodding silently, and Murdoc takes him by the hand and leads him exactly there.

The place is called The Hive, apparently, and some terrible song from a few decades ago is blasting through the speakers. Stuart can’t tell which, because Murdoc’s pulling and squeezing at his hand - and, quite frankly, it has some effects it shouldn’t have. Just to name a few, Stuart’s upper lip is sweating, and his stomach swirling around, for whatever reason. His breathing is heavy by the time they find an empty settee.

“I don’t wanna drink,” Stuart mumbles, with Murdoc barely an inch away. He wipes his upper lip some, just so Murdoc doesn’t comment on it or anything.

“I didn’t offer you a drink.”

Stuart nods, as if to say cool, and takes a look around the place. There are a lot of people around - and he’s surprised, despite himself - but barely anyone’s sitting down. It’s just them and a few couples, making out and whatnot. Stuart’s not daft, though. Besides, he doesn’t think he would really mind if this was were Murdoc was going with this, if he’s being honest.

“Why won’t you look at me, Dents?” Murdoc says, then. Stuart almost wishes he was inaudible over the music, but he hears him crystal clear - his voice has dropped so low it resembles the thumping bass, at this point, and it’s ringing in Stuart’s ears. He smiles a little, too, before continuing: “What’s scaring ya?”

“Your face, if you want to know the truth,” Stuart replies, nonchalant as ever. At least, he’d like to think so.

“Oh, give me a break,” Murdoc laughs at him, practically. If he didn’t know better, Stuart would think he was intoxicated - pupils blown over, neck flushed. Really. “You like my face, don’t ya? Like my fingers and all,” to prove his point, he strokes up his thigh with the same knobby fingers that were stroking up the bass. “Huh?”

Stuart’s not at a loss for words. He’s really not - seriously. He could say a million things - more jabs about Murdoc’s appearance (most of them true, at that), a couple more implications of how sinister-looking his nails are scratching up his trousers - but he chooses not to. Instead, he opts for leaning back, giving him a bit more room, letting him choose what to do with it. It should be interesting enough.

Arms spread out behind Murdoc’s head, he must look nothing short of ridiculous. Murdoc seems to think so, at least. “Giving up so easily?”

“Givin’ up? Who’s givin’ up?” Stuart says, tone daring. “I’m giving you some space. Do what you wanna do. I’m waitin’.”

Man, did he go crazy when Stuart said that. Murdoc got this wild glint in his eye - the one he saw in the alley, when he was practically pinned against the wall - and then he shuffled closer, so that their thighs were glued together. Stuart decides to help him, then, and hooks one leg over Murdoc’s own - Murdoc, in turn, pulls it closer, holds on to it. There’s not much to do next but wait, and stare into his eyes until he finally cracks.

And he does. Murdoc admires the leg in his lap for a few seconds before he leans over, finally giving Stuart the kiss he’s been dying to give him. Stuart’s reaction is immediate - he reaches up, tangles his fingers through thick hair (surprisingly washed), and with his other hand touches Murdoc’s neck, feeling the tendons contracting each time he opens his mouth to deepen it. It all happens fast, he thinks. One moment Murdoc’s snogging the life out of him and the other he’s looking at him, lips shiny with spit and hand squeezing his thigh. Stuart nonchalantly tilts his head to the side, runs a hand through his own hair.

“I need to use the toilet,” Murdoc says, always so low, Stuart barely catches it at first. Then he does, and he pauses. Murdoc raises both eyebrows, though, “Do you need to use the toilet?”

Immediately, Stuart feels his eye twitch. He smiles suggestively, a single finger toying with the collar of Murdoc’s jacket. “I’m dying to use the toilet, actually.”

Murdoc’s smile seems to widen even more than it already has in the past two minutes - which seemed impossible on its own - and he pauses altogether. God knows what he’s thinking, the bastard.

“Good,” he says finally, and makes to stand up, finding it hard to do with Stuart’s leg still very much atop his. Stuart takes the initiative, then - he stands up carefully, grabs him by the hand and barely waits for him to stand up before he heads for the restroom, wherever that is. When he spots it, a few people are hogging the entrance, so he holds onto Murdoc’s hand tighter and shimmies through until they’ve made it through the door. There are a couple of people there, in the stalls.

Stuart brings his finger to his lips, urging Murdoc to be quiet, then pushes him into the stall farthest from the door. As if on cue, one of the people exits his stall - he gives Stuart a polite nod, unaware of Murdoc unzipping his trousers sat on top of the toilet seat, and doesn’t even wash his hands before he exits. Stuart doesn’t have time to grumble to himself about personal hygiene, though. There are more important matters at hand.

“Eager, are we?” he breathes as he closes the stall door behind him, making sure he locks it. He’s never been that humiliated in his life before, and he’s not planning on it. “Don’t know why you’re unbuttoning your trousers, though. Funny that.”

“‘Cause you’re gonna suck my cock,” Murdoc says, nonchalantly, focused on not dragging said cock against the zipper painfully. He briefly looks up, “Or did we just rush in here to do our makeup? Play patty-cake an’ all?”

Stuart just has to start laughing. It’s not even his fault in a way. And he doesn’t mind sucking a bit of cock, quite frankly, but he’s not about to come off looking too crazy about it either. “Ha, ha,” he says, as monotone as he can muster considering the stiffy in his pants. “And why should I be the one doing the fuckin’ sucking?”

Murdoc doesn’t even look up, the prick. But, really, what a prick it is that he’s holding right now. “‘Cause I asked you to. Would it be easier if I stood up? D’ya like that more?”

“Fuck off, arsehole,” Stuart mumbles to himself, dropping to his knees despite himself. He’s making this way harder than it needs to be. “You can sit your lazy arse down, won’t enjoy it any more than I already am,” he grumbles on, unzipping his own trousers. He must make a funny picture, he supposes. Murdoc is chuckling, anyhow.

“Stop complaining, will ya?” he sits on the edge of the toilet seat, holding his cock with one hand, cradling the back of Stuart’s head with the other. Somewhere outside, the person in the other stall exits the toilets. “I’m not plannin’ to spend the rest of the fuckin’ night in here.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“With what teeth?”

Stuart goes down on him, just to shut him up. He’s surprised it works in the first place, but Murdoc makes himself comfortable, widens his legs apart, flexes his fingers in Stuart’s hair. It annoys him a bit, to be honest, since he’s the one kneeling on the filthy floor.

“Soft hair, you’ve got,” Murdoc comments. Worst possible time to say something like that, he thinks; he makes sure to convey that message through a glare, but it only seems to turn him on further. Murdoc smiles cheekily, “I feel like I’m watchin’ an interactive porno or something. Who knew, Dents?”

Stuart is tempted to pull off his cock and not touch him for the rest of the night, as a form of torture, but it’s all too hot for him to handle. He does pinch Murdoc’s thigh, causing him to wince, but then he goes down on him some more, strokes his shaft and all. Sort of contradictory, he supposes, but Murdoc’s grasping at his hair again, harder now, and his left foot’s bouncing next to his knee. He places both hands on Murdoc’s thighs, for leverage.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Murdoc murmurs, almost to himself, inaudibly. “Didn’t peg you for a cocksucker, Bluebird.”

Stuart looks up at him, again, murderously.

“Okay, you got me - I did peg you for a cocksucker.”

Stuart pulls off at that, but he replaces his mouth with his hand, stroking the shaft and spreading the spit around. “You’re on thin fuckin’ ice, mate. Most people don’t talk while gettin’ their cock sucked.”

“Now, how do you know that?” Murdoc grins obnoxiously, and Stuart suddenly prefers having a mouth full of cock rather than having to talk to him. That’s exactly what he gets. “That’s good… So how many cocks have you sucked, Dents? You seem rather experienced.”

Stuart pinches one of his balls, but it makes him groan more than anything, the kinky arsehole. He grips one thigh tighter, and holds onto the shaft with the other hand, bobbing his head to the rhythm of his own racing heartbeat. He feels it on the back of his throat, filling his mouth up, heavy on his tongue. He feels his hair being pulled on, smells the musk near his nostrils, feels his nose being tickled by the hair on Murdoc’s happy-trail. He pulls off long enough to mumble: “Shit…”, then he takes a needed breath, and goes back down again.

“Are ya wankin’ off?” Murdoc pants out, his speech a slurry mess of words. Stuart closes his eyes shut at the sound of his voice alone. “Tell me. Ya wankin’ off suckin’ cock?”

He sighs out of his nose, Stuart, slowly slipping his hand off Murdoc’s thigh to shove it in his pants instead. He strokes himself a couple of times, which proves to be easier said than done. He squeezes the base of his own cock when it becomes too overwhelming; a cock in his hand, and a cock in his mouth.

“Say it, goddamn it.”

Stuart opens his eyes again, looks up at Murdoc. His cheeks are starting to hurt. At once, he pulls off, strokes at Murdoc’s shaft speedily, says with his destroyed vocal cords: “I’m wankin’ off suckin’ cock.”

Murdoc’s foot resumes its bouncing. He leans down, though, slicking Stuart’s hair back with his own sweat, on eye level as Stuart keeps wanking him off. “You like suckin’ cock, Stu?”

He holds onto his hair, pushing his head back by it once he says it. Stuart’s hand falters on his cock for just a moment, but it’s not for long. “I fuckin’...” Stuart chokes on his own spit, trying to breathe as his neck is being stretched backwards. Murdoc brings his head forward at last. “I fuckin’...”

“Don’t be shy, now,” Murdoc plants one on him, on the cheek, kissing him softly considering the situation they’re in. Somehow, that’s a much bigger turn-on than the hair pulling. “How much do you like suckin’ cock, then? Got spit running down your chin and all. Got you lookin’ like a slag, haven’t I?”

Stuart all but purrs when he feels his skull being massaged, but Murdoc’s hand urges him to go down on him again. He reaches behind his head, puts his hand on top of Murdoc’s, feels how warm it is. “I might be a fuckin’ slag, alright,” he says, although he doesn’t believe it, but he revels for the way it makes Murdoc’s eye twitch. “But I ain’t your slag, old man.”

“You like old man cock, then, is that what it is?” Murdoc grumbles, all but pushing Stuart’s face down to shut him up. “Fuckin’ hell, tell ‘em you’re slightly over thirty and they go makin’ a fuss over it… Go on, then. Suck some old man cock, if that’s what you’re into.”

Satisfied, Stuart takes it back into his mouth, swallowing around it as he works his hand along the his balls. Murdoc’s diminished into a moaning mess; he opens his legs impossibly wide, as if he’s afraid Stuart will find he doesn’t have enough space and leave, and his hair sticks down onto his forehead with sweat - some of it concentrated on his top lip. Stuart figures he mustn’t look too different himself.

“Keep wanking, then,” Murdoc manages to say in between gasps, keeping up the massaging along Stuart’s skull. “I know suckin’ cock gets you off, Bluebird, you don’t need to hide from me.”

Stuart closes his eyes again. He replies around Murdoc’s cock, not finding it in himself to actually pull off of it and say it with his whole chest. He idly tries to rub against his jeans.

Murdoc chuckles, though. “What was that, love? I couldn’t hear ya with your mouth full.”

He pulls off, then, coughs a couple times, massages his aching throat. He tries to look Murdoc in the eyes through his watery own. “If I wank myself off, I’m gonna spunk too soon. I wanna get you off first.”

“We’re both gonna get off anyway, darlin’,” Murdoc presses. When Stuart only makes to go down on him again, he lets him, but this time he reaches down and starts stroking as much of Stuart’s cock as he can grasp. Stuart almost chokes around the cock in his mouth - and he also makes a (rather embarrassing) high-pitched sound that Murdoc luckily doesn’t comment on.

“Shit, Murdoc…” he breathes, lips solid against the side of his cock, unmoving. He strokes up and down, though, in time with Murdoc’s own hand, and he ends up kissing up and down the shaft, for lack of anything else to do. If he sucks on it as vigorously as he has been he’s guaranteeing to lose his voice by the end of the session.

Eventually, Murdoc gets tired of the awkward angle and gives Stuart one last squeeze before he settles down again. He watches him with hungry eyes, laying kisses on his cock, which is bumping into his button nose every time it twitches. If he didn’t look like he was genuinely enjoying himself, Murdoc would have told him that a simple wank would suffice - although, there’s something appealing about watching a pretty little thing like him praise his cock, naturally. He lets him be.

“Are you close, old man?” Stuart says, smiling filthily up at him, taking little kitten licks at his cock. His other hand is working on his own cock as well as Murdoc’s, it seems. If he had any eyeballs, Murdoc bets they would be glazed over. “You’ve got impressive stamina for your age.”

“You and your fuckin’ age kink,” Murdoc grumbles to himself, entirely focused on the movement of Stuart’s hand up and down his shaft. “Give me a little something more, Bluebird, for God’s sake. This is torture.”

Stuart goes in tongue first, forgetting all about sore throats and gag reflexes. It hits the back of his throat every time he goes down, which emits a little moan out of Murdoc every single time, and he feels himself getting closer with each stroke of his own hand. It’s not long before Murdoc’s grasping at his hair, pulling him off of it and spilling onto the stall wall, stroking himself through it, then collapsing back onto the toilet seat. He spares a glance at Stuart after a little bit, who’s still stroking himself desperately. He makes a pretty image.

“Come here, Dents,” he says, all mellow and soft, not finding it in him to manhandle him into position. Stuart shuffles forward, letting go of his shaft and allowing Murdoc to take care of it as he comes back to life, as it seems. He twists his wrist and spits on his hand some, altering between slow and fast strokes, and Stuart’s a whining mess on top of his chest.

“Can’t believe I sucked the fuckin’ life out of you… an’ all I get… is a fuckin’ handy,” Stuart breathes out in between whining, biting down on Murdoc’s shirt so as not to go even higher than he already is.

Murdoc squeezes at his cock. “Think of it as a gift to me, Bluebird, before I leave Crawley and all… Fuck’s sake, look at you. I’d kiss you now, but that would be a grim thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

Stuart peeks up at him, smiling dazedly. He feels himself drawing closer, what with the steady pumping of Murdoc’s hand and the huskiness of his voice, sounding out like a bass with his head against Murdoc’s chest. “I double dare ya. I triple dare ya…”

“Little jerk-off…” Murdoc laughs to himself as he leans down, kissing Stuart long and hard during his orgasm. Stuart tries to empty out all the high-pitched whines into Murdoc’s mouth instead of out in the open, but they sound out anyway, and cause Murdoc to pump slower at his cock, palm sticky with jizz.

It’s a while before Stuart is able to regain his breath - and consciousness, for that matter - but when he does, he slaps Murdoc’s (still very much grabby) hand away, tucking his cock back into his pants. Murdoc’s trousers are still pooling around his ankles, though, and he’s half-heartedly fumbling around inside his jacket’s pocket. Stuart thinks about it, and ends up curled up in Murdoc’s lap of all places.

“Fuck’s sake, I’m all out of fags,” he grumbles, not seeming too cross about it. He seems lax and mushy, in general. Stuart wasn’t aware of how much power he held. “How’re you feeling, Dents?”

Instead of responding, Stuart nuzzles further into his chest. He realises it’s going to bite him in the arse later, but he’s feeling all soft post-orgasm - plus, for a not-that-old old man, Murdoc has a pretty nice, solid chest.

“We probably should get out of here,” Murdoc continues. His voice is coming out as vibrations, rings around Stuart’s ears. “My hand’s still covered in spunk. Don’t worry, I ain’t making you lick it off.”

Stuart replies by reaching into his shirt, pulling at some of his chest hair harshly, at which there’s a resounding groan.

“Up you go, Faceache.”

Stuart complies begrudgingly, seizing the opportunity to zip up his trousers as he waits for Murdoc to tuck himself back in his own. He unlocks the door and peeks out, reaching out to pull Murdoc by the hand when he’s sure the coast is clear. As if they couldn’t be heard all the way out of the restroom.

“Let me wash up,” Murdoc says. Stuart lounges around as he washes his hands, something that Stuart’s aware he should probably be doing. He takes up the sink right next to Murdoc, who looks up at him through the mirror. “You look properly fucked out, Dents.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stuart mumbles to himself, feeling around to check if his hands are sticky. “I did all the fuckin’ work. Of course, I look fucked out.”

“Got your voice soundin’ all scratchy, too,” he continues, staring at Stuart with an obnoxious smile on his face. Stuart focuses on drying up his hands. “You probably shouldn’t speak anymore, Bluebird. ‘Til it comes back.”

“Piss off,” is all he can say. Murdoc’s back to his good ol’ obnoxious self, it seems. He doesn’t know if that’s necessarily a bad thing. “Let’s go, I wanna get out of here. Smells like jizz and all.”

“I want a drink,” Murdoc replies, throwing his used paper towel in the waste bin. He turns around to look at him. “Coke for you, son?”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that, you weirdo,” Stuart pulls him by the arm and out of the door, the music starting to pound in his ears. They make it about halfway through when Murdoc pulls him back, mouth unnecessarily close to his ear.

“I’m gonna go get that drink,” he says, lowly, making no effort to be heard over the music. Stuart hears him loud and clear, anyway. “Gin alright?”

Stuart nods, and feels a kiss being laid on his cheek before he's left alone. He takes a moment to let it sink in, the tickling sensation on his cheekbone, and then walks over to where they were sitting earlier, hoping that Murdoc will put two and two together and meet him there.

He draws both his legs up as he sits on the settee, mind racing back to the restroom. His lips are still swollen, he registers, his heartbeat pounding in his ears - his hair must be sticking up all over the place. It's then that he realises he didn't get Noodle those sweets he promised her. And then he remembers that he doesn't even know if Russel really took her home, and he feels like a horrible person all over again. He is, too. There's no doubt about it.

Someone sits down next to him.

It doesn't feel like Murdoc - the presence is too delicate, too fragile for that. The presence is too airy, is what he's trying to say. He looks up from his shoelaces slowly, and a pair of crossed legs is the first thing he sees. Definitely not Murdoc's. Too pretty and nice for that - feet stuffed in a pair of catty heels. His eyes slide higher up, he sees the (very much) long hair resting in front of a nice chest, and his gaze comes to a stop at a pair of rouged lips and pearly whites facing him. She uncrosses her legs, crosses them again.

"Sorry," she says, making herself comfortable. Stuart sits up straight, out of instinct. "I tried to get your attention but you were sort of… zoned out there," her eyes are incredibly smart, kind. Sparkly. "I'm Georgie. I kinda said that already, but…"

"Sorry," he says, still sounding like he's in a daze. "I was just thinking about somethin'…"

"Oh, yeah?" she smiles politely, putting her drink on the little table in front of his feet. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Oh, nothin'..." he replies, images of Murdoc looking flushed and spent flooding his mind. He focuses on her eyes, pretty and green. "Nothin' important."

Georgie chuckles to herself, sort of brushing her hair to the back, oozing confidence. Beautiful. "Look, my friend's over there with some guy, right?" she points to the general direction of the bar - Stuart's eyes don't shift from her. "And it was too bizarre to sort of, like, linger in the background, you know? And you seemed interesting. Sort of lonely. I'm babbling."

"No, no," Stuart's arm spreads over the back of the settee, behind her head and all. Proper move, if he says so himself. "I was quite lonely, actually."

"You here alone, then?" she picks her drink back up, takes a sip, peers at him over the rim. All the while, her legs are still crossed beautifully.

"Uh, well…" he stutters. He mulls it over. "I'm not… Well, not exactly. Here with a, um… a friend, of sorts."

"A friend of sorts," she repeats, nodding to herself. Her tone is humorous. "I still don't know your name."

"Oh, it's…" he pauses, his eye catching some sort of movement behind her head. He looks up, and lo and behold, there's Murdoc, holding onto two glasses of gin. He's sporting a shit-eating grin, sipping on his drink, watching his every move. Stuart hastily looks back at Georgie, who looks nothing short of concerned. "It's Stuart. I'm Stuart, I mean."

"Y'alright, Stuart?" she asks, confused, about to turn around and check out what's got him all unresponsive. On instinct, Stuart touches her arm, preventing her.

"I'm fine, yeah, sorry," he rushes out, his eyes itching to take a look at the smug expression on Murdoc's face. "Just a bit dizzy, that's all. What's that?"

He points at her drink, which she's gone back to sipping. She pauses, raises an eyebrow at him amusedly, and swirls it around in her glass. "A martini. You want some?"

"That would be lovely," he says, dripping honey and all, letting her press the glass onto his lips. He steals a glance at Murdoc as he drinks, who's looking relatively impressed. He licks the remainder off his lips, smiling at her, "Thanks."

"No problem," she touches it back on top of the table. Murdoc gives her the eye a little bit, but Stuart shuffles closer to her. "You look a bit young, Stuart," she says.

It's Stuart's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You won't believe how many times I've heard that tonight," he says. "Not that I've been around that much or… Anyway. I'm twenty-five, believe it or not."

"Oh," Georgie blinks. "I'm twenty-three. Huh. Might be because you're lanky and all. How tall are you anyway?"

"Not to brag," he jokes, and she smiles at him, all sweetly. "But I'm over six feet. It's one of my many good qualities, if you're interested."

"Oh, yeah? And what are those?"

Murdoc's stare is burning on the side of his face. It's awfully arousing is the thing, having him stare as he attempts to pull. It's all the more arousing if he also lets himself think that: here he is, talking to this lovely girl, the feeling of the cock he's just finished sucking still heavy on his tongue, and she has no idea. Nobody here has any idea, in fact. Just him and Murdoc, who's looking like he's enjoying himself a little too much.

"Well, I'm…" he steals another discreet glance at Murdoc, who's drinking Stuart's gin at this point. He's very much still staring, and Stuart's face feels flushed. "I'm patient, for one. And I can also play the piano, which is pretty cool I think."

She laughs, but she doesn't get a chance to reply. The reason why she doesn't is that Murdoc waves an arm in the air in the background, getting his attention, and jerks his head towards the exit. He leaves the empty glasses on the floor of all places, then promptly walks away.

Stuart feels a little unwell. It's probably that everything's getting to his head, now: the pounding music, the suffocating atmosphere, the reason why his lips are swollen. The lack of musk against his nostrils. Georgie waves her hand in front of his face, and he drops back on planet Earth.

"Look, I, uh…" he pushes his hair back with both hands, sliding to the edge of his seat. Georgie looks alarmed. "I need to- I just remembered, I mean, that I need to go… I need to meet someone- I need to leave."

"Oh, alright," she says, slowly, as she tries to comprehend Stuart's jitteriness all of a sudden. "You look-"

"I'm alright, don't worry about me," he stutters out, twisting his neck to peek outside. Murdoc's waiting, propped up against a lamp post. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't worry about it!" she rushes out, albeit confused. She hesitates for a little bit, "Would you- I mean… should I give you my number or something? I thought we had this-"

"Sure, sure, you can!" he says, in an attempt to be polite. He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore; all he knows is that he needs to get out of here. "Of course, you can, yeah."

"Right, um…" Georgie fumbles with her handbag, struggles to pull out a pen. His anxiety is rubbing off on her; Stuart's truly a terrible person. "Oh, I don't have any, um…"

"Here, here you go," he presents his arm to her, leg bouncing up and down and all. She hastily scrawls down her number, looking at him as if he's a bloody moron. He is, too. "And look, I'm so sorry. I'll call you, yeah? I'll text you! I'll… I will," he stands up, trips over her feet as he tries to get away.

"Shit, watch out!"

"Thanks! I'll see you around, we'll talk and all!" Stuart has barely finished talking before he practically runs out, breathing in the fresh air as if his life depends on it once he's outside. He manages to clear out his head, observes the scrawled digits on his arm, deep in thought.

"Nice," he hears, and he doesn't even jump. Murdoc sneaks up behind him, breathes down his neck as he reads Georgie's number. Stuart turns around to face him. "Watching your attempt at pulling is rather… rather interesting, I suppose."

"I don't feel so good," Stuart says, resting his head on Murdoc's shoulder. His head's pounding all of a sudden, but Murdoc's hands on his lower back offer some sort of release - or something. He tries to walk, but Murdoc stops him.

"Where are you off to, pretty boy?" he asks, smiling down at him, clearly not expecting an answer. "You said this was your neighbourhood, right? How 'bout I take ya home, huh? I sort of need to leave in three hours, anyway."

Stuart blinks off his blurry vision, and checks his phone. "It's two in the morning. Why're you leaving at five? Why not, say, ten in the morning? Seems sort of early, doesn't it?"

"We have a gig tomorrow, alright? You sound drunk," Murdoc sneaks an arm around his waist and starts walking, as if he's been to Stuart's house before. He's going the right way, though, so he doesn't comment on it. "Are you sure her drink wasn't spiked or anything like that?"

"She drank from it. Let's go home… My home… My house."

"Don't stress yourself, Bluebird," Murdoc chuckles, squeezing tighter around his waist. Stuart tries his best to guide the way through his headache. "Tell me now. What was her name?"

"Huh?" Stuart mumbles, then laughs into Murdoc's shoulder. "Georgie."

"Georgie. She was proper fit from where I was standin'," he continues, his fingers sneaking under Stuart's shirt to touch his bare hip. It's comforting in a way Stuart's too out of it to get into. "Are ya gonna call her?"

"Well, yeah, I think," Stuart hasn't stopped smiling, what with Murdoc's nonchalance and all. "What, you want her number or something? She's twenty-three, mate. I think twenty-five makes you enough of a nonce."

"Twenty-three? No, thanks," Murdoc says, bulging his eyes out in faux shock and all that. A chill goes down Stuart's spine, and it's the first time Murdoc's not the cause of it.

"I'm a bit cold," he sniffs for good measure, saying anything that comes to mind. He's too tired to gatekeep his thoughts at the moment.

"You're cold, for Christ's sake," Murdoc repeats. He pulls down Stuart's shirt, where he had made it ride up, and Stuart sort of regrets he said it. "I know I'm a God and all… but I can't exactly control the weather, can I?"

Stuart huffs at that, lifting his head off of Murdoc’s shoulder for the sake of helping his headache. They walk for a little bit, Murdoc sighing once in a while before he stops dead in his tracks, nodding towards the nearest lamp post.

“Hold on to that,” he grumbles, and Stuart does, no questions asked. Well, he’s about to ask, anyhow, but then Murdoc makes to shrug off his leather jacket bashfully. Stuart presses his cheek against the lamp post, staring on dreamily, and he thinks that, yeah, he truly must be out of it if he’s looking at Murdoc as if he’s a goddamn prince. His cheek sticks to the cold metal, his eyes focus on the newly exposed skin of Murdoc’s arms.

Murdoc presents it to him begrudgingly. Stuart smiles bashfully, flirtatiously, taking the jacket with a little perk in his movement. He's already feeling a little bit better. It's the Murdoc Effect, but he's not going to tell him that - for obvious reasons.

"Proper gent, you are," he says, mellow as hell, pulling the jacket on carefully. Somehow, the sleeves aren't too short and cover both of his arms just right. "That was such a move. I feel like I need to kiss you now."

"Why don't you?" Murdoc presses, putting a hand on his chest when he makes to move forward. "Actually, I'll come onto you. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I feel a bit better, actually," Stuart says, right before Murdoc plants one on him. It's brief, because then he decides to move down to his neck, leaving little light kisses down there. Stuart feels like he can fall asleep right there, up against the lamp post with Murdoc laying little pecks on the side of his neck. He sighs, though, "My mum will be worried as hell."

"I'm gettin' scared you're not actually twenty-five," Murdoc laughs, nose snug against the crook of Stuart's neck. "I know the whole nonce thing is a joke, but…"

"Shut up," Stuart grumbles, tangling his fingers in Murdoc's hair. "I told you I'm visiting. You know; when I'm under her roof, I live by her rules and all that crap."

"Haven't heard that bullshit from my father in more than a decade."

"You don't visit, then?" Stuart lifts his head up by the hair, as softly as he can muster. Murdoc's eyes have a humorous glint to them, like Stuart's said the most ridiculous thing he could have said.

"Of course I don't fucking visit," he rolls his eyes, shaking Stuart's hand off of his head. "It's whatever- Are we gonna take ya home, pretty boy, or what?"

Stuart decides not to press him about it, just allows Murdoc to wrap an arm around his waist and keep walking. He feels light, all of a sudden, dizzy - but with delight this time.

"How can you not visit?" he says then, just as he spots Noodle's house in the far distance. He doesn't have much time, his attempt to be discreet be damned. "I'd go mad if I went a fuckin' decade without seeing my mum."

"That's 'cause you're a mummy's boy. And I don't have a mum, anyway," he sounds resigned, like he's just giving into Stuart's chattiness. It doesn't seem to be a big deal to him. Stuart still internally winces.

"Right," he says, pausing for a second. Noodle's house starts to come into view more clearly, now. "D'ya have a dad or should I just shut up?"

"I have some sort of variation of a dad," he replies, leaning down slightly to lay a kiss on Stuart's neck. He has some sort of hyperfixation with it, it seems. "I lived with him. But he sort of… I don't know, I guess I owe my musical flare or something to him."

"Oh, yeah? How so?"

Murdoc sighs, taking his time to form his answer in his head. For a while, Stuart thinks he's not going to answer, but then he does just that.

"He made me, sort of… sing and dance on stage at some dingy pubs for his booze money. I was fuckin' six years old, for fuck's sake. And it lasted until I was about in my mid-teens. Fuck, I was good, though. I always got first place and all. Well, almost."

"You're awfully unphased about it," Stuart says, beyond stunned. It would be funny, how nonchalant Murdoc is about his father taking advantage of him. It's not, but it would be, if Stuart were more acquainted with him and his life story. That's not what he needs to be doing right now, though.

"You live, you learn. I don't know what to tell you."

"That's Noodle's house," Stuart mumbles, deciding it would be best to change the subject. This talk about Murdoc's God-awful childhood is making him depressed as hell, and this is not the ideal way to bring the night to an end. All they need to do now is cross the street. Talk about depressing. He points to his own house when it finally comes into view, smiling at the little blue door with the ratty welcome mat. "That's me."

"That's a cute little house," Murdoc comments, crossing the street with him, slowing down as they get to the door. The window to his parents' bedroom is a right above them, but Stuart still pulls Murdoc close, basks in his warmth. He doubts his mother will be asleep, anyway, with him out this late.

"So… we're here," Stuart trails off, waiting for something, anything. He's not sure exactly what.

Murdoc nods, then pulls him in, kisses him wetly. It's long and deep, and it feels too much like a goodbye kiss - Stuart tries to make it a bit more fun, presses himself flush against Murdoc and wraps his arms around his neck, but the feeling's still there.

"Well," Murdoc breathes when Stuart finally allows him to speak, when his grasping hands go a bit more lax around him. He breathes in, breathes out, sends a chill down Stuart's spine. "I gotta run, I guess."

"Yeah…" Stuart mumbles, playing with a bit of hair on the back of Murdoc's head. It's the nagging sensation in the back of his head that's causing him to cling like this; he knows that he'll probably never hear from Murdoc again, knows that this is the first and only night with him, that this was the best night he's had in months. He feels Murdoc ready to take a step back, so he kisses him again, presses their bodies together so that they share body heat. He's still wearing Murdoc's jacket, but he doesn't dare bring it up.

Murdoc's awfully responsive, which makes matters worse. At least if he was desperate to get away, Stuart could detach himself from him, admit to himself that this was supposed to be a one time thing. But Murdoc's clinging, as well, and he's gripping on Stuart's waist, dipping his tongue into his mouth, trying to claim him as his. It really shouldn't be this difficult.

"Fuck's sake…" Murdoc sighs, lips shiny with spit; it really conveys everything Stuart is feeling into a sigle phrase. "You have no idea how badly I want to invite myself in right now."

Stuart smiles, all coquettish. "Would it be easier if I invited you in?"

"You didn't let me finish," he continues, kissing down Stuart's neck desperately. "I'd invite myself in, but I might be left behind if I don't go right now. Have to go all the way back to the motel and all."

Stuart toys with the hem of Murdoc's shirt, touches his bare hips with hot fingertips. "I'm willing to risk it."

Murdoc's eyes crinkle up at that. "Yeah…" he says, his mouth moving towards Stuart's like a magnet. It's ridiculous how many goodbye snogs they've shared so far, as if they think that the more they kiss the more chance there is that they don't have to say goodbye at all. Murdoc forces himself to break it up, when it gets too heated, before he does anything he'll regret. "I gotta go, Dents. Really now."

Stuart nods shakily. He feels Murdoc's arms starting to go lax around him, until they finally slip all the way off, and he's left with a cold sensation, like he has never had to be alone until this very moment. It's only been one fucking night, for Christ's sake. It should be easier than this.

Murdoc takes a hesitant step back, then another. Never facing away from Stuart, he pauses, long enough for Stuart to run up to him again and kiss him languidly, allowing himself to get lost in it, like they have all the time in the world. In reality, their time is running out, and he knows it. He's painfully aware, in fact.

"Are you sure you know your way back?" he asks, in a pathetic attempt to hold on, just for a little longer. "I could help you get back. I'm feeling way better now, honest."

Murdoc chuckles. The vibrations really do something to Stuart's gut, sending him into a spiral.

"Why is this so fuckin' hard?" Murdoc murmurs to himself, squeezes around Stuart's waist. "Fuck's sake, Bluebird, get off me before I drag you back and take you on tour with me." 

It doesn't sound like a bad idea. In fact, if you want to know the truth, it sounds like the best idea that's ever been said at the moment, and he considers it for an awfully long time. Eventually, though, his sense gets the better of him. With one last kiss on Murdoc's crooked nose, he lets go with great difficulty, and takes a few steps back.

Murdoc stares at him only for a little while, waving briefly, for lack of a better way to bring an end to the night. "Bye, darlin'."

"Bye…" Stuart croaks out, blinking anxiously as Murdoc starts to put distance between them. "Just in case you come back to Crawley and all! I'm here on Christmas and summer break, most of the time! You know where I live…"

"Will do, Bluebird…" he says, so lowly it's almost inaudible, and then he's off, running away from Stuart, rushing to take a taxi cab to go back to his motel. Stuart stays put in front of his doorstep, watching him run up the street, up until he's a tiny little spot in the distance and he can't tell the difference between him and the next passerby. He buries himself further into his jacket, nose feeling icy from the cold, and looks up.

The tiny, golden fish are still swimming in the abyss, creating different types of shapes and constellations. The messiness resembles Stuart's brain at the moment; he observes the flashing lights, the glow of the moon that shines off the nearest windows and sparkly clean cars, the beautiful deep blue of the sky that pulls him under.

The abyss is back; it falls down and swallows him whole.