Archive of Our Own

Russel remembers summer nights in Brooklyn. He remembers the streets aglow with the shiny fluorescence of storefront marquees and tall streetlights. They were bright enough to make the night feel like daytime. Del’s cousin would have his boombox perched in the window of the convenience store he owned, and it would be blasting its regular circulation of Grandmaster Flash, Lovebug Starski, and Africa Bambaataa. Del would sometimes take that boombox and his favorite cassettes to the cemetery in Greenwood where his grandparents were buried. Always wary of spirits and death, Russel joined only him a couple times at first, but those expeditions were some of the most memorable. Del would tell stories about past generations of his family and the city. New York, he would say, was an immortal being. Even as people died and stores shut down, there would be new life sprouting up like weeds through cracked pavement somewhere else.  

He thinks about his friend and his old life more often now that they’ve moved to Michigan. Detroit is no match for New York’s pace or size, but it has its own version of music culture and history. He sees it all, alive and well in its neighborhoods and painted in bright colors on the sides of its buildings. There are letters written on the side of their own home, loud and bold and reminiscent of the way one of his friends signed his name at the bottom of each work of street art he produced. It’s hard to decipher the significance of the letters - ‘D’ and ‘X’ - but they assert themselves as evidence the lives lived there before Gorillaz nonetheless. The floorboards creak with age a lot like his grandmother’s house when he walks on them.

The sharp crash of metal on metal interrupts his morning ritual. He’s finishing up washing his face in the bathroom when he hears it; the noise signaling that what could be their next disaster was well underway. But having lived with the likes of Murdoc Niccals, he remains unphased. He takes his time drying his face and brushing his teeth, a simple and common routine that, as evidenced by the empty toothbrush holder and discarded tissues and razors on the floor around him, he did not share with the other members of the household. He hangs his towel on the towel bar, which also would have been bare if not for his belongings, and looks at his watch. 10:30am.

The culprit, 2D, is in the kitchen. Russel sees his willowy form hunched over the stove with a pile of pots and pans strewn around his feet.

“Morning, Russ,” he says casually. He’s managed to locate the pan, which he currently holds in his hand. The shine of the aluminum catches the light coming through their kitchen window. Russel squints.

“Morning.” He surveys the kitchen quickly for any more pressing emergencies. A sigh of relief leaves him when he finds none. “You know, when you asked me if I could show you some of my cooking tips I assumed that meant you were going to wait for me to start...all of this.” He’s surprised 2D has managed to wake up on time.

The singer thinks about this. “Hmm, yeah, well, I thought you might like it if I got everything set up.” He’s careful when he sets the pan on the stove, a sharp contrast to the forgotten kitchenware he’s left dumped on the floor. He handles it with the tenderness of a lover. “Muds was also up earlier. He went back to sleep but he was tossing about a lot, you know, like when he gets all twitchy...”

Murdoc. So that was it.

“Thanks for helping me, Russ,” he continues. “I feel like such a wanker telling him to give breakfast a go and then getting us each a bowl of cereal. You’ve always been good at this sort of thing.”

He remembers when the only food he knew was the cafeteria menu at his private school and the dinners he went to with his parents on Friday nights. His parents had been admirers of different cuisines but had never taken to the actual act of cooking. That, he had learned partially from his grandmother who he would watch with fascination as she gutted fish in her basement sink or season the turkey on Thanksgiving. He credits those experiences with his ongoing interest in taxidermy and the life one could bring to something already dead. The cooking came naturally after that.

“You know how to fry an egg, 2D,” he says as he walks over to their refrigerator to get out the eggs. “You know how to use a toaster. You don’t gotta sell yourself short, man.”

“I’m not,” 2D says. “You always know what ingredients to add to make it, you know, not boring is all. I’ve got it up to the part where you put the eggs into the pan. After that, I always bugger it up.” His fingers twitch expectantly, awaiting directions. Russel can only imagine how restless they truly are. They’re used to working. He's seen them breathe life into things that might otherwise be cast aside: a computer of a broken keyboard or the tuning pins of the grand piano in Murdoc’s room or on Murdoc himself when he strokes his hair as he’s dozing off to sleep. The thought leaves him with mixed feelings.

“Okay, then start with that,” he says. “You think that’s what you’re going for? Eggs, toast, the whole English breakfast?”

The daylight catches the blue of 2D’s hair. “Yeah.” The corners of his mouth turn upwards. The saying always went that others had storm clouds hanging over their heads. 2D seemed to have a sun.  “I’d like that.” His stomach growls. “If you haven’t caught on.”

“How is he?” Russel turns his attention to the task at hand.

“Muds?”

“Who else?” He smiles as a way to communicate a sense of warmth.

“He’s had a few rough nights," 2D says, his smile fading slightly. "I’m not quite certain why. But he gets better after he’s been up for a while." He brightens again. "By the way, I think we’re going to go downtown later this afternoon to that pub that plays all the football matches. They’re going to play the Brighton game if you want to come.”

“And crash your date night?” Russel adds in some spinach and mushrooms into the pan along with the eggs.

He heard them before he saw them and before they told him. Specifically, he heard Murdoc clear as the horns and sirens he used to hear from the Brooklyn-Queens expressway in the early morning hours on weekdays through the wall he shared with 2D. At the time, he believed it was purposeful, a boast of sorts. The bassist made no effort to hide the bite marks on his neck the following morning as he lounged on the sofa with his beer. He never looked at Russel that morning but Russel saw his smug expression.

“It's not date night...it would have to be nighttime for that. But it’s not date afternoon either.”

He sets the toast into the toaster. “I’ve been living with you guys from the past two decades and I know what happens to plans we make.”

There was never an official announcement after that. They seemed to assume Russel and Noodle understood their secret language of glances, discreet meetings behind bedroom doors, and yearning song lyrics. Suddenly, Murdoc was greeting 2D in the morning with a kiss on the neck, and 2D would be brushing his hair out of his face or rubbing his arm as if they had been committed life partners for years.

“Noodle’s coming, too.“

Noodle was easily distracted in lively settings like that and it was easy for her to wander off or get pulled into random conversations that interested her with strangers. She was a lot like Murdoc in that way with bursts of sociability that see-sawed into periods where she barely emerged from her room. She also seemed to accept the recent development in his relationship with the singer.

Russel imagines the scenario as such: Noodle disappearing and leaving him with Murdoc and 2D and his own thoughts, crowded by bar patrons for the next two or three hours. It wasn't the stability of his morning routine. “I think I’ll pass,” he says. He didn’t outright hate those settings, but he had a low tolerance for it. Lingering in those situations too long led to the sounds of the present blending in with the sounds of the past - the screeching of tires, the shattering of glass.

“Oh, uh, alright, if you say so.” 2D sounds disappointed, but not enough to press any further. His eyes are fixated on the food.

Russel adds a sprinkle of cayenne pepper to the eggs. “There’s this new record store opening up downtown that I want to check out ahead of the game while it’s still quiet.”

“Oh yeah?” The singer’s eyebrows raise with interest. “I think you should do it!”  

“Yeah, that’s what I’m planning to do.” Russel isn’t sure what to make of his sudden burst of enthusiasm. The timer on the toaster rings. “And you better tell Murdoc he owes me on this.”

2D watches him as he pulls out their pack of tempeh bacon next, his eyes following him the same ways Russel’s eyes used to follow his grandmother. “Is it going to be ready soon?”

“Actually, scratch that. You both owe me on this. What happened to the ‘2D cooks a meal’ part of this?”

As he was cooking, 2D’s hands became occupied with one of his lighters instead. It dances over and under his knuckles. “I dunno. You just started cooking and I didn't want to interrupt you.” He grins. “Thanks, Russ.”

Russel sighs, “No problem.” It was hard to make sense of the growth in the singer’s relationship with Murdoc. Somehow, their separation during Murdoc’s most recent stint in prison had done what he once thought was impossible and then some. All the while, Russel couldn’t shake the growing feeling of being stuck.

“But just so you know, I’m still going to say I cooked it.”

“Suit yourself. If that’s what’s going to make you happy.” He pauses. “You’re happy, right, D?”

“Of course I am.” His face scrunches up at first like his question is a surprising one. “Happier than I’ve been in a while.”

Somehow, he ends up going with them anyway because nothing ever goes according to plan. It’s a small bar that's dimly lit as so many of them are.

“Russ!” Noodle waves to him from a few feet away. She’s standing with a few other people who Russel doesn’t recognize. “Come take a picture with us!”

He wanders over to her desultorily, eyes scanning the room for the other half of their party. The camera flashes just as he reaches her side and then he’s on the move again. He would always appreciate their fans and the community they had created around their music. However, unlike 2D or Murdoc, he hadn’t come to the bar for fun or socializing. He doesn’t know why he came, really.

“Oi, Russ, over here!” Murdoc, who already has a shot in his hand, waves to him from the bar. 2D is next to him, beer in hand, gazing intently at the screen above them. Other people move around them. Some take out their phones and snap a picture, others say ‘hi’ and wave nervously.

He waves back but keeps his distance. He doesn't want to put up with the bassist pressuring him to drink or the crowd building around them. Taking advantage of their hiatus and subsequent low profile was far more appealing. Sometimes they would go unrecognized entirely. He stays where he is further down the bar.

“Booo!” 2D cups his hands around his mouth as the official makes a call in favor of the other team, Crystal Palace.

As he expects, the peace between 2D and Murdoc is short-lived.

Murdoc downs one shot and then another. Soon he’s wandering off into the crowd and 2D’s following him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back to the bar with him while he laughs and rambles on from one topic to another. 2D keeps his arm intertwined with his. His expression is resolved as he stares back at the screen as if he believes his determination will somehow spread to Murdoc and make him as interested in the game as he is. It’s a far cry from the cheerfulness he displayed in the morning and the first evidence of possible tension between them Russel has seen in a while.

Murdoc makes a half-hearted effort to tug his arm away before giving up with a huff and flagging down the bartender for another drink. Minutes later, he’s changed his tune to a more seductive one. He runs his hand up and down the singer’s back, leaning into him needily. He tries to whisper something in his ear, but stumbles. To Russel, his sudden desperation is comical.  

2D appears equally unhappy with this. He whispers something to him harshly and they exchange some heated words that Russel can’t make out. Before he knows it, they’re both in front of him.

“Hey, Russ, do you mind…?” His arm is around Murdoc’s waist, practically holding him up.

“I dunno what you like about that...watching a bunch of blokes fight over a ball,” Murdoc grumbles but clings to him all the same. “I have two balls n’you don’t have to fight over either of them...Stu...Stueyyyy.”

It doesn’t take long for Russel to figure out what he’s asking. “Hell no.” Is his automatic response.

“Please? There’s a half an hour left and a couple of minutes of stoppage time.”

“What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Russel?” Murdoc flicks his name off his tongue the same way he taps off the burnt end of a cigarette mid smoke. “I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”

“I dunno. Just, uh, hang out.” 2D ignores him.

“Noodle’s still her isn’t she?” Quickly, he searches the bar hoping to spot her familiar fuzzy blue jacket.

“I haven’t seen her since we got here.” 2D looks over his shoulder in the direction of the screen. “We’ll both make this up to you, I promise.” The light is out again. He’s kneading it, anxious.

“What the fuck, D?” Murdoc glares at him.

“You need to slow down and I want to watch the game.” 2D gives him a chaste kiss on the mouth. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Murdoc blinks and, for a few brief seconds, Russel expects a screaming match to break out between the two of them. But it doesn’t. Instead, Murdoc listens.

“Alright, you heard the man. You n’me.” He staggers towards him and takes his arm as if to lead him.

Russel lets him pretend that he is even though it’s Murdoc’s nails that dig into his arms as he struggles to stay upright. They sting like an extra set of teeth, sharp and jagged like the rest of him.  He hasn’t been this close to Murdoc in a long time and he can smell the sweet bread smell of alcohol on his clothes and in his breath.

“He always gets like this when he’s mad,” Murdoc says. “Like a toddler...can't take a piss out of anything around him without him taking it personally.” He lets go of Russel once they’re outside and sways on his feet.

“He’s not the one I have to babysit.” He answers with more bitterness than he means to, perhaps because he doesn’t think Murdoc will remember so well the next day. All of them, even Murdoc, meant something to him, but he had never asked for them. He had never asked to lose his best friend or to be sent to a country he barely knew in the name of safety, or to be a parent to a ten-year-old child soldier. He never asked to be Murdoc’s babysitter all these years later either. “I thought once Noodle grew up those days would be over.”

“You can go back inside if you’re going to be such a wanker. M’fine.” He’s leaning against the wall, his eyes trying to focus. “He’s just paranoid. Worse than you…”

It’s easier to breathe outside but his eyes dart around the street anyways. There were days when he all he felt was dread like something terrible was going to happen even though he didn’t know what. It always went that way, especially when you least expected it.

“I’m not going back inside,” he says. At least the air is clearer and he has a better view of his surroundings. In his usual unorthodox and unintentional fashion, Murdoc has managed to make his situation slightly better.

Beside him, Murdoc chuckles. “That’s the spirit. If I’d spent another minute in that overpacked cesspool I would have left more whacked in the head than you.” His hands are clumsy as he pats himself down in search of his cigarette pack. “Mindless sheep that lot. Worshipping whoever’s the best at getting the ball between two poles.”

“We have our own ‘mindless sheep.’ And they’re very grateful for the message we put out into the world.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t consider them sheep. You need a brain to truly appreciate our art.” The lighter is in his hand and the scrape of the flint hitting steel follows. The sound causes Russel’s eyes to flit towards him.

“You want one?” he asks.

Russel waves him away. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Oh come on, Russ. I didn’t even see you finish one beer.” He inhales and exhales and the cloud of smoke dissipates into the air. Russel watches as his narrow shoulders slump and his head tilts back to rest all of his weight on the wall behind him.

The last time Russel saw him so relaxed was months ago when he had caught them together by accident. They were on the sofa in the living room on one of the nights when he couldn’t sleep. 2D had him pressed against the couch, whispering to him while placing kisses along his neck. They moved together with grace Russel expected them to have. He remembers how serene the bassist looked that night, his eyes closed and his mouth open, emitting soft pants and moans. He kept himself wrapped around 2D with all of his limbs, pulling him in and taking in all of him.

All Murdoc seemed to do was take and take. Russel likened him to a parasite. But 2D? These days 2D seemed to see him as something else, something worth giving to.

“And take a chance with whatever you’ve spiked it with? I’ll pass.” The streets are sparsely populated and he can’t decide if that’s more of a comfort or a threat. He remembers that day; the way the car turned the corner and the shine of the metal. He saw Death that day. “Gotta keep my mind fresh because you never know what’s out there.”

“S’that why you came?” Murdoc punches him lightly on the shoulder. It’s playful like he’s imagining a friendship between them that didn’t exist. “To be my bodyguard?”

Russel rolls his eyes. “No.” He could easily go back inside or order an Uber to send Murdoc home.

“2D said you didn’t want to come because of some new record store. But here you are.”

“I don’t know why I came.” He stays next to Murdoc anyways, staring at the bare streets. Something was building in him. It was on the tip of his tongue.

“Well,” Murdoc says after some silence. “I, for one, am glad you’re here. You’ve been holed up in the house with your kooky animal projects and drum machines long enough. We don’t see or hear very much of you these days. Neither do our ‘mindless sheep.’ The people miss you, Russ!”

He was so insincere, or at least that's Russel’s first assumption. Murdoc was selfish and insincere and somehow, if his relationship with 2D was any indication, he was stumbling towards a happier future than Russel expected him to ever reach. “I’ve had things on my mind...ever since we moved here it’s been bringing stuff back.”

“Ohhh, I see. About New York? Haven’t heard that one in a while. I have to say, it’s a bit drabber here than the Big Apple. This place feels more like, oh I don’t know, the estranged cousin from across the country who posts conspiracy theories about aliens online and still uses Facebook. I’m not surprised you feel the connection. Which reminds me, how’s Del? Have you spoken to him through astral projection lately?”

“What do you want with 2D?” he blurts out.

Murdoc tilts his head in confusion. “What?”

“What do you want with 2D?” Russel asks again. “What do you want with any of...what you’re doing?”

“I want him to be the lead singer of my band. Where have you been for the last twenty years?” He smirks.

“I’m being serious. You don’t just go from what you were to..this. ”

This seems to make a crack in his prankish demeanor. “I don’t know.” He turns his gaze forward and out of eye contact. “Why don’t you go ask him what he wants with me?”

“I’m going to do that too, but right now it’s you and me.”

Murdoc is quiet for a minute. Russel takes his silence to listen to the sounds of the city, the chatter of strangers passing by, the cheers from the bar, the sirens in the distance.  

“He’s a lot of things I’ve never had.” Murdoc lets his cigarette fall onto the concrete and he stomps it out. “We talk about things. Sometimes he acts like my mum with all his ‘eat this’ and ‘sleep such and such hours’ and it’s bloody annoying...but I’ve never had that either. Happy?”

“No.” Brooklyn had always been a place of change and growth, some good some bad. But that had always been one of the characteristics he cherished even as the congo players on the corner of his street moved south and the storefronts changed. The change would hurt but he always knew what he missed would rebirth itself somewhere else. His found family seemed to be changing too but after so many cycles of hope followed by regression, it was proving difficult to comprehend let alone accept.

“Well, I haven’t got a clue what you want me to say then. You want me to confirm what you're thinking? Let me guess: I’m using charm and devilish good looks to seduce him and keep him in my band making me money forever. Then I'm going to crush his heart with the heel of my boot.” His tone is scathing.

Russel recognizes that he's struck a chord and decides to back off. “I’ll give you credit. That’s a good start. But no, I don’t know why I brought it up.”

Murdoc seems to sense his remorse and relaxes against the wall again. “You think about things differently when you're faced with the end of your mortal coil. There are things bigger than us out there, Russ. I looked it in the eye, whatever it was, and lived.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“It was all dark at first. Then I saw its eyes...then the light.” He’s completely serious as he recounts, according to him, his experience with death. “You start thinking about things after that.”

“I know.” To Russel, Murdoc’s tangents about death were the moments where he made the most sense. He was also aware that he was likely the only person who felt that way.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say. I want you to do.”

“Well that’s impossible right now isn’t it.” He tilts his head as he looks over to him and Russel takes in his sunken eyes and the ridges of his collarbone pressing out against his skin. He was skin and bones, corpse-like, but his chest rises and falls as he breathes and his eyes are bright with life. He’s the weed that pushed through the cracks in the sidewalks in Prospect Park. “Unless you want me to act out all my evil plans that you fantasize about right here. Spoils a bit of the surprise, but I’m not one to say no...”

“Chill, Muds. You can hardly walk.”

“I’m not...what does that t-shirt say? ‘I’m not as think as you drunk I am.’” He flashes him a toothy smile.

Russel studies him, hating how much he’s confused him. He thought he saw him take multiple shots, but perhaps he overcounted. He also notices how his nails dig into the cement of the wall behind them, clinging to it. That had to be evidence that he couldn’t stand on his own. But he had also stopped slurring. “Oh, so you’re faking it?” He decides he’ll play along.

The bassist smile slowly fades. The question was apparently more sobering than Russel thought it would be. “I prefer to say ‘embellishing.’ I’m tipsy, that’s for certain.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of a crowd, Russ?” His eyes fall downward, concentrating on the concrete. “It’s easier for Stu to watch his game...”

Russel doesn’t press him any further. There was a rare moment of shared understanding between them.

“By the way..." Murdoc looks up, a roguish twinkle returning in his eyes. The sudden change in demeanor is jarring. “Thanks for breakfast…”

The next day, as a reward to himself, he goes to the record store. 2D accompanies him, which he doesn't expect but doesn't mind either. He trails behind him from their parking space and into the aisle of the store like an overeager younger sibling.

“Blimey. You wouldn’t guess it would have so much packed inside.” He’s thumbing through every record with his long fingers. He’s dressed brightly today, nearly blending in with the colorful band posters that adorn the wall.

The store is crammed with shelves and boxes filled to the brim with music. The posters are old, advertising shows from decades ago and the music playing takes him back to summers spent playing made-up games in abandoned lots with his friends. It’s as if he’s stepped into a time capsule where different parts of him that had broken off when he left the US had found their way back.

“You look happy,” 2D comments.

“Hell yeah,” he says. “They’re playing Big Daddy Kane, man. Reminds me of some of my old hangouts.”

Suddenly, 2D pulls out an album from one of the piles. “No way!”

Russel can’t make out the cover from where he’s standing but he can see the singer’s face bright with excitement.

2D turns the album towards him to show him. “Good find, Russ. Never thought I’d find something like this here. Sure beats the shit showing Brighton put on last night.”

“Spitfire.” Russel reads the band name and doesn't recognize it. “Not a bad find, D; glad it could make up for the game...and everything else.”

“What do you mean everything else? You mean Muds?”

“He seemed like he was getting on your last nerve there when you brought him over to me...and then I had to spend the next hour with him outside. You owe me for that one too.”

“Oh.” 2D blinks. “Are you mad at me?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Muds said I might be in for an interrogation today.”

“He told you…? Hold up.”

“We talk, you know...we talked after we went to bed.” A smug smile creeps onto his face. “We slept in my bed this time.”

“Yeah. Okay, I get the idea.”

“You’re right. He was being a knob last night but that’s how he gets when he, uh, doesn’t want you to figure out how he’s really feeling.” He picks at the seal on the record, absentminded. “There were a lot of people crowding us...a lot of people banging into him, catching him off guard. I tried to keep him near me but after a bit, I could tell he just wanted to leave…”

“He wasn’t even that drunk.”

“He was. But he played it up.”

“Why didn’t he just tell you?”

2D shrugs. “I guess I’m still waiting to figure that out.” He looks at him. “So are you going to ask me the question?”

Russel is taken aback. “How much do you guys tell each other?” After a few seconds of 2D’s expectant waiting, he asks, “Okay, fine. What do you want with Murdoc, 2D?”

There’s a playful glimmer in 2D’s eyes. “Oh I dunno, Russ. I guess I want to make him fall in love with me so I can break his heart just like he did to me when he slept with Paula.” He’s already on his way to the register before Russel can say anything.

He follows him outside. Even though the sun is bright and the ground is devoid of snow, the air is crisp with winter.

2D is already by the curb, crinkling the bag that holds his purchase and rocking back and forth on his heels, absorbed in whatever melody or rhythm is playing in his head.

“Wait a second...were you serious back there?” His curiosity is too great to stop himself from interrupting him.

“What, about Muds?” He doesn’t even look up.

Russel nods even though he knows he isn’t looking.

The singer interprets his silence as affirmation anyways. “Sometimes.  I don’t know. I guess I like being needed. He would never say it like that but I know he agrees - he’s getting better at agreeing with me."

"Needed?"

"Yeah. Whenever we go off on our own he’s always the one that buggers it up for himself. He needs me.”

“Are you sure Murdoc is the kind of person you want needing you?” He joins him on the curb.

“It’s more than that. There’s a lot you don’t know about him and about us. He’s starting to take care of himself more, he’s smiling more." He pauses. "He also doesn’t have much of a gag reflex...that’s nice too.”

Not having an answer to that, Russel waits for him to continue.

“I know you miss him.” 2D crouches down on the curb, twisting blades of grass growing up through the sidewalk in and out of his fingers.

“I don’t miss Murdoc.”

“No, I mean Del. Muds told me that too. He said you were practically crying on his shoulder.”

“I was not.” He rolls his eyes. “But...yeah. I do miss him." He doesn't talk about him as frequently as he used to but it's a rare moment when he isn't thinking about him. "It’s not the same here, but it is, in a way. The vibe is a little more Motown but every now and then I find a place that takes me back to the good and the bad.” Being out is easier for him when it’s light out, but he still scans their surroundings. Years had passed and therapy had helped but he would always be cautious.

“You’re doing that thing Murdoc does when he’s all strung out," 2D observes. "Well, actually he does that when he’s just being himself too. It’s like he thinks the Boogieman’s going to jump out and drag him to hell, kinda like that one movie."

“Hey now, don’t put me in the same category as Murdoc. He brought the Boogieman on himself. I never summoned death or any of that.”

“Murdoc is scared of more than just the Boogieman, and some of it he didn’t bring on himself,” 2D says softly. “But I know what you’re talking about...when our favorite memories have bad in them. Or sometimes it’s the other way around. My mum used to drag me to Queen's square after school to do all her shopping, but it’s also where I discovered them.” He pulls the record out of the bag to show him again. “Had them playing in a Dolci’s while she was trying on some new loafers.”

“You ever miss it?” He imagines himself in the cemetery with Del and his boombox and who he was when the only association he had with London were the London plane trees that grew in his neighborhood. “Do you ever think it could have been easier?”

“Yeah,” 2D says. “But it didn’t go that way. I quite like this break we’re on, but I like the music too...I like you and Noodle and Muds.”

“I like you guys, too.” Del would always tell him that Brooklyn wasn't a good fit for those averse transformation and growth. It made sense to him until Del was gone and his life was uprooted. “Well...most of you. Muds is…”

“Come discover.” 2D is singing. “ Being alive, being alive. WIld sunshine! We’re alive….” He mumbles some other indecipherable phrases before giving up. “I can’t wait to listen to this again.” 

“Never mind.”

“I heard you, Russ and I understand.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to be downing your relationship. I’ve got my own stuff to work on too." He can't deny the overall peacefulness of their home, however long it lasted. "I guess I’m just trying to figure him out. But...you look happy," he admits. "You both do.”

“It’s alright, Russ,” he says. “You can leave all the figuring out to me. I think I’ve got it under control.” He pushes himself up. “So, uh, what do you say we start heading back?”

“Your call.” On some level, he thinks he would be happy sitting on the corner indefinitely, just thinking.

“After all, we’ve all still got each other.” He hums more of the melody of the song and begins to walk in the direction of Russel’s car with a spring in his step. His shadow is long behind him. It's long enough that he could be one of the streetlights that line the streets.

Russel watches him and can’t help but feel his optimism. He follows him down the block to where he parked his truck earlier.

Once in the passenger seat, 2D holds the record to his chest and gazes out on the road ahead with a confident hopefulness; a belief that everything really would, as he had said in the past, 'be alright in the end.'

And Russel hopes that 2D's right.