Chapter Text
Clouds fluttered through the sky, growing dense and grey as the day wore on, and seemed to compress together, folding into a sheet of darkness that covered the entire city. Rain was inevitable, but they were used to it, so it wasn’t a bother. At least, no more than usual.
It was quiet, though, which was odd, because usually they heard the bustle of cars and buses and people clamoring outside, a constant in the urban atmosphere. But there wasn’t anything, a strange stillness enveloping the world that was neither comforting nor frightening. It simply was.
Suddenly, the still air was disturbed by a strange sound, a loud cry echoing up into the flat that seemed to penetrate, making the occupants stiffen. Slowly, they turned to look at each other, a question burning in their eyes and threatening to spill from their lips. The sound grew louder, becoming more pronounced, and they realized with such undue certainty that it was definitely a baby’s wail greeting their ears.
As if they’d read each other’s thoughts, they simultaneously moved down the steps, their confusion making them quiet. It was as if they were afraid to break the stillness, to disrupt what was only for the childish cry to disturb.
Hesitantly, they opened the door, peering around before looking down, eyes widening in surprise. There, on the foot of the steps, was a small bundle, which held a crying child and a single envelope. With trembling fingers, one of them reached down to grab the thick paper, jaggedly prying open the glued flap and accidentally tearing the thin paper inside. He read the contents quietly, unsure what to make of the news, and looked up to face his partner, a different question just on the tip of his tongue.
“Ana, do you…? Here, read this,” he said, brow furrowing as he leaned down to gently pick up the baby. He was rather worried about its almost green complexion, wondering if the poor thing had gotten sick while out in the rain for who knew how long.
“Oh my goodness,” Ana finally said, looking up to stare at the child with concern and sympathy. “Ah, there’s no choice, is there? We have to take him in, Alphonse.” Alphonse held the child close and wrapped the blanket tighter around its body, attempting to warm the chilled skin and restore some color to the pallid face. The baby cooed softly after a while, a gummy smile enveloping its face before its eyes drooped, and it fell asleep.
“Well,” Alphonse muttered after a while, smiling softly down at the sleeping child. “We always wanted children, didn’t we?” Ana chuckled in response, her eyes crinkling as her lips curved up into a smile, and they stood on the porch for a few minutes, watching the child wonderingly as the rain pattered around them.
“Lucky that Sebastian didn’t find him,” Ana muttered after a while, gesturing for Alphonse to head inside as she picked up the basket, the letter wrinkling in her hand in the process. The click of the door accompanied the agreeing silence Alphonse gave off, the muted thud of their feet climbing the stairs echoing slightly.
“Yeah,” Alphonse nodded, waiting for Ana to open the door. “My brother’s a right bastard, isn’t he?”
“An abusive arsehole, darling. See how he treats Hannibal?” There was an edge to her voice, one Alphonse shared, that let her feelings on the subject known. Alphonse didn’t answer, but Ana hadn’t expected him to.
They walked quietly inside, sitting on the couch once again. The stillness, for all its briefness, seemed broken now, a sort of movement and feeling accompanying their discovery. Alphonse felt a sense of excitement bubble in him, one he knew Ana shared since they were so similar that way, and because her face seemed alight with something fiery and resolute.
“He’s gone now, though. Doubt he’s coming back after what happened yesterday.” Ana hummed in agreement, fingers reaching over to move the blanket off the child’s face where it had fallen. The baby breathed in once deeply, its tiny chest rising and falling steadily as it settled down once again. The ghost of that wide smile still graced its lips, as if it were excited, too.
“What should we call him? Or her. The letter didn’t specify, did it?” Alphonse wondered, looking up at his wife in question.
“A boy, it said,” she clarified, pursing her lips. “Though it didn’t give a name.”
“What do you think about…Murdoc? Murdoc Niccals,” he mused, leg shaking slightly as he rocked the baby back and forth.
“Murdoc Alphonse Niccals, then? Has a nice ring to it,” Ana proposed, a fondness seeping into her tone.
“Hmm, yes,” Alphonse muttered, rolling the name on his tongue once more. “Sounds about right.”
***
It was nice out, surprisingly. The sun was obscured only slightly by puffs of clouds roaming the sky, and no rain threatened to spill from them.
They had been walking for a while, in search of a store for his mother to rummage through and find the cloth she needed to make Murdoc a new jumper. He’d just grown out of his old one, and it was stained anyway, so they figured a nice family walk in the agreeable weather wouldn’t be so bad. Regardless, Murdoc wanted to venture outside, having been stuck inside for the past few days due to heavy rain and busy schedules.
They were busy crossing an intersection, running hurriedly to the other side, as Murdoc looked around excitedly, his free hand reaching up to pat his hair out of his face so he could see properly. The fringe obscured his vision enough for it to be a hassle, so he begged his mom to cut his hair when they got home, and she agreed, noting silently how it bothered his childish exploration.
Murdoc had never been to that part of the city, so he was doubly excited, and it showed clearly on his face as he took in the new sights, eyes wide and wondering. It wasn’t terribly special, but to him it was something new to gaze at and capture his attention, however fleeting.
They rounded the corner, nearing the shop his mother needed to visit, when he spotted a store with glass windows that garnered his attention. He looked into the shop curiously, his brown eyes flickering wildly as it took in the assortment of strange metal shapes hanging on the walls, various pieces of equipment he didn’t recognize scattered wildly in the display. He tugged on his father’s shirt, getting his attention, and stopped his parents, pointing inside the shop.
“What’s that?” he asked, his voice childishly high and lisping.
“A very impressive stock of musical instruments, son,” his father answered, looking down at Murdoc in question.
“And that? Isn’t that a guitar?” he asked when a specific instrument caught his eye. It was huge and shiny, a few nobs and strings marring its geometric surface, very similar to the stringed instrument Murdoc thought it looked like.
“That’s a bass guitar,” his mother answered, voice tainted with curiosity. “It’s like a guitar, but it sounds deeper.” Murdoc stared at the bass with huge eyes, a smile slowly growing on his face as he examined it.
“I want one,” he declared, finger now pointed in uncontained excitement. “I want to play it.” His mother and father glanced at each other in confounded amusement, though Murdoc hardly noticed them, too entranced by the brilliant red and white instrument gleaming before him.
“When you’re older, Murdoc,” his mother finally said, her voice light. “You’re too small to play it right now.”
“Aw, but mum,” he begged, pouting. “I want it! I really, really, really want it.”
“Listen to your mother,” his father admonished gently, tugging for his son to follow. Murdoc listened reluctantly, glancing at the instrument one last time before turning away and following his parents.
“Maybe we can put you through piano lessons,” his mother mused, smiling down softly at her son. “It’ll help ease you into learning music, and you can learn to play faster when you’re older.” Murdoc nodded excitedly, his head bobbing up and down with such speed that it almost looked like his head would roll off.
“Please, mum! I really wanna learn!” His mother and father laughed, already talking about the possibility of saving enough money for a baby grand piano and teaching Murdoc the bits they remembered from their younger years before getting him a proper instructor. Murdoc listened to them for a while, a strange excitement building up in his chest as he thought about the possibility of playing any instrument.
But he knew, with such certainty only a child could possess, that the bass was the one instrument he desperately wanted to play, that he was destined to learn the intricacies of the instrument like no one else. He knew he wanted to play it, and nothing in the world would stop him.
Except, maybe, his youth. But he’d grow up soon, and if he started learning how to play something now, he’d be even better when he was older.
He skipped merrily along with his parents, his thoughts wandering to his budding dreams of playing, and even though he was very young, he held such a focus on the subject that he’d never experienced before. It both startled him and excited him, his heart ready to burst with anticipation.
The next day, his parents began clearing the admittedly small living room. Murdoc watched them with happiness threatening to choke him, his hands gripping the soft fabric his mother had purchased the day before that she was slowly but surely shaping into his new jumper.
“I can’t believe he was just giving it away like that,” his mother commented, looking up at his father with a twinkle in her eye. “Didn’t have to pay too much.”
“It’s wonderful,” his father replied, a smile gracing his face gently. “It should get here by tomorrow.”
“Right,” she chuckled, wiping her hands as she finished rearranging the furniture to make a big enough space for the baby grand piano they were expecting. “Now, Murdoc, we’ll teach you all we can until we get enough money to hire you an instructor, alright? How does that sound?”
“Great!” Murdoc exclaimed, his hands bunching the fabric. “Thank you so much! You’re the best!” They all laughed and Murdoc ran to hug them, his arms wrapping around their knees tightly. They bent over to pat his back and laugh at his antics, hugging him in return.
“You’ll be wonderful, darling,” his mother said, and Murdoc smiled at the as of yet undeserved praise. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be famous one day.”
“That would be great, wouldn’t it?” his father said encouragingly. “Murdoc Niccals! Famous pianist!”
“No, dad,” Murdoc corrected, one chubby finger held up to make his point. “I wanna play bass, remember? I’ll be a famous bass player.”
“Right, right,” his father laughed. “Famous bassist. Maybe you’ll start a band, yeah? I’m sure you’ll have loads of fun!” Murdoc agreed enthusiastically, a series of confirmations and approving gestures following his father’s words.
“Yes!” he said excitedly. “It’ll be the best band in the world! And I’ll make it myself!”
***
“Murdoc Sebastian Niccals!” his father yelled, his face turning red from anger and strain. Murdoc crept down out of his room silently, his olive skin seemingly pale but his cheeks were flushed, his ears turning equally red.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to keep the hesitation out of his voice. He knew already, but he wanted to hear his father’s take on Murdoc’s slip. He hadn’t liked the alcohol he’d snuck, anyway. It tasted bitter, acidic, burning his throat unpleasantly as it slid down his throat to weigh heavily in his stomach.
“Why?” his father asked him simply, crossing his arms as he pointed to the half-empty bottle. Murdoc glanced at it accusingly before lowering his eyes, hands pressed against his back as he cursed his mates from school. Idiots, he thought. They were right idiots, and he was one too for having fallen for their teasing.
“I was curious,” he answered simply, which was the truth but not the whole of it. His father seemed to pick up on the openness of his statement, on the slight lilting of his words that gave him away.
“Curious, was it?” his father scoffed angrily, hand going up to run through his dark hair. “Tell me the truth, Murdoc. All of it.” At first, Murdoc refused to say more. He gazed down at his socks as one foot dug into the floor, toeing the fluffy carpet quietly. His father sighed, hand moving from his hair to cover and rub at his eyes.
“Was it those mates of yours, again? The ones who convinced you to try smoking a few weeks ago?” Murdoc’s flinch was answer enough, and his father sighed again, moving slowly to put away the bottle and rest his arms on the sink in the kitchen.
“That’s all well and fine,” his father said after a while. Murdoc hadn’t moved from where he was, still staring down at the carpet as his feet ran over it and his hands tugged at each other behind his back.
“But, Murdoc, you have to realize that you’re heading down a very dangerous path. I don’t want you ending up like my brother, alright?” Murdoc wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mere mention of the man, who he’d only met once and instantly disliked. He was boorish, an unsuccessful, abusive alcoholic that had ruined his son, Hannibal, in the worst possible ways, and Murdoc detested him. He didn’t want to be like that man. Not ever.
“Come here, son,” his father beckoned after a moment, his arms open in invitation. Without hesitation, Murdoc walked over and hugged the man, his arms going around to hug his father’s waist. He wasn’t too tall yet, but he had hope. He was only thirteen, after all.
“Just, don’t do it again, alright?” his father begged, his gentle voice buzzing in Murdoc’s ears. “Not until you’re old enough, at least. Then you’ll have plenty of time to do all those things. Just not now.” Murdoc nodded, his hands gripping his father’s shirt tighter as he listened to his father’s advice.
“Alright,” Murdoc said simply, finally letting go of his father and taking a step back. “I promise.”
“Good, then. Good.”
Murdoc gave him a hesitant smile before walking back to his room, waving good-bye to his father. He strode in and closed the door, hesitating before turning the lock. He sat on the edge of his bed and gently picked up his bass, carefully avoiding the amp it was connected to as his fingers dancing over the strings in an effort to tune it.
He was so proud of it, the beauty of the instrument not lost on him nor anyone that saw it, and he’d gotten it recently, too, so he was careful with it. His hands were gentle when they reached over to pluck strings or strum, and when he handled his equipment he made sure to take good care of it.
He finished tuning relatively quickly. After years of playing the piano and learning everything and anything about music and theory, he was extremely adept at picking out any inconsistencies in pitch and intonation, so it was merely a matter of listening and gentle persuasion at that point. His hands and ears knew what to do.
He strummed quietly, turning the amp down when he deemed it slightly too loud, and began going through the scales, fingers occasionally slipping though he righted them quickly.
After finishing his warm up exercises, he began to play a simple tune, one he found online that he thought was helpful concerning its easiness. He played it for a while, trying to get the notes right and pausing to glance at the music sheet sitting next to him before continuing.
Most days were like that now. When he finished his studies, he practiced piano for an hour then went to his room to practice his bass as much as he wanted. Though calm, it was a fun routine for him, and he had no interests in much else save playing and learning the intricacies of his instrument. His parents were supportive of his efforts, at least, so long as he maintained his good grades and tried not to get in too much trouble.
Truthfully, it wasn’t his fault for the most part. On the occasions that he received detention, it was almost always because he’d taken the blame for one of his delinquent friends, and honestly he was getting tired of them, anyway. He didn’t care about them so much, and his interests were too personal to share with the likes of them. As if they would care, anyway.
He figured he’d try to ease out of their circle at first, growing more distant so they wouldn’t complain when he refused to partake in their idiocy. Not that he didn’t have fun on occasion, but there were limits, which his parents had instilled in him from a young age.
He slipped as he tried to play a chord, his pick tumbling out of his fingers as the music screeched to a halt. He sighed, picking it up again, and resumed his playing, deciding that he would think about that stuff later. Now was a time for playing, not worrying.
***
“Fuck you, you prick!” Murdoc yelled, hands balled into fists at his side as he glared at the man towering before him. True, he was shorter, but that wouldn’t stop him from punching a hole through the man’s stomach after what he’d said.
“Fuck yourself, you twat,” the man replied, eyes glancing at Murdoc coldly. “It’s because of you that this band isn’t going anywhere.”
“What are you talking about?” Murdoc muttered angrily, voice rising and garnering the attention of everyone in the room. “The reason this band is falling apart isn’t me, sunshine! You can barely play the keyboard, monkey brains over there can’t sing for shit, and your drummer is better on guitar than your guitarist.” The others flinched away knowingly, silently agreeing with Murdoc’s assessment of the band’s abilities. However, Butch, who had been arguing with Murdoc in the first place, merely strengthened his glare, his pride getting in the way of reason.
“Look, Mudkip-”
“Murdoc,” he interjected angrily. The man waved his complaints away, looking more annoyed.
“Yeah, whatever. We haven’t had any problems until you joined.”
“That’s because I’m the only one pointing out how awful everything is! No one else has the balls to stand up to you, you hulking mass of putrid flesh!” Butch didn’t look too fazed, although the last comment garnered a raised eyebrow. Murdoc rolled his eyes, his hands moving up to grip the strap hanging around his neck in an effort to calm himself.
“Look, you sack of shit. I joined this band because you told me you all knew what you were doing, and for some sodding reason, I fucking believed you without even checking in the first place. I toughed it out for a while, but I’m through. Find yourself a new bassist.” He turned to leave, his fingers moving to unplug his equipment, when his ears picked up Butch’s comment.
“We could probably find a better one, anyway. You sound like absolute shit.” Murdoc slowly straightened himself, his hands resting on the bass as he processed what Butch had said.
“Excuse me?” he asked, turning around, eyes boring into Butch’s. “I don’t think I quite caught that.”
“I said you’re a shit player, mate, and you’re rather ugly to boot. Can’t have a front man that looks like a fucking pickle, can we?” Murdoc looked down at the floor silently, head bobbing as he thought about what Butch said, before he raised his fist and punched him right in the face. Butch stumbled back, tripping on the drum set, and before he could so much as blink, Murdoc was on him, fists crashing into his flesh and feet kicking into the prone man’s body.
“First of all,” he said in between punches, his lips turning up into a sneer. “I’m one of the best players around. Second, the only ugly one around here is you, mate. Or at least, it will be.” No one stepped in to save Butch, all either too afraid of Murdoc’s incredible ability to send a man straight out a window or accepting of the beating. Butch’s abusive antics and constant praising of the mediocrity the band produced was tiresome, and his unwillingness to listen was equally irksome.
Murdoc stopped after only a few punches, carefully detaching himself from Butch’s limp body before spitting on the man. Butch looked up at him with swollen eyes and a burst lip, his glare still prominent despite the injuries.
“Get out,” he managed to bark, trying to get up and failing. Murdoc smiled grimly and grabbed his equipment, sending Butch a mocking salute and bidding the others farewell.
“Adios, shitlord,” he grumbled, waltzing out of the room. “Have fun being bloody fucking awful.” He kicked the door open and hurriedly made his way outside, trying to forget about what happened only moments ago.
It was the fifth time he’d been either kicked out of a band or quit one. It wasn’t because he couldn’t play; he played extremely well, actually, and had gotten praise from everyone, which he’d attributed to his constant practicing. However, all of the bands he’d joined either grew tired of his attempting to give advice or had as much talent as a rotten banana peel. None of them, he knew, would amount to anything regardless, and he tired of dealing with cumbersome pricks like Butch who thought the world of themselves while putting everyone else down.
Still, it was rather troublesome that he’d lost his temper like that. Usually, he was very good at keeping it in check, but after the third time he’d bumped elbows with mediocrity, he wasn’t feeling very patient. Also, Butch was the first person to really make fun of Murdoc’s complexion, which was something he was, admittedly, too sensitive about, and the only response he could think to produce was rather aggressive.
But really, there was no excuse. He shouldn’t have beaten the man like that, no matter how big of a prick he was. Sighing, he tried to calm himself down, and when he reached his flat, he felt the usual sense of calm drape itself on him. With some trouble, he managed to open the door and flew up the stairs, his heeled boots clicking on the wooden panels loudly and signaling his return.
His parents greeted him cheerily but quickly left him alone when they saw his face, somehow knowing that something had gone wrong and giving him space to sort himself. It was kind of them, something that Murdoc loved dearly about them and was constantly grateful for. He was not the most pleasant person to be around when he lost his temper, but fortunately it happened so sparingly that it never became a big problem.
He carefully set his things down in his room, lying down in his bed and staring at the various posters depicting famous artists or bands hanging on the walls of his room. He hoped someday to be one of them, to be a poster on the wall that would inspire someone else to create music and follow their dreams like he wanted to. And God, it wasn’t that he didn’t try! He tried his best. But his future as a bassist was looking bleaker and bleaker as time wore on, and truthfully Murdoc was growing very weary.
He always had his studies to fall back on, but a future in the medical field, which he was studying for, wasn’t something he really wanted to look forward to.
He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour and gazed up at the covered ceiling, absentmindedly studying the posters tacked up there. Looking at the rows upon rows of successful bands, he wondered why it seemed so hard to find one that had an inkling of talent. If Murdoc had been in charge of at least one of them, he would have been able to make something out of them.
“If only,” he chuckled darkly. “If only.”
Suddenly, he bolted upright, his eyes growing wide as he thought. A grin slowly made its way across his face, his long tongue darting out in his excitement before he sucked it back in quickly.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed, so loud that his parents no doubt heard. If he couldn’t find a good band, he’d start one himself! It was a brilliant plan, one that he knew would get him more results than simple band searching. A great excitement began to overtake him, not unlike the one he felt when he first held the bass in his hands after years of begging for one, and it felt as rejuvenating as it had that time.
He wasted no time as he began thinking over what exactly he planned on doing.
***
Murdoc grumbled angrily as he kicked the cheap sofa sitting in his flat, his hands twitching in frustration. The man had been good, true, but he was a complete wanker, a piece of self-glorifying shit that he didn’t want to deal with.
It was probably the twentieth person he’d rejected for the position as singer after the first few good ones had quit after only a few months in the band. After the last one, the entire band had gone to rubbish, and they went their separate ways. Murdoc still held out hope, though, and so he continued to hold auditions for positions in a new band on the weekends when he wasn’t working.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like his job as a nurse. He liked it well enough, actually, even if the patients were annoying at times. The pay wasn’t too bad, either, and it afforded him a decent flat a bit away from his parents, so it was fine. True, he couldn’t afford much other than rent and basic necessities, but it was enough for him, so he didn’t complain.
But, he thought. But…something was missing. He wanted-or rather, craved-to put his musical talents in action, and the only way to accomplish that was to be in a band. When he’d decided to make one himself, he hadn’t known how hard it would be. It wasn’t that the people he accepted weren’t good; far from it. Most of them were great, actually. However, their personalities just didn’t mesh with Murdoc’s well.
Murdoc knew he wasn’t the kindest man. He wasn’t terribly bad, but he could be better. He knew he had a streak of narcissistic pride that spanned the globe, but he thought it well-deserved. After all, he was one of the best damn bass players to have ever lived, and he wasn’t simply saying it for kicks. He’d won numerous competitions, and every member of every band he’d ever been in-with the exception of that fucking bastard Butch who he hadn’t seen in years-had complimented him on his musical prowess.
But he knew that sheer talent alone wasn’t enough to make a successful band. The members had to at least tolerate each other enough to practice well and be productive, and they had to be creative enough to make songs that would sell well. So far, none of the people he’d tried to work with could accomplish either of those. They either hated him or hated each other, never went to practice, or didn’t have the abilities to write likable, original songs.
Murdoc sat down tiredly on his couch, absentmindedly picking up his bass and picking at the strings. He didn’t want to give up. He wouldn’t give up. But sometimes, it was so damn hard to keep going. He had a decent job, a decent flat, and a decent life. True, he didn’t have any friends, nor did he do much except drink a little on the weekends and hit up the bars, occasionally hitting the sheets with someone.
It could be so much better, though. He wanted it to be better, so he wouldn’t give up.
He suddenly groaned when he remembered that the next weekend he’d promised his parents he’d visit them. He couldn’t wait to see them after all these months, but he desperately wanted to be alone for a while. Either way, he resolved to go, if only because he’d promised them.
He was so entranced by his thoughts that he didn’t notice the knocking until the person on the other side of his door was practically pounding on it. With a start, he jumped up, gently putting his bass down and walking over to pull the door open.
A short, black-haired man stood on the other side, fist still positioned as if to knock again. He lowered it slowly, blinking up at Murdoc with a disinterested gaze before speaking.
“You Murdoc Niccals?” he rumbled, voice unfittingly deep.
“Yeah,” Murdoc confirmed suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”
“The name’s Rocky,” he grumbled, pushing his way in. “Listen, I’m here to audition for your band thing or whatever. Got a keyboard I can use?” Murdoc shook his head but gestured to the piano, eyeing Rocky up warily.
“No, but if you can play the piano well enough, I’ll consider you.” Rocky shrugged and hopped onto the stool, fingers positioned and ready.
“You got any preferences?” he asked, looking up at Murdoc neutrally. Murdoc shrugged and gestured for him to just go. He was tired, and he figured Rocky probably wasn’t that good, anyway. He sat back down on the couch, hand under his chin, and waited.
Rocky played an interesting compilation of songs, showing his ability to play a little jazz piano and a lot of new-age type of shit. He tried to play a few more hardcore songs, but they didn’t have the same effect on a piano, though they were still recognizable. All in all, Rocky was actually pretty good. When he finished, Murdoc pursed his lips and slowly nodded, hand rubbing his chin in thought.
“Oh, that’s nice,” he admitted. “Sounds good, actually. I think you’ll be great, so long as you show up to rehearsal and don’t start shit.” Rocky shrugged and nodded, standing up and walking over to Murdoc.
“I’ll show up,” he confirmed, bored gaze never faltering. “And I don’t care as long as we get shit done.”
“A man after my own heart,” Murdoc grinned, giving Rocky his cell number and explaining the current situation. “As soon as we find at least a singer and a drummer, we’ll be good to go.”
“I’ll try and find some people,” Rocky said before waving a lazy hand good-bye and walking out. Murdoc blinked, thinking that was one of the strangest exchanges he’d ever been involved in, then smiled again, his excitement over starting a band returning again.
Now, if he could just find more people like Rocky, he’d be golden.