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Kong Studio is empty. No, rather, the vestibule is empty. There is no WELCOME HOME banner or a grand party held in his honor. Really, he does not know what he was expecting. Maybe loud music or the sound of the band practicing. Maybe a cry of hellos as they realize he’s home. Maybe someone standing there, waiting for him.
None of that happens.
Murdoc exhales and closes his eyes. Don’t think about it, he tells himself. He should be standing tall and proud, boastful that no one can get rid of him that easily. He should call out, and exhaust his lungs with the effort it takes to yell suddenly after not yelling for months in a prison cell. He won’t do that, though. Not right now.
It does sound awfully quiet, however, and that at least makes him curious. A part of him hopes that maybe they’re all out getting presents or supplies for some mock-up party. What a foolish, childish thought. Murdoc pushes it to the back of his mind and opens his eyes, tightening his grip on his backpack and glances down at the paper in his hand.
Noodle went ahead and made him blueprints of the house. Not a map, no, but blueprints. He would be more proud of her if he weren’t annoyed at having to follow which room is whose. So clever, so much trouble, clearly his influence had an effect on her as she grew up. Though deep down he is insanely proud of her. He follows it like a map and stops only when he reaches a door that’s marked with his nickname.
Muds, it reads on a placard hanging from the top.
That’s going to take time to personalize. He grimaces. Maybe he should just find a box or something to sleep in instead. The thought of an open room with space wide enough for more than one person scares him honestly. Or maybe his mates would laugh at him for it. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Murdoc lightly pushes his foot to the door until it opens up for him.
The first thing he notices is most definitely out of the ordinary. First of all, his room should be neat and clean since he’s been gone the whole time they had the studio. Secondly, posters should line his wall, at least giving a hint to his personality. But, most of all, Stu should not be sitting on his bed staring at a picture frame.
Murdoc swallows, his heart jumping into his throat, tying his tongue in knots. When he was younger, his father forced him to learn how to behave in front of pompous rich people. Sebastian Niccals would punch him if he so much as stepped out of line or forgot himself in their presence and that’s how Murdoc feels now. Stu is more than just a pompous asshole, he’s the very reason for Murdoc’s band. He’s a god sitting in a Satanist’s bed and Murdoc’s learning what religion is once again.
“You know, I missed you while you were gone.” Stu’s voice is as heavenly as it always has been. There’s an edge to it, an unspeakable sadness that Murdoc knows is his fault. Then he turns those beautiful eyes on Murdoc, neither white nor black but pools of bittersweet, red blood stare at him.
It is selfish to think right now, but Murdoc wants to drown in them. It has been so long since he’s last seen Stu with his real eyes and not the void that often accompanies him. He finds no words in his attempt to speak, so Murdoc just nods.
Stu inhales at length, then he turns the picture frame around to show Murdoc what it is. It is a simple picture taken from an interview that Murdoc can’t remember. They’re sitting on a red couch, too close to be an accident, and Murdoc’s arm is behind Stu’s shoulders. Stu looks tired, bags under his eyes, but his smile is what makes the picture. They look happy. It’s been so long since they’ve been happy.
“Say something,” Stu demands.
Feeling as though his tongue is a numbing gel, Murdoc clears his throat. When that doesn’t work, he smiles weakly and recoils just slightly in on himself. “I missed you, too,” he says, the words pathetic as they slip out in his accent. It takes skill to mask his accent as long as he does, and Murdoc dreads how weak it came out in the face of Stu’s anger.
A breathless laugh escapes Stu. “I thought so often about what to say to you, Muds. But now you’re home and I don’t got anything to say. I just want to…” He shakes his head quickly, then he stands up. Stu sets the picture frame down on a bedside table before he turns to Murdoc. He looks exhausted.
Murdoc can’t help but ask, “Want to what?” Because he needs to know if he should expect a punch to the face or gut. Or if Stu is about to shove him against a wall in anger. Or worse, he needs to know if Stu intends to ignore him for the rest of the night. Week. A whole month. Murdoc can’t stand the thought of Stu not looking his way for so long, the very idea crushes his soul and he tries not to show it on his face because he knows he deserves it.
Stu is tall, this has always been a constant fact in their lives together. He towers and hovers over everyone in the band, yet his attitude makes him seem small. Murdoc fondly recalls Noodle calling Stu a speed demon because of how far those lengthy legs could take him in only a few strides. He remembers it now, more prominently, when Stu crosses the room in two steps and he raises his arms. He braces for an impact of any sort only to be met with something different.
Something soft.
Stu’s arms wrap around Murdoc and clutch at his back. Then suddenly his face is burying itself in Murdoc’s shoulder and Stu is crying into his shirt. “You’re the worst, Murds. You are absolutely horrible. Terrible. I should hate you but all I want to do is hold you.” The words come as a muffle, but Murdoc understands.
He has to understand because it’s everything he has been telling himself for the past months in his cell. He is horrible and terrible and he hurt Stu. He hurt the whole band and yet even now he just wants them to hold him close. He doesn’t want Stu to abandon him. “I-” His breath halts when Stu tightens his arms around him.
Slowly Murdoc raises his arms to cling to Stu as well, closing his eyes and burying his face against Stu’s hair. It’s awkward and the position hurts his arms but he’s not going to move unless Beelzebub himself forces him to. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m sorry,” he empathized.
“You should be!” Stu’s sob has no power to it, just defeat.
“I am,” because there’s nothing more to say than that. He digs his fingers into Stu’s back, feeling the fabric of his shirt against his skin and wanting to memorize it. He inhales Stu’s scent, the scent so strong his nose itches but not unpleasantly. It smells like Stu spilled peppermint tea on himself, like he’s been stuck for hours alone waiting for Murdoc. Once again he thinks about drowning in Stu’s embrace.
“Bloody hell, Muds, I thought you weren’t coming back.” Stu says when he finally pulls away. He holds Murdoc’s shoulders tight and scowls down at him as if he’s still angry.
“You told me to find you,” he attempts. Stu has every right to be angry, but Murdoc does not want to fight right now. He wants to reconcile and tell Stu the truth that he’s been holding in for so, so long. “I thought about everything I wanted to say to you when I was free, too. I just forgot what to say when I saw you again.”
“Say you’re an asshole.”
He bites his lip. It would not be hard to say. It’s as simple as repeating those words to Stu’s face, but it is harder than it sounds. This is the same as admitting he was wrong. That everything he did deserves to be atoned for. And Murdoc’s not ready to accept that yet. “I was an asshole,” he says. Close enough, easily managed.
Stu thankfully takes it. “Tell me you missed me again.” Then he quickly adds, as though he’s expecting Murdoc to give him a disgusted look, “I just need to know if you actually mean it. Did you really think about me in jail or was I just a convenient thought along with the rest of the band?”
Convenient is a word that should never be in the same sentence as Stu’s name. Stu is a paradox, a foil, a jack-of-all-trades in the middle of the shuffled deck, waiting to shine bright and take away Murdoc’s breath. Conveying that is hard. “I missed you. With every passing second we were apart, I thought about how I would apologize. Some unapologetic bloke I am, huh?” He kicks himself mentally for yet again making it about him. Can he not do a single thing right?
Not understanding the psychic turmoil he’s in right now, Stu cups Murdoc’s cheeks and holds them firmly. “Apologize to Noodle and Russ later. Apologize to me properly later. Right now I just want to see you again.”
Those words are the decisive blow. Murdoc’s bottom lip trembles and his hands shake. They fall from Stu’s back, but he stands still in Stu’s tight hold. He can feel the tears running down his face, streaking faster and faster with each reminder that Stu is the kindest soul in the world. Anyone else would not forgive him. Anyone else would discard him and never speak to him again, but not Stu.
Stu is his god absolving him of all his sins.
“I’m here,” Murdoc says, choking up.
“You’re here,” Stu agrees. He wipes away Murdoc’s tears, tears of his own falling to match. “Welcome home, Murds.”
Murdoc has to force himself to keep looking at Stu. He can’t look away with tears in his eyes, not right now. “Thanks, love,” he bites down his lip to keep it from giving him away. He needs the illusion that he’s strong and not crying, even if the illusion is only for himself.
Stu initiates the kiss, but it lasts so long that Murdoc forgets how to breathe. His nose is stuffed and his face is unreasonably wet and suddenly he’s sitting on his bed with Stu’s arms around him. The moment can’t last forever, and it shouldn’t, but Murdoc melts into him. His whole body goes limp, finally able to relax in a comfortable place. He can dissolve into Stu if his god so desires.
“I love you.” The words are an echo of so many of their songs. A confession in their own right, something to be sung to a beloved partner during a romantic candlelit dinner. The words are meant for fans to imagine themselves as the recipient. The words aren’t meant for Murdoc or Stu or even the other band members. The words aren’t meant for blasphemous, tragic shells of human beings.
They run as deep as the earth’s roots, however, and Murdoc decides they can bloom through him if they choose. “I love you too,” he says. Then he adds, “I loved you even before today.”
“You loved me even when we were living in the castle.” Stu rubs the back of Murdoc’s head carefully as if he might damage it. As if he could do more harm to Murdoc than Murdoc has ever done to him. “When you brought me into your Winnebago.” He doesn’t elaborate, but his smile tells Murdoc everything he needs.
No doubt he was drunk back then. He’s not drunk now. “I love you more now.”
As if it were any more possible, Stu’s smile gets wider. “We have so much to catch up on, so stop crying for me? You can make it up to me in more ways than just saying you’re sorry.” He gestures to the bed. “Like taking a nap with me because I stayed up all night worrying about your sorry ass coming home.” He lightly punches Murdoc’s side.
He doesn’t deserve Stu. He doesn’t deserve Gorillaz or his fame. He doesn’t deserve this forgiveness, but Murdoc will take it and cherish it. He’ll savor it until he has finally, properly earned it. “You missed me so bad you probably slept in my room.”
“In your dreams, Muds.”
It’s their shared laughter that helps Murdoc fall into sleep. There’s so much work to be done, but he can manage it now that the two of them are together again.