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Murdoc knows the moment he rises to the sounds of birds chirping that it's one of those days. This, more than anything else, sets him on edge. Blinking the sleep from his eyes (once, twice, thrice for luck) he turns over beneath the sheets, swathed in silk as the blinds he'd meant to draw shut last night bring in an uninvited guest. The spring sun catches on a beer bottle toppled over on the carpet, catching its rays in a colourful glow. Even this, telling in its emptiness, is dolled up by this particular day.
Unsettled, Murdoc gets up, cracking fewer bones than usual as he extends aching arms towards the flaking ceiling. Perhaps this morning (that side of noon, Satan) is a sheer stroke of luck and business as usual will settle like London's smog as he wakes himself up.
The gnaw of hunger bothers him as he trudges downstairs to the kitchen, so, reaching into the fridge, he pulls out a can to quell it. Shivering from the touch of the cool metal, he turns it in his hands. Usually, the thing would be half-finished by now, downed like water, but the thought of chugging one so early turns his stomach something nasty.
Murdoc puts it back with a mounting sense of dread.
Against his best wishes, today seems to be a good day.
For once, he fancies some real food.
Turning his gaze to the rest of the fridge — uncharted territory, at this point — he tries to pull together some sort of substantial meal from the ingredients lying around. Never one to bother with the microwave, let alone don his chef hat and take to the stovetop, it seems a lost cause. Eggs and cheese; onions and pickled onions; tupperware lurking in the depths of the shelves, harbouring something foul that once could have been leftovers; bacon and sausages, brothers reunited.
Murdoc’s reminded why he doesn’t bother. Somewhat desperate, he shoots the six-pack another look, hoping it’ll entice him — the cans sweat a bead of condensation beneath his stare. It rouses nothing in his chest.
With a grumble, he scans the fridge once more. Eggs and bacon. One pan, ten minutes. The poor man’s English breakfast. Not much can go wrong.
Into a sizzling pan Murdoc cracks two eggs and lays down the strip of bacon beside it; oil spits at him, and he scowls in kind. Though not one for an appetite in the morning — or throughout the day, for that matter — today he leans over the stove, steam curling around his face as he watches the eggs bubble and bacon flush a dark pink. He drums his fingers against the countertop, then cranks up the heat.
Between the hissing pan and his growing impatience, Murdoc doesn’t notice he’s no longer alone in the kitchen until someone presses their head against the counter and lets out a soft groan, a quiet protest to the early morning.
Murdoc tugs a strand of blue hair; as if he’s a puppet, 2-D raises a hand to bat him away. Turning his head, he instead presses his cheek against the kitchen side, offering Murdoc a glare, no real threat when laced with sleep.
2-D yawns, and he resists the urge to stick a finger in his mouth.
“Why you up?”
“I could say the same to you,” Murdoc mutters, somewhat embarrassed to be caught with the pan instead of a can of cold brew.
“You woke me up, banging around and all that.” The edge that should’ve been in those words isn’t. Instead, he lets his hand feel across the counter, grasping at the jar of instant coffee and frowning when it comes up empty.
Rubbing the fairy dust from one eye, 2-D lets the other linger on the bacon and eggs, close to smoking.
Murdoc knows what’s coming, yet he still curls his lip when 2-D asks, “Can you cook me up some? Since you got the hob on.”
The balls on him to stroll downstairs and demand a cooked meal when he never would’ve given it a second thought otherwise. A retort rises in Murdoc’s throat; at the look on 2-D’s face, disarmed by sleep and quietly hopeful, he bites it back.
With a grunt and pale-knuckled grip of the spatula, he edges the eggs and bacon, both curling at the edges, from the pan and drops them onto a plate — one that was meant to be his. Murdoc slides it across the counter and it stops just short of 2-D’s nose. He blinks, bewildered, before a smile breaks out across his face, all gaps and gall.
“Cheers.” Brought to life by a waiting, freshly cooked breakfast, he draws himself up to his full height (woefully much taller than Murdoc) and grabs the steaming plate, squinting at it with bleary eyes for a moment. “...Looks like a smiley face.”
With a long finger, 2-D traces his imagination in the air, two sunny eyes and the bacon curling in a grin.
“You sap.” Murdoc peers over with a scoff, before starting fresh with two cracked eggs and more bacon lying flat. “Just eat the bloody thing.”
He turns back to the pan, glaring down at the pale yolks.
A good day makes him soft, lets some optimism creep in while his back’s turned. That was something he thought he’d got shot of back in Stoke. Yet, like his many bad days — standard days — he’s stuck in this, and it sets him on edge.
There’s a quiet scraping of cutlery, and 2-D hums in approval. “Really nice. I didn’t think you could cook, to be honest. Like… I dunno.”
“Thanks,” Murdoc says, sardonic, though there’s some genuine gratitude he keeps close to his chest. He’d not been all too confident in his cooking skills either. Edible is a victory, in his eyes. “I don’t think you could do any better, eh?”
"Nah," 2-D admits. "I'll burn toast."
Once Murdoc's breakfast is plated, he joins 2-D, forgoing the dining table and instead shoulder-to-shoulder as they hunch over the countertop.
"It's weird." 2-D breaks the heavy silence, poking a yolk until it weeps. "Being up early. But I haven't seen Noodle or Russel or nothing. They're usually up before us."
Murdoc has certainly stayed awake until this hour, but he can't remember the last time he woke to the pallid light of the morning sun. "That's something we can rub in their faces, y'know, like how they go on — look at all we did while you were still in bed. Drives me up the wall."
"Noodle has her runs, but I think today's her day off," 2-D says around a mouthful of bacon, brow furrowed. "Russel… he stayed up late, I think. Doing summink."
Russel’s hobbies range from cooking up a sausage casserole to reanimating a pig’s corpse, and much like the man himself, they’re best not to be questioned.
"But you didn't say why you were up." Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoc sees 2-D shoot him a questioning look. He plants his gaze firmly forward. "I don't see you 'til three most days."
With a shrug, he busies himself with breakfast so he doesn’t have a chance to answer. Over the years he’d grown used to the general feeling of not wanting to be conscious by allowing himself to wallow in bed until the early afternoon; even then dragging his body out from beneath the covers is a chore, lead bones sagging.
There had been a lightness on his shoulders when he stood this morning, an easy swing to his step despite the hour. He knows perfectly why but won’t offer 2-D the satisfaction. Satan forbid his head fills with fanciful ideas of what sort of mood Murdoc’s in.
“Alright,” 2-D says to his silence; he wouldn’t get the message if it was stamped across Murdoc’s forehead. “Nice, though.”
“What would be nice would be a couple more hours in bed, easy.” In their sleepy quiet, birds whistle a chipper tune to one another, stretches of light creeping across the countertops to grab its share of breakfast. It’s early summer, meaning the UK gets its one allotted week of hot weather; Murdoc feels the warmth of it on his back. It’s peaceful, to give it a name, which isn’t quite his speed.
“Well, yeah. But this is nice as well.” 2-D turns to Murdoc; he seems to be looking for something in his expression, chewing thoughtfully. Murdoc lets his eyes roam.
He won’t admit nice, even today, but it is rare that there’s no thick tension between them.
Staring at his empty plate, 2-D drags his finger in the remnants. “D’you still wanna rub it in their face?”
“What?” Murdoc looks at him then, brow knitted in question. “What you on about?”
“Like, you said — when they go on about all the stuff they did while we were sleeping, and now it’s the other way round.” 2-D draws a smiley face in the yolk, gaze focused on his artistry. “We can go and be busy and show ‘em up instead.”
There must be something 2-D had found in his face despite Murdoc’s best efforts, to come to him with an invitation like that. Still, the offer is tempting, if only to lord it above his sleeping bandmates.
With the breakfast and the sun and the good mood and all, a day with 2-D seems bearable — more than it would’ve been otherwise.
“Yeah, alright.” Dropping his cutlery with a loud clatter, Murdoc squares his shoulders almost in challenge. “What’s the plan, then?”
Blinking, 2-D seems almost as surprised as Murdoc that he’d taken him up on the offer. “We’re out of coffee. Could do with one…”
Arms folded against his chest, Murdoc makes a grand deal of stamping his feet against the concrete. It’s far from that sort of cold, the warm breeze playing with a few stray wisps of hair — it’s more to encourage 2-D to hurry up. Whether a stroke of luck or he’d gotten the memo, he leans over the counter of the wooden shack, grabbing the paper cup with a nod of thanks.
“Took you long enough,” Murdoc grumbles. He aims to glower in 2-D’s direction; with the sun haloing his head, he ends up more squinting against its rays.
“Wasn’t me, I wasn’t making it.” Taking a sip he recoils as if it’d been electric — he sticks his tongue out and offers it in Murdoc’s direction, brow furrowed. “Ah, still hot.”
“Obviously. Nutter.” Two bikes breeze past, one after another, almost knocking the two of them off-kilter. Murdoc watches with a scowl as the children’s wails follow them down the stretch of smooth concrete, legs pumping the pedals so fast they could take off. “Of all the places — you choose a run-down shack in a park. You really know how to pick them, d’you know that?”
2-D either doesn’t notice or doesn’t pay mind to the biting sarcasm. “Yeah, the coffee’s actually really nice. And the bloke who runs it, I used to work with him down Uncle Norm’s.”
Vague bells ring in Murdoc’s tired mind. “Oh, right. Where I picked you up from.”
“That’s a nice way of saying it.” 2-D sends a final wave to the owner of the cabin before they amble off, toeing the fine line between path and grass.
Murdoc steals a look over his shoulder. “That was my potential lead singer, there.”
“Mm, you’re lucky he wasn’t on shift.” Giving his coffee another cautious try, 2-D offers the cup over. “D’you want some?”
Murdoc shoots him a slitted glare. “Has it got milk in it?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Waste of good coffee.” He holds up a palm. “Keep it to yourself.”
“Alright.”
And he does.
Despite the volatile British weather, it’s just Murdoc’s luck that the sun remains hung high and bright in the sky. The path stretches far beyond them, taking twisted turns and scattered with those more accustomed to rising before noon; those godforsaken joggers in their blinding neon going round and round, tired mothers dragging whining children by the arm and having to walk for the both of them, dogs the size of rats trotting along their snide owners.
Still, there’s no sign of druggies or teens hidden behind bushes in search of a shag away from prying parents’ eyes, so it’s one of the nicer parks Murdoc’s been to. In his early years, at least, he would’ve ticked off that checklist somewhere more run-down, which is a mark of quality in his eyes.
“D’you wanna—” 2-D twirls his finger in a circle. “—go round?”
“Satan. A walk in the park. I can’t imagine a more exciting Saturday.” Jamming his hands in his pockets, Murdoc jerks his head to the side. “Should we nip down to the bingo halls after this, really get the party going?”
2-D shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “If you really didn’t wanna be here, you’d be gone. I know that.”
Something akin to regret seems to flicker across his expression in the face of Murdoc’s silence. It’s true, they’d both known that, but rarely does 2-D call his bluff, not when Murdoc refuses to himself.
There’s a spark of tenacity in those dark eyes of his today. Perhaps this good day has cast over them both, like the dappled rays of sun that reach through the trees to warm them; 2-D feels it too, feels he can be bold with his words.
Murdoc will give him that if nothing else. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Come on, then, Grandad. Walk around the park, let’s go.”
2-D brightens in the sunlight, a smile breaking out across his face despite the nickname. Something lifts in Murdoc’s chest at that, in seeing the relief come over him.
As they follow the path, parts of the park slot into old memories like a long-lost puzzle piece; a dangling swing set, a tunnel of knarled trees, a grand expanse of lush grass pitched up with two opposing goalposts in a showdown.
“Hold on.” Murdoc stops, eyes narrowed. 2-D falls still beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Did we— there was a festival here, years ago, wasn’t there? One we played at.”
“They do one every year, in that big field.” 2-D points between the goalposts. “But yeah. It was one of our first big performances, I think.”
“Ah, they do say you never forget your first.” Offering him a sly wink, Murdoc earns a snort in response. “I mean, I don’t remember much… I’m sure I was off my head.”
“You were always off your head then.”
“Ooh, rich coming from you, off with the fairies half the time.” The words and their accompanying scowl hold no real venom, and 2-D cracks an easy smile at the teasing. Murdoc feels his own lips wobble in kind; he pins them down with a grimace instead. “But the feeling was all there. King of the world, I was, finally getting the adoration I deserved.”
“We,” 2-D mutters, aiming for a bin with his empty coffee cup. It misses.
Murdoc grins then. “Well done.”
He has the sense to look sheepish before fetching the litter and dropping it in its rightful place, careful this time.
Giving the field a final rundown, eyes fluttering at the memory of pulsing lights and a roaring crowd, Murdoc turns to face 2-D.
“Right. Finished? Can I go back to bed now?”
The smile that had been tugging at the corners of his mouth drops; 2-D laces his fingers together and tightens his grip. “...It’s only afternoon. I think.”
“It’s not.” At that, Murdoc checks his watch, blinking when he finds it is indeed past noon. He would’ve woken up around now most days; surely they haven’t spent so long strolling down memory lane. “Well. Looks like it is.”
“Yeah, so—” He brightens a little, though at what, Murdoc’s not sure. “—no point in going back now. I can’t sleep now, you can’t sleep now, it’s too early, innit? And if we’re properly busy, we’ll have more to tell Noodle and Russel.”
Hands on his hips, Murdoc bites back, “Well? What d’you have in mind, then?”
He’d meant the question to be rhetorical but didn’t expect it to stump 2-D; he twists his lips, falling silent. Typical, not to consider anything beyond the moment but the very next.
Then he clasps his hands together, shaking them a little. “We can go see a film.”
To Murdoc, films were a clumsy pretence to slip an arm around a bird’s shoulder, somewhere dark to get her close before he’d discovered the shrouded corners of clubs. He can’t remember the last time he’d gone to a cinema, let alone with pure intentions. “What? And watch what? Modern films are all rubbish.”
“Drive-ins do old films.” 2-D tongues a gap between his teeth, doing his best to meet Murdoc’s eyes. “We can go back to the car, see what’s showing near us. Yeah?”
Murdoc sighs, long and hard. He’d been hoping to get back to bed and end this off-kilter day as soon as he could, but he knows sleep wouldn’t take him now. And, though he would never admit this to 2-D’s hopeful face, the park had been a welcome throwback. Today, despite taking a different turn, wasn’t going downhill. There’s no immediate need to put an end to this.
“We’ll look. Bet we won’t find anything worth our time, but we can try.”
Relief floods his face in a blinding grin; Murdoc has to look away.
“I haven’t seen this one in ages,” 2-D says, shifting in the passenger seat and peering out of the window for a glimpse of the big screen. “Used to be one of my favourites when it came out.”
“Never seen it.” Spotting another car aiming for an optimal parking space, he jams his foot down on the pedal, swerving in front and claiming his victory. The sore loser beeps his horn; Murdoc offers a jerk-off motion through the rear window in response. “Braindead. Perfect film for you, eh?”
“Oi,” He protests, though it’s a weak one.
As Murdoc winds the windows down, 2-D sticks his head out into the open air like a dog. Arm on the door and head propped up by his hand, he watches out of the corner of his eye.
The sun has begun its slow creep towards the west, dragging a dark blanket as it goes; still strong though flushed orange in hue, it frames 2-D just as it had in the park. The soft light casts a blurry shadow of him across Murdoc’s lap, fine tufts of blue hair almost bleached white by the sun. His eyes widen as the film begins in a cacophony of noise, and moves to look through the windshield.
Murdoc tears his eyes away and to the film, hand pressing against his mouth as if to clamp it shut.
As the film rolls on, 2-D leans in. In a hushed tone, he says. “First time I saw this I was fourteen, fifteen… on a date, took her to the cinema — really only meant to get her close during the scary bits, but I got so into it I forgot about her.”
“Bet that really charmed her.”
He laughs, soft. “Yeah.”
“I was thinking that when you suggested the whole deal — I’ve never really been to the cinema without a slip up the skirt in mind.”
“Yeah, it’s like — when you’re that age, it’s dark, it’s loud, and it’s not at home, so—”
“—Prime for a shag, exactly.” He barks a laugh, and they exchange a look of mirth. “Is that what you’re suggesting, hm?”
2-D doesn’t shoot back with a quip or a grin as Murdoc had expected, worrying his bottom lip, he turns back to the looming screen. “No.”
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Murdoc spits, somewhat disarmed by the sudden stilted air between them. He draws a knee close to his chest, scowling. “It was a joke, you knob.”
“I know.” He doesn’t look it, gaze firmly fixed ahead; the stolen, teasing glances they’d shared are all but gone.
Murdoc supposes he was due a stroke of bad fortune. Though quite a Casanova, he’s never been able to charm Lady Luck. “Right, then.”
They wallow in the quiet until the credits roll.
“Not as scary as I remembered.” 2D cuts through the tension like that, all forgotten as a smile pulls at his lips; Murdoc’s always thought his mind a sieve of sorts. A lot seems to slip through. “Funny, though.”
“Yeah, not bad, I suppose.” The car comes to life with a purr of the engine — Murdoc already dreads the long line to leave. “A very you sort of film, I’ll give you that for free.”
“What does that mean?” 2-D narrows his eyes, knowing Murdoc long enough that though vague, the words are likely insult-shaped.
“It means what it means.” They’re moving slower than a queue of snails. “There you go. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it ‘cause I like the film. I guess.” Smiling almost to himself, Murdoc watches as he sticks his head out of the window once more. If they weren’t crawling along, the wind would be pulling at his hair. As it is, his eyes flutter shut in the face of the light breeze.
The muffled murmurs of couples and families float from their cars and reach Murdoc. He has half a mind to wind the window up.
Near smacking his head against the car, 2-D turns back to Murdoc. “D’you hear that?”
“Hm?” He cocks his head to the side, dragged back to the here and now. “Hear what?”
“Car behind us was on about a meteor shower near here. A bit further out, but—” He stops short, that godforsaken hope creeping into his expression.
“And?” Murdoc doesn’t play this game; he knows full well what question he’s asking. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“I dunno.” He meets Murdoc’s eyes with a steady gaze. Unsettled, he flicks a tongue out against his lips, though won’t back down first. “We could go.”
The sun hangs low in the sky, half-hidden behind the horizon as the sky blooms like a bruise in purple-blue hues. They’re well on their way to a velvety night; they could very well return to the studio now and brag about their adventures.
Murdoc takes in a stilted breath — he’s been worn down by 2-D’s steady insistence.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs. “Lemme pick up a drink first. Then we’ll find the bloody place.”
Between the trailing queue, this mountain of a day, and the sick hollowing of his stomach, Murdoc feels he deserves a drink or two. It’s not the wild need that rouses him in the early afternoon, but sits at the back of his mind instead, waiting.
Before the yawning gape of the motorway, they stop off at a service station to pick up a couple of beers to share between them and cheap cheese sandwiches.
Though close enough, it’s still just under an hour's drive to escape the city enough that light pollution won’t touch the stars.
Murdoc slides a CD into the radio to pass the time; it whirs for a moment as if thinking before the dark tone of a lone guitar kicks off the album.
Perking up at the familiar song — though only through Murdoc’s insistent music taste — 2-D drums his fingertips against his thigh, humming to himself. Then his voice joins Stipe’s and soars above it, the smile pulling at his lips edging into the lyrics with a playful lilt.
Murdoc’s eyes stray from the road for an inevitable moment; as he drives, he loses himself in his voice, the slight tremor of his low notes and the lisp of his falsetto. He seems to be taken in by the music too, Murdoc notices as he steals glances here and there — eyes fluttering shut, his fingers twitch beside him as they do in the midst of a recording session.
Perhaps, in winning 2-D, Murdoc has made Lady Luck swoon once: in the carpark doing doughnuts in his Vauxhall Astra.
The voice, the face, the eyes — all of it a gift to them both.
As the album draws to a close the motorway leads to smaller roads, then petering out into spindling narrow trails with lording trees and rough gravel up a winding hill. Murdoc chooses them at random and grits his teeth as the wheels stutter over the rocks.
They survive, and though no view is worth his life, this could come close if he were more of a sap. In driving up they’d climbed a sort of knoll dressed in expansive woodland — here, it breaks out into a grassy plain, daisies a summer snow against the green. Murdoc parks the car a metre or so from the ledge, a small cliffside that leads to a death drop.
As they get out, looking down at the fall dizzies him, but the sky does even more so. Here, secluded, the sky is littered with stars which blink down at the cliff as if surprised to see them. The blanket of night stretches above them, beyond the hunched trees that cave in on them and the drop in front of them. If he stares long enough, he could very well fall into the deep hue of blue ink.
With a grunt, 2-D clambers onto the hood of the car, and jerks his head for Murdoc to join him. He follows his lead for once.
“When I was younger my dad would take me and my mum camping.” He takes pause, gaze to the sky. Murdoc tries to picture a boy 2-D and falters at the eyes. “I hated it, like — no kid wants to go sleep in a field for a holiday. But the stars were always nice.”
“Go on, gimme some constellations.”
2-D frowns as if the very suggestion is ridiculous. “I dunno ‘em. I just think they’re pretty to look at.”
“Pansy,” Murdoc mutters, before turning to stare above himself. He steals a glance at his watch, near unreadable in the dim light. “Should start soon.”
He pops open their beers with a practised hand, downing half of his in a swift mouthful like water. Bitter in all the best ways, much like himself. He breathes a long sigh, something light like bubbles floating to the top of his chest; it had felt odd not to have a drink in him, one to ease him through the day.
Considering the circumstances, though, today has been smooth sailing.
He holds the half-empty bottle to the sky, catching stars in its warped glass like fireflies.
With little space across the hood of the car, they’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. Murdoc leans in closer, awash with drink, just for some support against the lightheadedness of fatigue. He makes a good enough pillar, anyhow.
Until he jerks, and the sleep Murdoc didn't know he was slipping into is ripped from him.
"Look," 2-D says, pointing to the stars.
"What is it? Another sodding smiley face?" He grumbles, thrown off by the disturbance.
"Nah, one of the meteors — you just missed it."
Eyes to the sky, Murdoc watches intently for another sign of the shower. After a few tense minutes, there's one more; a streak of green-blue painting the night in the wake of a shooting star like a plane at mach speed. There, and then gone. Fleeting.
"There. D'you see it?"
"Is that it?" Murdoc curls his lip; when he'd thought of a meteor shower he'd imagined being blinded by stars. This was tame in comparison, each meteor lagging behind the other as if trying to catch up.
"What's it? 'Cause I've never seen anything like it."
"But it's all—" Murdoc snaps his fingers as another meteor flies by. "—blink and you miss it."
"Don't blink, then. Keep your eyes wide open 'til they're dry." Murdoc catches another shooting star in the reflection of dark eyes, shining in awe. "See all the good bits you can so you can really remember them when the sun goes up."
And perhaps it's the beer he downed, or this good day that’s followed him like a plague, or 2-D himself with his newfound, easy tenacity that had followed him too.
Either way, Murdoc offers his response in a kiss. He brushes their lips together, more careful than he's been with anything in a long time. For an awful moment 2-D seems to stay frozen until he melts with a sigh, tilting his head to the side to guide him in closer.
The malty, slightly sweet tang of beer on his tongue is familiar; a hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers entangling the fine hairs. Murdoc hums at the gentle touch, and free to explore, places a palm against 2-D's thigh. He thrills when he earns a hitched breath for it and nips at his bottom lip with sharp teeth for more of a reaction. It works.
Chuffed with himself, he grins into the kiss and feels 2-D's lips part in kind. Teeth against teeth and taken by humour, they pull apart.
Murdoc wants nothing more but to drag him back in; the sight of 2-D, flushed and lips parted, waiting, is more than enough.
But the sight of him drags Murdoc back down to Earth, too; as much as he'd like, he can't toss him around like his countless hookups. He always ends up forgetting them.
Murdoc is the first to look away. He watches the stars instead.
2-D takes in a shaky breath, so Murdoc holds up a palm to silence him. The both of them are too bullheaded to come up with any words that won't shatter this fragile moment.
Instead, 2-D presses closer.
Tomorrow, Murdoc will rise to a dim room, trail down to the kitchen to meet Noodle with lunch and hear about all she'd done before he'd thought of getting up. He'll snatch a foul beer for his foul mood and wallow in both upstairs; so it goes.
Tonight, though, he'll allow himself this good day, capture it in his mind's eye before it fades.