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"Come on, Faceache, you can’t stay mad at me forever!"
"…"
Those ten words and the total ignorance was something that Murdoc had to go through for the last month.
2D was usually not the person to hold a grudge for long, especially not against Niccals. It often took him just three days of silent treatment and, when he was willing to listen to his offender, a short, gagged out “sorry” would usually do the trick. A simple gift of a sweet that he likes would really hammer the last nail into the coffin if he was particularly pissed. Pot would smile and give Murdoc a tight hug that he would be forced to endure for five seconds at best before smacking him across the face. That always worked. Forced grins, cheap pastry and taking first steps was everything that it took for the singer to buy it.
But having his girlfriend cheat on him with Niccals? Oh how absolutely unforgiving he was.
In a single week after the bathroom incident he managed to have four meltdowns, just screaming at the bassist, throwing furniture, repeatedly attempting to have a fight with him, always failing, but leaving the entire studio a mess after it anyway. Thankfully, the anger soon died down, replaced with misery. He spent days locked up in his room, just weeping on the floor without showers, food, water or any human contact. He went full-in depression mode. This was the point where Murdoc started thinking that maybe he went a bit overboard. He didn’t get the feeling too often, almost never. And that said a lot. He would knock on his singer’s door, asking if he was dead yet, content at receiving a pained groan in return. It was like his frontman was going through five stages of grief.
He was hesitant to actually approach 2D, not afraid, but just knowing that going in too fast and not letting him cool down might escalate things further. So he patiently waited, keeping everything in Kong casual, chatting with Paula about the crybaby occasionally.
That is, before the third week locked in. By that time, Niccals was already struggling to keep his composure. He still had a band to make famous, and he wasn’t willing to wait for months for his pubertal frontman to just get his shit together. So when Stuart finally went out into the rest of the world, after a three-hour-long bath, eyelids stained with red and violet from tears and lack of sleep, an absolute wreck of a man, the bassist was something between relieved, nervous and frustrated. Took him long enough.
Murdoc’s first step was to invite him over a cup of tea. A nice way of saying “I’m tired of your bullshit, let’s pretend I care over a drink and move on with our lives”. Pot simply shrugged uncaringly, accepting the offer nonetheless. Next was pure acting, a skill that Niccals mastered to perfection in his childhood days. After a nice performance of drowning in guilt and sorrow, even shedding some crocodile tears and presenting his singer with an apple strudel, Niccals waited for the tooth-gaping grin to appear.
Instead, however…
"…Sigh."
…
A sigh.
And then he left, walking straight back into his reeking, unventilated room.
The bassist was incredibly confused. Angry. Very angry. But more than so, confused. He still hoped that his singer would soon accept the apology, somewhere in his room, so he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.
He didn’t. But what was worse: this time, he didn’t communicate with Murdoc, at all. No thrown tantrums, no crying in front of him, no murder attempts, not even a single word. A few disappointed glances, a sigh and then nothing, the same reaction to whatever he was shown, even if it was Russel trying to cheer him up. This made Niccals even more angry. He would then be the one to freak out, shaking 2D’s shoulders, yelling at him to just forget it already, slapping him, threatening him, doing everything he usually did to get a reaction out of him.
And instead of a response, a very tired gaze. The one under which anyone would crumble apart, feeling that their problems are rather insignificant in comparison to others’. That one indescribably embarrassing expression that suicidal people give you when you tell them you’ll murder them.
The bassist was really running out of options. They were terribly behind schedule and he didn’t like the rate at which things were going. He started to get desperate.
So he knew that he was going to do something irrational, hot-headed, generally impulsive and stupid when he knocked on Stuart’s door.
The response wasn’t immediate. Murdoc shifted from one foot to the other, unsure, as he listened in for any shuffling or steps. Childhood awarded him with great hearing. Slowly, Pot got up from his bed and made his way over to the door, unlocking and opening it, looking down at Niccals, unamused. Almost bored even. It made the bassist want to peel his skin off, but he tried not to show.
Instead, he mentally rolled his eyes, clicked his tongue and sighed. Now was the time to do something irrational, hot-headed, generally impulsive and stupid.
Murdoc got on his knees and loudly, very loudly and very tiredly groaned, palms collecting the dust from the floor. If this wasn’t going to work, he didn’t know what was.
"I’m soddin’ sorry, okay!? I dunno how to get it through your thick skull, but I really wish I didn’t do anythin’ that day, which is kind of the same as remorse! I jus’ really don’t bloody get what you want from me! How!? How do you want me to kiss your arse so that you feel like it’s apologetic enough!? What do I have to do for you to acknowledge my repentance!? I’ll do anythin’, jus’ quit actin’ like an arsehole!" he whined angrily, gesturing around very actively to show that he’s being genuine. In theory.
A second of silence.
Then another.
And another. Niccals felt beads of sweat form on his forehead and drip onto his singer’s striped socks.
But then, a sniffle. The bassist looked up at 2D, met with him tearing up, covering his face with his hands, already red.
Bingo.
"…I-" he sobbed.
A beat of quiet, then his voice again.
"…I jus’ wanna… feel loved again…"
He couldn’t look back at his bassist still crouched down in front of him. He’d have to stare at his pathetic crying face if he did.
It was understandable. Paula was Stuart’s first proper, long-term relationship partner. They didn’t just spend a single night together for the heck of it, Cracker stayed with him for an enough period of time to call them a pairing, together. It was supposed to be a journey, a wonderful journey, a fulfilling one, a first experience is always supposed to be the best. And then it all comes crashing down right in front of him, destroyed by someone who he assumed he could trust, who he admired, who he might or might not have liked just as much as his girlfriend.
How was he supposed to move on?
…
An idea sparked in Murdoc’s mind. A bad one. A bad, bad idea sparked and caught his attention. A risky bet. An insanely dangerous gamble that could have the faint picture he had gotten together break back into small pieces and make him start the jigsaw all over again. But it was the only option he had available, sadly. It was time for his bad decisions’ long-anticipated sequel.
Niccals carefully stood up from the floor, chin slightly raised to lock gazes with Pot’s, still covered with his palms, obscured, but undisguisedly miserable. His hand rose to rest on his singer’s, sniffles and sobs slowly dying out in his throat in slight confusion. The bassist pulled the trembling, snow-white hand from 2D’s face, red and wet, but not as messy as before Murdoc’s suddenly gentle and no longer scary touch. The two looked at each other. One of them was questioning life choices, while the other was preparing to really regret his. Stuart felt his face being softly cradled, familiar gruff palms cupping it.
"…M-Mudz?" the familiar nickname rang out in the space between them that was growing smaller by the minute. He was acting casual again. Niccals was on the right track.
"…I can do that." he simply mumbled, trying not to sound too freaked out by everything that he was doing at that moment. He was still faking it, his commitment, his intentions. But the important thing was that Pot seemed to buy it.
The gap started slowly closing with the two men’s lips brushing against each other, breath hot on unfamiliar skin. They’ve never really done this before together. Sure, the bassist used his pretty singer for a shag a couple of times, but not like that. They weren’t close like that. Intimate, but in a good way. A slow and soft one.
2D gasped quietly, feeling Murdoc’s hands travel down to his waist. He brought his frontman just slightly closer and before he knew what he was doing, he kissed his singer carefully on the lips.
It was weird. Really, really weird. Niccals had to fight his inner ego not to pull away from him sooner than needed, otherwise it was all over. He had to make his hands hold 2D’s tender skin and not rip it like usual, had to wait for him to finish it on his terms instead of making him fit into the bassist’s schedule. He hoped that Pot didn’t bother to steal a glance at what he looked like, his face something between disgusted, frustrated, exhausted and terribly embarrassed.
But Stuart? Stuart was ecstatic.
After years spent together, especially the last month of his depression, Murdoc was finally not pushing him away, not kicking him in the gut, but slowly pulling him close, tracing his fingers against him, touching him in a way that felt pleasant and not painful. He really needed a replacement goldfish for the time being, just to move on from his failed first time, but never could he have imagined that, out of all people possible, it would be him, him, him. It felt heavenly. As the realisation of how perfect it all was settled in, the frontman leaned into his bassist, cupped his face and moaned quietly into their kiss, smiling. Niccals internally raised an eyebrow, but decided not to question it.
As 2D began losing oxygen, Murdoc already scared that he might throw up right into his singer, the two parted, inhaling sharply to properly breathe, staring at each other in awe, confusion, interest. Mostly confusion on one part, mostly awe on the other. Stuart hugged the man carefully, bringing him closer to himself by his back.
"…A month." he suddenly said.
The bassist stared into the void for a moment. It was a bit difficult to process any words at all when your face was shoved into someone’s throat.
"…A month?" he echoed, unsure.
"…Promise me month of this… and I’ll forgive you." Pot set his cards out on the table, grip strengthening ever so slightly around the stiff shoulders.
Niccals had to bite his cheek to the point it hurt not to sigh in relief. Oh, thank Satan, this was only going to be for a month and not the rest of his life. This was going a lot better than he imagined it would be.
"…And that, uh, presumes you’ll start singin’ fer the band again? Startin’ today?" he asked, trying to conceal the smile in his voice. This was the biggest jackpot he earned yet.
…A beat of silence. Murdoc’s grin faltered. He… didn’t accidentally ruin it, did he?
"…That depends on you." the singer spoke in a mysteriously happy voice.
Before the bassist could process the happening, he started slowly getting pulled into his frontman’s bedroom. Oh no, not that filthy place. Niccals muttered “it’s fer the band” under his breath multiple times before allowing his keyboardist to drag him in.
The moment the door to 2D’s room locked, things immediately started escalating. Like they usually do. That was of no surprise for Murdoc.
But in his burst of dedication to the band… he let Stuart top.
He thought it couldn’t be that bad.
…
It was awesome.
Niccals lay in Pot’s bed, staring at the ceiling, processing what on earth happened half an hour ago. An off-puttingly familiar arm was draped around his waist with his singer’s nose buried in his black hair. It was weird. Everything about it was so weird. Why was everything so weird?
The bassist wasn’t sure what he signed up for a month of.
___________________
Thankfully, the deal was two-sided.
2D went into the recording room the next morning after the event, beaming like a ray of sunshine. On Russel’s question about what happened, Murdoc simply told him not to ask. They were still coming up with simple tunes and motifs, they were lacking a guitarist. But they were doing progress, and that meant the world to Niccals.
In just under a week, they found themselves their last member of the band that arrived to their doorstep by mail. Literally. From that point on, the work on the songs resumed, fast as never before. The bassist couldn’t be more relieved.
Of course, he still had to keep playing his part of the promise. He and Stuart went on a few dates, of course, by the latter’s initiative, they celebrated Valentine’s Day together, did stuff that Pot thought of as must-do couple stuff. Murdoc was surprised to see that his frontman was… happy. Not once did he find him so happy. He acted like he never went through a month-long depression period, like Niccals never did anything to wrong him. The bassist still occasionally picked on him, of course, but with the relationship thing going on between them, it didn’t feel that bad. That serious. That real. They dated awkwardly, all while trying to keep it secret from the other bandmates. They didn’t want them to think that it was permanent, after all.
Just a month.
Murdoc tried to keep track of time, ready to quit the relationship the second he was finished with his condition. But the intense work on their debut album made it all mash into one blurry gap of time, none of the band members knew what date it was, sometimes not even what month, how was Niccals supposed to know the exact day he was supposed to stop dating his singer?
Time went on. And on the twenty-sixth of March, finally, their album was posted.
A complete success.
Interviews, flashy magazine covers, merchandise, even TV broadcasting, Gorillaz had it all. Murdoc couldn’t believe his joy. To earn it, the fame, the recognition, after so, so terribly long. After the humiliation, the ignorance, the sheer hatred, the world was finally his. …Err, theirs. Right. They’re a band.
The four celebrated greatly. Noodle was gifted a few vinyls of bands everyone knew she loved, Russel took the biggest break from socialising in his life, while the remaining two spoiled themselves with a few pubs. A few dozens, maybe. They were rotten rich at that point, it would be simply inappropriate not to waste the money on terrible things. Of course, their drinking spree ended with them sprawled in 2D’s bed, the sun blasting through the small window, both having to cover each other’s eyes from it.
It was quiet. Blissfully so. They were both awake for a few minutes, but didn’t move a single inch.
This was what Stuart had dreamt of his entire life. Waking up with someone you love by your side, hoping that the morning will last eternally, that the day won’t ever start. Holding each other lazily, still half-asleep, half-drunk and half-hungover. He sighed joyously.
"…Ugh..." Niccals let out a displeased noise and shifted in the sheets slightly.
Pot recognised the patter immediately. He reached for the pack of his cheap cigarettes on his nightstand and tossed it to his bassist. He loved knowing him so well, knowing just what he needed on a groggy morning. Murdoc brought a cigarette to his lips, opened his eyes, drowsily flicked his singer’s lighter and took a long drag. A cloud of smoke rose into the ceiling. The frontman shuffled closer to Niccals, resting an arm on his chest. The bassist meddled with the long, bitten on, calloused from keyboard-playing fingers as he smoked. He blinked slowly.
"…2D." he eventually grumbled.
"Mm?…" 2D perked up ever so slightly, not bothering to open his eyes as he buried his nose in the now familiar shoulder.
"When was I supposed to… uh… stop doin’ that, again?" Murdoc lightly tipped some ash into the tray, having to reach behind Stuart.
"Wot d’you mean?" Pot mumbled, peeking at Niccals slightly.
"Stop datin’ you."
…
It’s dead silent in the room for a good couple of seconds. The singer stared wide-eyed somewhere into the wall.
The worst thing of all was that he knew exactly when. Four months and sixteen days before that morning.
The frontman was the only member of the band to have an understanding of time in the first two or so months of album recording. He was absolutely petrified of the day he was supposed to “break up” with his bassist. He had to cherish every single moment spent with him. The odd thing was that, no matter how slightly more depressed he acted on the fateful day, Murdoc didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t mention it, didn’t bring it up in a single conversation. Didn’t stop giving 2D brief kisses when he asked him to, didn’t stop holding his hand while writing lyrics, didn’t stop landing his head on the skinny shoulder when he had to take a break.
He absolutely forgot when he was supposed to stop. He even forgot the fact that he was supposed to stop. Stuart simply had to take the deal.
Alas, what was he to do when he was asked about it?
Murdoc glanced down at Pot in a way that was almost concerned, toned down with suspicion.
"2D. You alive?" he poked his singer’s head with the tip of his cigarette.
"…Um…" the frontman’s fingers fidgeted above Niccals’ skin, as if it was suddenly too sacred for him to touch it.
Before he registered his own words…
"…In, um, a couple o’ weeks, I think." he muttered, hugging his bassist by his waist tightly. "Can’t really… count in the mornin’."
It was a risky bet.
"…Hm. Alright then."
But risk was all about their relationship.
It lasted for a few more years until Russel eventually noticed and asked for how long had this been going on for.