Work Text:
They were getting old.
It was nothing new. Nothing surprising. It was inevitable. That was the beauty of being human—aging and changing, learning and experiencing. It was natural.
What didn’t change, however, was Gorillaz. Their dynamics, their voices, their principles, their messages. They were very firm, had been for years. The most that ever changed between albums was whether Murdoc was in prison or not and Noodle’s hair style.
2-D had been thinking a lot lately. He was glad that Murdoc wasn’t here to say something snarky about how he “didn’t know he could to do that” or something equally unhelpful, because 2-D was feeling especially down right now.
With his age—and with the band’s age—and a new album on the horizon, he’d been thinking a lot about himself. 2-D. Who he was. He didn’t get much room to think about that sort of thing, except back during The Now Now when Murdoc was gone. But he was older now. Things were better. At least a little bit.
And so, he thought about himself for once. What was his favourite colour? Probably green, ironically enough. Did he have any hobbies outside of music? Well, he fancied himself an artist every now and then, but Russel called him more of a doodler than anything.
And the most damning question thus far had to be: Do I like who I am? Who I’ve become?
He found himself unable to find an answer.
That bothered him. Quite a bit, in fact.
He looked down at himself. At his long, lanky figure. At the blue hair he could catch in the corner of his eyes. At his bony, aged hands.
He should have an answer. He’d been the same person since 2001. The same archetype. The pretty-boy singer with a brain the size of a pea and a kind heart. That was him.
The thought sat wrong with him, sour and unsettled. It had always been easier to accept the version of himself everyone else seemed so certain about than to question it. But now, with the years behind him and more still stretching ahead, 2-D suddenly felt conflicted.
Maybe he didn’t like being the pretty boy. Maybe he didn’t like that he was a 'boy' at all. Maybe he was a little jealous of Noodle sometimes, and the pretty clothes she wore. Maybe he was a little jealous that Murdoc and Russel were better at being men than him. Maybe he was upset that everyone knew he was a “him” and never stopped to think he might be something more—or something less. Something in between, maybe.
It was a little pathetic to just now consider after fourty seven years, but now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop.
He’d always felt wrong. Like someone pretending to be a man, dressing up as one and acting as such more than anything else. But thoughts like that got you called a “poof” or a “fairy” or a “faggot.” And when he’d finally grown up and been given a chance to try adulthood on his own, and maybe give those feelings a little thought, Murdoc had crashed into him and taken that away too.
So he sat there, staring at his chipped nail polish, and his slim figure he’d always been a little insecure over, and his soft face. And he felt good. He felt right. Because he wasn’t a “he.” Not really, anyway. He was more of a “they,” wasn’t he?
They threw their covers off at the revelation, hopping out of bed quickly and padding—carefully—down the stairs.
Once they reached the kitchen, where the rest of the band was lounging about, they suddenly felt their initial excitement and clarity drain.
Everyone looked over to them. Expectantly, obviously, seeing as how they’d just burst into the room out of nowhere, and rather aggressively too.
They cleared their throat awkwardly, stiffening a little under the others’ gazes and scuffing their foot against the floor.
“Um, hi guys,” they said, walking over to the fridge.
Noodle raised an eyebrow, popping her Go-Gurt tube out of her mouth and staring. “Hello, 2-D. What are you doing?”
Russel chuckled. “You scared the shit outta Murdoc, man. You should’ve seen the way he jumped when you ran in here like that.”
“Did not!” Murdoc yelled. “I got a cramp, you oaf! Hurt like hell, I tell you!”
Russel shook his head.
“Sorry, Muds. I just came down to get… water.” 2-D hesitated.
“You sure about that? Sounded like a question.”
2-D nodded. “Mhm. I’m well thirsty.”
They grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, cracked it open, and took a few big gulps like they were trying to prove just how thirsty they were.
“Calm down, mate. The water’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“It might. You don’t know what water does in its spare time,” 2-D countered.
“It stays in that container all day, that’s what it does, you numpty,” Murdoc grumbled.
“You can talk to us about anything, 2-D,” Noodle said gently. “You looked very eager when you came in. Was something on your mind?”
2-D took another small sip, shrugging.
“The silly sod probably got worked up over a butterfly outside his window or something,” Murdoc muttered.
'His'
It stung.
Not because they minded being called a he. It didn't define who they were. It was normal. No one would think otherwise. But they wanted people to understand—to acknowledge that they weren’t rudimentary. That there was something else beneath the surface. Something not quite male or female. Something bittersweet and perfect and comfortable.
They must’ve looked hurt, because Murdoc added quickly, “I was only joshing ya. No need to look so sour.”
2-D nodded, swallowing.
“Okay, seriously, man. What’s wrong?” Russel asked, setting down his plate and walking over.
2-D could feel their eyes well with tears. They were nervous, confused, and even in the presence of the least judgmental people they knew, they still felt like they wouldn’t understand.
Soon, all three of them were huddled close. Well—maybe not Murdoc. But he was about as concerned as Murdoc could stand to be.
Russel placed a firm hand on their shoulder. They flinched slightly. They could feel their eyes burn with the effort of keeping the tears from falling.
“Seriously, Stu. What’s going on? Talk to us.”
Tears spilled over as they stared at the floor. They brought their shaky hands to their face, scrubbing furiously at their eyes. They hiccupped, holding back sobs and letting the tears fall silently.
Russel pulled them into a hug, and 2-D cried harder.
“I—I’m not right, Russ,” they choked. “I just wanna feel good. I wanna be happy with myself.”
Russel held them and listened. Noodle and Murdoc looked helpless, unsure of what to do.
“Let it out, man,” Russel said softly. “What do you mean, ‘not right’?”
2-D’s crying slowed. They pushed out a shuddering breath.
“I—I’m not a man. I don’t want to be a man anymore. It’s not me.”
Noodle’s eyes widened. Murdoc’s mouth fell slightly open.
Russel held them back gently by their shoulders, looking at their tear-streaked face.
“So… you’re a woman, then?”
2-D shook their head.
“No. That’s not right either. I just… I like being feminine. But I like being masculine too. And choosing just one feels like committing to being something I ain’t.”
Noodle spoke up before anyone else could.
“I think I understand, 2-D." She began gently. "You are not a man or a woman. You are just 2-D! Gender labels do not seem to be your thing. A common term for this feeling would be nonbinary, or agender. People like that are something in between—or neither at all.”
She took their hand gently.
“Would you prefer we try different pronouns? Less ‘he’ or ‘him,’ and something else that makes you more comfortable?”
2-D sniffled softly and nodded. "I think I'd like that."
Noodle hugged them tightly, rubbing their back the way she used to back when 2-D had especially bad night terrors after Plastic Beach.
“Then that is who you will be,” she said. “You are not wrong. You are just different. And that is okay. We love you for you, whatever that entails.”
2-D hugged her back. It was less a hug and more them holding her like a teddy bear, but Noodle embraced it anyway. Russel joined in, squeezing them both.
“Russ! Too tight!” 2-D squeaked, Noodle giggling.
Russel let go with a smile. 2-D wheezed, but grinned just the same.
Murdoc finally stepped forward, having been silent until now. 2-D felt their throat close as he approached. Murdoc didn’t like change—and this was definitely change.
Murdoc raised his hand, and for a moment it felt like the world stopped. Murdoc, true to his word, hadn't hurt 2-D in a long time. But in this moment, 2-D was sure Murdoc was getting ready to smack him upside the head.
But instead, Murdoc clapped them on the back.
“You’ll always be our pretty-boy singer, Dents,” he said, then paused. “Er—sorry. Not boy, I guess. Pretty… thing? Yeah. That works.”
He huffed. “Point is, this doesn’t change anything. You’re still you. What we call you doesn’t change that, mate.”
2-D smiled. “I’m not pretty anymore, Muds. I’m old.”
Murdoc scoffed. “Course you are. Still as pretty as the day I smashed your head in with my bumper.”
It was awful—but it made 2-D smile wider.
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
They wrapped their arms around Murdoc in a bone-crushing hug, lifting him off the floor as they laughed. Murdoc wheezed, stiff as a board.
They made the announcement later that day, finally letting the public know that 2-D wasn’t a man. They weren’t a woman. They were just 2-D. And that was enough.