Chapter Text
Plastic Beach, circa 2010
The thud of receding footsteps was as final as death: harrowing, irreversible. The abscence of sound was worse.
2D had only wanted a break, a day to rest and recharge his vocal cords that were shot from take after take that never satisfied Murdoc. During his time on Plastic Beach, 2D had allowed his body to become an instrument in reckless hands- mistreated and over tuned to the brink of snapping. Yesterday, he had asked for tea, just one cup to soothe the rawness blooming inside his throat. Today it hurt more. Not a lot, but enough. 2D was tired of only being taken seriously when he was angry. He was tired of having to act like Murdoc to get what he needed.
"Well, I ain't doin' it no more, Murdoc!"
They had been arguing in 2D's room for a while now (God knew why Murdoc even came down there at all). As expected, the argument had spiraled and twisted into a series of confessions shot with such vitriol it would make a devout faint.
"Like hell you are!" Murdoc snarled back.
2D cut him off with a gesture to his throat, where the pain had localized from strain and perhaps a sickness from the black mold growing on the ceiling of his room. "My voice is gone! You push and you push, and now there ain't nothing left!"
He was waiting for the fire, for the flame in Murdoc's glare to catch wind and blaze out of control. But it shriveled and died. Murdoc's face instantly sobered. It was incredibly unnerving.
"Gone?" Murdoc's voice was terrifyingly calm. He almost sounded like he cared, which made it worse. He took a step back out of the room. 2D froze. "Well. Then, you'd better take a few days to find it, hm?"
The door swung shut in 2D's face, the loud bang punctuated with the twist of a lock from the outside.
His first reaction was a cold, sharp spike of panic. His eyes, usually lidded with an easy smile or crinkled at the corners when he laughed, now blew wide as saucers. He scrambled for the door and twisted the handle. Locked.
"Murdoc?" he called out, his voice instantly softening. He rattled the handle. It didn't budge. "My voice is fine. I'll- I'll do the take."
Silence.
He could hear his own breath quickening. The air was thinning inside this carboard box of a room. His heart hammered in his chest. A ringing in his ears.
"Murdoc? Don't leave!" He tried the handle again, violently this time, his other hand coming up to pound on the door. It was like hitting a brick wall; a flat sound no one could hear. "I— I don't wanna be down here alone! Murdoc, please!"
He pressed his ear to the door, straining for any sound, any sign of life. There was nothing.
"Take a few days to find it."
"MURDOC!" His voice was sharper this time, tearing from his strained throat. He pounded the door with both fists now, desperate to make noise, to be heard, to not be swallowed up by the sounds of the sea.
"Please!"
It came out a ragged plea.
"Ain't nothing wrong with my voice, mate! I'll do the take! I don't care if I can't sing no more, I'll do it!"
2D spun around, his own gasps for air hitching in his chest. He clutched his shirt, ready to rip open his chest if it meant he could get more air. His eyes darted around the room. Nothing but three walls and a tiny porthole that revealed a dark curtain of ocean and the occasional shadow of passing sea life.
"Please." He was hyperventilating now, the suffocation unbearable. "Murdoc, please. You.. I'll do the take. I'll do.. whatever. I wont.. Don't do this to me."
Not a footstep. Not a creak of floorboards. Not a sound.
This wasn't happening. This wasn't real life. This wasn't real.
2D wrung his hands, pacing, slow at first, then frantic. The finality of this washed over him in growing waves. He paced, stopped, frantic breaths, pacing faster. His throat was unbearably tight. There was a vice around his chest crushing his lungs with the weight of a fallen building. His hands twisted in his shirt, tearing the delicate seamline.
"Murdoc, you bastard! Let me out!" he kicked the door hard. His Converse bounced off the reinforced frame with a hollow sound.
"I said lemme out!" 2D kicked the door again, this time planting his shoe just below the handle, where the door met the frame. That had to make the most noise. "Lemme out! I wanna get out!"
The pressure was mounting. The steam was billowing with nowhere to go, a frantic energy darting about for an exit, any exit.
2D- a man of little temper and gentle soul- doubled over and screamed as loud as he could, a long-sustained note that tore from his inflamed vocal cords like shards of glass. He screamed again, louder this time. He forced his voice out, pushing from the bottom of his lungs, until the sound fractured and suddenly stopped.
Panic flared, white hot and painful in his body. A fiery hot pain flared all along his throat and stretched up into his ears. He clutched his throat instinctively. Reflexive tears stung his eyes.
He tried to speak. Nothing more than a whistle of air, a cough.
"My voice," he gasped. He stumbled back until he felt the door. He was losing himself. His voice might never come back. He loved singing. Who was he without his sound?
He slid down to the base of the door. The heels of his palms found his eyes and dug in deep. He was crying, hot tears of pain from the agony etched deep along the walls of his throat.
What if Murdoc never comes back for him? What if he loses the key and 2D is stuck down here for the rest of his life? He wouldn't last long. There was nothing to eat or drink in this room. He would never see the sky again. Never feel the air on his face again. Never see Russel or Noodle or tell them he loved them.
"Gonna die in this cell," 2D wept bitterly, gritting his teeth against the unfairness of it all. He pressed his hands tighter against his eyes, as if he could force this nightmare out of his brain. "Old goth's gonna forget about me."
Murdoc always knew how to drain him of every ounce of fight. How to rain on the rare sparks of defiance that flashed out of him. How to keep him contained.
He curled against the door, his forehead resting on his knees in defeat. He focused on his labored breathing, the muted colors behind his eyelids, and waited for the turn of a key he wouldn't hear for three days.