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He jolted upright in bed as if an alarm had suddenly blared. His breathing was rapid, coming in gasps that weren’t enough like a cornered rabbit under the hunter’s gun.
His eyes darted about frantically, desperate to anchor onto something, anything, but his mind was playing tricks on him. Shadows stretched long and tall in the neon glow of a purple lava lamp on the shelf.
His breathing hitched. He tried to ground himself in the tangible- what his sense could detect: the rhythmic whir-and-click of the overhead fan; his T-shirt clinging with sweat; the warmth of the body beside him.
“Mmmgh,” the other groaned softly, curling tighter in the sheets now pooled around 2D's waist. “Too early, faceache.”
A spark of panic shot up his spine like a splash of ice-cold water. He hadn’t been quiet enough. Murdoc had heard him.
Somehow that made it worse. It made everything worse.
“S-sorry, Murdoc,” he whispered, a gasp catching in his throat right next to the frantic pulse of his blood. “Didn’t mean to wake ya.”
Murdoc’s closed eyes narrowed. Of course he didn’t mean to. 2D never meant to do any of the things that mildly annoyed or majorly inconvenienced Murdoc. The bassist reached out in the dark, searching for purchase to yank 2D back down because sometimes all the sod needed was a push or shove in the right direction.
But his fingers brushed 2D's chest and recoiled from the warm, soaked fabric of his shirt.
"If that's piss, m'gonna strangle you," he growled, but the threat was weakened by his sleep-addled voice. He wiped his hand on the sheets, then realized that probably wasn't a good idea if his assumption was right.
"No, no," 2D promised, a whisper ripped from his lips that suddenly spiked the hairs on Murdoc's neck, and now the bassist was awake enough to register the quickness of the other's breathing. He climbed up on his elbows with a soft groan, glaring into the darkness.
“What're you doing?”
Silhouetted against the purplish light of the lava lamp, 2D looked incredibly childlike— all elbows and knees, chest heaving, hands carding through his hair in erratic motions.
“I— I dunno-" 2D stammered, his trail of thought viciously cut off by a terrible turn of his stomach. He launched out of bed and darted for the door, catching himself on the frame before disappearing into the unlit hallway.
The room dropped into dead silence like nothing had just happened. Like nothing had ever happened.
Murdoc glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand glaring an angry red 2:27 am. He groaned audibly at the oncoming headache. He was too old to be playing wet nurse in the middle of the night.
Suddenly, he heard the bathroom door slam open down the hall.
“For Satan’s sake,” he snarled, kicking off the sheets. He clicked on the bedside lamp because he was NOT about to trip on any size thirteen converses left in the walkway or fall into portals to hell that had shown up in the floor; clearly Satan had come to collect his debt and scared Murdoc's singer in the process.
He saw 2D’s sweatpants crumpled on the floor. The duvet was bunched at the foot of the bed where 2D had kicked it. No blood anywhere, no upchuck, no ghosts, only—
Murdoc scowled at 2D’s side of the bed where the sheets and pillowcase were discolored with moisture.
Not tears, he realized, his scowl softening. It was sweat.
He found 2D kneeling on the bathroom tile, both hands gripping the rim of the toilet like it was a lifeline. His long hair obscured most of his face, but Murdoc knew what was happening by the gagging and sloshing sounds.
Murdoc just stood there, watching, a flicker of something on his face that only the grimy mirror caught and held captive before it disappeared under that dark glare.
He’d seen worse. He’d seen 2D worse.
A tremor rattled through 2D’s frame, and the singer ducked his head lower into the bowl with an awful, wet retching sound.
Murdoc’s chest tightened with something. Not pity. Maybe.
“Told you not to sample that seafood truck,” he tsked with a wag of his head. He could see the muscles jumping in the singer's forearms, could see the agony in the other's posture.
Vomiting meant food poisoning, he assessed in his head with clinical detachment. Or a migraine.
Or portal to hell, he added with a thoughtful nod to himself. Lots of vomiting in The Exorcist.
2D’s skin had taken on an unusual blue tone beneath the harsh glare of the bathroom fluorescents. Murdoc's heartrate spiked. Overdose? But 2D didn’t use anymore. Unless he did.
But Murdoc would know. Murdoc always knew.
“Ngh…” 2D panted, short staccato breaths that cut through the contingencies in Murdoc’s mind. “It won’t sto—"
He slammed his eyes shut against another bout of nausea, his diaphragm doing painfully high summersaults that made him feel like his lungs were shrinking.
It was like drowning but worse because you could breathe, but your own body wouldn’t let you. Like a virus destroying you from the inside out.
He heaved and clutched the porcelain tighter, his blunt nails biting against its rigid surface. Reflexive tears pricked his eyes, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter against the awfulness of it all.
“You alright, mate?”
There was something soft in Murdoc's voice, something that almost sounded like an apology if you bent and warped it enough.
2D shook his head loosely, blue hair swaying around his slack-jawed mouth. He fought the waves of nausea with heavy breaths, his stomach in knots, his shoulders hitching.
Why was Murdoc still here? Why had he followed him? Why couldn't he just go back to bed and wait like the last time 2D had food poisoning?
Because Murdoc didn’t think it was food poisoning.
Time became a weird thing for both men caught in limbo beneath the blue cast of the bathroom's fluorescence. 2D was trapped in his own personal hell: not having the strength to speak or move while Murdoc watched him suffer— which also happened to be Murdoc’s personal hell. (He had two: forced to endure sober small talk with air-headed celebrities, and watching 2D suffer and not having the strength to move.)
“Do you think y'could—" 2D’s voice gave out, and he sighed, giving in. “Just.. leave, Murdoc." His voice was wet. He didn’t lift his head. Couldn't. "Please?"
Murdoc’s jaw twitched. 2D had never wished him away. Through all the migraines, moods, and accidents (all of which were a direct result of Murdoc), 2D had never asked him to leave.
But Murdoc could tell the command took all of 2D's strength, all of his spine.
“Fine, then,” he bit, an awkward concoction of guilt and shame suddenly curdling in his chest. He felt a scowl on his face as he shouldered the door open, and he blamed the early hour, the infuriating bathroom lighting, exhaustion, but it wasn't just those things. It was a violent recoiling from any good-natured feeling like it was an open flame, a recantation of whatever flash of pity had flickered in his chest.
Inside the shower, the warm water did little to soothe the raging torrent in 2D's stomach. He ran his fingers through his blue hair once, then twice, massaging the cheap shampoo into his scalp. The smell of artificial peaches drifted into the humid air. It was almost soothing.
Then, a strange sound echoed from the subconscious depth of his mind.
"He's gonna EAT me, Murdoc! I fuckin' KNOW he will! And you’re— you're just gonna let it happen! And then what?! What happens when I-"
Like a radio station that always went to static, he tuned it out. A rogue stream of water carved a path between his eyes, and he was forced to pull away, just an inch. Just enough to stop the water from blinding him.
He pushed back his hair again, wringing out the suds. The soap splattered on the shower floor.
That hadn't been a nightmare. Right?
Back in the bedroom, it was 2:58 am. Murdoc had tried to go back to sleep, but she wouldn’t take him.
Because that flicker of doubt had bloomed into full uncertainty in his mind, and he honestly didn't know what to do with it. He felt compelled, urged to.. check on him? To call him back to bed? What difference would it make? 2D already told him to leave.
Plus, it wasn't like there was anything for Murdoc of all people to do. Whatever was going on inside of 2D’s head was most likely something Murdoc's presence would exacerbate, not solve.
At the very least he could try, yes, but he wouldn't. Murdoc Niccals was known for brutal rock and roll, sardonic wit, and bass guitars. He wasn't built for domestic, or whatever this was. This was 2D's forte.
Speak of the devil, there he was: boxers hanging from his narrow hips, a black tank top hugging his thin frame, water dripping from the ends of his blue hair. He looked miserable and wet, like he’d been splashed from the sidewalk by a passing truck.
Any other day, Murdoc would have laughed. Tonight, he allowed himself a smirk.
“I take it wasn’t the cod, then?”
He was pushing, prodding, forcing his way back into the rhythm of their banter, but 2D didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He just blinked those large black eyes as if to say, “Does it look like it was codfish to you?”
“Alright, alright.”
Murdoc waved a dismissive hand, but 2D was already fishing around inside the sock drawer, his back turned. Murdoc narrowed his eyes on the other’s form. His shoulders were too relaxed. His posture was too easy.
Maybe it really was just food poisoning from that stupid truck. Mostly likely, it was probably just a nasty migraine. Those were both still plausible culprits for sweating through the sheets and puking up his guts.
As he looked inside the drawer for a bottle of painkillers, 2D felt Murdoc's eyes on his back, but what was he supposed to do, say, "Hey, sorry I sweated through your bed and ran out to vomit in the middle of the night" ?
2D allowed himself a wry smile at the thought. That was sure to go over well with Murdoc.
He shook a few white tablets into his hand, not bothering to count because he rarely did these days. You couldn't put a milligram dosage on what it took to keep all the screws right in his head. He took a sip from a half empty water bottle, washed them down, and climbed back into his side of the bed.
The sheets weren't changed, he noticed, but there was a fresh towel laid over his side, and the pillow had been exchanged for another— a clean one. He reflexively looked up at Murdoc, but the bassist was already looking at him, and 2D's mouth dried.
There was a flicker of electricity between them, but not the good kind. It crackled with a tangible weight, like a beam of radiation. 2D looked away first and busied himself with settling in bed and pulling up the sheets.
"Bad dream, then?” Murdoc asked suddenly, and there was almost, almost, a tender note to how he spoke.
2D flinched hard, and his breathing hitched hard enough to nearly send the water from earlier shooting out of his nose. That panic was back, working its way up his spine like rising ice-cold water.
A burst of sound exploded inside his head.
“I'll keep you here as long as I bloody well like! And you're gonna SING it, and you're gonna LIKE it, or Satan help me, you're gonna-
2D took a deep breath to steady himself, but it shuddered in his chest. He closed his eyes, brows crooked as if he was deep in thought, though he refused to actually think. Not of the consequences, not of the facts, not of the truth.
"Uhm.." He cleared his throat, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled the duvet up over his chest. "No, no, just.. headache. Nasty one. You know how.."
His voice trailed off, but what did it matter? It was just sickness. Food poisoning. Headache. Murdoc should know that by now.
"I know," Murdoc echoed. He reached over and clicked off the light.
By 3:47 am, Murdoc, staring at the ceiling, was too exhausted to sleep. Too conflicted. He knew it was a nightmare that had jolted 2D awake and sent his nervous system spiraling into a panic attack, but what did it matter? 2D was a closed book, written in a sister language Murdoc wouldn't bother to teach himself.
On the other side of the mattress, 2D kept his back to Murdoc, his eyes closed but not sleeping. His stomach had stopped hurting sometime after he'd swallowed the pills, but he kept a hand under his shirt just in case. It eased his mind, so what did it matter?
The smallest part of him wanted to get angry, to summon the strength to yell and blame Murdoc for all of this, but the events of the night had drained him of the fight. He had been worn down to weary compliance yet again.
Their breaths alternated as if they were sharing oxygen. In the air lingered the gentle scent of peaches from 2D's shampoo, the purplish glow of the lava lamp, the whir-and-click of the fan, and the silence of two people who wouldn't admit to the presence of an ache between them.