Work Text:
The thing is, it’s impossible to work and live with the same three people for almost thirty years and not know them as well as you know your own body and soul. The only person that Russel has ever known better than the three people he’s currently sharing a cramped Mumbai hotel room with is Del, and he doesn’t think that that’s really a fair comparison because Del literally lived inside of him. Noodle and 2D and Murdoc only metaphorically live inside of him, but sometimes it feels like pretty much the same thing.
(Del has also been gone for longer than Russel ever actually knew him, exorcised off to the afterlife in 2002. His three bandmates haven’t gone anywhere, or at least whenever they fuck off out of Russ’ life they’re never gone for long.)
LA and the Last Cult feel like a distant fever dream, even though they only left that all behind a few weeks ago. They’ve been skulking around Mumbai trying to keep a low profile while they wait to see if anyone is actually looking for them after all that cult hubbub, so they’ve ended up in some pretty hole-in-the-wall places. Like the hotel they’re crashing in now, which only had one room to offer the four of them, two twin beds and a little pullout cot.
India has actually been pretty nice, a good change of pace—good food, good people—but Russ is aching for a nice comfy bed. 2D and Noodle have each claimed one of the twins and conked out, and Murdoc is futzing around in the tiny bathroom, and there’s no way Russ is risking his bulk on the flimsy pullout, so he’s sat out on the narrow balcony in a little plastic chair, drinking in the night air, resigned to a sleepless night. He’s used to it—the ghosts in his brain don’t always let him rest, so insomnia is an old friend. And as much as he’d enjoy his own cushy suite with a nice bed and maybe some room service, there is something almost nostalgically quaint about sharing a tiny, shitty room with the whole band.
He leans back in his plastic chair, peeking his head inside the room. Noodle took the bed closest to the balcony door, and the evening breeze ruffles her short-cropped hair. She’s wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt over boxers, and there’s drool pooling on her pillow from her open mouth. She looks exhausted but relaxed, comfortable. He smiles affectionately at her sleeping form, letting that nostalgic feeling weave its way into his thoughts.
Of his three bandmates, Noodle’s by far the easiest to love. Russel wouldn’t quite say that he thinks of her as a daughter, but he doesn’t not think of her as one. She’s certainly the closest thing he’s ever had and probably ever will have to a daughter, but the problem with thinking of himself as some kind of dad to her is that then he has to face the fact that 2D and Murdoc are also kind of her dads, and he doesn’t care for the implications of that. Easier to think that she raised herself and he was just there for it, which in a lot of ways is true. If any of them had properly taken on the job of raising her, they probably wouldn’t have let her wander off alone to Japan when she was eleven years old, that first time the band broke up. And maybe things would have been different if she hadn’t gone off alone, if Russ had packed her things with his and taken her back to his parents’ house or somewhere nice like that, and really been a proper dad. Maybe things would have been better.
Too late for all that now. Seems like things have worked out for her anyways; she’s always been the best of them. He tries not to feel too proud about how she’s turned out because he knows he doesn’t deserve any credit, but he still feels a warm swell of something nice in his chest when he looks at her and realizes just how whip-smart and competent and happy she is these days.
Yeah. She’s easy to love. Impossible not to, really. The two of them have a sort of unspoken kinship within the band, too, both a bit shunted off to the side in the face of 2D and Murdoc’s… whatever the fuck their deal is. Publicly they’re really the faces of the band, 2D as the frontman (or frontperson, now, Russel supposes) and Murdoc because he’s never seen a limelight he didn’t want to be in the center of. Russel’s not too bothered—frontman status has never interested him. You don’t become a drummer to be a face.
Privately, too, 2D and Murdoc have always been so wrapped up in each other’s orbits that it’s pretty much impossible for anyone to poke through the weird bubble of them. Russel’s probably come closest, out of everyone who’s ever known them, and if he’d really wanted to he probably could have wiggled his way into their weird codependent eternal courtship twenty-five years ago when things were just getting started. But he didn’t want any part of it back then and he feels like he’s dodged a bullet or a dozen ever since, by not being directly in their line of fire too often.
So he and Noodle stand on the edges of the thing that is 2D-and-Murdoc, and are probably the better for it.
2D, meanwhile, should be easy to love. They’re a pretty nice guy, all things considered, and don’t really mean anyone much harm. They also snore like a motherfucker—Russel can hear them from halfway across the hotel room—but even that’s a bit endearing.
Unfortunately, they’re also the single most fucking punchable person Russ has ever met.
2D exudes a sort of simpering patheticness that has grated at Russel ever since he first met the kid back in 1997. They’re nasally and bumbling and also a bit full of themself, in the way that only someone who’s been on the cover of magazines for their entire adult life can be, despite the fact that they can’t seem to string a proper sentence together half the time. Russel’s not a complete asshole—he knows 2D’s brain damage is a real and serious thing, and he tries not to be annoyed at them for the things they can’t control. The clumsiness and the forgetfulness and the things that seem to have just left their brain entirely even after being carted around to several specialists—tying their shoes, basic math, left-and-right, that sort of thing. It’s not so much those things that annoy Russel, anyways. It’s the complete obliviousness, 2D’s stark refusal to acknowledge any problems, that really makes Russ want to pick them up and squeeze them like a chewtoy.
He used to a be a little rougher with 2D, back when he was younger and stupider. They were all younger and stupider and rougher a decade or two ago, and while Russ doesn’t feel great about the times he picked 2D up by the neck and shook them around like a wet rag, or that time he tripped them on Venice Beach, or some of his other less-kind moments, he still doesn’t think he was entirely unjustified.
In his least charitable moments, Russel wants to shout that he was in a coma, too, as a kid, for longer than 2D ever was, and he didn’t let that ruin him. He knows, intellectually, that that’s not fair. That the accident that sent 2D into their coma was different than Russel’s possession, and that no one's recovery from that kind of thing looks quite the same. But at least Russel has been fucking trying all these years. He moved on from having Del ripped right out of his own soul even though it broke his fucking heart. He locked in, learned how to keep a fucking handle on things so that he would stop passing out in a possessed fugue state in the middle of a recording session or a concert or behind the wheel of a car. He still sees ghosts and demons at the edges of his vision all the motherfucking time, doesn’t ever really know which ones are real and which ones are hallucinations and if the distinction even matters. Sometimes the paranoia gets so bad he can hardly think, can hardly breathe, but he still moves through the world like a goddamn adult. It’s not like he’s straight-edge, but he’s never gone hard on booze or pills the way Murdoc and 2D have. He’s always kept himself sober enough to have a firm grip on his mind and on his powers. He hasn’t always been alright—he’s been pretty fucking not alright a lot—but he’s always dealt with it.
It doesn’t feel like 2D has ever even tried to deal with their issues.
They’re 47 and still popping pills like they’re 20. And sure, Russ gets how they ended up here—they probably need to be taking something for the migraines and the dizziness and the eye pain and whatever else is wrong with them—but every time Russ has so much as suggested that they might have a real problem they’ve waved it off with their general air of being entirely unconcerned and only half-present in the conversation. The first few times Russel had to stick his fingers down 2D’s throat to stop them from accidentally OD-ing themself to death, it took him hours to come down from his adrenaline-fueled panic, the very real worry that this person he cared about was going to die right here, right in front of him, and what would he do if 2D’s soul took up residence in his head, and would it be worse if they did or if they didn’t?
Saving 2D from themself has become so routine over the years, though, that now it just pisses him off. He knows that 2D will never wake up the next morning and acknowledge just how bad things were the night before.
The pills aren’t even 2D’s worst vice, though. That award goes to the way that—no matter what fucking happens between them—2D always ends up running back to Murdoc, not with their metaphorical tail between their legs but with it fucking wagging, always the good dog begging for more, as though Murdoc isn’t the whole reason that 2D’s brain is all mush in the first place. When Russ is feeling charitable, he can acknowledge that Murdoc really did a number on them. Probably gave them proper Stockholm Syndrome, and that’s not really 2D’s fault. But after twenty-five years it’s hard to feel sorry for a person who keeps running right back into the arms of their biggest bully, like watching someone keep running straight into a brick wall and eventually giving up on patching up their broken nose.
Despite it all, though, he does like 2D. He’s never had a sibling, but he thinks that if he did have one, a real fuckup of a sibling, he’d feel for them the way he does about 2D. A little protective, even if they maybe don’t deserve it, and affectionate despite himself. Really, when neither of them are at their worst, they do get along pretty well. 2D can be a fun hang. The biggest thing that has stopped Russel from properly throttling them over the years, though, is knowing that that’s something Murdoc would do, and there is nothing in the world that Russel wants less than to be anything like Murdoc fucking Niccals.
If Russel ever ends up in jail, it’ll almost definitely be because he finally snapped and offed Murdoc for good. Honestly, the fact that he hasn’t done it yet probably says more about him than the fact that he’s been tempted. Russ can grudgingly admit that, over the years, Murdoc has gradually become slightly less of an oily green shit-stain upon humanity, so really he’s probably missed his chance to kill the guy and be justified in doing it.
Still. It’s not like he hasn’t come close a few times.
More than twenty-five years with his bandmates, and Russel can confidently say that he loves Noodle. He can even say that he loves 2D, despite wanting to shake some sense into them half the time. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say he loves Murdoc, though, even though the guy has crawled up inside Russel’s skin and made a home there, same as the rest of the band. He definitely doesn’t like the guy. But he doesn’t think he hates him, either, not honestly. Like a shitty dad or some skeevy uncle, Murdoc is a part of Russel.
He is also, unfortunately, probably the person that Russel understands best in the world.
Noodle is smart and capable and has been grown-up for years, but Russ will always think of her as a kid, in some ways. And even as an adult, she’s… different than Russ has ever been. She’s had a wildly different life than his—never had a normal childhood, or even really a normal adulthood. She’s a supersoldier and a superstar and something that Russ admires but can never truly understand. And 2D, for all their flaws, is smarter and more capable than some people give them credit for, and has lived a life that’s oddly similar to Russ’. The matching comas, the dangerous thrill of being chosen by Murdoc in their early twenties, brains that don’t work quite right—even their freaky eyes are almost the same. Still, 2D exists in a world of clouds and smiles and pills and denial that Russ could never touch and wouldn’t want to. He’s about as different from 2D as two people with weirdly similar lives could possibly be.
And then there’s Murdoc. Sometimes, it feels like Murdoc is the only other adult in the band, or at least the only other person who understands what’s really going on. Noodle has grown up with Gorillaz’s bullshit—she’s literally never known anything different. And 2D lets it all roll off their back most of the time, like they’re some kind of oiled-up duck. But Russ sees it all, and Murdoc sees it all, even if he’s usually the one responsible for whatever bullshit they happen to be steeped in. Sometimes Russ will catch Murdoc’s eye, really just stare at him for a minute, and without even needing words Murdoc’s gaze will say, “Cheers, mate, I know this is all some fucking bullshit, and can you believe we’re still here and breathing? The universe really shouldn’t let us make it out of this one, but here we are, and what can you do?”
And Russ will hope his gaze conveys something along the lines of, “Fuck you, man, I hope the universe makes you pay for all of this someday,” and Murdoc will give him a solemn nod, and that will be that.
They do a lot of silent communicating, the two of them.
They do communicate with words sometimes, too, especially if they’re both drunk and in a decent mood. Like tonight, in the seediest late-night bar in Mumbai, where they’ve both ended up because the hotel room was too damn hot and stuffy, and 2D and Noodle were both snoring up a storm.
Murdoc is on his third or fourth glass of something dark and boozy; Russel is sipping at his second Kingfisher beer, which he’s taken a liking to since they arrived in Mumbai. They’ve been drinking in relatively companionable silence for the last half hour. Murdoc has truly been on his best behaviour since they got to India—Russ hasn’t seen him this quiet and pensive and unobtrusive since he got out of jail post-The Now Now and was doing his best to earn back his place in the band. Of course, he ruined that good-behaviour streak by shooting 2D up with something he called a truth serum in the middle of a highway, and then followed that up with all of his cultish delusions of grandeur, so Russ isn’t dumb enough to think that Murdoc is going to stay this quiet and well-behaved. But he can enjoy the lull while it lasts.
“Y’know, you’re a right arsehole, Russel,” Murdoc says suddenly, which in Murdoc-speak is nearly a compliment.
Russ nods vaguely, a silent right back atcha, man.
Murdoc lifts his glass in a sloppy cheers, and Russ returns it, clicking their cups together and each taking a deep swig.
“Feels like you’re starin’ right through me with those creepy eyes, mate,” Murdoc muses, resting his glass against his chin and looking up at Russ from under his fringe. His bangs. The older Russ gets, the less he can escape the Britishisms. “What’re you thinking about in that big ol’ dome of yours? Share with the class?”
Russel only grunts. If he’s learned to read Murdoc silently, then Murdoc has done the same. Makes him feel a bit naked sometimes, knowing that Murdoc is reading his silences so easily.
“Feelin’ nostalgic, I guess,” Russel says after a moment. “Twenty-five years of Gorillaz, eh?”
“Bloody hell,” Murdoc says, and takes another swig of his drink. “Are we really that old, Russ?”
Russel tactfully doesn’t mention that Murdoc is almost an entire decade older than him, and just nods into his drink.
Murdoc continues to peer at him from under his bangs for a more few quiet moments, as though he’s searching for something, then leans back in his seat and says, “Never did understand why you’ve stuck it out all this time, y’know. 2D and Noodle, knew they’d never leave me, not for long anyways, but you? Always figured you’d call it quits eventually.”
Russ grunts again, somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed. “Yeah, well.” He sips at his drink, sets it down on the sticky little table between them. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”
Murdoc snorts out an unflattering laugh. “Is that it, then, eh? You’re my keeper?”
Russel scowls. “S’terrible job,” he says.
Murdoc is right, though. It is strange, really, that Russel has never left. Or has kept coming back. He likes to think that he’s not as pathetic about it as 2D, that he’s come back to the band on his own terms, but he has come back, every time. Even after Plastic Beach, which was probably a mistake.
But someone does have to keep an eye on Murdoc, and keep him from taking the hold he has on 2D and Noodle too far. That’s what Russel likes to tell himself, anyways, that he’s stuck around all these years to protect them from Murdoc.
“Eh, yer not wrong. Reckon you’re the only thing that’s kept me on the straight and narrow this whole time,” Murdoc says, sounding disturbingly genuine. If this has been Murdoc on the straight and narrow all these years, Russ doesn’t want to know what a truly unchained Murdoc would be like.
But the truth of things is more complicated, as the truth always is. There is a part of Russ that’s stuck around to protect 2D and Noodle, sure, although Noodle has long since grown out of needing any kind of protection, and 2D seems happy enough where they are. The truth is that Gorillaz is as much Russel’s band as it is any of theirs, and he’s never been willing to give it up just to get away from Murdoc.
The truth is that when Murdoc kidnapped him all those years ago, he should have left right away, should have caved Murdoc’s skull in with one fist to the face and run and never looked back. But despite all his sleaze and his cruelty and his ugly mug, Murdoc has always had a strange sort of magnetism that makes you want him to choose you. And a young Russ—in a new country, freshly possessed and directionless and friendless except for the ghosts in his head—had felt wanted and needed and appreciated when Murdoc had chosen him to be his drummer. So of course he’d stayed, and by the time he realized it was a mistake, he was in too deep. He was hooked, on the music and the lifestyle and the potential of Gorillaz, and twenty-five years in the potential somehow still feels endless.
The truth is that Murdoc is talented. He’s a talented bassist, and a talented lyricist, too. Sometimes, Russel wonders what people who only know Murdoc through his lyrics must think of him. Because Murdoc’s lyrics are good. Not just well-written, though they often are that, but also good as in kind. Meaningful. Murdoc has things to say about the world, is the thing. About the planet, about war, about just being fucking good to each other. Which is such a joke, coming from someone as rancid as Niccals, but maybe there’s some part of Murdoc that does want to do something good in the world and the only way he knows how to do it is through what he writes for 2D to sing. Russel isn’t sure he’s willing to give Murdoc that much credit, but he doesn’t know how else to match the lyrics to the man who writes them. He doesn’t truly believe it’s all sardonic irony.
And the truth is that Russel isn’t the nicest guy, either. He looks like a saint standing next to Murdoc, but in any other band he’d probably be the asshole. He’s untalkative and gruff and has a temper and he roughs up people who annoy him. He’s proud, too, and too proud to really admit how much of an asshole he can be.
And even if none of those truths mattered—it’s too late, anyways. Russel’s fifty fucking years old. He’s slept with plenty of people over the years, even dated a handful of them, but never had any kind of serious partner. Which is fine—he’s never been that into romance, or even that into sex, really. And he has friends, sure, people he’s met all over the world, touring and collaborating. His parents are still alive, too, back in America, and he visits them sometimes and sends them money and keeps them comfortable. But what would he do, if he left the band now? Really? Go back to America and live in his parents’ basement? Who else would he turn to, who else does he know well enough to build a life with them?
He’d be alone, really, and after all of these years he’s still fucking afraid of being alone. When he was still just a kid, he lost every friend he had, all at once, and even now he can’t do that to himself again.
Because that’s the real truth, the real ugly truth that’s so simple it shouldn’t be this hard to face head-on. His bandmates are something like his family, sure, but more than that they’re his friends, and in a way doesn’t that matter more than family? He doesn’t deserve the pride he feels when he looks at Noodle; he’s an asshole who sees a funhouse mirror version of himself in 2D and it pisses him off; he wants to fucking kill Murdoc sometimes, with his bare hands. But they’re his friends, really, at the end of the day, and while some of the worst days of his life have happened with Gorillaz, most of the best days have happened with them, too.
“Cheers to that, then,” Russel says finally, after a silence that’s gone on for far too long. “To keeping you on the straight and narrow.”
Murdoc looks surprised for half a second, then smiles, just a normal smile, a genuine smile, not a sneer or a smirk. He’s been doing that more here, in India. Just smiling. Maybe his good behaviour will last a good long while here.
Murdoc lifts his glass again and they clink, and then Russ offers to buy their next round, and Murdoc offers him a cigarette, and they talk a bit about sitars, which Russ has been wanting to learn how to play and Murdoc swears he’s already mastered. And when it finally gets late enough for the bar to close, Murdoc isn’t even blackout drunk, and they walk the busy nightlife streets of Mumbai with Murdoc’s arm thrown over Russel’s shoulder, and he isn’t even that mad about it.
Russel is pretty sure that a part of his soul died and went on to the afterlife with Del when he was exorcised from him. He’s never felt completely whole since then, or maybe since the shooting, or since the coma, or since forever. But the three people he’s worked and lived with for going on thirty years now have done their best to fill that empty space inside him, and he doesn’t think he could get rid of a single one of them even if he wanted to.
He doesn’t think he really wants to, either.