a/n: hello again! i'm back! it's been a while since i actually...attempted to write something for fun, i suppose, so this was a welcome bit of exercise.
i was deeply inspired by swan-scones and her amazing story hopscotch (go read it!). this originally was about sixteen-year-old murdoc and his adventures in a fight club sort of thing run by hannibal but that...has been scrapped. at least for now.
nonetheless, swan-scones inspired me to start writing gorillaz fic again and i absolutely adore her for that. thank you. MWAH.
this is just a bit of flexing my muscles, i guess, to see if i can still write some lovely angsty sadface murdoc. this takes place post-demon days where everyone is sort of wandering about aimlessly, and for the purpose of this story murdoc and 2D are still mucking about in essex before going on their merry ways.
SO! i'm not quite sure where i'm going with any of this but i do like it!
ps. the name means nothing, i'm fucking awful at names, i just sort of slapped something on there. tee hee.
More fucking rain.
It had been like this for two weeks now in Essex- the usual grey cast of the sky had darkened to an oily shade of black, slashed with brilliant streaks of lightning. As another roll of thunder rattled the cracked glass of Murdoc's window, the man allowed his forehead to fall against the glass. He had been attempting to duct-tape the tiny, pathetic window to keep out the rainwater, but the gathering puddle under the windowsill didn't matter to him much, anyway.
He lit a cigarette to lift the chill from his bones. Didn't do anything, really, but it gave his hands something to do. He'd been itchy lately, a strange way to describe things, but even now as the thought drifted into his mind he could feel his fingers twitch impulsively. He looked over to El Diablo in the corner sadly; poor girl hadn't seen action in months, her glorious cherry red faded behind a mottled, death-choked veil of dust.
The band had been broken up for months now. He hadn't let himself process this yet, instead choosing to choke his memory with repeated substance abuse, beating his mind into submission until the only thing he could think was more, more, more.
The boiler exploded to life somewhere beneath his feet and Murdoc started violently, cracking his head against the glass pane. He stumbled backwards and into the toilet, examining the pulpy violet stain burst across his ashen forehead.
Builds character. That's what Hannibal used to say when Murdoc would complain of an injury.
Miserable. That was how he felt right now, the boiler rumbling beneath the floorboards of the shitty studio apartment he hated so much, his stylish cell phone cold and silent in his hand; both he could easily fill with people, pretend to enjoy himself the way he'd been doing for months now. He could smoke and drink and snort as much as his body could handle and burst out into the street, sated and exuberant for a moment before his brain shifted back into place and life came crashing about his shoulders again, quicker than a lightning flash splitting this oppressive English sky.
He blamed his brother wholly for his current mental state. Fucking Hannibal had called that morning from jail, somehow knowing that Murdoc was rolling in insurance money from Kong, and had begged him to please pick up the bail, I promise I'm good for it, blood's thicker'n water ain't it Murdoc, c'mon please Muds I don't want to die in here please please fucking please.
Murdoc had slammed down the phone so hard he had crushed the shitty plastic receiver.
His fingers were shaking again, either from withdrawal or fury, or some hellish combination of the two. Coffee. He needed coffee.
Murdoc shrugged into his plasticky leather jacket and stuck an unlit cigarette into his mouth, turning up the collar as he pushed open the door to his flat and ventured out into the rain.
Murdoc ducked into the first coffee shop he could find on the darkened streets of Essex, a tiny thing with a platform in the corner- for budding musicians, he supposed- and, thankfully, not a soul in sight save for a bored-looking barista.
"Black coffee," Murdoc mumbled into the collar of his coat and the teenage girl eyed him for a moment before nodding. "Mind if I smoke in here?"
"'S empty in here, be my guest," she said to the coffee machine. "There's some performer coming in at 9, though, if you don't mind the noise."
"Nah," he said, taking the warm paper cup and handing her a few rumpled notes. "Uh, here," he said as an afterthought, passing her a slightly-bent cigarette he produced from his pocket. "In case you wanted one too."
She looked up and into the deep-set eyes half-hidden by an unkempt fringe, mismatched, one cornea stained blood-mist red and the other hard, shiny black, like a crow's eye. His stare was piercing and made something in her gut twist, and quickly the barista turned away to rub a dingy cloth over the countertop, clamping chapped lips down on the filter of his cheap cigarette and lighting up with a dainty wrist flick.
He sat in the farthest corner of the shop near the stage, pulling a sodden notepad and half-chewed pen from his pockets. He lit up and took an appreciative drag, blowing a single perfect smoke ring before bending low over his notes.
He hadn't picked up a pen to write a new song in months, just little scratches of a turn of phrase or a scrap of a sentence, fragments that had to be woven together by someone a hell of a lot more talented than he was. Words did not matter to Murdoc and they never had, really, just something spare to twist around the music itself. A pretty bit of jewelry.
Slender, pale hands ran through his oil-slick fringe as he tried to make the words come. They wouldn't anymore, not on command: instead they burst in unbidden, like a few nights ago where he stumbled out of bed, out of some faceless girl's needy embrace, to scrawl the words 'to binge' across the notepad.
Two words.
And to think this mouth of his used to get him into all kinds of shit. He supposed he'd run it dry.
The bell clanged over the doorway as someone entered but Murdoc didn't look up; he flicked cigarette ash off of his paper and began to scribble, pressing so hard that his knuckles bulged from his hands and each letter left a deep scar on the damp paper.
The new arrival ducked into the low doorframe of the coffee shop, swiping his sopping Vans across the threadbare mat sprawled in front of the door. He lowered the hood of his yellow rain slicker, swiped at his rain-splashed face with the sleeve of his flamingo-pink shirt. He clambered onto stage and perched himself on a wobbly stool- delicately, precariously.
Pianist hands ghosted over the neck of an acoustic guitar, searching for notes tangled in the strings, notes to turn into chords to turn into music, something tangible that Stuart Pot could feel between his fingers.
Murdoc looked up when he started to play.
