Murdoc stared at himself in the mirror, cutting deeply into his arm. "F-f-fuck," he hissed jerking the blade away quickly. That tore the sink a bit recklessly, and he flinched heavily, dropping the knife into the sink again. "This is wrong. Th-this is just…fuck it," he couldn't finish his thought, as a wave of pain suddenly seized his left arm. He clenched onto it with his right hand, closing his eyes tightly.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes and again settled their mismatched gaze on himself in the mirror. "Go…follow him…should I? Fuck it. I don't know what to do…for once in my fucking pathetic life…"

I don't know what to do.

I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked.

Murdoc pushed his way out of the loo after about a minute of cutting into his arm, punishing himself, trying to will himself to end everything. 2-D stood a little ways away, his back turned to the door, staring out the window. Murdoc felt a sudden pang of – was it guilt? He wasn't very adept at feelings that weren't anger-related. He had an urge to turn back around and never come out again, but that almost-foreign feeling of guilt won over the characteristic selfishness.

"2-D, are you okay?" he asked softly, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible. The last thing Murdoc wanted was for 2-D to go into shock and become a vegetable again. Then the bassist would have to go back to jail and there would be no band.

2-D spoke in a voice Murdoc had never heard him use before. It was – almost hollow sounding, "Yeah, I'll be fine…"

The bassist winced slightly, knowing the singer was lying. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down it to sit, elbows resting on upraised knees. Right hand clenched at the left wrist, tightly, to put pressure on the still-bleeding slashes. "I'm," he paused, unaccustomed to apologizing, "sorry you had to see that, I really am."

The keyboardist's back stiffened slightly. "No, i-it's fine," he murmured, "I'll Just take a bunch of painkillers… an' forget about it… not a big deal."

Murdoc started, "Y-you'll do what?" Since when did 2-D overdose to forget things? The bassist felt slightly ill, not entirely because of his bleeding wrist. "N-no, no, no,no-no, Stu-Pot. That's the last thing you should do, because then this'll bloody well happen again." 2-D nodded slowly, still not facing the Satanist. "Fuck, man… say something…"

After a slight hesitation, the vocalist responded, "I….I just don' understand why. I…but, I won't make you explain it, Murdoc. I don' understand, but I'll jus'…" he trailed off.

Mismatched eyes stared at the singer's back. That wasn't like 2-D. The dullard forgot about things, and dropped things easily, but something like that…."For fuck's sake, Sut-Pot…" at that point, Murdoc was seriously considering standing up, going back into the toilet and slowly cutting his hands off at the wrists.

"But the one fing I don't get is 'at I said, I said you could al-always talk to me, Murdoc," 2-D added, quietly.

"I know, 2-D. But I didn't need to," Murdoc said, equally-quite, "talk. I needed that." The singers shoulders twitched in what the Satanist assumed was a wince – was he really hurting that much over it? Murdoc started a little harder at 2-D's back, suddenly coming to the realization that the vocalist had been pointed in the other direction the entire time.

Sweet Satan, he can't look at me? Niccals, you've really fucked it up this time, haven't you? He thought to himself. A slight pause followed, after which the other side of his internal conversation squinted its proverbial eyes and said, Wait. He can't look at you. He can't look at you. He can't look at you. What the bloody hell does that mean, Niccals? Think about it. What could it possibly mean? He can't look at you. Think about it, just for one second, you sorry old rocker.

Fuck me, he's crying, isn't he?
"Stu-Pot, y-you're just going to have to bloody well get through this, man," Murdoc softly growled, trying to unsuccessfully harden his voice. "It'll screw up the band," he added, without thinking.

The vocalist's shoulders twitched again, Murdoc suddenly realized, through the slowly fading haze that came with self-punishment that it wasn't a wince at all; it was a sob. A sob. A fucking sob. Cutting off his feet at the ankles suddenly looked rather inviting to Murdoc as well. 2-D turned around – the bassist braced himself for the crying that was sure to be there – but the part of his hair that served as the closest things he had to bangs obscured his face. A tinge of unfamiliar guilt, as well as sickness, rose up in Murdoc's chest as he noticed that a small portion of the keyboardist's indigo was dappled with burgundy.

Bassist and singer remained facing each other in silence for a few beats. The latter of the two occasionally would reach up to brush back his almost-bangs, giving Murdoc a glimpse of blank eyes, staring at the ground, accompanied by what seemed to be glitter on his cheeks. The stillness was finally broken. "2-D," Murdoc said lowly, now trying his hardest to soften his voice, "why are you crying?"

The addressed turned back around again and Murdoc could tell he was rubbing frantically at his dulled eyes. 2-D turned around again, this time looking up – but his vacant gaze was focused on the wall above the bassists head. "I'm not," he said quietly.

Murdoc sighed, gingerly taking his right hand away from the opposite wrist He was fairly sure that the bleeding had calmed by then. "Why does it bother you so much?" he asked softly, clashing eyes still staring at 2-D. The bassist understood that the singer was somewhat shocked – and rightly so, that was a right shocking thing to barge in on, Murdoc supposed – but if he and Russel had their suspicions all this time, then what was the problem?

The keyboardist took a deep breath, apparently weighing his options. Murdoc waited; he actually had patience for once. "Because," 2-D mumbled, his voice growing fainter as he continued, "I'd rather if you took out all your anger on me than yourself." He really muttered the last four words or so, but Murdoc understood him perfectly. Understanding what he understood was a different thing entirely.

"What did you say?" the bassist asked, narrowing his eyes slightly, as if that would allow him to hear more effectively.

2-D shifted to look at Murdoc, but he closed his eyes. "I said, I'd rather if you took out your frustrations on me than yourself…"

"No you wouldn't. If I did, you'd be dead," Murdoc responded without hesitation, still staring. 2-D didn't answer to that, but he frowned slightly, his eyes still closed. "2-D," the bassist said slowly, "just promise me something. Never ever ever ever do what I do, alright? It's too hard to stop, too hard to live with. Do you understand me?" He knit his brow in a futile attempt to emphasize his point; 2-D still didn't have his eyes open anyway. "It's not a good habit," he added, silently chiding himself for being a hypocrite.

The singer's blank eyes fluttered open, watching the bandleader with an emotionless expression for a few beats. "Don't worry," he said, timidly smiling. "I won't, if you say so."

Murdoc felt a pang of anger – absolute, unbridled fury – at the vocalist's smile. It was the typical 2-D smile; full of sunshine, "I'm-content-with-the-world", nothing is wrong-type of smile. And the bassist felt an envious sentiment building up within him, because he was absolutely convinced he could never feel that way. He was too smart to be happy – because he thought so much; he knew all the shit that was out there in the world, preventing him from being happy. Since 2-D didn't think enough, he was naïve enough to the utter disgusting nature of human beings that he could feel that way – he could smile. And Murdoc hated 2-D – more than he ever had in the entire five or seven years he had known the singer. He hated him more than anything, more than everything, for just a split second – until he realized that the smile was entirely pathetic. The vocalist was forcing it.

He was forcing it for Murdoc's sake.

He's…

The Satanist nodded dumbly to 2-D, trying to stammer out a thank-you for promising that he wouldn't feel the need to engage in self-destructive acts to muddle through problems. A new feeling was rising in Murdoc's chest. Something he hadn't felt in years. "Th-thank y-y-y – f-fuck," he growled, standing and pushing his way back into the room where he had left his knife.

He was going to cry.

2-D stared after Murdoc as he fled back into the loo. Well, he told himself, at least he's talking to me….

The singer shook his head slowly, trying to clear his thoughts. Whenever 2-D thought to hard, everything got jumbled up together in addition to the fog of painkillers, and that typically brought about a sever migraine. He walked across the hallway and settled himself against the wall, next to the door, where Murdoc had just been sitting. He slid down the wall, resting in a sitting position with his legs bent to either side, crossed at the ankles.

Feeling in need of a cigarette, the vocalist produced a pack of fags, but simply set it on one of his knees, becoming too distracted to pull one out. He frowned slightly, resting his attempted to meditate to calm himself down and to force back the emotions. The initial shock had disappeared by then, and he was suddenly left with an overwhelming feeling of – 2-D didn't even know the word for it. He felt depressed and useless and worried all at once, all at the same time, and he knew that he was going to start crying as soon as one more thought entered his head.

So,2-D sat, frowning, too stressed to even concentrate on meditation. Blank eyes closed, he simply tried to force back the tears, he continuously reappearing image of Murdoc slashing into his wrist, and what he thought was the bassist screaming – or sobbing- through the wall.

The noises behind him stopped after a few minutes, and the door to the toilet opened. 2-D heard Murdoc step out, heavy boots clunking on the floor. The singer blinked his eyes open, looking up to the bassist – who had seemingly been crying.

Unlike 2-D, the Satanist made no attempt to hide his emotion, as unused to it as he must have been. He sniffled faintly, rubbing absently at the lower lid of his right eye with the back of his palm. "I need a fag," muttered, sitting down in front of the door and immediately curling up onto his knees.

The singer's eyes widened and the tears he fought so diligently to hold back were seconds from spilling over. He'd never seen Murdoc cry before. Hands shaking, he set the pack of cigarettes between himself and the Satanist and curled up as well, pulling his legs up to his chest and burying his face in his knees. As he began to cry, everything around him went fuzzy and the fog of confusion moved forth to surround his addled mind, giving a welcome release from the outside world.