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I.
2D stirs, his own discomfort rousing him from sleep. He pinches his eyes shut against the light shining in from the tall windows of Murdoc’s bedroom, twisting drowsily in the pristine white sheets of his bed. He senses a figure at his side suddenly, dark and looming. 2D compares Murdoc to a phantom for this and receives a huff of laughter in return. To Murdoc, it is 2D who has always been slightly otherworldly. 2D sets his jaw, steels himself against the tremors he knows are coming. Murdoc puts a palm to his forehead, running it along the side of his face to see if he has started sweating, or if this is just the natural sparkle of his skin. His hand comes away dampened. It’s time for a pill.
2D listens to Murdoc’s footsteps as they fade down the hall. There’s probably no use in trying to trace his trajectory, unfamiliar with the upper levels as he is. Part of him still tries.
Murdoc had essentially confiscated his already dwindling supply, deeming him incapable of administering his own medication. 2D didn’t argue. How could he, really? They’re getting along better than they have in years, and all it had taken was a near-fatal overdose. 2D had had a few close calls before - “little ones,” his mum would call them dismissively as he gradually built up his monstrous tolerance. None in a while and never any on purpose before this latest occurrence. If Murdoc is aware of the nature of his intent (as 2D suspects he is), he does not call him out on it.
Instead, he is “unwell,” generally. “Infirm,” when he is tearful and listless. “Sick,” when he is being difficult. He tries not to push his luck when Murdoc uses that word, lest he disturb the strange peace that has overtaken the island. The man at the centre of it has become softer, more somber. 2D thinks it must be his imagination, but even his drinking seems to subside a little.
He hears him speak in a low rumble to the cyborg outside the door now. Apparently, his hair could do with a wash. Murdoc asks her to run a bath. Nice.
Since he stepped foot on Plastic Beach (not of his own volition, mind), petty squabbles for control had increasingly dominated both their lives. The Incident had been his final bid, 2D supposes, and when he’d failed, Murdoc had swooped in to claim his prize. Surprisingly, this does not overwhelm 2D. If anything, it’s kind of relieving - like it was so often in the early days of the band. The defining factor, he reckons, is that this must be a hollow victory. There is no gloating to be had - even for Murdoc.
II.
Whenever resentment roils up within him, 2D likes to attribute Murdoc’s kindness to remorse. He imagines Murdoc feels guilty for bringing him here, for mistreating him, for all the wrongdoings he cannot bear to put into words. He knows it’s not true - this is not how Murdoc deals with regret.
Murdoc had actually done something more in-line with his usual fare the night after everything went down. Voice choked, he had fed 2D his fantasy line for line during a particularly drunken episode. 2D had sought refuge in faked unconsciousness, long ago having resolved never to trust the liquor. If he chose to believe that he had been speaking from the heart in that moment, then he would also have to believe every other cruel thing he’d spewed while similarly inebriated countless other times. Besides, he thinks, there is a difference between feeling bad and being sorry.
No, Murdoc does not feel bad, 2D reminds himself. Rather, he is placated. He cannot ignore the fact that he has made himself a much more cooperative ward. At first, there is only so much to be done about it. He is exhausted, his body having taken a hit from his time underground even before he overwhelmed it with chemicals. As the days pass, though, he becomes more and more precious about his own dominion, reclaiming it and trading it back in pieces. There is still a silent power struggle couched in their burgeoning dynamic, he realises. It should exhaust him, but amidst the boredom of recovery he cannot help but find it thrilling. He protests in little ways the more he regains his strength, turning his nose up at food, in particular. He allows himself the perverse joy of making Murdoc really work for it, sometimes. When he catches the glint in his eyes, he reckons that it must keep things interesting for Murdoc, too.
Much of the time, however, none of it is an act. One day, after hours of unrelenting nausea (or anxious refusal - it can be hard to tell even for 2D sometimes), Murdoc comes to him with a mug of broth and a pipette. 2D registers, not for the first time, that he should be mortified by his own vulnerability. He is, in many ways. The very word “pipette” is humiliating, but he lets Murdoc cajole him into drinking from it all the same. However reluctantly, he has to admit that it helps. Control becomes consent, and 2D offers it to Murdoc as a reward for his efforts.
Years later, 2D will come across a stray kitten, dirty white and wriggling like a little worm in the parking lot of Kong Studios. Utterly charmed, he’ll scoop the poor thing up and take it in, show it off to his bandmates so that they can all coo over it together. Sitting in the kitchen, he’ll find himself feeding it formula through similar means. The situation will remind him of something he won’t quite be able to put his finger on until later, when the thing is milk-fat and sleeping soundly against his chest. He’ll squeeze the clear plastic tube absentmindedly. The memory won’t be harsh, nor particularly fond. Like many things he has had to come to terms with in his life, it will just be. Nourishing the little creature just then had made him feel protective and peaceful - paternal, even. He’ll wonder if Murdoc ever felt similarly, or if he just felt powerful.
For the time being, it is 2009 and 2D finds himself restless in the dark of night. Murdoc lies like lead next to him, no doubt enjoying a death-like state of somnolence. If he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, the sound of waves crashing turns into the sound of passing cars on wet asphalt. 2D pretends to be back in his bedroom in dreary, rainy England. For once, the illusion falls short. Brow furrowing, he tries to convince himself that it’s better there, that he wants for nothing else. If he decides he wants to exist at all, surely home is where he needs to be. He tells himself that there is nothing for him on this island.
And yet…
III.
Forgiveness comes in fits and starts, knocking the wind clean out of 2D every time he tries to subdue it. Eventually, he relents. He is tired of feeling it swell so painfully in his chest when he is hurting enough already. The more he tries to hide it, the more he tells on himself, it seems, and now Murdoc is suspicious. He wants to poke at him some, tells him (in his own way) that he is worried about infection.
Brusqueness belies anxiety. Capitulation announces itself as the theme of the day.
He goes limp on the bed, goes elsewhere in his mind so that Murdoc can take a look at his arms and legs uninterrupted. He rubs some sort of salve on the strange geometry of their scabbing. This, too, goes unnamed.
2D floats from thought to thought passively until a piece of reading surfaces insidiously from the recesses of his mind. Something about how animals - especially primates, if he recalls correctly - have been known to scratch and bite themselves in captivity. He remembers feeling a lump in his throat when he’d read so long ago - maybe even for school - about how they tear out their own hair, kill each other out of boredom and desperation.
Like lightning, there is a flash of anguish, then tears. They roll down his face silently while something fearsome and loathsome and unnamable builds within him until he is shaking. Murdoc withdraws, confused, thinking he is sore, that he must have touched him wrong, somehow. 2D shakes his head, cannot look at Murdoc’s face without wanting to rip it off. There it is. Rage.
The chains. The wavering light. The conditions of existence. 2D speaks nonsensically. He is whispering, scared.
Murdoc doesn’t know what to do with that, hates it when 2D starts speaking in tragic riddles like some sort of long-dead Romantic poet. Wordlessly, he puts his kit away. He leaves the room out of deference to 2D’s unnerving grief before it can become his own, takes a smoke break out on the beach.
The feeling takes its course, mercifully, and 2D calms. He stares at the ceiling until it is like nothing ever happened. There is a stickiness under the fingernails, though. Skin has broken again. He sighs, then rolls his eyes. Even to himself, his disapproval feels performative.
Murdoc returns not long after, clutching a beachcombing find in his hand for 2D. He believes it is likely a tampon applicator that the sea has twisted into some sort of flower. 2D wrinkles his nose up at it and is startled by the genuine laughter that escapes him. It does not cease until he is red in the face and gasping for air, teary-eyed now for a completely different reason.
2D buzzes with endorphins as he is patched up this time, dizzy and exuberant. He admires Murdoc’s lack of squeamishness. He appreciates his humour and how his footsteps had hesitated before reentering the room, as though he had paused to listen for a moment. Forgiveness does not kick the door down in this instance, either. Rather, it settles into 2D, a ball of warmth radiating from his chest and pouring into the rest of him. It soon becomes so hot that he breaks into a sweat, knows it is time for another pill soon.
IV.
Oftentimes, when 2D dares to open his eyes in the mornings, it is only because Murdoc is offering him half a tablet. He kisses it off his palm on days where the pain is such that he cannot speak. He hopes that the gesture conveys gratitude - affection, even. Despite it all, he is still his mother’s son, and he’s never exactly been very good at dropping any sort of habit. Murdoc watches him carefully, water in hand, waiting for the brief window during which the nausea abates. 2D’s body remains floaty, unreal, uncooperative as it recalibrates. His will to live comes and goes similarly, so he leans into it.
He leans into Murdoc quite literally to get around when he is like this. There are teasing quips and sarcastic jabs, sure, but no real vitriol behind them. 2D is grateful for their predictability, and for the sturdiness of the older man’s frame as the world around him spins. As always, he perks up when Murdoc announces the bath is ready, focusing on what is to come as he is chaperoned on an arduous journey to the ensuite.
The tub is made of some sort of metal, dark and round and wonderfully warm. To 2D, it smells like blood. When he had mentioned it to Murdoc last time, he hadn’t meant it in a bad way. He imagines it is a womb, enters it as if he has never been born at all and hopes to come out of it feeling pure. He hadn’t disclosed that bit. As Murdoc helps him into the water, he notices the faint smell of peppermint. There is a tea bag clinging to his leg. Murdoc must have thrown it in to offset the smell. Thoughtful.
Murdoc lathers his hair first, talking idly so as to distract 2D while he eyes the protrusion of his spine. He feels his ribs through a washcloth, swipes his thumb into the tender spot under his jaw discreetly. 2D knows what he is up to. He tries not to think about what Murdoc must see, tries to convince himself he did not just hear a grunt of dissatisfaction, tries to quell a nasty spark of pride at his lack of progress, at the manifestation of his self-control. If he truly is “sick,” then this has been a semi-latent illness for some time. These ideas form an awful whirlpool in the pit of his stomach until Murdoc lowers him down to rinse. With his ears below water, he is at peace once again and can simply lie there and smile, basking in the attention.
Murdoc lets him soak for a while as he nurses the rest of his rum. Eventually, the water stills completely. Something about the sight reminds Murdoc of those fancy glass paperweights with the flowers trapped in them. He downs the rest of his glass and sinks to his knees at the side of the tub. Delicately, his hands breach the water as though its surface might shatter. 2D sighs dreamily as ripples dance across his chest. Murdoc mutters something complimentary, probably dirty, judging by the way he laughs. He is careful, still, as he gets straight to the point and fondles 2D. Gently, he lifts up his cock, pinches his foreskin, squeezes his sack. He’s examining again, 2D chides, though it is fond. He rubs a finger over his asshole, not prodding, just touching. 2D closes his eyes, flushed and humming. Soon, Murdoc will bring him back to bed and bury his cock in him, fill him up and get him off so he can drift away to a dreamless sleep for a couple more hours. When he awakens, he is grateful for the oblivion, however brief.
V.
Spiritually, perhaps, there is an emptiness that does not quite dissipate. There is a lamp in the corner of the room that does not work. 2D stares at it often when Murdoc isn’t there, when it becomes the only other vaguely human-shaped thing in his vicinity. It curves elegantly up from the floor, earning its place simply by being nice to look at. He relates to it, more to its “object” status than its “aesthetic” qualifier, though Murdoc often tells him he is plenty nice to look at. He latches onto the praise, but does not believe him. 2D sees his reflection in distorted streaks of colour in the lamp’s chrome stem and thinks about being dragged across the pavement all those years ago, how there is metal in his head, too. Murdoc has always had an eye for these things. Maybe he should believe him, but he just doesn’t want to think any more about his proclivities. Well, who would he be to judge, anyway?
The man is resting next to him now. He takes Murdoc’s hand in his, playing with his fingers. He likes to consider how musicians are shaped by their art. The coastline takes erosion whereas the body tries to build itself back. This makes him feel alive, vicariously. There’s a favourite callus on his left index finger - the thickest of them. Now, here’s something he knows he’s good for. He runs it over his lips, only half feigning absentmindedness, then takes it in his mouth, tongue swirling around it. Soon, Murdoc is pumping it into him elsewhere, and 2D swears he can feel the rough pad twisting inside of him, probing him where is softest, most sensitive. He comes twice that day, thinks about how the body builds itself back in between.