#2nuweek

He is, at least at first sight, it seems so. He’s brought to a house surrounded by lush garden. They take off their shoes, slip on slippers and follow a woman wearing a pale pink kimono to one of the empty low tables. The air smells of green tea and sweets, and Murdoc shares words he can’t understand with the woman as Stu takes the time to look at thin doors, paper lanterns and everything that decorates the room.

Murdoc doesn’t waste time with pleasantries and sets some documents on the space between them, urging Stu to pick them and flip through. They have a meeting early the next day and they have to prepare. He won’t be of much help without speaking Japanese, but it’s important that he pays attention to what the translator will say.

Stu relocates the sheets to his lap and squints his eyes at them as Murdoc talks to the waitress again. Porcelain is set with a clink on the table and he looks up in time to nod at her as she bows and walks away, her shoes clicking softly on the floor. He shifts on his seat, a navy blue pillow that matches some decorative vases, and takes his handle-less cup in hand, blowing the herbal liquid before taking a sip. Murdoc helps himself to some crunchy sweets arranged prettily on a plate, but Stu chooses to look at other patrons in-between sips.

He stops, cup brushing his lips as a woman dressed in a deep red kimono stops a few tables away and pours more tea into waiting cups. Dark hair pinned back, she smiles at them and dips forward in a neat bow before turning to make her way to the kitchen. She stops, however, when Murdoc looks up and catches her passing by, calling her by name.

“Murdoc-san,” her smile is more beautiful up close, dimples showing on her cheeks. “It has been quite some time.”

Her English is heavily accented, but it sounds good in her voice. “Back on another trip. This is my associate, Stuart Pot.”

Stu feels a flush creeping down his neck when her eyes settle on him. “A pleasure to meet you, Stuart-san.”

“Ple… Pleasure…”

Murdoc snickers, shares a few more words with her before she takes her leave. He chooses not to tease Stu over it and merely encourages him to reread the documents one more time. Stu chooses to comply, fighting the urge to lift his gaze when red enters his line of sight.

:

It was a stressing meeting. Between having to wait for translation and the tense atmosphere in the room, Stu would have fled it earlier if he had the chance. He hadn’t and sat through it quietly, taking notes and setting his pen aside when he caught himself drawing geometric patterns on the corner of the pages. Murdoc shouted at Stu with all his pent up stress shortly after the meeting was over, murderous glare keeping him rooted on the spot, cigarette stuck between his lips, stalking away and leaving curses in his wake. With a lot of free time and nowhere specific to be, and lunch hour approaching fast, Stu walked down familiar streets towards the tea house from the previous day, hoping the tea and sweets could ease his worries and stomach until Murdoc cooled down, showed up and offered to translate menus in restaurants.

The woman from the previous day is sweeping the porch, now dressed in a floral kimono. She stops her task, gripping the broom with both hands gently. “Stuart-san, was it?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, rubs at the back of his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”

“You can call me Noodle,” she smiles, apologetic. “I apologize. We are closed today.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I was wondering if I could…” He looks at the garden. “Sit around for a bit. It was a stressful morning.”

Noodle perks up and nods. “Of course. We have seats on the back porch. Please, follow me.”

The inside is much quieter today. Other workers clean up the space, smiling at him as they pass, and Noodle opens the door to the porch, bamboo wind chimes swaying in the wind that ripples the water of a koi pond, littered with colorful petals from nearby flower bushes. She waits until he’s sitting and returns to her job, and he’s content sitting there, watching the fish swim in circles, wind in his hair.

Stu doesn’t know how much time passes and opens his eyes with a start when a hand touches him on the shoulder, light. He must have fallen asleep, grins sheepishly at Noodle and she tilts her head minimally, offering him a cup of steaming tea held by delicate fingers.

“Murdoc-san called,” she says quietly. “He could not find you at the hotel.”

He sips the tea, unsweetened. “What did he say?”

“He wanted to know where you were and asked me to keep an eye on you until he comes.” Noodle places a plate of food in his sight. “Are you hungry? I made these for you.”

Rice balls. They have a specific name, but Stu can’t remember it for the life of him. “I didn’t bring any money.” No point in carrying cash around when he’d need Murdoc to translate things for him in the first place.”

“It’s on the house,” her smile brightens and he picks the food to chew at it slowly.

Noodle sits by his side, both their legs dangling from the pouch. It’s a warm day today, and the heat makes him sleepy after he’s done with his food. Stu sighs through his nose, fighting down heavy eyelids, doesn’t jump when a head rests on his shoulder, though his heart does a startled jerk in his chest. She smells of flowers and tea, a good combination that fits Noodle rather well.

“Where are you from?” Her voice is a whisper, dancing in his ears and making him relax.

“England,” he says as clearly as he can, leans his temple on hers, closes his eyes. “Have you ever been there?”

“I have not.”

Noodle was lounging in the living room in sports bra and shorts, fanning herself with a pamphlet of a nearby tourist spot and unsticking her back from the couch. Ace was the only one seemingly unbothered by the heat, fully dressed and alternating between finding their suffering funny or feeling pity for them.

That had been hours ago, though, and now under the dying light of the sun, freshly showered with hair still damp, 2D sits by the fire outside, plucking at the strings as Russel goes back inside to tend to dinner and Ace takes his turn in the bathroom. The summer heat isn’t as oppressing anymore and the growing flames don’t really bother him, flickering and dancing as they spread around the pile of wood. Noodle doesn’t say anything when she sits by his side, putting away her acoustic guitar for a moment to snap a picture of the sunset before joining him.

She follows his pace easily, predicting the notes and together they play some nameless song. “2D,” she says later when they stop to flex their fingers. “What do you think of doing a live? We don’t have to say anything, just let our followers appreciate the music and scenery.”

“Sounds fun,” he agrees with a shrug and easy smile, and two minutes later Ace becomes their camera man.

Ace does speak with the followers, gives them a brief intro, and the duo only acknowledges the camera with a nod and wave and go back to playing some of their own songs. Russel comes back to set the table and Ace is there, filming the food and letting the drummer proudly describe his personal recipe of summer salad to the sound of Slow Country.

It’s easy to tune them out as they sit side by side on stools and soon 2D is singing, the lyrics of Don’t Get Lost in Heaven and Demon Days being carried by the wind, making blades of grass sway and blowing away harmless embers. Their eyes meet and they smile at each other, fingers moving deftly and transitioning to another song, the familiar vibe of their third album sounding in the air around them.

Empire Ants comes and goes, leaving shivers on their skin in its wake, Noodle filling in for Yukimi as she’s done sometimes in the privacy of their home. On Melancholy Hill takes the breath away from their lungs and forms knots in their throats, they choke on the words and give up on singing, Ace recording everything from the other side of the campfire where he’s drinking his beer. Noodle doesn’t join 2D as he sings broken, content to play and watch his mouth move around the words, his throat work to get the notes in the right pitch.

Russel stops them for a moment, shoves bottles of water in their hands and tells them to take care of their vocal chords. Some sips of water and a quiet conversation later, they move on to To Binge and this - oh, this is how 2D wishes they could have rehearsed this song years ago, him and Noodle together sitting on the shores of Plastic Beach, backs turned to the clutter of trash, facing the sea and the sparkling water and the sun dipping into it, turning everything red and yellow and the shades in between.

It’s easy to get lost in her eyes, too, as they look at one another and sing this duet, fingers moving with practiced ease over the strings, the melody cradling them. Noodle looks at him with so much love in her eyes that he doesn’t need to hear her say the words to assure him, but they sound wonderful in her voice, whispered in dimly lit rooms when they’re curled together, brushing fingers over exposed skin.

“There they go,” he hears Ace say, distantly, in that half-dismayed voice of his, setting the phone down on the table, held upright by one of Russel’s dishes. “In their own little world again.”

A good world it is. He doesn’t know when the band will have a break again and until then, until he and Noodle are free for a while to travel and do as they want together, all they can do is ignore everything else in moments like this, forget the rest for blissful minutes and pretend it’s only them, them and their music and their love, young but strong and blooming, growing with each passing day. 2D can write endless songs about her, about what they share and how he feels, enough songs that he can release a new album and its B-side by the end of the year. She makes him want to try his hand at drawing, so he can capture her smile with his own fingers, but he settles for a picture and kisses instead.

To Binge is over. Russel ends the stream before they can as much as put down their acoustic guitars, not that 2D is paying attention to any of it, too engaged in the silent conversation he’s having with Noodle. The flames dance in her eyes, skin aglow, cheek warm when his hand touches it, thumb brushing over a cheekbone, fingers curling on her hair and pulling her closer. He can almost feel the phantom sensation of cold metal on his skin, gold glinting under the stars, but the band is carefully kept in his bedroom, waiting for the right time.

The kiss is soft, chaste, a simple press of the lips that is enough to convey what he feels. She smiles into it, hand at the base of his neck, palm over his beating heart, fingertips tracing collarbones. He pulls away, lids parting open, lips curling into a smile of his own. With a last peck they separate fully, stand and walk back to the cabin to place their guitar away, pinkies interlaced in the space between their bodies.