#nuudoruu

"SHIT FUCK GOD FUCK SHIT-" The screeching is echoing throughout the entire house. The walk in closet he uses as a writing room is mostly sound proof...so long as the door is closed. Unfortunately at this point it's been kicked wide open as Murdoc rushes out with one hand clamped over his funny little octopus tattoo.

Blood is pouring from a massive lash in his arm, from the looks of it some of the strings of his bass seems to have snapped. The bright pink pick guard is currently stained a gross brownish red, a horrible reminder that despite all of those physical transformations over the years and the assumption of immortality, he still suffers from not stringing his instruments correctly.

The claws don't help.

"Fuck, ooo, that's gonna scar bad..." he sounds disappointed, probably annoyed he's going to need to get something so old touched up finally. Maybe he'll get lucky...or he'll ignore the gash and simply continue on like he usually does.

Albedo didn't know where he ended up and was about to look around for directions before sensing something nearby, as he approached, he noticed someone that looked to be in distress.

He quickly made his way over and was about to use his vision to aid but was caught off guard as he was struck, he was a bit dazed but tries his best not to faint.

His eyes widen a little as he was then led to get on a strange thing and told to hang on, he did as instructed before gasping as the bizarre object began to move quickly in order to get away from their enemies.

He couldn't form the words to speak as his mind was in awe and shock to this fast moving object, he wondering where they were now heading as it seems that there was more to this new world that he has found himself lost in.

zora had been doing some sketching outside a venue, really just trying to process all that they had seen that evening. honestly, it was a wonder that they could use the lights of the street, and the general gazing glow of the city as a backlight for their efforts.

it takes a moment before they recognize that someone else is near them - looking up to see her.

By this time, Murdoc knew well this weekly ritual: Earl Grey, hot, three sugars, with everything lain out in perfect order and set out with the expensive, intricately-painted Japanese porcelain upon the formerly agreed time. Then, all of this followed by him waiting table-side for the approach of she-to-whom-he-owes-an-insurmountable-and-eternal-apology, in order to ensure that her order had been delivered without error before he could be dismissed.

In truth, perhaps a former sort of Murdoc would have waved this “punishment” of his all away. Insist that, come now, it’s all over and in the past, it’s time to pick up from where we left off, no big deal---

And yet, the fallout of that rather… distinct stint at Plastic Beach had left his brain… sort of all wonky. Like even after these few years had passed, he was still, actually, truly feeling (feeling---ugh!) bad about what he had done.

He consistently loathed thinking he was getting soft with his age.

Only when he had actually entered the restaurant had he bothered to look down at his phone which had been buzzing all throughout his short walk here (hey, when a guy was in the zone - he was in the zone.) and as he looked down at the group chat consisting of all of his friends there was a brief moment of dejection as it seemed as though their outing had fallen through - various responsibilities and obligations dragging them away - school clubs, family stuff, part time jobs. Nothing to be too upset about, but even so, it did leave him here on his own.

The initial obvious thought had been to turn around and leave but that idea had been shot down almost at once - he'd walked all the way here and he was just gonna walk out of here with an empty belly...? Awkwardness be damned...! He was a big boy who could handle himself and as he glanced around, he acted as he always did - unthinking, moving for a table that seemed big and only had one other person - if they spoke to him, so be it, if they ignored him, that was fine too.

Of course, there was a bit of nervousness setting in as he settled into the seat next to them and as he lifted up his head, he began to wonder if he'd made the right choice just now.

2D's blind stumble to the kitchen was not helped by nearly falling down the stairs on account of the one sock remaining on his left foot. Baggy sleepwear, mussed hair, and bleary eyes- the very picture of imminent collapse. Vicodin washed down with room temperature orange juice won't fix him, but it will help the hours pass just a little bit easier. A brief gagging session over the sink later and he's right as rain. Still hunched, one hand splayed across his abdomen, he finds himself pondering the moon through the window and how lovely it must be to lay flat on its surface and stare down at earth. That would make a nice song. Maybe in the morning...

That's when he feels the tug. His hand falls away from his stomach and he turns, dark eyes fixed on the familiar small form. He forces a smile, though lines of pain have prematurely creased crow's feet beside his eyes even at this young age.

"Heya, Noodle. What was that...? You hungry or summfink?" He listens again. A second tug makes him understand. "Alright, yeah...yeah, let's...ehm, your room, or maybe down here, on the couch for a while?" He doesn't offer his own. It's a wreck right now- worse than usual. "You know, I'm not very sleepy either...I'll stay up with you."

"Nutrients," he parrots, as if the concept were entirely foreign to him. Her encouragement sparks a little bit more life back into him, lanky legs shifting from where they'd been tucked, ankles crossed. He sets the remnants of the hot pocket down on top of discarded food wrappers nobody's bothered to clean up for days and nods before he finds his words again.

"A-alright. Sounds like you know somewhere good. I think it's been...ehm, a few days." There were some potato chips the previous evening and part of a smoothie in the nebulous 24 hours before that. Otherwise it's been tea, all the way down. The between-album between-tour hellhole tends to send him spiraling into addictive hobbies and obsessions to the point he ignores his own needs. What's lunch when he could replay Resident Evil for the fiftieth time?

He manages a slim smile, then glances down to confirm he's got shoes on. Tied, even. Murdoc helped. He affectionately knocks his head against hers. It's a wordless thanks, but it's just as sincere.

[x]

"Yeah.. enough is plenty. I can make enough work just fine." At least they are trying to make sure that's the case. It's an ongoing effort, but Z is legitimately trying. It's the only thing they can do these days.

The vote of confidence though, is appreciated.