AN: I don't own Gorillaz, blah blah blah. Anyway, holy crap, it's been forever since I've posted something on here. But I've been itching to write some more, and here is the result. Tada! Be forewarned, this was pretty much an excuse to stretch my vocabulary, so if it sounds pretentious, it is. XD Also, prepare for incest, coma-sex, and teh gayness. Not much else to say. Enjoy!

Hunger

K.L.V.

What Murdoc remembered best of his brother was his scent.

It wasn't as though the scent was at all pleasurable. It was thick, sickening, foul. But it was familiar, and when Murdoc was younger, in a world filled with cruel uncertainty, having something familiar was a hand of relief pressing a cold rag against his forehead.

And when Murdoc continued concentrating on the thought, trailing down the hallways with torch in hand, more would surface from the chambers of his dark, dank mind.

He and Hannibal had been ushered into a world that was constantly at odds with them, constantly bearing its weight against them as though to press the wind out of their lungs for being part of the extra fat of the planet—unneeded, and easily dismissed. In this sense, they knew that—as being a part of the bottom rung of the societal ladder—they only had one another to rely on, barring their own flippant father, as he couldn't care less about their existence. But the acidic blood of the Niccals family pulsed through their veins, refusing them the simple grace of enjoying each other's company—or even anyone's company—in a friendly, non-hostile way. The world was a threat, and when it pushed, it needed to be pushed in the opposite direction, and in a much fiercer manner.

However, it was this hostility that soon made them completely dependent on one another.

Murdoc could not remember when it had begun, where it had begun, nor under what circumstance it had begun. He simply recalls that it had come to be a ritualistic thing, and it seemed as though he and his brother had engaged in these rituals since the day he had been dropped in the Hell that is Stoke.

When Murdoc became old enough to raise his fist, he was determined to plant it on Hannibal's face in the hope that he could destroy the frustration that seemed to follow him like a shadow, and Hannibal more or less did the same. And it was never that they were the immediate objects of each other's displeasure. Usually, their emotions would become dulled to a point over the course of time—over the course of many miscellaneous insults they faced every day—and they had to use that point to pierce something—to show how much desperate hatred they felt.

But somewhere along the line, though, they found that fistfights weren't enough to keep them composed. It wasn't sinister enough to spite the disgust they had for themselves, and toward this world that had cast them aside.

An idea bloomed—Murdoc was never sure who had conceived it—that there was more they could do to cast themselves further into the oblivion and relinquish them from their feelings of inadequacy, if not for a few moments.

It only happened in the night, when the rest of the creatures had lain their heads down and their dreams drifted off lazily elsewhere. In the night, Hannibal's arms would become an encasement—a coffin of flesh—ensnaring Murdoc, trapping him inside. Yet Murdoc didn't mind being trapped. Where he and Hannibal had known nothing but spindles of anger and hate, which only weaved a tapestry frustration, they came to the conclusion that if they could transfer that anger and hate into some sort of carnal rage—something easily understood, easily translated—they would be able to better handle it. They had tried everything before this, and nothing worked. Punching at the air helped only a little, but in the end never does any good; they needed to actually be able to make contact and shatter the bone in order for it to truly count.

It was true, yes, there were other places besides one another in which they could find oasis. But they knew each other's true natures—knew best how to irk and please one another. Between them, there was an unspoken understanding that this was for the good of both of them. No one else would be able to comprehend such a heinous thing. They weren't fucking because they were in love, or anything of that nature. They were hungry—starving—for something, trying to find but not knowing properly how to wanted but they could not have. And when they realized they really did have nothing and sanity was but a fraction from slipping away, they decided what better way to handle the situation than to indulge that nothingness, to be perverted exhibitionists to the petty void? Pretty much give the middle finger to a stifling emotion that might become depression? In a brutal world, they filled the gaps with even more brutality—more disdain, physically manifested. They refused to be caged in mourning over possibilities that would never be. They became masters over themselves, over their insignificant feelings, over the emptiness that constantly filled their lives.

And the fact that it was such a sick and damaged relationship made it all the more dangerous and bittersweet. Living on the edge of the razor was something that appealed to everyone in the Niccals brood.

Murdoc could recall how Hannibal would always lay him on his back and take him from the front. The smell—the taste—of his breath and tongue as he would crush his lips against his in order to stifle those little moans that were so forbidden—so taboo—and yet which continually sparked his brother's arousal. His body would concave against Murdoc's smaller one, skillfully rendering the other brother useless as he pressed down on him. At times he became like a worthless sex doll that Hannibal could artfully manipulate with his callused hands. It was like he was molding him out of clay—crafting him to be the perfect tool of desire and malice for the ministrations of their sexual sins.

It was as though Hannibal would actually become hunger itself, and in offering his body over to Hannibal, Murdoc would be able to quell that hunger, and he, too, would have his hunger quelled by extension. They were each other's masters, but slaves to salvation constantly beyond their reach. But by dragging himself deeper into the pit of depravity—losing himself in the illicit—Murdoc could find temporary, but nonetheless sweet, release. Normally, sex did nothing for him besides distract him for a few moments.

With Hannibal, it was something else entirely.

Neither had anything to lose nor to gain. In one another—for mere moments—they would plant seeds of resentment and rage and see a flower of relief briefly bloom in the empty cavities of their existences, but then it would be gone. And they would return again and again to attempt to reclaim that fleeting emotion.

And neither seemed to get their fill, nor would they. Life was harsh and barren—it offered no fruit to those below. And it made the brothers starve.

Murdoc could not remember when exactly, but he could clearly remember the bitterness he felt when Hannibal faded from his life. The sting of the realization that things would never be the same again. It was a sudden change to which he felt he would never be able to adjust. Even if they never really loved one another, one could count on the other to know just how to take away the unwanted pressure they felt so often. They at least understood what had to be done. It had become a familiar necessity, like breathing and eating. It was like snatching away the bread and wine that made his own flesh and blood.

And so Murdoc attempted to quench himself with the great sea of women stretched out before him, as was the norm with any other Niccals. Why let the feast spoil?

But it was not the same. It was never the same.

When he was finished and he knew he should have gained ten pounds of pleasure, it felt as if he had lost weight. He became more hollow, and despaired. Again and again he would try to find something to eat, but he only tasted sand. These counterfeit baubles with pretty lips and long hair and soft breasts—though appealing to the eye—were simply empty space he could fill for a span of time. None of it was real or solid. None of it made as much sense to him as when he would be stretched taut against his brother's skin, losing himself to the enduring madness that was his life. Madness was sanity, and none of it existed in these silly porcelain dolls that offered themselves carelessly to him. They did not understand, and he felt that none of them ever would.

His hunger would only grow each day. He had given up the hope of finding an equal to his brother's wonderful sickness that flowed through him and dove into occupying his time with other things. And so the icy hand of Fate proved gracious, rewarding him for his patience during his endeavors.

Into his life came a hetero-chromatic visage. Tall, lank, with an unimaginable shock of azure hair sloping over the skull. Always, at least one strand was out of place, but it was as though it had purposefully been made to be imperfect, as if to set the formula for his very being. Imperfect, but pretty. Pretty in that brainless sense, though at the time being, this brainlessness had taken the form of a coma.

But nonetheless, this new bauble was to Murdoc's liking. At first he had had no choice in the matter, but soon he felt as though this one would be worth keeping—worth cleaning and polishing, his meticulous hands creating a stunning Angel from worthless tissue paper and macaroni bits.

It could not talk back to him. It could not leave him. The lifeless doll soon became a useful conversational partner that he always kept at his side. Murdoc had always a knack for speaking to himself, as he was the only one who cared for what he had to say; he felt, at long last, someone was finally staying put to listen to him.

Though it did not understand, it was more to him than the other mindless baubles he had encountered over time. To him, those baubles had been lifeless—they would speak to him of things of which he hardly cared. They would insist they understand them, but refused to understand him, for they knew nothing of what he truly wanted.

But he could just imagine that this doll knew more about him than any other, and that was why it listened. It knew about what it was that made him tick. He was a kindred soul, the way that Hannibal had once been.

After a while, Murdoc became exquisitely acquainted with his new bauble. He was always voracious with desire, and speaking for his silent companion, it told him that it, too, desired release. Desired something more than the prison it was trapped in. That it wanted to cast itself into the deep oceans of nothingness, just like its master. And Murdoc would entertain his pet's wants, as they were his own. He felt it knew what was going on inside of him, and their pain would become the sweetest of pleasures. He would wrap himself tight around the other as he slipped inside, as though if he did let go, he would be swallowed up by the darkness and he would be left alone. Always soundless, the other did not object. But in this soundlessness Murdoc knew that he was needed, and he needed in return.

Of course, it always intruded on his mind that once more he was bordering on insanity by giving in to his impure whims.

And it made him smile.

And for a time, he was content. More content than he had been for a while. The pieces were still shattered—the picture still made no sense—but he felt as though it was all attempting to shift back in to place, making the bits whole again.

But yet again, something that brought him comfort was to be snatched away. It was another painful memory to recall.

When his bauble broke, it—rather, he—was no longer quite heterochromatic upon his awakening, but instead held depthless, black eyes, forever unchanging. They were eyes that had been borne from carelessness. If not for the eyebrows over them and a gap-toothed smile, emotions would never be prevalent on that face. And indeed, his other features compensated for the stillness in his eyes. He was constantly smiling and laughing, tripping, falling, doing things without the strings that Murdoc had attached to him in his slumbering state.

It annoyed him to no end.

He had found an ideal replacement for Hannibal, and it was gone now, substituted with an errant fraud.

Murdoc could remember that he had come to name his pet 2D—an ironic name that somehow, the other had never come to fully grasp. And 2D was always eager to please. Eager to demonstrate his full capabilities for his master's sake. He would lie on his back and beg like a dog, barking at Murdoc's command. Never complaining, never yielding. It was not the same as Hannibal, who had held the same rage and hunger as he did, thus creating a perfect circle of understanding between them; nor the bauble he had constructed in his own image, who had given him space to displace his anger and doubt into its vessel.

But it would do.

They could be doing anything at all when Murdoc would make a gesture with his hand or use his smoldering eyes to hypnotize the other into doing his bidding. He was always the one to make the silent announcement that it was time to dance once more. And when they did, he insisted that the choreography be perfection.

Perhaps this was his way of paying homage to his brother. In ruthlessly dominating 2D, writhing beneath him, he was mirroring what had once been done to him—a pantomime of his dear departed desires. Yet the one who had taken up his own position could not understand the vast darkness in which Murdoc wished to envelope himself. He was pressing deep into someone who could not understand his distortion. It was like pushing against a pathetically crumbling wall; it did not drive against him with the same ardent fervor that he always carried within him. Still, 2D served convenience; Murdoc needed a distraction from the falling thoughts always plaguing his mind, and 2D always offered himself up to him so willingly.

Maybe he was simply wishing that something would happen—that the shards would all snap magically back into place. That he could repeal his deformed status and find a reflection of himself that he could embrace. A reflection that knew how to dissipate the fury and knew how to generate a loving glow.

He was reaching out to 2D, hoping to find the match to ignite the candle of lost familiarity, but there was nothing to grasp.

There never had been, and there never would be.

He would come, but he felt he had not accomplished what he had wanted.

He wanted it all to be perfect.

But it was not.

And he would lie on his back and drift into memory. To a time—though he could not understand it then—where he was happy. Happy bearing bruises and happy bearing the pain that would eventually lead him to nirvana. At the time, he couldn't appreciate that he had had something that could fill him—something that would allow him to touch what was hidden in him. Now, he had to make due with poor stand-ins. Now, he had to accept that he had further complicated himself. He was perplexed beyond belief when he considered the evil growing ever-larger in his ribcage—wondering at how it had gotten there—and was desperate to find a way to dispel it from his insides.

2D would only have a sliver of a voice when they were finished with their business. Never would he forget to ask if anything else was needed of him. He would curl against Murdoc and warm him like a radiator, though Murdoc was never appreciative of such a heat. It was the kind of heat that yearned for another heat similar to its own, and Murdoc had no fire to provide.

At times, 2D would begin to cry, though he remained silent as he did so. When Murdoc would notice, he was always reminded of a stone-carved Angel in a graveyard, blank of expression, its perfectly-sculpted cheeks streaked by a fresh rain. He always managed to retain his features in such a way that he thought he could deceive Murdoc from knowing the catastrophe he was experiencing.

The catastrophe of giving, but getting nothing in return.

The catastrophe of loving, but receiving only scorn.

The catastrophe of falling ever deeper into a sadness as deep as an ocean of tears.

Murdoc knew this, but he knew nothing could be done.

2D walked in a realm of light where happy Angels floated and graced his cheeks with feathery kisses, and when bad things did happen, it was cause for deep sobs and tissues to wipe away the wetness. Murdoc knew nothing of that realm. He only knew of the engulfing emptiness that held no remedy. He was a creature from the dark, only surviving through pandering to the Seven Deadlies, filling time with repeated actions that held no meaning.

Murdoc knew he would never again find something that would stave the undying void in the pit of his stomach.

He knew that he would walk the world alone, forever hungry.