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"Murr?" Shylock knocked on the door to Murr's bedroom and makeshift study with his knuckles. Lightly. Politely. Unlike many of the people he knew in this day and age, including the bastard who'd been ignoring him for days on end, he had manners.
No response, as expected of a temperamental Western wizard. Shylock had half a mind to turn on his heels and leave; whatever predicament Murr may have gotten himself into, he was more than capable of getting himself out of. Yet, still, he hesitated.
Why was he so concerned about the behavior of a madman? If the roles were reversed, he doubted Murr would even notice if Shylock dropped off the face of the earth for a few weeks, much less pay him a wellness check. But, unfortunately, heartbreakingly, he wasn't quite as blissfully uninterested about the wellbeing of others as his friend was.
"I'll be going then, since it seems you can't even manage a simply reply." Once again, his words were incongruous with his actions, his fingers still tracing the elaborate grooves of the doorknob.
No, he didn't care. He couldn't care. Caring about Murr would only drive him mad. Caring about Murr was a waste of precious time and energy.
Murr was many things: an idiot, a lunatic, a genius. A genius who was probably too lost in the works of a new invention to pay any mind to the outside world until it was complete. His hand pulled away from the doorknob like it had suddenly become a hot iron, and clutched his hand over his heart, twisting the fabric of his vest so tightly it pained him.
He'd made up his mind, he was leaving. And he wouldn't be coming back either, or forgive Murr for this—at least until he eventually dragged his sorry face into Shylock's bar with soot on his hands and a story to tell, demanding a drink strong enough to make him forget for a night, and shed the heavy weight that came with being one of the world's greatest minds.
Not before he could even take his second step away, out came a loud thud of something falling... falling hard. Hard enough to rattle the door in its frame. Shylock froze mid-stride.
Surely, the sound must be loud enough to be the result of a body hitting the floor? It was hard to tell; he'd never sat and pondered the sound a 177 cm man might make when collapsing to the floor before.
After a few seconds, lasting what felt like eternity of silence, a tortured, rattling breath hissed into the air. The hairs on the back of Shylock's neck stood straight on end, and goosebumps prickled over his entire body. What in the world had Murr gotten himself into?
Shylock hurried back to his previous post in front of the door, he twisted the knob, but it was locked in place. He was lucky enough to find that the front door to Murr’s home was unlocked, but it seemed his luck had run out.
Before he made the rash decision to bust down the door with magic, and risk facing Murr's wrath for waking him up during some deep, snoring slumber, he pressed his ear to the door, waiting for another sound.
A cough. A heavy, wet cough that definitely sounded like it was accompanied by the spitting of phlegm, or blood, or both.
Finally, he was ready to risk Murr being angry with him for destroying his property. He steadied himself, barely keeping his legs from shaking, "Invibelle."
While the blast wasn't powerful enough to send the door flying off its hinges, it did the job. The wood around the knob cracked and splintered, until it blew open with a creak.
The immediate vibe the room exhumed was horrid—dark energy sparked in the air like static cling, and his heart jumped into his throat.
"Murr?" Shylock nudged his way through the open door, eyes wide with disbelief. If the figure hunched before him was Murr, it was a version of Murr that looked as though it had been dragged straight through hell and back.
The creature at his feet groaned, and Shylock fell to his knees beside him, straining his neck to try and get a glimpse of face. His hair was very much Murr's, but his body looked broken and animalistic.
Adrenaline thrummed through his veins, and he suddenly became hyper-aware of his surroundings. It was Murr's bedroom, a place he'd been many times, but it was made nearly unrecognizable. The blueprints and sketches for new creations that usually hung on every open inch of wall were torn down, laying on the floor, reduced to shredded piles.
Murr's desk was in disarray, red droplets splattered across a piece of paper that Murr had been writing on, cut off mid-sentence. The pencil lay snapped in half next to it.
Yet the most terrifying discovery he made in that split second, by far, was the floor.
There were deep scratches gouged into the wooden floorboards, splinters of wood left in their wake. Blood was streaked in the rut of them, and dry red handprints painted the wood rust-colored. How long had Murr been here like this?
This shell of Murr was on his knees, curled up with his head hung down so low his bangs brushed the ground, both hands in fists before him, fingertips bleeding and painful with cracked nails from all the clawing.
"Oh, Murr," Shylock gingerly placed his hand over Murr's shoulder, observing his clothes were decently torn as well, "What have you done?"
Shylock could tell by the sound of his voice that he was on the verge of tears. He bit them back. He couldn't remember the last time he cried, or even found something worthy of crying over, but this put such a sour feeling in his stomach that it stung strong as acid in the back of his throat.
A set of teeth clamped over one of Shylock's fingers. He felt the skin break underneath Murr's canines, but his adrenaline was pumping way too fiercely to feel any pain from the bite.
Murr's breathing was labored and hoarse, much like what Shylock imagined a death rattle would sound like. Murr let out a groan, sounding like one of the living dead.
"Shh." Shylock's hand rubbed circles into Murr's back. The blood from his bitten finger swiped into the fabric of his shirt, sure to stain, but that was the last of his worries, "I know it hurts."
To be honest, Shylock had no idea what was ailing Murr, but his friend looked so brutalized, that there was no way he wasn't feeling dreadful at the moment.
"Guh," Murr's gurgles weren't anything close to recognizable words, "Hnng." Shylock tried to decode it anyways,
He did his best to soothe Murr through whatever episode he was going through, "Try and tell me what happened."
Murr sniffled. His breathing was still something horrible, and he was shaking like a leaf, but his noises became less pained. His body tensed up, but quickly loosened, and he locked eyes with Shylock.
Murr looked dizzy, he was swaying as if he were on a sailboat being tossed in stormy waters. His eyes were tinged red, and he could only squint, like Shylock was something too bright to look at.
"Can you talk?"
Murr was never one to be at a loss for words, even in the most dire of situations he'd find some smart-mouthed thing to say, so not hearing a single word from him was truly concerning.
Murr let out a choked, dry sob, punctuated by a hiccup. He looked so confused, and the gaze in his eyes was so vacant. A man with that much in his head couldn't even begin to make that blank, dead expression if he tried.
If there was a balloon between them, it would have popped. Murr dove onto Shylock so fast that he became a violet blur, hovering over Shylock’s body and pinning him to the floor. Shylock half expected for his throat to get torn into, ending him right then and there, his blood siphoned out of his body and mixing in with Murr’s on the scratched ground, dismally connected to this man even in death.
Instead, Murr did nothing. His tight grip on Shylock’s wrists above his head was relentless, but the only thing that moved was a string of saliva tinged red with Shylock’s blood falling in a single drip onto Shylock’s cheek.
"M..." Murr's voice came out in a wheeze.
"Don't strain yourself." Shylock was disgusted with the bodily fluid hitting his cheek, but in such a compromising position, he didn’t have the gall to do anything except talk Murr off the edge.
"Mm...m," Murr huffed out a gravelly breath, apparently frustrated at himself for not being able to muster up a single word, "Oou...oon."
His syllables were broken up, his mouth forming words that wrapped around foreign on his tongue.
Moon. The one word Murr had forced from unwilling throat was “moon”. Heavens, what an uncooperative character this man was, with such a poor choice of words, not even giving a reply that could help Shylock piece this situation together.
"Moon?! All you can talk about at a time like this, is the moon? Don't you see the predicament you're in, you fool?!"
Murr whimpered like a kicked puppy, tipping over and collapsing onto his side with a noise that sounded suspiciously similar to the one that had convinced Shylock to investigate in the first place.
Shylock instantly regretted his outburst, he hated to let an unsightly flash of his temper peek through. The taller man took the opening as an opportunity to return upright, ready to combat another pounce from Murr if need be.
Murr peered up at him from his sprawled position on the floor, wearing a pathetic expression, lower lip pouting, turning his whole face into a childlike frown.
An abrupt wind from the large open window made the papers scattered across the floor flutter, and a tree branch scraped against the glass like nails on a chalkboard, flinging a gust full of dirt and dusty leaves into the room.
Murr scrambled on the floor to hide under the bed at the startle, although not very proficient at hiding, with nothing but his head shielded by the duvet hanging over the side.
With Shylock out of Murr’s sight, he turned to snatch the paper on Murr’s desk and folded it up and slid it into his pocket for future investigation. The snapped pencil rolled to the corner of the desk in two broken pieces.
“We should take you elsewhere, it seems this place isn’t doing you any favors.” Shylock patted his thighs with both hands to coax Murr out of his semi-hiding spot, almost like if he were teaching a dog to come when called.
Murr wiggled his body free from underneath the bed, and returned to a sitting position at Shylock’s feet, as he towered over him. He looked so small below him, and it was a new look for the both of them.
Shylock outstretched his hand for the sitting man to take hold, and Murr grabbed it without hesitation. He was awed at how obediently Murr was taking orders from him. If Shylock had ever reached his hand out for Murr to take, in his normal state, he would’ve laughed madly and dismissed it.
But here he was, letting Shylock help him to his feet without a word of complaint. Whatever in the world Murr had done to himself, it must’ve decently fried his brain. Shylock used their link to guide him to the window, where Shylock swung it entirely open with a good shove. It made an atrocious screech, and he felt Murr’s hand twitch in his in a small display of panic.
With the hand not holding Murr’s, he summoned his broom, “If you attack me like that again, I will not hesitate to let you fall to your death.” Harsh, but he couldn’t afford any incidents like that occurring while flying hundreds of feet up from solid ground.
Murr shrunk a little, looking at him through his lashes, and gave a nod. He let their hands slip loose so Shylock could hop up onto the windowsill, broom poised between his legs. Murr wobbled his way up the steep step it was to the windowsill, plopping himself onto the broom behind Shylock.
He felt the broom twitch behind him a few seconds after they took off to the sky, and raised his guard, preparing to shove the troublemaker off, but was caught off guard when he felt a warm pair of arms wrap around his torso.
Murr had his eyes closed tight, and buried his head into the dip of Shylock’s waist. His body quivered with nervousness, and Shylock cracked a small smile out of fondness. Yesterday, if you would’ve told him he’d find this loathsome man clinging to him for dear life, shaking in fear, he would’ve never believed you.
The rest of their ride went smoothly, with Shylock flying a touch slower than he usually would while on his own, making great effort not to frighten Murr any further. They touched down, arriving at the window outside of Shylock’s bedroom.
Shylock was thankful for his forgetful habit of never closing the windows before he left the house. Shutting them made the place far too stuffy, and he’d rather face the threat of being robbed than suffocate in his own home.
Shylock put his broom away with a snap, and hopped from the windowsill down into his bedroom. Murr wasn’t expecting the vanish of the broom into thin air between his legs, and he stumbled. Hair dark as ink tickled his neck as he lurched forward to snag Murr by the forearm, pulling him clumsily into the room where he landed on his knees, hard enough that they would most likely bloom with bruises tomorrow.
“Wahh!” Murr wailed.
Sure, Shylock could have been a little more graceful in his rescue, but he figured bruised knees were preferable to a messy death from splatting on the ground below.
“Eeee!” Murr didn’t appear to be too phased by the fall, excitedly flopping onto Shylock’s pristinely made bed in the center of the room. He twisted around in the sheets, rubbing his face into the pillows like he was marking his territory. The clean white of the pillowcases was ruined with smears of blood and dirt.
“No, by all means, help yourself.” Shylock spoke through gritted teeth.
Murr, still lying on his stomach, grabbed the bottom of his shirt and slipped it over his head. Shylock stared in shock for a moment, only snapping out of it once Murr rolled onto his back and began to undo the button on the front of his pants.
“No! No, pants stay on.” Shylock slapped Murr’s hands away just before he was almost finished pulling his zipper down.
“Mmmnnn.” He let out a whiny growl and kicked his legs in the air tantrum-style.
“Whine all you want, I don’t care. I won’t allow you to roughhouse naked on my bed.” Shylock never imagined a day would come where he’d miss this bastard’s snarky responses, rolling his eyes when he got nothing more than a disgruntled mewl in reply.
But this bratty Murr proved too weary to argue for long. He slumped back onto the bed, not bothering to cover himself with a blanket, falling asleep on top of the bedspread.
It was strange how easily the Murr in front of him fell asleep. Granted, he must've been exhausted, but Murr had always had trouble falling asleep, "I have too many ideas floating around in my head. Such is the curse of being the Great Murr." He'd say, to which Shylock would always reply, "Great or not, you truly are loathsome."
The Murr in front of him slept angelically, snoozing without a care in the world like a pampered housecat. His mouth hung open slightly, and Shylock was surprised to see he was drooling a little out of the corner of his mouth.
He looked so innocent, more vulnerable than Shylock had ever seen him. If not for the fact he despised this idiot, he might've found the sight quite cute.
Shylock didn't know what to do with himself, opting to stare at the other’s unmoving body for a few agonizing minute, considering his options. Murr occupied his bed, claiming it all to himself through a drooly mouth on his pillowcase.
It's not like he'd be able to sleep anyways, he was still alight with a good dose of adrenaline, and he envied the man sleeping so carelessly on his bed.
Shylock stuck a hand in his pocket, and was reminded of the piece of paper he'd stolen off Murr's study desk in their haste to leave. He plucked it between his fingers, carefully unfolding the creases. There was a tear down the middle, nearly splitting it in half, and he maneuvered it to align the words, hoping he'd be able to make some sense of it, and possibly find the cure to this sickness.
There was a sloppy sketch of a moon in the corner of the page, looking more like a ring from a messy coffee cup than a drawing.
The smudged pen, speckled with droplets of blood, wrote, "I'm afraid that I have just discovered something I, nor anyone in all of mankind, was meant to uncover. I'm certain this secret will die along with me, for I—" The sentence cut off. Die? While writing this... Murr thought he was going to die?
Confusion overwhelmed his mind and body, and stress manifested itself through exhaustion. He sloppily folded the sheet of paper back into tattered squares, tugging open his bedside drawer to let the paper flutter and fall into the open space of his drawer. He was too tired to find any solutions tonight, and it would be impossible to try.
He retrieved a futon from underneath the bed, and unrolled it to spread flat on the floor next to his (currently occupied) bed. The futon was old, and if he turned on his side, he could feel his hipbone jut uncomfortably down all the way through the cushion and press into the hard floor.
His eyelids felt like lead weights, and he gave up on his fight to stay conscious. He knew his bones would ache in the morning, but he couldn't find the motivation to care. Worries about the consequences of his actions melted into the barely useable floor mattress.
Murr had caused trouble, more trouble than usual, and fallen asleep peacefully, leaving Shylock with far too much responsibility. He was left alone to clean up a mess he hadn't created.
As he began to drift off himself, Shylock thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to forgive Murr for this hellish chaos once he returned to smug normal state, and this became a funny accident they could laugh about in a few days’ time.