Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was that goddamn white line. 

That barely there sliver of pale skin just above his belt. 

The black paint not quite reaching low enough. 

He’d never noticed it before. Not like this. 

And now—it was fucking taunting him. 

II was catastrophically distracted, which really was not ideal as the drummer. He needed precision, control, focus–one stutter, one mistimed hit, and the song could come crashing down around them. But his mind was nowhere near the music. 

He could hardly see over the tops of his cymbals, and the flashing lights distorted the little he did see. The smoke curling through the air only thickened the heat on the stage, clinging to his already burning skin. His arms ached, muscles straining with every strike, sweat beading down his spine and under his mask. But none of that compared to the real problem. 

Because every time Vessel moved just right to face him, every time his bare upper body turned toward him, II’s breath faltered, his lungs locking up. A muscle in his thigh twitched. A slow, steady pulse coiled low in his stomach, something heavy, thick, consuming. His heart pounded against his chest with more than just the usual performance high and the sheer physical exertion. No, it was something much more forceful, something almost unbearable, something addictive . That desire Sleep had never let them feel. Had stolen from them.

He forced his eyes back to his kit, hardly seeing it, playing on instinct–and hundreds of hours of practice and performance–alone. He was lost in a haze having absolutely nothing to do with the music. 

He knew it was coming.

The end of Hypnosis . Vessel’s buoyant jig across the stage. The precise moment he would stop, plant his feet, tip his head back just slightly, letting the blue lights highlight every line of his throat. II anticipated it, knew every second by heart, but that didn’t stop the tension from slinking up his spine. 

He knew he should keep his eyes on his kit. On his hands. Just anywhere but Vessel. 

But he couldn’t help it.

II’s eyes flicked up at the perfect moment. Vessel raised his arms above his head, slowly . So painfully slowly.

It was like II could feel it. 

The stretch of exposed skin pulling taut, the teasing sliver of pale flesh lengthening, hips shifting just enough to make II’s brain viscerally stutter. The sleeves of Vessel’s robe slid down, lean muscles shifting under the lights. II caught a trace of smooth, exposed skin there for just a moment, and his fingers twitched around his sticks.

His eyes trailed back down to Vessel’s stomach, the paint already streaked with sweat. The heat pooling low was all consuming, scorching through him, setting him on fire. 

And then– fuck. 

Vessel smiled. 

Not at the crowd. Not at the others.

At him.

A slow drag of his mouth, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. He knew exactly what he was doing.

And II? II was fucked. 

The strike on the snare was a millisecond too late. Not nearly precise enough. Off. Muffled . 

But it was the end of the song—thank fucking God. 

Just before the lights cut out, Vessel smirked.

II barely made it through the rest of the set. Barely.

Every second was a battle against himself. Every glance, every flicker of Vessel’s body was a knife edge against his nerves. Just a touch too much pressure, and he would come undone. 

His kept his eyes locked on his drums, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He didn’t even spare a glance for Ivy’s skip to the mic for his scream (usually his absolute favorite part of every show). And he definitely didn’t let his eyes wander anywhere but fixedly at his kit for The Offering. Christ, during that , he hardly let himself breathe. 

II had never been this fucking relieved to leave the stage. 

The second they were off and he was out of the crowd’s sight, he practically bolted, ignoring the voices calling after him. Not only the lingering adrenaline buzzed through his limbs. The heat crawled under his skin, his head swam, his stomach clenched tight, fingers trembling with restraint. He just needed out . 

The dressing room door clicked shut behind him, and he finally exhaled, ripping off his mask with shaking hands. He braced himself against the counter, eyes flicking at his reflection in the mirror.

Holy fucking hell. He looked utterly wrecked. 

Sweat drenched, flushed, blown pupils. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his throat tight. 

He reached for a towel by the mirror, then froze. 

The door behind him swung open.

And of course, it was Vessel. 

He strolled in casually as if he hadn’t just spent the last one and a half hours slowly, torturously destroying II’s brain. His smile was smug, almost lazy, full of something knowing. As if he had a plan .

II watched him push the door closed. Then, an easy, practiced twist of the lock. II drew in a shaky breath. Was this—?

“You seemed a bit distracted today, Twoofer.” 

Vessel said, cocking his head. His voice was a low, teasing purr full of amusement and something… intentional. It sent a shockwave through II, slithering into every fiber of his thrumming body. He tried to swallow down the knot forming in his throat. 

Vessel didn’t take his eyes off him. Watched the slow bob of II’s Adam’s apple, the way his flush darkened from a light rose to a deep red. Watching him try–and fantastically fail–to form words. 

An amused smirk tugged at Vessel’s lips. Oh, he was greatly enjoying this. 

“You know full well why .” II tried to keep his voice even, neutral, unbothered. 

Vessel chuckled, slinking closer. 

“Oh,” he hummed, a sound so deep and full, II was sure he could feel it vibrating through his bones. Vessel stepped closer. “I don’t think I do.” 

II bit the inside of his cheek. His skin prickled with scorching heat, the tension in his muscles drawing taut, pulse quickening with every step Vessel took.

He sat motionlessly, following Vessel’s movements in the mirror, caught between embarrassment and desire. 

Finally, Vessel reached him. 

Then, large hands on his slim shoulders. Warm, firm, certain. Vessel leaned down until II felt his hot breath against his ear, snaking its way down over his neck. He was close enough that II could feel the heat of his skin, lips almost grazing against his jaw.

“Why don’t you tell me, hmm?” 

II’s heart stuttered. His body itched to move, to do something. To shove Vessel back, or to pull him closer. He didn’t fucking know.  

Finally, Vessel’s gaze flicked to the mirror in front of them, his dark eyes locking with II’s. He watched II’s breath catch, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

The shift in the air was palpable.

Before II could even process what was happening, Vessel’s fingers wove into his hair, pulling his head back just enough to expose his throat. The change in Vessel was visceral, intense—a subtle but undeniable dominance slipping into every touch. His fingers tightened in II’s hair, and the breath left II’s body in a shudder, a broken exhale.

“Tell me what you want, Tootsie,” Vessel murmured against his ear, voice dripping with a dangerous sweetness.

II twisted free from his grasp and turned to faced him, hardly aware of what he was doing. His gaze flicked down, his eyes tracing the damp streaks of paint on Vessel’s skin. Then lower.

His pulse quickened, fighting for control over his body. But then Vessel’s voice dropped to a growl. “What did you feel when you saw me, II?” He pressed further into II’s space. “Tell me what it made you want to do.” 

II swallowed, then looked up into Vessel’s eyes again. There was an almost dangerous spark in them, like something ravenous stirring. 

The weight of his gaze was crushing. Unyielding. Almost unbearable. But II held it, heart pounding more than ever, his face feeling almost feverish. 

His brain must have short circuited. All restraint broken. Without thinking, his fingertips slowly trailed over the smooth, exposed skin just above Vessel’s belt.

Vessel's breath caught. The touch flooded through him so much more intensely than he had anticipated, a shock of electricity setting his body into overdrive. 

“Every time you turned toward me…” II’s voice was a whisper, the low, almost innocent rasp making Vessel’s fingers twitch against his thighs.

Another slow, deliberate drag of fingers against flesh.

“... and I saw that sliver of skin…” 

II’s hand hovered, barely there, a brush of fingertips ghosting over the skin.

“...everything in me…” 

Vessel’s hands dug into his palm, holding himself back with threadbare restraint.

II’s eyes flickered downward again.

 “...tensed…” 

A pause.

II’s lips parted, words nothing more than a breathy exhale.

“... made me fucking shudder with want…”

Yep. That was it.

Vessel couldn’t take it anymore. The control he’d been so carefully forcing all evening burst, the last threads of restraining snapping.  II’s whimpering mutters, those almost innocent words unraveling him. 

Vessel’s fingers wove into II’s hair, gripped, tugged hard. A feeble, broken sound escaped II’s lips. So soft, so fucking helpless.  

His voice was a low, raspy growl. Lust barely contained through gritted teeth.

“I said: tell me what it made you want to do.” 

II’s lips curled into a smug smile, pupils blown so large they eclipsed the piercing blue irises. 

“Let me show you.” 

It sent Vessel reeling. He wanted this. So fucking badly. But he wasn’t done yet.  

He closed the sliver of space between them, pressing in, swallowing the little that was left of II’s breath, pushing him back with nothing but his presence.

II stumbled back, the edge of the counter digging into his lower back.  Vessel followed, bracing his hands against the mirror, caging II in. Corning him. Like a cat catching a mouse. He owned every breath of space around II, was all he could see. 

That danger sparked in his eyes again. 

“ Tell me,” Vessel growled. Not a request: a low, guttural demand .  

II trembled slightly, his breath hitching, just a flicker of doubt flashing in his eyes. Vessel backed off immediately. Not much, not completely but far enough for II to breathe. Just enough to give him an out.

His eyes met II’s, voice softening–gentle and steady. “Colors?” 

II’s breath came shallow, the response instinctive. “Green, go. Orange, slow down. Red, stop immediately.”

He needed Vessel back. Now. Immediately. 

“Good.” Vessel shifted, pushing in just a fraction, letting the tension coil impossibly tighter. “Which is it?” 

“Green,” II breathed desperately.

He hardly got the word out. 

Vessel was on him.

His hand shot up, gripping II’s jaw tightly, forcing his gaze on him. 

“I said, tell me .” 

II’s breath left him. He throbbed . His whole fucking body was buzzing, heat pooling, drowning him in sensation.

He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell Vessel exactly what had possessed his thoughts all fucking night long. 

But he was too far gone. Consumed. He couldn’t force a single word. 

Another low growl, dark, intimidating, almost angry. With a single, fluid movement Vessel grabbed him. Spun him around, shoved him, pinned him against the wall. 

Fuck. Holy fucking fuck. 

II barely had time to process any of it before he felt him. All of him. 

Vessel’s whole body pressed flush against his back, heat searing through the thin layer of II’s shirt, fingers curling into II’s hair with a grip that wouldn’t let him move.

And, fuck , II could feel him . Hard. And very clearly huge . The whole fucking world knew that Vessel was… well endowed –he made fucking sure of that with those goddamn cursed pants. 

But feeling it…?

Trapped between Vessel’s weight and the wall, completely helpless? 

II’s own cock throbbed, trapped with no chance of movement. The sheer dominance in Vessel’s presence had his mind white-hot and spinning. He shuddered with the overwhelming sensation, a trickle of precum already collecting.

“Use your fucking words, II.” The command cut through II, twisted down his spine, churning his stomach. 

He whimpered desperately.

“I–” his chest heaved. “It made me want to see more.” 

II was shaking under Vessel. 

“To touch .” 

He felt Vessel swallow. His cock twitch. 

“Where?” Vessel’s voice cracked. 

“Everywhere,” II’s voice came in ragged breaths. “Everything.” 

A part of Vessel wanted to drag this out. Wanted to toy with II a little longer. 

But he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. This was wrecking him.

So he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of II’s ear.

“Good boy,” he purred, words slow and deliberate. Soft, taunting, deadly. “Now was that so hard?” 

II shattered beneath him. A strangled, wrecked whine spilled from his lips, his entire body shaking from the praise.Vessel spun him around again, fingers trailing down–too light, too fleeting–before gripping his jaw. Then his gaze dropped. Fuck. II’s sweats were ruined already. The fabric soaked where his cock strained against it, so hard and needy it was almost pitiful.

Vessel smirked, extremely satisfied with himself. 

“Oh, you like that?” He loomed closer, grip tightening just slightly. 

“Being praised ?” 

II nodded frantically, eyes dazed and glazed over. 

“Then you’d better be good for me.” 

II flushed and a soft, choked noise caught in his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this. The teasing. The games. The way Vessel just held him there, desperate and wanting. He needed to touch him. Needed to get his hands on him. 

“Anything,” he rasped. 

Vessel hummed in approval, then dragged his teeth over II’s earlobe. II shuddered violently, another needy moan dragged from his chest. 

Vessel stepped back, just enough to yank II from the wall. And shoved him to his knees. 

II barely had time to process before fingers tangled in his hair, firm and demanding, forcing his head up until their eyes met. Vessel’s pupils were blown, chest rising and falling in measured breaths. His grip on II’s hair tightened.

“Then take what you want.” 

II didn’t need to be told twice. His hands flew to Vessel’s belt. He fumbled, desperate for what he wanted. Finally, the buckle came undone. But he didn’t rush now. Not yet. He forced himself to go slow, unbuttoning the pants with almost steady fingers, dragging them down bit by bit, exposing more and more of the bare, white skin. Every filthy thought that had run through his head all night, every fevered fantasy, was manifesting right in front of him now.

Vessel wanted II to just rip his fucking pants off. Wanted him to stop teasing and just take what he wanted.

But he let II have this. Let him savor it. Let him worship. 

II couldn’t stifle a sharp, hitched breath when Vessel’s cock finally sprang free of its fabric confines, already slick with precum beading at the tip. His mouth literally watered . He swallowed thickly, fingers twitching against Vessel’s bare thigh. When he finally looked up, cheeks flushed deep red, Vessel was watching him with a smug smile. 

“Fucking Christ, Vess,” II mumbled, voice shaking. 

A low, satisfied hum rumbled in Vessel’s chest, reverberating down his body, the faintest vibration teasing II’s lips as he hovered just shy of his cock.

“You’ll be able to take it, won’t you?” He ran his hands through II’s hair. Almost gente, almost soothing.

Then he yanked. 

Another filthy moan tore from II’s throat, breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

He nodded, almost salivating with eagerness. 

Vessel cocked his head, smiling wickedly. “Good.” 

II dragged Vessel’s pants the rest of the way down, helped him step out of them, then shoved them out of the way, already forgotten. His tongue was only a breath away from Vessel’s tip, aching to taste him, to lose himself completely in the heat of him. But then, a sharp pull on his hair. A disapproving look. A hard, intimidating voice. 

“You said touch. Be a good boy and stick to your word.” 

Fuck. 

Another violent shiver cascaded through his body, searing into him. 

“Vess–” II whimpered, shaking with need. “Vess, please, please let me.” His voice was wrecked. Raw. Desperate. 

“No.”

“But Ve–” 

“Do as I tell you or we are stopping this immediately.” 

Well, fuck.
II sucked in a breath, trying to steady himself, but his cock throbbed, a painful, aching pulse between his thighs. He needed something —anything. He just needed Vessel in him, in any fucking way he’d allow.

But he was refusing him. Making him wait. 

“Slow,” Vessel commanded as II reached for him.

His pulse pounded in his ears, everything in him screaming to just take what he wanted, to fuck Vessel right fucking now.  

But he obeyed. Did exactly as he was told.

With deliberate, excruciating patience, he curled his fingers around Vessel’s cock, just barely brushing over the tip, gathering the slick bead of precum with his fingertips. 

Vessel shuddered at the touch, breath stuttering. And with nothing to hold on to, he gripped II’s hair even harder. Pain flared across II’s scalp, sharp and intoxicating, and his hand tightened instinctively around Vessel in response. A rough groan ripped from Vessel’s throat.

“Fuuuck-–” The word rasped in his throat. 

II’s stomach flipped at the sound. He wanted more. Wanted to pull those sounds out of him over and over and over until Vessel couldn’t hold back any longer. He dragged his palm down his length, slow, teasing, applying just the right amount of pressure.

God , he wanted it to be his mouth. 

But he had to be patient. Had to be good . 

A slick trail of precum dribbled down Vessel’s cock, and II let his fingers trace it back up to the tip, spreading the liquid deliberately before grasping him properly, stroking with steady, measured pressure. Vessel cursed, voice raw, hips jerking forward into II’s grip.

“Fuck, II–-drummer’s hands, huh?” 

II smirked up at him, never breaking rhythm. “You have no idea.” 

“Then I’d better find out.” 

II grinned and let the rhythm falter—just for one agonizing second—, letting his hand slip lower.

The reaction was instant.

A deep, guttural moan tore from Vessel’s chest, his body tensing, hips twitching, aching for more. Desperate to have all of II. To feel his heat, his shaking body. 

But now II was the one teasing, dragging this out. 

He brought his other hand to Vessel, wrapping it around his cock, pumping light and slow, never quite giving him enough. Keeping him teetering on the edge. Vessel’s hips jerked forward again, seeking more contact, more friction, more anything.  But II kept up a cruel, tortuous, controlled pressure. 

His fingertips trailed even lower. Brushed over soft, sensitive skin. Barely, barely grazing his hole. Vessel inhaled sharply. His hand darted to II’s wrist, fingers wrapping firmly around the slim bone, hard enough to leave a bruise. 

II froze, eyes flicking up, chest heaving. 

Fuck. 

They should’ve talked about this beforehand. Should’ve–

But then Vessel’s lips curled into a devilish smile, ravenous hunger dripping from every line of his face. 

“Not yet,” he growled, his voice dark and dangerous. “Not until I’ve utterly ravaged you.” 

II’s cock twitched between his thighs. 

“Not until you’ve been good and taken all of me.” 

The broken, needy sound spilling from II’s lips was wrecked, nothing more than a desperate, needy whimper as he nodded furiously.

Vessel’s chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, his pulse throbbing in time with his cock.

“Fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His voice was hoarse, just as desperate as II’s. 

“Open your mouth.” 

II did as he was told immediately, lips parting, his tongue flicking out just slightly.

And Vessel thrust forward, sinking into the wet heat of his mouth in one precise, deep motion.

II moaned around Vessel, the taste of precum coating his tongue, sending zaps of pleasure down his spine. 

Vessel’s breath hitched, hands fisting in II’s hair, head spinning with the sensation, vision going fuzzy for a moment. 

II was taking him so good but he wanted–-needed–-more. 

“Relax for me,” he muttered, voice turning almost soft, soothing but undercut with that same dark command. “Want all of me in that pretty little mouth of yours.” 

II didn’t respond. Didn’t hesitate.  

He just let go, let his throat open up.

Let Vessel bury every inch of his huge cock inch by inch, until II’s nose was pressed flush to his pelvis. Nothing but the wet, obscene sounds of him swallowing Vessel as deep as physically possible filling the air.

Not a second later, Vessel thrust forward hard. II gagged, throat tightening instinctively around the intrusion. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer force of it. 

Vessel pulled back, just long enough for II to suck in a ragged, desperate breath. And then he slammed in again. Absolutely relentless. Demanding. Taking. Tears— beautiful, blissful tears—welled up in II’s eyes, spilling hot down his cheeks.

 “That’s it,” Vessel murmured, nearly delirious with pleasure. “Taking me so well. Being such a good boy for me.”

II whined, the praise burning through him, straight to his cock. His underwear and sweats were ruined, a mess of precum smearing against the fabric. If he didn’t get them off soon, they could go straight in the bin. 

But Vessel wasn’t letting up. Wasn’t giving him anything but this —the brutal rhythm, the merciless drag of his cock over II’s tongue, filling him up over and over again. So II let his mouth be used. 

Vessel fucked into him without hesitation, without restraint, each thrust punching out another broken sound from his throat. His jaw ached, his lips were swollen, spit and precum slicking his chin, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. And yet, every time Vessel pulled back to let him breathe, II felt unbearably empty. His mouth needed to be full again, his throat stretched and wrecked and—

“Gonna swallow every drop of me, do you understand?” Vessel rasped, shaking with restraint.  

II moaned around him. He obediently swallowed around Vessel’s cock, the tight pulse of his throat pushing Vessel closer, closer—

A ragged, filthy groan tore from Vessel's throat as he came, hips shuddering, fingers gripping II’s hair, holding him still, keeping him exactly where he wanted him. II swallowed, took all of it down, lapping it up like a thirsty dog.

Except for one, single drop, trickling out of his mouth. It clung to the corner of his lips, shamefully betraying his effort. 

Vessel scrutinized him, gaze darkening. He gripped II’s chin, tilting his head up, fingers pressing into soft, damp, flushed skin. 

“Look at you,” he breathed, satisfaction dripping from his voice. He ran his thumb over II’s ruined lips, smearing the mess across his mouth. “So fucking perfect like this.” 

II shuddered, enraptured with him. Lost in him. 

Vessel leaned in, eyes flickering down to that single, sinful trickle of cum. He tutted admonishingly. “We can’t have that.”

His tongue darted out, dragging up II’s chin and to the corner of his mouth, catching every last drop of his own cum, moving slow and deliberate and utterly filthy. 

II whimpered, cock twitching violently, so achingly hard, untouched and neglected.

“Mmm,” Vessel crooned, licking his lips as he pulled back. “Lucky boy, getting to swallow all of me like that.” 

II could hardly breathe. His entire body was on fire, completely undone by Vessel’s words, the sheer fucking control he had over him.

”You taste so fucking good, Vessel,” he moaned. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me take you.” 

A deep, growling moan slipped from Vessel’s lips.

Fuck. 

II had just been used, fucking wrecked, and he was thanking Vessel like it was a privilege. 

Vessel was done for. He was going to come undone. Absolutely fucking lose his mind. II would be the end of him. 

And he just looked so… delicious like this. 

“I'm not done with you yet,” Vessel said, something dark and primal flashing behind his eyes.

Before II could make a sound, Vessel yanked him up, dragging him to his feet like he weighed nothing. A strong hand pushed him back until the armrest of the sofa dug into the backs of his thighs. II barely had time to gasp before Vessel’s fingers curled around the hem of his shirt and yanked it off in one fluid motion.

Next came his sweats and boxers in a single swift pull. II’s cock bounced free, leaking against his thigh, desperate for any kind of friction. He was throbbing, his body drawn so unbearably tight he thought he might break apart at the seams. Just the promise of a touch was enough to make him unravel.

Vessel’s hand shot up, capturing II’s jaw, long fingers pressing into hot skin, keeping him still, trapped in his grip.

“I’m going to fucking wreck you,” Vessel growled, his words a dark, dangerous promise.  His thumb pressed into II’s bottom lip, just enough to make his breath stutter. 

“And you’re going to take every single, torturous second of it like the good little drummer boy you are.” 

The pet name—normally a taunt, something to piss him off a bit—tore another needy, desperate sound from II’s throat.

His hands fumbled for purchase, clutching at Vessel, trying to find something–-anything–-to grasp onto, to anchor himself. 

“Please,” he rasped, hardly coherent. “Please, Vess, I need you. I need you so fucking badly. I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.” 

His hips arched forward in a desperate attempt to find the friction he so badly needed.

Vessel chuckled, low, taunting, menacing . 

“So needy,” he purred, hand tightening on II’s hip, fingers digging into the flesh, forcing him still. “Begging me to fuck you. Begging to be taken apart.” 

Yes. He absolutely was. And he didn’t care how desperate he sounded, how ruined he already was without having been touched once.

He just needed him. 

II pushed against the pressure of Vessel’s hands—one still trapping his face, the other gripping his hip—but the hold was absolute. II was at his mercy, waiting and begging and aching. Vessel smirked, something knowing, something that said, you have no fucking idea what you’re begging for. 

With a sharp tug on II’s hair, Vessel spun him around and shoved him forward, bending him over the armrest. The rough fabric pressed against his chest, cool against searingly hot skin, his ass hitched up, completely exposed, completely vulnerable. Vessel dropped to his knees behind him. His fingers trailed down II’s back, nails scraping the skin, leaving behind long, red lines. II arched under the sharp prick of pain, his body begging for more.

But Vessel gripped his ass, roughly groping at him, spreading him open. He was whimpering again, each small sound a direct electric shock to Vessel’s hardening cock. He wanted to bury himself deep inside II’s tight, perfect ass but held off. 

“Gotta spread yourself open for me.”

II hardly had control over his body, letting Vessel guide him, handle him in any way he wanted. Rough hands pressed into his flesh with bruising force, and then a warm breath ghosted over sensitive skin. II’s breath caught.

And then, Vessel’s tongue. Licking up slowly, leaving a hot, wet trail. II moaned in pleasure, the sound muffled by the cushions but still echoing through the room. 

Vessel groaned against him, his breath hot and uneven. Precum was already gathering at the flushed tip of his cock again, but he didn’t dare touch himself. Not when just the thought of it nearly sent him spiraling over the edge.

No, right now, this was about II . About the way he trembled and shook beneath him, muscles taut, spine arched in pleasure and anticipation. About the way his body begged for more, even when his lips couldn’t form any coherent words.

Slowly, deliberately, Vessel flattened his tongue and dragged it over II’s entrance, warm and wet, teasing at the sensitive ring of muscle but never pushing inside.

II’s entire body twitched, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. 

“Fuck—God—fuck.” His voice was quaking, his fingers curling into the cushions, clawing for purchase. “How the fuck are you so good at this, V?”

Thank fuck he didn’t answer. II wouldn’t have been able to bear a single second without his tongue, flicking, swirling over that sensitive spot, feather-light and relentless. He trembled. Tried to push further into it–-he needed more, needed to feel Vessel claim him, needed to be filled . But Vessel was fucking cruel.

Made him wait. Tormented him. Was absolutely relentless in his teasing.

Until finally–

He plunged his tongue deep inside, burying himself in the heat of II, licking into him with desperate, insatiable hunger. A bestial scream tore through II. He bit down on the cushion hard, his jaw beginning to ache, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds ripping out of him. Vessel groaned into him, the vibrations making II’s whole body shudder. He braced against the armrest, his cock throbbing, untouched, dripping against the fabric of the couch.

“Ple-please Vess,” he choked out, muffled and pleading. “Please let me cum. Please.” 

Vessel pulled back with a wet, obscene sound. II whined at the loss, his body clenching around nothing. He immediately regretted saying anything–-he needed Vessel back, couldn’t bear the empty feeling.

A dark, possessive chuckle. 

“I said…,” he growled, dragging himself up, his cock almost pressing heavy against II’s slick, needy hole “...not until I’ve wrecked you.” 

His fingers curled into II’s hair, yanking his head back. II whimpered in pleasure. 

With sudden, ruthless efficiency, Vessel grabbed II’s wrists, wrenching them behind his back, then pulled him upright. II stumbled, knees barely holding up his body, but Vessel’s arm wrapped around his waist, keeping him steady. Keeping him exactly where he wanted him. But the bruising grip on II’s wrists never slackened. 

Vessel grinned against II’s ear, his breath a slow, torturous tease. “Nearly there,” he whispered huskily. “You’ve been so, so good for me.”

He rolled his hips forward just enough to press the thick head of his cock against II’s ass. The reaction was instantaneous—II twitched, his cock jerking visibly, his whole body tensing in anticipation. Fuck, he needed it. Needed Vessel inside him. Now . 

Any response caught in his throat, choked off by the firm grip around his neck. Vessel’s fingers twitched, squeezing just enough to bend II fully to his will. Effortlessly, he pushed him backward. II had hardly registered the movement at all before he was mercilessly shoved against the counter, bent over, his breath fogging up the mirror. He caught a glimpse and fuck the sight nearly undid him. His own body, naked and ruined, muscles trembling, lips swollen, parted around shallow, gasping breaths. And behind him, Vessel.

The white of his eyes swallowed by black, hunger carved into every damp, hot inch of his body. The remnants of his paint were smeared across his skin, streaks of sweat trailing over his chest leaving long, uneven white lines. 

Just the sight of both of them nearly pushed II over the edge. 

Vessel’s fingers curled around his jaw, forcing him to straighten up, to press flush against his body. His wrists were still trapped behind his back, held firm in an unbreakable grip. Their eyes locked in the mirror. Without breaking contact, Vessel leaned down, lips brushing against II’s throat. 

His voice was a raw rasp, a plea barely held together. “Color?” 

The desperation in his voice sent heat licking up II’s spine. 

“Green,” II gasped, his words barely scraping past Vessel’s grip on his throat. “Definitely green.” 

A wicked grin curled the corners of Vessel’s lips. 

“Good.” A mere whisper against skin. “Because I don’t wanna fuck you.” 

The world came to a crashing halt. II’s breath caught painfully, his brain scrambling to process the words. 

Vessel chuckled darkly, watching the needy panic in II's reflection. 

“I want you to be a good boy ,” he murmured, lips teasing over II’s jaw, “and fuck me .” 

II’s stomach flipped, the panic dissolved, replaced instantly by a surge of heat. But before he could even form a response, Vessel’s teeth scraped against the sensitive skin of his throat. The points of his canines—his fucking fangs— sunk into the flesh. An almost inhuman sound of lust ripped itself free from II’s chest. Pleasure surged through him, the prick of pain sharp and searing, sending a jolt of white-hot need straight to his already throbbing cock. 

Fuck. Fuuuck. He wasn’t going to last much longer. 

But he’d do anything Vessel asked. 

The grip on his wrists loosened for a fraction of a second, and II seized the opportunity. 

In a fluid motion, he twisted free, spinning to face Vessel. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at him. That piercing, devastating blue cutting into Vessel, almost unbearable in its intensity. Finally, a small but firm hand reached up, running up the column of his throat, pressing lightly against his pulse.

The much, much taller man was transfixed. Every nerve stood on edge, every molecule buzzing with raw energy, with expectation, with undeniable, animalistic need.  II’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Always knew you had to be a desperate, needy little switch,” he purred, suddenly much, much more commanding. 

Vessel growled. He wasn’t about to give up control. Not that easily. 

He surged forward, crowding into II’s space, towering over him, casting him in shadow. His fingers dug into II. 

“I said fuck me, II.” His voice was low. Dangerous. “ Now.” 

II’s wicked grin widened, eyes burning black with something altogether filthy .

“Then get on the floor.” 

And Vessel obeyed . 

The wood was cold against his back, but he hardly noticed. His body was burning, nerves alight. II was on top of him in an instant, knees bracketing his hips, the heat of him searing even without direct contact.

“Lube?” II asked, realizing he had no fucking idea if there even was any. 

Vessel arched up against him, their hard cocks brushing for just a second, the friction sending shocks through both of them in beautiful agony. 

“Don’t bother,” Vessel gasped, too impatient, too desperate . Before II could protest, he brought two fingers to his lips, spat on them, then reached down, plunging them deep inside of himself without hesitation.

But II slapped his wrist away.

“No.” His voice was steady. Commanding. Absolute. “You don’t get to touch yourself.” 

Vessel whined, nearly delirious with want, unable to fight back against II’s command. Thank fuck his fingers replaced his own just a moment later. And holy fucking shit, they felt so much better. 

II worked him open with unforgiving efficiency—two fingers, then three, scissoring, stretching, curling just enough to make Vessel see fucking stars. He was gasping, moaning, thrashing beneath him with his cock leaking and body coiled so tight he thought he might snap in half.

“II,” he pleaded, begged. “Please— please —”

II didn’t give him the chance to finish.

Without warning, he pushed inside.

For a moment the sudden feeling almost overwhelmed Vessel. His whole body shuddered.

II stilled for a moment, letting him adjust. He watched Vessel heaving, the way his fingers clawed at the floor, how his lips parted, silent, blissed-out gasps slipping past them. 

He was still so fucking tight . So fucking perfect.

II groaned, head falling forward, pressing his forehead against Vessel’s temple. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasped, willing himself into a suppressed calm, trying to still the utterly feral need to ram into Vessel. “Color?” 

Vessel panted and squirmed below II. 

“Fuck’s sake II,” he whispered, wrecked with need. “Move. Now.”

II pulled back slowly, giving Vessel a teasing moment before he slammed his hips forward, burying himself deep in the tight, clenched heat of him. Vessel’s head flew back, his breath strangled, his mind going blank, consumed by the overwhelming sensation of being filled . He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, could only feel.

“I don’t know how long I can last like this,” II moaned, each brutal thrust punctuated with the force of his need.

Vessel could hardly choke out a response in his addled state, body wrecked with pleasure. 

“Need to cum,” he whimpered pathetically. 

II’s pace didn’t falter. It only grew harder, more relentless. 

“Be good and cum with me then.” II’s voice was rough, breathless, and commanding as he gripped Vessel’s hip, his fingers digging in, leaving half moon marks, until the skin burned. The other hand slid down to grasp Vessel’s twitching cock. With two swift, firm strokes, Vessel came undone, orgasm hitting like a tidal wave. Cum splattered across II’s stomach and chest. He moaned in pure ecstasy.

And still, II didn’t stop. He fucked him through it, his movements becoming erratic and urgent as he chased his own release. Just as Vessel’s cum dripped onto his fingers, II finally let go with a guttural groan. He spilled inside of Vessel, thrusting and shuddering until there was nothing left. 

He collapsed on top of him, the sticky mess squelching between their skin. For a moment, neither of them moved. The intensity of their shared climax left them breathless and exhausted. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathed heavily, completely winded and, indeed, utterly wrecked. 

A short, satisfied laugh rumbled from Vessel’s chest. “Yeah. Holy fuck indeed . ” 

II slowly pulled out, a string of his cum clinging to the tip of his cock as he pulled away. He rolled off of Vessel, landing in his arm beside him. They both laid there, trying to process what had just happened, the air heavy with the afterglow of their release. Then, II turned to Vessel, sudden tension pulling his face taut. His voice was thick with urgency.  

“I didn’t even kiss you.” 

Vessel turned his head toward him, a soft chuckle escaping. He met II’s gaze with a gentle but playful gleam in his eyes. “I didn’t kiss you either.”

II was silent, words sticking in his throat. His chest rose and fell with uncertain breaths–-he wasn’t sure whether he should say anything at all. 

Finally, after a long, thoughtful pause, he cleared his throat quietly. 

“I’m sorry—this should’ve been–“ 

Vessel chuckled again, then booped II’s nose. 

Fucking booped his nose. 

The touch was tender, and there was something deeply affectionate in the way he regarded II. His voice dropped, soft and almost reverent.

“It was perfect, Twosie,” he murmured. “I just…fuck, I wanted you first. To myself.”

II didn’t respond, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to make sense of the words.

“The kissing, the sweet shit—that’s for all of us.” 

Mind reeling, II’s fingers traced over Vessel’s bare, sweaty, cum-drenched chest.

A smug smile tugged at his lips.

“But you wanted to fuck my brains out first?” 

Vessel laughed. Warm, full, him. 

“ Needed to. Couldn’t wait another second.” His eyes shifted down to II, taking in the sight. Mussed hair, pink cheeks, swollen lips. Naked in his arms, leg hitched over him. Staring up like he was more divine than he ever had been before. 

A smug smile on II’s lips. “Good. Because you drove me fucking insane on stage.” 

Vessel laughed again. He pushed II’s hair off his damp forehead, then leaned in to press a soft kiss on his head. “I know.” 

II pressed closer into Vessel, nuzzling against the crook of his neck, smiling. After a moment of a light, comfortable silence—

“I can’t believe that I finally get to… to want you. All of you.”

II’s breath caught in his throat. The way Vessel looked at him, like he’d been… holding onto this, like this had always been meant to happen. It tore through him.

With a deep breath, II sat up, grinning down at Vessel. The look on his face was playful but there was something deeper, something knowing beneath it. 

“Come on, then,” he said, voice filled with eagerness. “I’m sure they’re waiting for us.” 

Vessel’s lips twitched into a grin of his own. There was a promise in II’s words. A promise of more, of them, of everything to come.

Chapter Text

That night had changed everything. Not just the kiss, though that didn’t help. Three years—and for the first time, it was only them. No divine intervention. No otherworldly tether. Just them. Bare, exposed, and vulnerable. 

And so fucking horny. 

Because–as it turns out–four men in their mid-twenties who hadn’t just been denied sex but the very idea of lust by a possessive asshole deity ached to be touched, to touch, to fuck and to be fucked. 

But when Ivy had pressed a hand to Vessel’s lower back a few days after that first kiss—tentative, not rough, just there—Vessel had gone completely still.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But his body froze in that way animals go quiet right before they bolt.

So Ivy backed off immediately. Said nothing. Just brushed over his cheek with a light touch.

Later, Vessel had whispered, voice almost gone, “I want to. I do. But I… I think I can’t. Not yet.”

And they got it.

Even if it made their chests (and cocks) ache.

And maybe… maybe the others weren’t ready yet, either. Not really. Sleep still hovered—their presence gone but their shadow still lingering. 

So they stayed close, all innocent, loving touches and whispered affections, just being there. Together. Properly. 

Still, they were… shy. 

Which was, frankly, weird. They’d spent the last three years wrapped around each other. Slept together in piles of tangled limbs and hot bodies pressed together. Kissed on stage. Flirted, touched, wanted.  

But it was different now. So very different. 

Because II had woken up three days in a row so hard he nearly fucking cried. 

Because III jerked off in the shower every day, hoping the sound of the water masked his stifled whimpers. 

Because Ivy went on a jog and nearly got hit by a literal bus he was so distracted by thinking about Vessel’s mouth around him. 

Because no matter how much Vessel wanted it, how much he ached for them, memories of Sleep’s touch still ghosted over his skin. 

And he remembered, too: Layla’s touch had always come with a price. Never giving, only taking. He remembered a face from before, curled into disgust when he spotted the half-healed cuts on Vessel’s thigh. He remembered hands—hands he didn’t want but had said “yes” to. 

So he sat in his bunk. Hoodie up, headphones on, knees pulled tight to his chest. And at night, when he wrapped his hand around himself—desperate for relief—tears streaked down his cheeks. Because he wanted them too damn much but couldn’t let himself. Not yet. 

***

Three canceled shows later, the bus finally rolled into London. Or rather, it snaked its way through the traffic at the speed of a dying snail, their bus driver Lawrence cursing at breakneck speed, insults blending into one another until it was all just one incoherent mumble of road rage.

Ivy leaned his head against the window, the glass cold against his cheek. The grey buildings slowly—so fucking painfully slowly—turned into store-fronts and glittering lights and a sea of people all bustling to and fro, weaving through one another in a headpspinning turblunance of movement. He felt a bit like a tourist in one of those overpriced sightseeing buses despite having spent a fair stretch of his life in the godforsaken city.

At the back of the bus, II was tucked into a corner, music blasting through his headphones, scribbling frantic drum notations on a scrap of paper, every bit as feverish as Vessel could be, except much neater and more methodical. The others were still passed out in their bunks, III’s soft snores filling the the narrow space.

A sudden bump in the road jostled Ivy and his head knocked against the glass. With a low, huffed “cachu” he heaved himself up and trudged over to the kitchenette. He jabbed grumpily at the coffee machine until it hummed to life. The deep, velvety smell curled through the air with the promise of delicious, caffeinated life elixir.

Somehow, the scent wormed its way into the deep, dark depths of Vessel’s sleep, and before Ivy’s mug was even full, a low groan and thud sounded from the bunks. A small smile crept onto his face as he tapped the coffee machine again, then turned around.

Vessel was fucking radiant.

Well—not really. His face was scrunched up in that just-woke-up-and-not-a-human-yet way, hair fluffed into all directions, sleep still crusted in the corners of his lashes.
He probably had breath that could kill a man.

But to Ivy, he was perfect. Grey late morning light filtered through the windowpane, lighting Vessel’s skin in soft highlights, catching in the faint prickle of stubble on his jaw. When he looked up his sleepy eyes shone, the usually indiscernible flecks in his irises glinting like tiny sparks. His ancient, oversized t-shirt hung loosely over his chest but when he reached up to run a hand through his hair, the lean, subtle lines of his forearm tensed, muscles shifting beneath pale skin. He yawned, voice thick with sleep, pointy canines peeking out.

“Morning,” Vessel grumbled, stretching overhead. His shirt rode up just enough for a sliver of skin to flash, and Ivy’s eyes lingered shamelessly, an almost satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Is that sludge I smell?”

“Indeed, it is.” Ivy grabbed the ludicrous mug with Vessel’s face printed across it, and began pouring the dark, too thick liquid into it.

Vessel scowled at the shiny ceramic like it had personally offended him—which it kind of did. “Do you have to use that abomination?”

“Yes, I do,” Ivy said sweetly, grinning wickedly from ear to ear. “Gotta test drive the merch before rolling it out.”

“You realize I will never, in any universe, approve that… thing to actually be released, right?”

Ivy shot him a sideways look as he finished pouring. “Maybe not.” A long, stretched pause, because being dramatic was very important to Ivy. “But II will.”

Vessel scoffed. “No way in hell.”

Ivy grinned again, holding out the sloshing mug. “It was his idea.”

Vessel stared at him like he’d just confessed to personally smashing every instrument in their possession. “I thought—I was sure—you.”

“Just drink your sludge,” he said, gently pushing the beverage into Vessel’s reaching hands.

Slightly stunned, he brought it to his lips and took a huge swig. It was far too hot but it Vessel barely noticed. He was still trying to sort through II’s ice cold betrayal. There would be words. Serious ones.

But for now, that bitter, almost awful, perfect liquid slid down his throat and a quiet, content hum stirred in his chest.

“So good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t tell the others, but you make the best. Seriously, it’s delicious. I could kiss you right now, it’s so good.”

Ivy turned a pale pink, warmth rushing through his chest and spreading through every inch of his body.

“You can now, you know.” Please, please, please, please, please.

Maybe now wasn’t the time to be needy but Jesus fuck, he would do anything for just one, small, tiny, affectionate kiss.

Now it was Vessel who was suddenly tinged a soft red, but the little coy smile told Ivy it had landed.

“Oh—“ He stepped closer, carefully setting the mug down on the counter. “—right.”

Ivy’s pulse thrummed in his ears. Vessel’s pounded in his head. Both their breaths caught just a little.

Soft fingers settled on Ivy’s cheek, featherlight, like he might shatter if Vessel gripped too tightly. He hesitated for half a breath—not because he didn’t want to, but because every touch, every kiss sent little jolts of electricity through him. Because he knew he’d want more—that Ivy would want more—but he couldn’t yet give it.

Their lips met gently, slow and searching and almost tentative. It was all new but somehow familiar. To Ivy’s surprise—or really, to both of their surprise—Vessel deepened it, pressing closer, skimming the lightest trace of a tongue over Ivy’s bottom lip.

He wanted more. They both did. It would be so easy to fall into it. To sink, to tumble, to let go.  

And yet, Ivy pulled away, his hand tenderly running over Vessel’s forearm. He stared up at him with those huge, long-lashed eyes, the desire etched so deeply into ever line of his face it almost hurt. But there was something else beneath it, too. Something soft and careful. Concern, but not the fearful kind. The kind like strong hands cradling a fragile, precious treasure or a candle warming cold fingers. Neither said anything, an unspoken understanding shared between them. That bond Sleep had once forced onto them may have been gone but somehow, what remained was even stronger.

I know you want to, too.

And I know you’ll never push me, even if I push myself.

Before either of them could move, a low groan sounded from the hall and II came sauntering in with heavy footsteps.

“Jesus, I leave you two alone for five minutes and you turn into a badly produced rom-com.” He smirked at them affectionately, that honey-sweet softness bleeding into every word.

Hardly turning, they both flipped him off in perfect harmony. Unbothered, II wandered over, stood on his tiptoes to press a loud, smacking kiss to Ivy’s temple, then tugged Vessel down by the front of his shirt with completely unnecessary force to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Disgusting,” he said with a grin far too tender to have any bite. “Both of you.”

“You fucking love it,” Ivy laughed brightly, pulling II into a crushing bear hug.

“Yes I do,” II mumbled into the crook of Ivy’s neck, words getting a little lost against warm skin.

Ivy tensed for half a heartbeat, just enough to catch if you were looking, then loosened just as quickly. But his hand tightened in II’s hoodie for a second longer before he shoved him away lightly, cheeks tinged dark pink.

II's warm breath on his skin had done something visceral to him; something that had become alarmingly familiar over the past week. II felt it too: searing heat, a shudder that traveled straight down his spine, barely restrained want trembling just beneath his skin. They pulled apart, both pretending not to notice.

But Vessel had definitely noticed. He watched the way their fingers brushed even after they let go, the way Ivy’s gaze flicked to II’s lips for a second like he didn't mean to.
Something lurched in him—dark and heavy and inevitable.

Guilt.

It clawed at him, stuck to him like a second skin he couldn’t shed. They were holding back because of him. Because he just couldn't... get over it.

Burying his face in his sludge mug like he wanted to disappear into the murky brown, Vessel turned away toward the bunks, muttering something about being cold.

“Wait,” II called after him before he could vanish. “Have my hoodie, I’m hot anyway.” He was already peeling it off in one fluid motion, the fabric ruffling his hair.

“Eh, I don’t think your tiny child-sized jumper is gonna fit me, mate.” Vessel said, half-laughing as he watched II left in just a thin white tank top.

“It’s III’s,” II said with a scowl. “Wanker.”

He tossed it at Vessel’s head anyway, grinning as it smacked him in the face.

“How did you not notice that I was drowning in it?”

Vessel shrugged, tugging the hoodie down properly over his head. He genuinly hadn’t noticed. He had been busy noticing other things. Like the slant of II’s mouth when he laughed, or the way Ivy’s eyes softened when he looked at him. Or how warm II’s lips had been against his forehead. Or that moment of static between II and Ivy before they pulled apart.

“Probably too lost in those pretty blues,” Ivy teased, eyes dreamy, grin absolutely shit-eating.

II scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“He’s not totally wrong,” Vessel muttered, adjusting the hoodie around his shoulders. It was still warm from II’s body heat and smelled like both of them—II’s grapefruit body wash, the clean bite of III’s deodorant, lingering detergent, the familiar smell of home. “See,” II huffed, tossing his hands up. “This is what I’m talking about: disgusting.”   

Vessel ducked his head, hiding a shy smile in the rim of his mug, but the tips of his ears turned pink. He looked at the two of them, all mussed hair and sleepy grins and affection spilling from every molecule of their being. Ivy booped II’s nose with a soft laugh and Vessel's chest ached with it—that adoration that had always been there but was now tangled with a whole host of other confusing feelings.

For just a second, Vessel let himself be cradled in it, let himself pretend that this was normal. The unbearable sweetness, the easy tenderness threading into the seams of his life.

And then he realized:

This wasn’t pretending anymore.

This was real. This was theirs.

Chapter Text

They were almost at the venue when II reached into the fridge for his daily morning Red Bull… and came up empty. His face fell. Their first night back on stage after Vessel’s horrific fight against Sleep was not the right time to run out.

He didn’t waste a second before he was up and moving, charging toward the front of the bus where Lawrence was still grumbling insults under his breath.

“Crisis!” II nearly shouted in his ear, his voice a little more frantic than he intended. “We need to stop. Immediately.”

Lawrence barely spared him a glance, the kind that suggested he’d heard it all before, and probably didn’t care.

“Out of your disgusting liquid heart attack in a can?”

II’s eyebrows furrowed into an almost disappointed frown. “How’d you know?”

Lawrence’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, a look of mild but teasing disdain playing across his face. “You get all… twitchy. I can hear you whining and groaning from up here.”  

“I do not,” II said with a huff, straightening up and crossing his arms like a pissed off teenager who’d just been told off.

There was a long pause, and then Lawrence finally looked up again, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do. It’s like your brain is short circuiting. Like a little fly too damn dumb to get out of a glass.”

II scowled at him with a death stare, then groaned dropping his shoulders in defeat. “Whatever. Can we just please stop? This is an emergency. If I don’t get my hands on a Red Bull, we’re all fucked.”

Lawrence gave a half-hearted, deadpan stare before rolling his eyes and returning his attention to the road. “Feel like I’m enabling an addict.”

“You are,” II grinned, absolutely self-aware of the dire state of his bone-deep need for his over-sugared caffeinated liquid salvation. “But you like me. So: Tesco. I’ll be fast. Promise.”

Lawrence’s lips quirked upward in a mischievous smile. “I’ll believe that when I see it. But alright, there’s a Tesco with a car park about a mile from the venue.”

II appreciatively clapped Lawrence on the shoulder, a sheepish but very relieved smile curling on his face.

“Not waiting for you though. You can walk. Only a mile, after all.”

II snorted, unable to hide the smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. “Prick. I sign your paychecks, you know.”

Lawrence chuckled, the sound warm and easy. “No, you don’t. Thom does.”

“Besides the point.” II grumbled, crossing his arms again, but there was only lighthearted teasing behind it.

Lawrence laughed, swinging the bus around a corner. “C’mon, mate, let’s go get you your go-go juice before you start foaming at the mouth.”

Before II could respond, Vessel’s warm, teasing voice came from behind him.

“Don’t tell me he’s out again.” He slipped his arms around II’s waist, pulling him back slightly, just enough their bodies were curled into one another. II instinctively leaned into the touch even as he made a show of being annoyed.

A flicker of a knowing smile crossed Lawrence’s face, and he let out a small, amused breath. The shift between the four of them hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone. No one knew the full story of what had happened with Vessel after his breakdown at the end of the Bristol show—not that anyone would actually believe the whole ancient deity story—but they all knew something had changed.

Of course, Vessel and the others always been close—affectionate, always seeking each other’s company, physical in an intimate but casual way few others were. But now there was something almost palpable in the air like they were testing the waters of something new, something more charged.  

Only a few days after Bristol, Vin had surreptitiously leaned over to Thom after catching III’s eyes lingering on Vessel a beat longer than they usually did. “Is it just me or are they desperate to shag?” he’d mumbled low enough for only Thom to hear. Thom had laughed a little to vigorously, nodding in agreement.

So it didn’t surprise Lawrence in the least when he caught the fleeting kiss Vessel pressed into the crook of II’s neck.

After a brief pause and a hitch of his breath—one II hoped no one noticed (they did)—he turned back to Lawrence, giving him another little appreciative tap on the shoulder.

“You, sir, are an absolute legend.” Then, much quieter and more to himself: “Dunno what I’ll do if they’re out again…”

Lawrence caught it anyway and chuckled. “You’ll survive. Worst comes to worst, we can always make you drink whatever off-brand piss they’ve got at catering.”

II pulled a face like he’d just been mortally offended. “Ugh. Sacrilege.”

Vessel, still draped around him with his head mashed into II’s shoulder in a strange, half-folded stance, hummed in amusement.
“You know,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled, “I’d stage an intervention, Twoofer, but I’ve heard your drumming when you haven’t had your fix. It’s shit.”

II twisted out of his grip, spun around, and smacked him lightly over the head. “Prick.”

Vessel giggled maniacally, delighting in the deep flush blooming across II’s cheeks and all the way to the tips of his ears.
Lawrence chuckled too but wisely shut up when II shot him a downright murderous look.

“Ten minutes to Tesco,” he said instead, steering the bus through a slew of taxis too busy to look where the fuck they were going. “Go put some clothes on; you’ll freeze your damn nipples off like that.”

II decided that didn’t warrant a reply and just rolled his eyes, shoving Vessel—who was still cackling—backward toward the lounge.

As promised, a few minutes later they pulled into the car park.
II was practically bouncing where he stood, vibrating with the need to get his hands on his liquid beloved. Okay. Fine. Maybe Lawrence had a point. He did get a little twitchy.

Drawn by the siren call of snacks just beyond the bus doors, Ivy surfaced from his SteamDeck haze, blinking away the screen-induced flimmers blearily but just as eager.

“I’ll wake III up too,” Ivy said, stretching. “He’ll want some of those… sesame kale chips or whatever.” Ivy wanted those sesame kale chips but would never admit to it.

“God, you turned him into such an insufferable posh boy, Ivy. It’s sickening,” II grumbled.

“Oh, please,” Ivy snorted. “He always was. He was just too fucking broke to live out his bourgeois fever dreams.”

Vessel, half-folded into a pretzel shape on the couch, snorted. “Absolutely. Don’t you remember what he bought with our first real paycheck?”

II narrowed his eyes, absolutely serious. “Two kilos of that organic single-origin coffee from Ethiopia. The one that tasted like strawberries.”

“Precisely.” Vessel’s eyes flicked toward the bunks, a fond, almost stupid smile curling onto his face. “And that was before Ivy.”

“Hey, dickwad,” Ivy growled, his whole face screwing up into a dramatic grimace. “We don’t talk about that.”

“About what? III’s painfully overpriced taste in beans?”

“No. About before Ivy.” He said it like a joke, and it was—but there was just the faintest, fleeting prick of something real under it. “There was no before Ivy.”

Vessel didn’t even try to hold back his laughter. “Oh, Ivers. Every agonizing second without you was pure hell.”

“Fuck off,” Ivy grumbled, shoving him square in the shoulder but the tiny, traitorous smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. His eyes, sharp and a little too bright, lingered on Vessel for a half-second longer than necessary before he flipped him the finger for good measure and stalked off toward the bunks, muttering something scathing in Welsh under his breath.

II laughed, fondly trailing their every movement, warmth curling in his chest.

“C’mon, you fucking idiots, let’s get me my go-go juice before I start vibrating out of my skin.”

Vessel flopped back onto the couch with the groan of a man much, much older. “I’ll stay here. Don’t feel like facing—” he shot the window a suspicious glance, “—that.”

II chuckled, reaching out to card his fingers through Vessel’s still-mussed hair. “You sure?”

Humming contentedly, Vessel stretched into the light scratches on his scalp. “Mhmm,” his eyes fluttered closed. “And anyway, someone needs to make sure the bus doesn’t roll away completely on its own accord.”

II chuckled. “Alright, Vessy. Want anything?”

“Orange.”

II laughed again and pressed a quick kiss to his head, heart giving a little stutter that definitely wouldn’t have been there a week before.

A moment later, Ivy reemerged, an extremely disheveled III trailing behind him. His boxers were slung ridiculously high across his stomach, and he tugged at them, yawning as he did. II and Vessel had turned toward the sound of their footsteps and both pairs of eyes snagged  on the soft trail of hair disappearing down over III’s stomach. Their gazes lingered just a moment too long to be casual.

Ivy caught the dark flicker passing across their faces, turning the corners of his mouth into a small, knowing grin; though for a second, something quieter tugged at the edge of it, before he pushed it away—for now.

“Cold,” III mumbled, turning toward Vessel with a pitiful little frown. “Gimme the hoodie.” He held out his hand expectantly.

Vessel immediately burrowed deeper into the soft fabric. “Get your own.”

“That is mine.” III stared at him, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t believe his very own favorite hoodie was being held hostage.

Vessel cocked his head in that stupidly cute way — the way that made sure he always got whatever he wanted. “Oh, you’re right. It is yours.” He made no move to take it off, just grinned, wicked and daring.

“Hand it over, mate.” Firm. Resolute. Dead serious. But the teasing affection seeped through anyway.

“Hmm... no.”

III squinted at him for a second, sizing him up. Then lunged.

A scuffle broke out, full of half-hearted insults, laughter, and warmth, III trying to peel the hoodie off Vessel with little success. Vessel twisted away, still clinging stubbornly to the soft fabric, but III was persistent, grabbing at the hem and shoving up the loose folds. His hand brushed against bare skin and for a moment, Vessel froze. He was half-pinned against the couch, III’s hand gripping one of his wrists, shirt rucked up to expose his stomach. III's fingers lingered a second too long against his side, the heat of his touch searing into Vessel’s bare skin.

They both stilled, breathing shallow, the air suddenly humming with tension instead of laughter. Vessel’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing. III’s gaze flicked to his throat, tracking the small movement, then snapped away, dizzy with it.

Vessel shifted under him, dragging the hoodie over his head before the silence could choke them both. “Here,” he mumbled, shoving it at III, who had readjusted to sit a little too straight on the couch. “Can’t have you freeze out there.”

“Thanks.” III pulled it on, slightly shivering despite the warmth.

They sat there, flushed, their hair sticking up wildly from the tussle, but their eyes wouldn’t quite meet.

From somewhere near the bus door, II’s voice cut through the tension.
“Let’s go, let’s go, LET’S GO! Stop flirting and move before my blood starts curdling!”

Another second of charged stillness. III twitched, his body tipping toward Vessel like a magnet, like he didn’t even realize he was moving. For a heartbeat, it felt inevitable; that the world might just tilt them into each other with no say in the matter. But he caught himself, clearing his throat sharply before yanking himself upright.

“Better get going before he spontaneously combusts,” III said, getting up to put on pants, He tried for a lopsided grin, though it faltered at the edges.

Vessel frowned faintly. “That’s not how that works.”

“Oh, Vessy,” III sighed, exasperated affection edging into his voice, but there was something else buried under it, something heavier; something hungrier. “I don’t give a fuck.”
He ruffled Vessel’s hair in passing, the touch a little rough, a little lingering. It sent a shudder through Vessel, every nerve lighting up with the sensation, his body desperate for more even as his mind stumbled back, panicked by how fucking badly he wanted it.

But that tiny, satisfying prick of pain sparked something darker and more intrusive. Just a flash: long, tar-like fingers, curling possessively through his hair, cruel in their tenderness—like they owned him. Vessel sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut, fighting to shove the unwelcome memory back into the shadows where it belonged

Chapter Text

The glass door slid open with a quiet hiss, the warmth of the store streaming out in a welcoming burst. II pushed through the others, giving each a small shove in the small of the back as he did. “No dilly dallying! Lawrence is waiting. I promised we’d be quick.”

Ivy scoffed. “Yeah, sure. And it has nothing to do with you fucking trembling in your tiny trainers, desperate for a hit.”

“Shut up and get your kale chips, Ivy.”

“Wha—“ Ivy straightened up with a look of mock shock. “—Those are III’s! I’d never!”

“We all know you’re the one who keeps eating them, Ives. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Ivy scowled, narrowing his eyes to tiny slits but he said nothing, just let a string of unintelligible Welsh mumbles drift beneath the noisy buzz of the store.

“Seriously, get your snacks and let’s go.”

III hurried to catch up, reaching out one long arm to grab II gently by the hip. “No, I wanna come with.” 

“To where? The fucking Red Bull aisle?”

“Well…” III smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah.”

II stares at him for a moment. Blinked. “Is this how it’s gonna be now?” His eyes flicked sideways to Ivy, who stood just beside him, hands in his pockets and eyes glinting. “Everyone’s gonna be a needy little koala all the time? Like him ?”

III made a sharp sound, equal parts amused and annoyed. “You’re just as bad as us.”

“Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m as annoyingly clingy as you two.”

“Oh Twoofer ,” III sighed heavily, as if the weight of the world lay upon him. “Just stop lying to yourself.”

“I’m not—“ II started, but the red creeping from his cheeks to the tips of his ears betrayed him. “No, you know what? Whatever.”

III and Ivy exchanged a knowing look, then trailed after him like synchronized shadows. In a single, swooping movement both dipped forward, catching II’s hands in theirs. Wordlessly, he rolled his eyes, but his fingers threaded through theirs easily.

Because hell, it felt good. So good. Too good. Warm, strong, slightly rough hands from years of playing, holding on like they’d never let go.

Hands that—

Fuck. II bit down on the thought before it could finish forming. Not here. Not now. Not when Vess—No, this wasn’t Vessel’s fault. They could wait. They would wait. They had to. There was no them without him.

He spotted the glorious little silver and blue cans and abruptly pulled away, greedily heaving up the largest pack he could find, and then another. Ivy rolled his eyes and scooped up two more in his own arms.

II looked up at him, then down at the drinks, then back up. “Awww,” he cooed, “you love me.”

“‘Course I do, II -bach .” Ivy grinned sweetly, that damn Welsh lilt sending a pleasant shiver through II. 

“Or he just wants you to quit moaning about your unbearable plight,” III said, grabbing a ludicrously pink drink for himself. 

Ivy kicked him in the shin. “Fuck off.” He paused, then added, more softly, “Although he’s right. I do want you to shut up.” 

“Honestly,” II said, almost drooling at the drinks. “Don’t really care as long as I get my fix.”

“Fair,” Ivy shrugged, but the affectionate smile lingered.

With essentials in hand, they wandered into the snack aisle. III absently picked up a can here, a bottle there, hardly paying attention. 

“Bit weird, innit?” He mumbled, mostly to himself. “Vessel alone.” 

Ivy’s brows knitted together. “Lawrence is with him.”

“That’s not what I mean.” III stopped, lifting a tiny packet of soup spice and turning it over like it held all the answers. “We haven’t left him alone like this in… a while.”

II paused too. If he wasn’t carrying two dozen Red Bulls, he’d have reached for III’s arm. “III: he’s okay. I think he actually needs it. Needs to… learn how to be with himself— only himself—again.”

“We’ve never known him like this. No Sleep. Just… him. Properly ,” Ivy said, voice catching on the realization.

“None of us have know each other like that, Ives.”

“Oh.” His stomach twisted—not in the good way. “You’re right. I, uh…hadn’t thought of that.”

“Finally don’t have to share you with some creepy possessive asshole,” III teased, bumping Ivy with his elbow and flashing a wink. Then, impulsively, he caught Ivy’s arm, leaned down, and kissed him. Just for a second, a mere brush of lips.

Ivy nearly dropped the Red Bull.

And II? Something in his chest flared, hot and dark and twisted. Something sharper than want, than the absolute feral need to fuck them both— all of them—through the goddamn mattress. It pricked at him and he swallowed it down thickly, twisting away, averting his eyes.

Ivy saw it. Just before II could walk away, he saw that flicker, the tension, the way his shoulders stiffened. 

“II,” he said carefully, catching his attention. “Are you jealous?”

II frowned. “What? “

“Are you jealous?” he repeated, tilting his head with curiosity. “That III kissed me just now?”

II exhaled sharply. “No.” But it came far too quickly and his voice shook too much.  

Before Ivy could say anything else, he spun around and speed walked toward the tills.

“Oh, he’s really jealous,” Ivy said, leaning in closer to avoid the prying ears of a couple turning into the aisle.

III’s gaze lingered on the space II had just vacated. “But… nothing to be jealous of.”

Ivy hummed, gaze stuck on the same spot. “I know. But.. this might all be a bit more complicated than we thought.”

The bus door clicked shut behind them and Vessel sank further into the couch with a slow exhale, curling into himself like he could disappear into the cushions, arms clutching a pillow that still faintly smelled like Ivy’s shampoo—sweet and citrusy—against his chest. He reached for the noise-canceling headphones left there the night before, sliding them on to cocoon himself in the silence.

It was the first time he’d truly been alone in… years. No thrum. No buzz. No syrupy voice wrapping around his spine, stealing his thoughts. And the others hadn’t left him alone like this in months. One of them had always hovered, had always been within reach. He’d resented it then but now—now he understood. Now he was grateful that they hadn’t left him alone—alone with Sleep. Grateful they’d endured every version of him that hadn’t been… him . That they’d stayed, even when he hadn’t deserved it.

And he really, really fucking hadn’t. He curled tighter around the pillow, jaw tense, mouth pressed into a line. He’d been awful to them. Cruel, even. 

Ivy, who spoke through touch, through care, through the smallest physical offerings; always reaching, always touching, always searching even when it hurt. And Vessel had punished him for it; had made Ivy feel worthless, like the only language he knew how to speak meant nothing.

Vessel swallowed hard, his eyes flicking down to trace the pattern of the pillow. One thumb rubbed absent circles into its seam like his body was trying to soothe the part of himself sick with guilt.

And III. Vessel had lain every bit of blame on him: Elena, the leak, all of it. He’d looked him in the eye, seen the terror, let the hurt sit there and pushed harder because… he hadn’t cared. It had meant nothing to him. Because Sleep had whispered in his ear and made it so.

He squeezed his eyes shut, curling his fingers into the soft fabric like it could keep him from slipping away. 

II… God , he didn’t even know how to think about II.

The one who had always been there. Always. Since the very first day. Who had come back even after Vessel told him to leave. Who’d driven two hours the next morning just to stand outside the door of a man he hardly knew to make sure he was okay.

Every panic attack, every blackout, every spiral—II had been there. He’d stayed, held him, and never let go. 

And Vessel had pushed him away. Undermined every kind word, rejected every steady hand. Made him question every instinct, doubt every word. He’d almost broken him; had almost broken them all.

Sleep was gone now, but the damage remained.

He shifted restlessly, hands fidgeting with the pillow—clenching, releasing; clenching, releasing. His skin felt too tight around his bones and his breath just wouldn’t sit right in his chest.

The worst of it all was that beneath all the guilt, the raw regret, the unbearable shame—there was want. Need. His eyes fluttered shut and he ran his hands over his face. A shiver slid down his spine, and he tried to breathe through it. 

He wanted them. All of them. Every breath, every touch, everything. 

Every time II’s sharp and piercing dipped lower, snapped away before it could be caught—

Every one of Ivy’s gentle touches, his mouth always so soft, so achingly tender, always giving —

And III— fuck, III—smiling devilishly, tugging on his hair that morning, just playing, just teasing, but—

Vessel felt it all like a jolt, the heat pooling, coiling, simmering low and deep, and he hated how quickly it was rising throughout his body. He clenched his jaw and exhaled hard through his nose, shifting again, pressing his thighs together, biting back a noise he couldn’t bear to feel in his chest. 

He wanted to take. To give. To be taken. To feel something that was real and that was his. 

But how could he still want that? After what Sleep had done to him—after how they had used and controlled him? Hurt him. After what he had done to the others? 

His fingers dug into the pillow so hard the seam started to tear. His body felt like a frayed live wire, coiled too tight. He needed release. Without thinking, his fingers drifted. His hand dropped from the pillow, dragging lightly over the waistband of his old sweats. His hips canted forward, seeking his own touch, even as he clenched his jaw with the strain to resist. He wasn’t hard—not yet—but he was teetering on the edge. 

Ivy’s mouth that morning, the kiss undercut with hunger, one that Vessel had wanted to let himself be consumed by. II’s pulse thrumming under his lips, all soft, warm skin and quiet, content hums. III’s grip on his wrist, the firm hand on his side. 

His palm pressed lightly against himself, feeling the desperate, growing need. He shuddered with the sensation. If it were II’s hands. Or Ivy’s mouth. Or III’s voice in his ear—

A sound tore from his throat—half gasp, half growl—and he shoved himself upright. Without thinking, he kicked the side of the couch. Not hard, but enough to feel it in his bare toes.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, sucking in air as he flopped back down, chest heaving and hands trembling. He was buzzing. Throbbing with it.

No. No . He couldn’t.

He didn’t get to want that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

His fingers dug into the pillow again. He clung to it like it was the only thing tethering him to the present. 

He didn’t—

He couldn’t—

They weren’t gone long.  A cold gust of winter air swept through the bus, pulling Vessel back into the present. He slipped off the headphones and set them aside, then clutched the pillow to his chest again, eyeing the grocery bag in III’s hand. 

“Did you get me my—“ Vessel began, but III cut him off. 

“Of course we got you you’re orange.” III reached into the bag, retrieved the citrusy fresh fruit, and tossed it to Vessel. 

He stared at it for a long moment, eyebrows pulling together, then turned it over in his hand. “But… this is a real orange.” His voice was full of genuine, bone-deep disappointment. 

“Well, yeah.” III said evenly. “You said you wanted an or—“ 

“Christ, III, stop torturing him.” Ivy shoved his shoulder. “Look at the man, he's desperate.” 

III broke into a grin, shoving a hand into his hoodie pocket. He pulled out a shiny, orange orb with a flourish. 

Vessel lit up. But instead of tossing it, III walked over, leaning in until Vessel could feel his breath. Their fingers brushed as he handed it off and III’s eyes glinted with mischief.

“Here you go, Vessy,” he said, lips grazing the spot just below his ear. A surge of heat crawled down Vessel’s spine, and he stifled a noise that would betray the current state of his entire fucking being. With a shiver, he mumbled a small thank you, then laid the orange aside. 

II watched him for a moment, carefully trailing the minute pull of his mouth, the lines around his eyes, the bob of his throat as he swallowed down unspoken words.

“You okay, V?” II asked, a pang of doubt creeping into the back of his mind—should they not have left Vessel alone? Had it been too early? 

“Hm?” Vessel looked up. “Yeah, all good.” 

Three pairs of attentive, observant eyes lingered on him. 

“You aren’t eating your orange,” III pointed out, voice matter-of-fact but curious. 

“Oh—yeah, don’t feel like it right now.”

Ivy tilted his head. “That’s not like you. What’s up?” 

“Nothing,” Vessel mumbled, still picking at the seam of the pillow. 

“Well,” II began, dropping the two heavy cases of Red Bull on the counter with a thud. “Then we’ll sit in the nothing with you.” 

Energy drinks forgotten—nevermind that he’d jugged one on the way out of the store—II immediately dropped down next to Vessel, pulling his legs up and nuzzling into his side. Vessel’s arm moved instinctively, curling around him, fingers brushing the nape of his neck and carding gently through his hair.

It felt good . So unbelievably good. The pressure of II’s body against his, the warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of his shampoo and skin, the tiny contented hum in his throat—Vessel reeled, drunk on white-hot want. The want to fuck him, to hold him, to touch, to kiss, to keep. To give himself over entirely. 

The words lodged heavily in his throat. A part of him wanted to tell them. But shit, it was terrifying. So for a long time, they existed in silence, broken only by the low rumble of the bus winding the last stretch toward the venue. II drummed little patterns and rhythms against Vessel’s chest. Ivy silently crammed II’s ungodly amount of Red Bull into the small fridge. And III sat at the table, doomscrolling Instagram.

It wasn’t until the bus had rolled to a halt and Lawrence had mumbled a goodbye as he scrambled off in search of a toilet that Vessel finally spoke. 

“I don’t…” he mumbled in a slow, tight voice, like he had to force them through a throat made of blades. “I don’t deserve any of this.” 

II shifted slightly in his arms to look up at him. III’s phone flopped onto his chest. Ivy froze halfway through rearranging the entire kitchenette. 

“What do you mean?” II said gently, trying not to push too much. 

Vessel hesitated. He just fiddled with the sleeve of II’s jacket, twisting it between his fingers.  “The oranges.” He refused to meet anyone’s eye. “Kissing you… touching you. Being—“ His voice broke off and his jaw tensed hard enough to ache. 

II sat up, but kept a steady hand on Vessel’s chest, feeling the erratic flutter of his heart under his fingertips. His eyes didn’t leave him for even a second. 

“Vessel, what are you talking about?” His hand moved up to cup Vessel’s cheek, thumb brushing across his skin. “Of course you do.”

For a moment, Vessel leaned into the warm touch, eyes fluttering half-closed and breath catching. But then he tensed, jerking upright and pulling his legs to his chest. II followed, hand settling lightly on his knee. 

“Fuck, no. No, I don’t.” His voice had sharpened, but the bite wasn’t aimed at them. “I was an absolute cunt to you guys.” 

Before II could even begin to open his mouth, III was at Vessel’s other side. 

“Vess, that wasn’t you.” It came out in a rush, like he had to get it out before Vessel’s brain could argue. “You know that. We know that.”

Vessel didn’t respond. His brows were drawn tight, mouth pressed in a thin, miserable line.

Ivy, still leaning against the counter, studied him; studied every micro-expression flitting across his face. “You know that’s fucking cockswobble,” he said, tone firmer than the others. 

It made Vessel glance up, just for a second, catching Ivy’s eyes dropping away to his knees. 

“You deserve it. And we deserve you, too.” Ivy pushed off the counter and crossed the space to the couch in a few strides. Ignoring the others blinking blankly at him, Ivy leaned in, fingers brushing Vessel’s jaw, and tilted up his chin to guide him into a slow, deep kiss. 

It seared but there was no hunger, no desperate lust. Only steadiness. Certainty. Reassurance that a thousand words couldn’t express. 

When he pulled back, Ivy stayed close, barely a breath away. “We have time,” he murmured. “And whether or not you believe you deserve it, we’re here. You’re fucking stuck with us.” A beat, and then with a small, teasing smirk, “forever.”

Vessel forgot how to breathe for a second. He didn’t know if it was the kiss, the words, or just… everything .

Ivy straightend, but his gaze didn’t leave Vessel’s eyes. “Right now, though, we’re here. At the venue. And I know we’re all fucking shitting bricks with terror but there’s six thousand people out there waiting for us.” 

“Seven,” II mumbled without looking up. 

Ivy rolled his eyes. “ Seven thousand people waiting for us. Counting on us. So we’re all gonna pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and give them what they came for.” 

Chapter Text

Nobody really knew what to do with themselves.

All four of them drifted through the cavernous backstage area like ghosts in borrowed skin, bumping into corners, opening and closing drawers, running fingers along mic stands as if hoping one might suddenly anchor them to something solid. It was like they’d never been there before. And in a way, they hadn’t:

It was the first show without Sleep. Ever.

No god. No shadow in the wings. No buzz in the nape of their necks. And no threat humming just beneath the surface of every look, every breath, every mistake.

Just them.

And that was absolutely, utterly terrifying.

Ivy kept rearranging his ridiculously overpriced guitar picks in rows, then stacking them, then back in rows. III had started pacing at some point and just never really stopped. II—very uncharacteristically—sat motionlessly on the edge of the greenroom couch twisting a drumstick around his fingers, dropping it every third time and picking it back up like clockwork.

Vessel stood in front of the mirror—picking at a stray hair, tugging at his sleeves, rubbing the sides of his face—stared at himself; not directly but slightly to the left of his reflection, like if he just looked hard enough, at just the right angle he might catch some version of himself that knew what the fuck he was doing.

“You good?” II asked, voice soft behind him.

Vessel blinked. He hadn’t heard him come over.

“Absolutely not,” he mumbled at his own reflection. II’s arms slipped around his waist, and he peeked around Vessel’s side, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

“Same,” II said, a crooked, nervous smile tugging at his mouth.

“Shitting myself over here!” III croaked from across the room, only momentarily pausing his incessant pacing.

““Pretty sure my fucking brain deleted every goddamn thing I’ve ever known about guitar,” Ivy grumbled, flicking over the stack of picks.

Vessel shot him a glare over his shoulder. “Don’t even fucking joke about that.”

“Who says I’m joking?” Ivy said flatly, brows creeping up.

III smacked him in the head as he passed by. “Seriously, Ives, not funny.”

Ivy winced, rubbing the spot. “Okay but—” He spun toward the others, motioning wildly. “What if we actually do suck? Without Sleep, maybe we’re just… mediocre.”

“No,” Vessel cut in. His heart kicked against his ribs, and he swallowed hard, then slumped into the chair by the mirror. “It wasn’t Sleep,” he said, running his hands over his face like he was trying to wipe away a lingering phantom touch. “I always thought it was. That all the talent, all the magic, all the something came from them. But they picked us for a reason. We’ve always been good. Really fucking good. Yeah, they gave us … an edge. But the music, the playing, the performing—that was all us.”

Vessel’s words were firm, sure, and certain. Only in a tiny, nearly inaudible voice did he add, “Except at the end.” The others heard it, let it sit in the air for just one, heavy moment but didn’t say anything.

Ivy sighed, tapping a pick against the table. “You sure?”

Vessel hesitated, each finger tapping his thumb in turn. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I am.”

“I trust you.” Ivy finally stopped fidgeting. “So that’s good enough for me.”

II squeezed Vessel’s arm firmly, the pressure grounding him a little. “For all of us.”

“It’s ours, V,” III chimed, bounding over to where Vessel sat. “Only ours.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Vessel’s head, then tipped his chin up to meet his eyes. “Finally.”

For a second, Vessel wasn’t sure whether III was still talking about the music.

The hours slowly ticked down to curtains. Soundcheck went suspiciously smoothly—instruments tuned to perfection, sound system crips and clear, in-ears all functioning as if they didn’t fail at every other show. The dull echoes of the empty venue were oddly comforting in their familiarity, and the constant shuffle of techs, crew, and who-the-fuck-knows bustling around inexplicably eased their nerves. Everything else had changed, but this—this absolute chaos—they understood. This still felt like home.

With black body paint best left for the last possible moment, Vessel had claimed a corner of the greenroom couch, bundled in his favorite oversized fuzzy blanket he’d dragged from the bus. A chaotic playlist of virtually every genre spilled from his headphones at skull-rattling volume that drowned out thought entirely. The noise settled the storm in his head and tugged him into stillness. Eventually, his eyelids drooped, heavier by the second, until they fluttered shut. He drifted into a daze, carried by piano harmonies and pounding bridges, until he dropped into sleep.

But then the couch dipped. Fingers slipped into his hair, scratching his scalp lightly. A low hum of pleasure slipped from his throat as he leaned into the touch.

“Hey,” a soft voice came in a whisper. “Wake up, Vess. Time to go.”

A thumb brushed over Vessel’s cheek. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbled, smiling faintly. “Feels good…”

“I don’t want to either.” The voice—so gentle, full of warmth and something just a little darker.

Vessel blinked his eyes open, heart pounding as he found II watching him—so close, gaze heavy-lidded, hungry and soft all at once.

“Want you though,” II murmured, breath catching. His fingers traced along Vessel’s jaw, brushing over the curve of his lips. His thumb lingered there, feeling the warm breath that ghosted across his skin.

Vessel’s eyes dropped to II’s lips. Fuck, he wanted this. Wanted him. But still—that small, unwelcome, gnawing tug in the back of his mind.

But II was only half a breath away, close enough for Vessel to feel his breath.

“Can I?”

“Yeah.” The word came out on a trembling exhale.

II’s mouth met his in an urgent, deep kiss. Their tongues brushed and Vessel let out a quiet whimper as he tugged II closer. Cool hands slipped under his hoodie, and he shivered, breath catching at the touch. II shifted, straddling him, and grinded down against him, hard cock pressing into him with friction that made Vessel’s whole body jolt.

Vessel caught him by the chin, gripping tight and holding him there. His jaw clenched and he swallowed thickly.

II stilled, but his eyes were dark with amusement, his voice low and wicked. “Want me to stop?”  

“Fuck no.” The words had barely left Vessel’s mouth before he pushed into another desperate, messy kiss, hips canting up, seeking, searching, wanting more. II rolled against him again, fingers trailing higher until they brushed over a nipple, then pinched, just enough to draw a moan from deep in Vessel’s throat. His hands dropped to II’s hips, dragging him in tighter.

Then—a tug on his hair, snapping his attention away. Ivy stared down at him, eyes dark with hunger, with need. His hand slid up lightly over Vessel’s throat.

Fuck, that wicked grin. The tilt of the head.

“I fucking need you,” Ivy said, voice cracked and rough. “Please, V. Please.” He dropped to his knees beside the couch, gazing up at Vessel like he was begging.

Vessel’s breath, already uneven and shallow, caught as Ivy’s mouth descended on his throat. Soft lips, warm tongue, grazing teeth. Vessel groaned and fisted his hair, holding him there, holding him closer. Ivy kissed a line up to his ear, tugged the lobe with his teeth, drew another broken sound out of him.

“Take me,” Ivy murmered desperately. “Please.”

It sent a searing jolt shot through Vessel, straight to his already hard cock, and something in him snapped.

He had no idea where the fuck II had gone but at that moment, it didn’t fucking matter. All there was, was Ivy—his needy whimper when Vessel gripped his wrists and hauled him to his knees; his impatient hands fumbling with the button of Vessel’s jeans; his grey-blue eyes glinting up at him, waiting for permisson.

A warm breath, a shudder, and then Ivy’s mouth was around him. Vessel’s brain short-circuited. Fuck, he’d wanted this—

A large, strong hand wrapped tightly around his throat, presseing for just for a second, just enough to make his head spin. His face was turned up sharply—III smirked down at him, absolutely ravenous.

“I’m gonna absolutely wreck you, Vessy,” he growled, his dark grin never faltering. “Can I?” If he wasn’t quite literally bending Vessel to his will, it might’ve sounded like a plea.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” Vessel forced out, his mind absolutely dazed. III dragged him upright to his feet, tugged sharply on his hair, and pulled him into an urgent, almost frantic kiss—lips crashing together, tongues tangling, moaning into each others’ mouths. It swallowed Vessel whole.

He barely had time to gasp before he was bent over the back of the couch, hoodie shoved up and over his head, skin bared.

III dragged his teeth against Vessel’s throat, then spat into his hand. Fingers pressed inside of him, mercilessly working him open. Maybe III was saying something, maybe it was just his head reeling—all Vessel was aware of was the intoxicating sensation of being filled.

His whole body shook with every moan, cock leaking against the couch, the friction making him twitch with every movement.

“Need you,” Vessel mumbled, completely dazed. “Fuck me. Please.”

A dark chuckle from behind him. “As you wish.”

III’s cock pressed against him. III lined up, hands digging into Vessel’s hips with a bruising grip. He pushed in slowly, then all at once—

Vessel startled awake. His hoodie was drenched in sweat, face clammy, mouth dry, and—fuck.

Vessel,” II said from somewhere beside him, voice sharp with barely suppressed urgency. “Curtain’s in an hour. Time to paint up.”

He blinked up at II, dazed and still half in the dream—which he had to get out of. Now. He shifted slightly, desperately trying to better hide the very real problem beneath the blanket, like sheer willpower and warm fluff could make it disappear. It didn’t. Really, it only made it worse, the fabric clinging to his outline in utter betrayal.

II was still standing there, arms crossed, eyes locked on him. Jesus Christ, it was too close to the dream.

“Everything okay?” II asked, eyebrows raised. “Weird dreams again?”

“You could say that,” Vessel muttered under his breath, just low enough not to be heard.

“All good,” he croaked at a normal volume. “Just… intense nap.”

He didn’t dare make eye contact. His entire body was buzzing like he’d been yanked out of a different dimension, and heat was crawling up his face fast.

“Riiiight,” II said slowly, weighing whether to keep pressing or to let it go. The latter won: “And you’re drenched in sweat because…?”

“Fuzzy blanket,” Vessel blurted, a second too fast. “Hoodie. Heater’s cranked. Warm in here, you know?”

II gazed down at him, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

Vessel sat frozen under his scrutiny, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might save him. His cock throbbed beneath it, completely unhelpful and traitorous. He forced a deep breath through his nose, like that would do anything, like he wasn’t actively trying to will his own dick into the submission.

“Okay,” II said finally. “Well, you’ve got like forty-five minutes tops to get painted and dressed. Don’t fall asleep again, alright?”

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Vessel muttered. “I was… meditating.”

“There’s drool on that pillow.”

Vessel scowled. “Deeply meditating.”

II snorted and turned away, already walking off to find III who’d disappeared to… somewhere.

Vessel waited until the door closed behind him, then flopped backward with a groan, burying his glowing red face in the blanket. He was going to die. He was going to die in this stupid green room, half-hard and humiliated, and he hadn’t even played the first Sleepless show yet.

And worse:

He was about to go onstage with the three living, breathing subjects of his dream. The dream that had ended with him getting railed into the couch by III after Ivy begged to suck him off and II had straddled him whimpering desperate Want you’s.

And the bloody fans were expecting soft touches and lingering glances and that one goddamn searing kiss with Ivy.

He was so fucked.

Chapter Text

Vessel was still huddled on the couch—hood yanked up, strings drawn so tight only the tip of his nose showed, dick still buzzing with treachery—when Thom stormed in several minutes later. The door slammed as if it was just as on edge as everyone else.

“What the fuck?” Thom barked, scanning the room for Vessel who might as well have disappeared through the floor.

A low groan from the couch gave him his answer.

“Jesus—” Thom muttered, rounding on the heap. “Get the fuck up, Vessel. You’ve got a show to play, for fuck’s sake.”

Vessel stirred reluctantly, tugging at his hoodie strings to loosen the hood and reveal his flushed, blotchy face—at least his cock had finally relented.

“I know, I know,” he mumbled, dragging both hands down his face, then slapping his cheeks like that would somehow bring clarity.

Thom crossed his arms, frown set deep. But when he really looked at him, the edge in his face softened.

“It’ll be good. Alright? You’ve got this, Vess.”

Vessel bounced one leg, jittery as hell, but it did nothing to relieve the tension. “I don’t know, Thom,” he muttered, voice rasping like a stuck breath. “After the last show…”

Thom paused, the click of his pen stuttering to a stop. “Mate, I haven’t seen you this happy in…” He shook his head. “Shit. Maybe ever.”

Vessel’s gaze flicked up to Thom’s but said nothing.

“I don’t know what the hell happened after that show,” Thom went on. “But whatever it was—it did you good. Like you left all the dark shit behind.”

Vessel huffed a small, humorless laugh. “You have no fucking idea.”

Thom raised an eyebrow, waiting—but Vessel just pushed himself up with a sigh.

“Forget it,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s get it over with.”

The last few minutes were a blur of body paint touch-ups, in-ear adjustments, stray hairs tucked under masks. The thunderous swell of the crowd bled through the final door separating them from what might be the most momentous show of their lives.

Ivy had been muttering in Welsh for far too long—possibly some kind of increasingly unhinged prayer-chant. Or maybe he was mentally inventorying their snack supply. III leaned against the wall, gnawing a pick to death. II drummed on an empty container with twitchy fingers.

And Vessel stood at the center of it all, fingers tapping his thumb again just to keep his hands from shaking. His breath came shallow and his pulse roared in his ears.
Seven thousand people.
And no Sleep to guide him, to steady him, to—

What had Sleep ever really done?
Whispered sweet nothings that always turned to barbed wire?
Sent cruel, electric jolts down his spine when he thought or felt the wrong thing?
Wrapped their hands around him—reaching, grasping, taking?

Consuming?

The panic surged in his chest, vision blurring until the room bent around him and the hum of the crowd twisted into a shrill, shrieking buzz.

And then, before he could spiral—

Three pairs of arms.
Ivy draped himself over his back like a weighted blanket. II pressed in from the front, slinging an arm tight around his waist—thank god they’d finally found body paint that didn’t smudge at the slightest touch. III curled around them all, cradling the back of Vessel’s neck, pressing his forehead gently to his.

A slow, shared breath passed between them.

“We’re okay,” II said, low and steady, just for them to hear. “It’s ours now.”

They looked at each other, eyes full of affection and a cautious, aching kind of hope.

“Ours,” Vessel repeated, even more quietly.

He inhaled again. This time, it reached his lungs. He could breathe.

“Let’s go!” someone shouted loud and sharp and the moment shattered. They were herded through the door and into the wings.

For a moment, there was only the low hum of seven thousand people chattering in anticipation, and someone mumbling instructions in their ears that none of them were actually listening to.

Then: darkness.

A beat, like the world holding its breath.

And suddenly, a sea of deep orange light bathed the stage.

Vessel stepped out, emerging with slow, measured steps. The noise hit him like a tidal wave, thousands of voices crashing into him, screaming, reaching, chanting We love you and We missed you.

The others followed close behind, waving, feeding off the electric hum rising in the air.

They took their positions—II at his kit, III stage right, Ivy stage left.
Vessel, of course, front and center.

One last collective breath and then: the cue.

The music swelled and before the first note had even rung out, the tension snapped. Something inside them broke open.

They met each other’s eyes, just a flicker of connection, and began.

And holy fuck, it felt good.

Chapter Text

They absolutely killed Nazareth.
Every note landed with ruthless precision, rhythm pulsing through them, the beat undercut by a completely new kind of intoxicating current. It was more than muscle memory and thousands of hours of playing together; they were locked onto each other, moving as one; not bound by some obscure, weird-as-hell arcane rope anymore, but like atoms pulled into orbit. Each glance was a silent signal. Every practiced twitch of a hand, a wordless understanding. In perfect harmony.

III was grinning like an idiot under his mask, maniacal laughter bleeding through his in-ears when he landed a particularly nasty bass run. Ivy’s dad shuffle dance hit new peaks of adorableness, frankly weaponized to bring the masses to their knees. II went so hard on a breakdown his stick snapped clean in half; he chucked it over his shoulder in a graceful arc, grabbing a new one with such finesse and speed only the drum cam caught the moment.

Vessel felt the electricity burn through him in the best way, hopping and jigging across the stage like a rabid praying mantis to the delight of the equally rabid fans.

And through it all: the looks.
Fuck, those looks.

Their gazes positively burned. Glances lingered longer than they used to. Fingers reached out more greedily. III and Ivy slinked up the drum risers every chance they got, visiting II who was tragically stuck behind his kit.

Even Vessel made his way to him once, nearly missing a cue and not giving a single shit, that wicked little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Because he was a fucking human and made mistakes.
Nothing more. Nothing less.

And with that humanity—much to Vessel’s dismay—came the very real plight of being horny as all hell.

That cursed dream still flared in his head with every touch, every slow, burning look. It hadn’t even been real, but he felt it like a ghost: II’s cool hands running up his chest; Ivy kneeling in front of him, warm breath and lips wrapped around him; III—fuck, III pushing inside him, slow and gentle at first…

His voice caught halfway through Higher, barely more than a throaty moan. The fans ate it. Like it was the last crumb for a starving man. Absolutely ravenous for it.

And so were the others.

That tiny, broken sound sent a jolt so violent through Ivy he was pretty sure the front row heard his barely stifled “fuck.” II’s cock twitched halfway through a fill, and he nearly snapped another drumstick in half because he wanted to drag those sounds out of Vessel.

And III, mid-can-can kick, nearly fell on his ass.

Like That was no better. If anything, it was worse.

The bass line had barely started when Ivy all but wrapped himself around III from behind, his hand gliding up over that smooth, silken shirt making it almost impossible for III to keep playing.

Vessel, too, set his sights on him, rounding on him during the second chorus, hand gripping him by the jaw, singing directly to him. III nodded ferociously.

Not even II was spared. As an act of revenge (or mercy, or neither, or both), III joined him on the riser, leaning in so close II felt his breath even through two layers of Lycra. And when III whispered “wrist movements blessed by the devil himself” into his ear, II was pretty sure the pulsing of his heart broke through the thunder of his drums. It was only a slight comfort that the mask hid the glowing red of his cheeks.

Even Atlantic saw its share of unholy sacrilege.

Ivy, so lost in Vessel’s voice he completely forgot they were on stage, threw his head back as if the music itself had teasing hands tracing his skin. His own fingers glided over the neck of his guitar like he was worshipping it.

But it was The Offering that broke them all.

As the instrumental bridge began to build—that deep, pulsating, thrumming buzz crawling up their spines, clawing its way through the air, thick and rich and dripping with something dark and hungry—they all coiled tight, like something ready to rip at the slightest touch.

Every breath stopped as the kiss neared.

Ivy’s heart pounded so hard he could hardly hear the mix on his in-ears.
Vessel buzzed, hardly seeing a thing, and moved on nothing but instinct and the greed to feel Ivy against him.

That’s when it happened:
It wasn’t Ivy who dropped to his knees, reverent and begging—it was Vessel.

Before he could think, before his brain could catch up with his body, he was at Ivy’s feet. A second of startled confusion quickly replaced by deep satisfaction flashed through Ivy’s eyes. The mask obscured it, but Vessel could feel the wicked smirk as he approached, every bit as commanding as Vessel usually was.

Vessel reached for him, a silent, desperate plea.

Finally, Ivy reached him, close enough for the tip of his sneaker to bump Vessel’s knee. Even kneeling, Vessel’s head easily reached Ivy’s shoulders. His hands slipped around his waist, trailed up his back, one large hand splayed between his shoulder blades while the other rested on his hip. Ivy’s fingers brushed over the small sliver of the exposed skin of his jaw, sliding under the hard plastic, feeling the searing heat.

And with the world holding its breath, wrapped in smoke and dim amber light, Ivy leaned in, and kissed him.

A hundred times before they had done this, but it had never been like this.

Real.

Like a holy communion before seven thousand witnesses, there was only one truth:
This—all of this—was theirs.

The others watched, mouths hanging open, holding on by mere threads not to throw themselves at their feet because goddamit, they were still playing a show.

The screams of the crowd were like a feral detonation tearing the stage apart. How any of them still had a voice left after was a mystery never to be solved.

The rest of the set blurred around them, like the fading after-image of a photo flash—like they’d somehow left their bodies behind in that moment.

Something had shifted. The edges of reality felt a little softer, a little blurred.

But not like it had been with Sleep coiled in the back of their skulls. This was purer. Brighter. Like they were just beyond the reach of anything but each other.

By the time The Love You Want began, they were finally settling back into their skin.

Which was fortunate.
Because damn, it hit.

Where the rest of the set had scorched—had bled with lust and impatient hunger for one another—this was quieter. An ache, almost, and yet a steady comfort settling into their core.

The crowd sang with them, pouring themselves into every lyric, every note, until the whole room rose into a single, shimmering crescendo of release—the emotional kind.

When the last note faded, and the full weight of seven thousand voices washed over them—voices joining not in worship of some faceless deity, but in gratitude for them, as they were—they stood still in the amber light for a long, breathless moment.

Overwhelmed by… everything.

And when Vessel bowed low, threw up a ridiculous potato-hand heart, and slunk offstage, he was dazed.

His chest too full with love.
With lust.
With gratitude.
And most of all—connection.

Backstage was utter chaos. The moment they were offstage, they were swarmed by techs, stagehands, and tour managers, all shouting congratulations, rattling off notes, trying to herd them toward the dressing rooms while also high-fiving them mid-run.

But the four of them merely glanced at the blur of movement and noise—and instead zipped toward one another like magnets. Still high on adrenaline and glitter-slick with sweat, they fell into each other’s arms in a fit of laughter.

Vessel, completely disheveled and absolutely reeling, grabbed onto II first, nearly knocking him backward with a hug so ferocious it punched the air from his lungs. II grunted, then laughed, arms instinctively wrapping tight around him, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Vessel’s head.

Ivy barreled into them both a second later, practically purring as he burrowed his face into Vessel’s neck, his nose scrunching at the stickiness but clearly not caring.

And III just flung himself across all three of them like a dramatic fainting Victorian wife, groaning into the crook of II’s shoulder, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. “Never gonna walk again. My legs are liquid. This is it. I live here now.”

“I love you guys,” Ivy dreamily mumbled into someone’s chest—likely Vessel’s, judging by the amount of black sweat stuck to his cheek.

“Yeah, we know,” II said, utterly soft, his eyes crinkling with affection. “I love you too.”

III made an unidentifiable dramatic noise and stuck his hand blindly in the air. “Someone hold my hand. I’m fading!”

Vessel—who hadn’t said a word yet, just glowing, dazed, blissed-out—lifted his head and promptly kissed him on the cheek. “You’re getting worse than him.” With the words, he absently slipped his hand into Ivy’s hair, threading his fingers through the sweat-damp strands. Ivy melted with a small, pleased hum, eyelids fluttering shut.

Then Vessel kissed him again, properly.

And then he turned and kissed II.

And then Ivy.

It wasn’t a big thing.

It wasn’t performative.

It wasn’t to make a point.

Ku just felt… right.

Which meant that, naturally, all three of them instantly kissed him back.

And then kissed each other.

And—

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. They were still in the hallway. A very busy hallway.

Which meant there were, in fact, people around.

Crew members. Techs. Venue staff. Their lighting guy, who audibly squeaked from a corner. Their security guard, who graciously—and very obviously—turned around to politely stare at a wall. The audio tech intern, who walked by and mumbled, “I knew this was bound to happen,” in the same tone someone might use to settle a bet. And an unassuming venue employee who walked directly into an inconveniently placed pillar because they couldn’t look away.

But still, no one told them to stop.

No one as much as muttered an ill word.

The kisses were soft, giddy, and warm with joy, an almost innocent air clinging to them.

Hands interlaced, foreheads leaned together, whispered sighs of relief and just… pure fucking happiness.

Something they hadn’t had in a long time.

Maybe something they’d never had.

When someone tried to coax them to the green room with the promise of Red Bull and snacks, they obediently tagged along—but slyly slipped away at just the right moment.

As much as they wanted to celebrate and share in the absolute high of the night, they needed a moment.

Just for themselves.

Quiet and still.

Away from everyone and everything else.

So they hurried across the dark coach park, shivering a little in the icy winter air, and stumbled into the bus in a virtual tumble of limbs and tired bodies. They plopped down on the stupidly big couch in the lounge, each spreading out in every direction—meaning Vessel and III were literally half-draped over the others.

Their uninhibited shrieks of joy faded into that comfortable silence of contentment. For a long minute or two, they just lay there, fingers interlacing where they could, shoulders bumping, heads resting on thighs or arms or each other. Breathing each other in.

Quietly, II spoke. “Holy shit. Did you feel that?”

Vessel let out a small, amused breath of laughter. “Oh yeah. I did.”

“That was… insane.” II stared at the ceiling like it held the answer to the universe and everything beyond, his fingers absently tracing patterns along Ivy’s forearm.

“I didn’t think it could feel like… that.” III’s head slumped to the side to look at him. “I meant what I said, by the way.”

Ivy, blinking out of his own haze of after-show bliss, lifted his head a bit. “What’d he say?”

II blushed visibly. III smirked with zero shame.

“Told him he’s got wrist movements blessed by the devil himself.”

A beat of silence. And then—

Vessel howled, laugh bursting out of him so suddenly it made the others jump. “Jesus fucking Christ, III. You’re a menace.”

The absurdity of it all flooded through him, setting his atoms abuzz with something unnamable—something between love and amusement and an understanding so deep he wasn’t able to wrap his head around it.

“Christ, I absolutely fucking adore you, you know that?”

Now III was the one blushing. Yep. Vessel’s dumb little compliments still did that.

But instead of saying something cute or affectionate in return, he flailed one long arm and slapped Vessel square in the chest with a dramatic huff.

Vessel laughed again, immediately shifting to cling onto III’s side, slinging himself across him as if to wring him to death with love. Like a boa. Just less… eating.

“Get off, you twat,” III screeched, wiggling in his grip very half-heartedly.

“Oh please,” Vessel grinned, eyes twinkling. “You love this.”

III grumbled into the couch. “…I do.”

Ivy turned to II with a glint in his eye that said “I’m about to cuddle you into oblivion whether you want it or not.”

II caught the look a second too late and let out an exaggerated groan as Ivy essentially tackled him sideways—then sighed and curled around him immediately, completely content.

They stayed like this, piled on top of one another, for once without every one of them half-hard and dying to climb the others like a fucking tree.

Right now, this was what they needed.

Closeness.

Comfort.

A shared sense of relief.

Everything else—in that moment, at least—could wait.

Once their brains had cleared from the adrenaline high and the fest of neediness it triggered, they shuffled back into the venue like little hobgoblins of glee.

The others descended upon them again, clapping them on the shoulders, pulling them into hugs, words of appreciation and celebration washing over them like fucking glitter confetti.

Beers were shoved into each of their hands. And for some goddamn reason, there was a cake with Vessel’s face on it waiting for them in the green room.

It was absolutely despicable, and Vessel hated it with a burning passion.

But it was delicious, so he didn’t complain

Chapter Text

That night, they collapsed into sleep in a heap. Heads buzzing from beer and relentless teasing about their little backstage ménage à quatre in the hallway—and way too many slices of Vessel-face cake—they’d barely made it onto the bus before crumpling onto the lounge couch in a mass of tangled limbs. Exhaustion swamped them. II didn’t even finish mumbling something about paradiddles before sleep dragged them all under.

The next morning, Vessel was the first to wake, somewhere on the outskirts of Amsterdam. The bus was parked at a rest stop—Lawrence, in his eternal grudge with the Netherlands, had apparently declared war on Amsterdam traffic and refused to drive another meter until precisely 9:32 a.m.. No one knew why. And no one dared ask. 

With a low groan, Vessel shifted, bones aching, head pounding with the dull pulse of a brewing hangover. He rolled onto his back, dragging a blanket—not the good fuzzy one, he noted bitterly—over his face. The world wasn’t even particularly bright. It just felt too… there.

And then it all came back.

The thrill and terror of being onstage again.
The spike of panic right before, like the absence of Sleep wrapped around him and chained him to the spot.
The moment it passed—no, the moment they pulled him through it.
The high of the performance, how something had cracked in his chest, burning the rot clean away.
And after: those kisses. Sweet and thoughtless, coming naturally like breathing.
Then falling asleep tangled up in warmth and love and so much quiet.

His chest swelled with it.

But then, a breath snagged sharp in his lungs.

No .

His throat tightened and his stomach flipped; body still, mind reeling with a sudden, blinding shriek.

Too much.
Too good.
You know how this ends.
You know what happens next.

Layla. He didn’t mean to think about her. But her memory always slipped in when he felt most safe now.

The warmth, the laughter, the way it had felt…. right up until it didn’t.
Until her face shifted, sharp and strange and angry.
Until she laughed at him for crying, for panicking, for curling into himself in a dark room, shaking on the floor.
Until she turned away with that flatness in her eyes. Walked away. Left him.

Until she came back, face flushed and someone else’s cologne sticking to her skin.
Until the ground gave out under him.

Everything good came with a catch. A hook in the side of it, waiting to rip him open.

You’re going to ruin this too.
They’re going to see it.
You’re not meant to keep good things.

And then the worst thought of all:

What if it wasn’t Sleep?

What if it was just you?

What if it had been him, really him, to to say those things. The one who lashed out, who punished, who withheld affection and blamed them and screamed and—

What if there was no horror to exorcise, no corruption to burn away?

What if he’d just been cruel?

He lay there, breath shallow, eyes open under the blanket, frozen in his own skin.

And next to him, II noticed.

He hadn’t been fully asleep anymore to begin with. Somewhere in that drowsy halfway state, he’d felt Vessel stir. Felt the shift in his breathing, becoming too fast and too shallow and the tension that threaded through his limbs like a live wire. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything,  just waiting, heartbeat climbing.

His eyes stayed shut, but every nerve in him was lit up. Something’s wrong. Vessel was too still. Not okay.

II’s body ached to move, to reach out, to pull him in, to tell him, You’re okay, I’ve got you, it’s okay now .
But his brain jammed in place. Because maybe that wasn’t what Vessel needed. Maybe touching him right now would make it worse. Maybe he'd read it wrong. Maybe the best thing he could do was give him space.…right?

But what if that silence just made Vessel feel alone again?

Fuck. Fuck, what do I do?

He hated this. Not knowing what to do. The fear of breaking something. The fear of making it worse, of doing the wrong thing. 

And to make it worse, his body chose right now—while he was panicking over Vessel’s trauma spiral—to start getting hard. Pressed between Vessel and Ivy, all their limbs still tangled from sleep, his dick decided it was now time for an uninvited, very unwelcome rise-and-shine.

He squeezed his eyes shut harder. Absolutely not. This is not happening. I am not hard while he’s having a breakdown. I am not that person. 

He felt like he was going to explode with it all; the love, the guilt, the concern, the shame.  His brain ran in circles:

Touch him? Don’t touch him? What does he need? What if I fuck it up? What if he thinks I’m mad? What if he thinks I don’t care? What if he pulls away again and I just watch it happen and don’t do anything?

He wanted to scream.

But he didn’t. He just lay there, frozen, heart in his throat.

And then, as if confirming his worst fear, he felt Vessel shift.

Slowly, gently, like he didn’t want to wake anyone, he peeled himself from the tangle, unthreaded his legs from the warmth then draped the blanket carefully over II.

And got up.

II still didn’t move. Couldn’t. He just lay there, muscles screaming, pressed against Ivy, watching the darkness behind his eyelids, listening to Vessel’s footsteps vanish down the corridor.

And he still didn’t know what the hell to do.

The shower had turned on, the sound of the stream still quietly thrumming fifteen minutes later. 

II hadn’t moved, lying in the dark, blank-eyed, blinking slowly at nothing.

The hum of the parked bus filled the silence—low, constant, numbing. Somewhere deep in the vehicle’s gut, the water tank groaned. His own heart ticked in his ears. Time passed in sharp, breathless slices.

He should’ve moved. He should’ve pulled him into his arm. Or said something. Or anything .

Instead, he’d lain there like a useless idiot, more afraid of touching him than not doing the right thing.
And now he was still lying here, helpless and cold and miserable with half a boner and a full-blown anxiety episode. Vessel and II— the dream team of emotional regulation.

A tiny sigh stirred beside him.

Ivy blinked awake, rubbing his cheek sleepily against II’s shoulder. He was still curled around him like a cat, loose and warm. His hair was mussed beyond belief, lips slightly parted. 

“Mm?” he hummed, voice barely a breath. “Why you awake.”

II didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the ceiling.

Ivy blinked again, then shifted to wrap his arm more tightly around II’s middle, pressing his face against the side of his neck.

“…You smell like Vessel’s face frosting and anxiety,” he muttered, eyes closed.

That earned the ghost of a smile.  Still, he said nothing.

Ivy paused, then leaned back to look at him properly.

Even in the low light, II’s expression was blank in that way Ivy had started to recognize over the last months. Not empty or calm, just shut down. Like the lights were still on but no one inside was sure how to stand up without tripping and breaking something.

“…Hey,” Ivy said softly, a little more awake now. “What’s going on?”

II blinked. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. “He left.”

“Vess?”

A small nod.

Ivy frowned and glanced around, confirming the absence, but the low drizzle of the shower registered in his sleepy brain. “He’s just in the shower. Where we all should be. I can smell last night.”

“But…,” II said frowning, completely ignoring the quip. “He was… weird. Quiet. I felt him go still. He wasn’t asleep. I knew he wasn’t. And I didn’t— I didn’t do anything. I just froze, Ivy, and now—shit I don’t know.” 

“Whoa, hey, hey.” Ivy tugged him in tight, both arms around him now, his voice low and warm and gentle. “Shh. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should have done something,” II snapped, breath catching. “I should’ve said something. Reached for him. But I just—”

Ivy shifted, climbing halfway into his lap without asking, just a little tangle of limbs and warmth. He pulled II’s face to his shoulder, one hand running through his hair.

“You were overwhelmed,” he said. “That’s okay. I’ve frozen too. Sometimes we just… can’t. Doesn’t mean we don’t care.”

II’s throat clenched. He pressed his forehead harder against Ivy’s collarbone.

“And you do care,” Ivy whispered. “Anyone can see that. You care so loud it makes me fucking ache.”

II let out a small, wounded sound.

Ivy rocked him gently, thumb brushing slow circles into the back of his neck.

“I promise,” he murmured. “He’s gonna be okay.  He’s just… trying to figure shit out. And you’re not a bad person for not knowing how to fix it.”

II didn’t speak. But something in his shoulders began to loosen just a little.

After a moment, Ivy leaned back and looked at him with exaggerated suspicion.

“…Also,” he said, voice suddenly much more awake, “are you hard right now?”

II let out a breathless, horrified laugh and smacked him lightly in the ribs. “ Ivy .”

“What?” Ivy grinned, utterly delighted. “Is this a crisis boner?”

“You absolute—”

“Oh my god, it is.” Ivy cackled, pressing his hands to his cheeks. “You’re emotionally wrecked and inconveniently erect. God, You're like a tragic Victorian poet with a bulge.”

II finally laughed—sharp and real and startled out of him. He smooshed his face into Ivy’s shoulder, laughing harder now, his whole body curling with it.

Ivy looked far too pleased with himself. “There it is,” he whispered smugly.

And II, dizzy with love and panic and slowly cracking relief, let himself be held.

The bus was finally rolling into Amsterdam, though Lawrence was loudly muttering in the driver’s seat, very obviously infuriated with his life. 

Somehow, they’d all dragged themselves up, showering one after another, achy muscles and thrumming hangovers washed away. 

II lingered by the kitchenette, sipping on a room temperature Red Bull while watching Vessel sketching some kind of terrifying fish in his notepad, shoulders hunched like he might snap beneath whatever was rattling around his skull. 

For a second, II started forward, but then hesitated. What was he even going to say? Hey. You looked sad. Want me to pretend not to notice until you cry into my hoodie again?

But before he could say anything—or start to spiral again—III sidled up beside him, nudging him lightly with an elbow. 

“He’s fine,” he said quietly. “Just in his little hermit headspace. He’ll come when he’s ready.” 

II exhaled slowly, grateful and annoyed at once. Of fucking course III had noticed something was wrong. “Yeah. I know. Just… hard to tell if he wants space or someone to sit in it with him.”

III studied him for a beat. Then he smirked, tugging  II’s hoodie string. “Well, either way, you worrying about him like some doting housewife is grossly adorable.”

“Don’t,” II warned, but he was already smiling.

III grinned and bumped their shoulders again. “He’s soft with you. Softer than with anyone. He wants you there, dumbass.”

II looked back toward Vessel, drowning in an old, stretched out band shirt. “You sure?”

“Mmhm.” III’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. “I’m always sure… when it’s not about me.” 

Before II could thank him or reply in any way— 

A piercing shriek from Ivy’s bunk. 

Vessel's pencil streaked across the page, the worrisomely accurate drawing of an angler fish suddenly cut in half by a dark grey line. He groaned, tearing the page from the block and crumpling it up. Meanwhile, Red Bull drizzled down II's chin and freshly washed hoodie, and III startled so violently he nearly punched II in the face. 

"WHAT THE FUCK, IVY?!" came a chorus of three very irritated voices.

Ivy ignored them, already half out of his bunk, damp hair disheveled and a grin so broad it might as well have split his face in two.

"Ohhh, shit’s dick on a fucking platter, you guys have no idea," he screeched with unhinged excitement. "These posts are so. fucking. good ."

"Oh no," Vessel muttered, banging his sketchpad against his head.

"OH YES!" III nearly jumped with joy.

“Fantastic, we were all waiting for this,” II deadpanned.

“Shhh,” Ivy hissed, kicking him lightly. “This is important. Look what they’re saying about us. We’re icons. We’re legends. We’re internet gaybait.”

III, kale chips halfway to his mouth, squinted over Ivy’s shoulder. “…‘Ready to crawl inside him and wear him like a coat.’ Fucking hell. That’s grotesque. I love it.”

Vessel scooped up his own phone, quickly swiping to the Sleep Token tag. “Someone just said I moaned into your mouth,” he said, pointing lazily at III. “Which—when? Why? Did I?”

“Probably,” II said, not moving. “You moan like… constantly.”

“Shut up,” Vessel muttered, turning pink and chucking the crumpled piece of paper at his head.

Ivy snorted. “OHHHHHH. OHHHHHHH. Guys. Guys. Look at this one.” He held up the screen like it was the Holy Grail.

“‘They’re not a band they’re a polycule slowly losing their grip on plausible deniability.’”

There was a beat of silence, then III howled. “They’re onto us! Quick! Tell them it’s performance art!”

“They’re not wrong,” Vessel murmured, but he was grinning—tiny and tired and almost a little shy.

“I hate how many of these are accurate,” II muttered, scrolling on his own phone now. “‘That show was TRANSCENDENTAL. We’re getting to watch a love story in real time.”

“Do you think,” Ivy said, flipping through posts with the glee of a gremlin, “if we die, the fans will write poems about how tragic we were?”

“ And they were roommates ,” III said, winking. 

Ivy beamed. “Exactly!” 

“Can we stop reading shit about ourselves?” Vessel mumbled. “It’s getting weird.”

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” Ivy said, eyes lighting up, “because I just found something better.”

“Oh no,” II groaned. “Oh no no no.”

“Show us show us show us!” III shook Ivy’s shoulder wildly. 

Ivy pauses dramatically. Inhaled deeply. Grinned.  ”I found it.”

“Found what?” Vessel was slightly terrified of the answer. The internet was a cruel, feral place. 

“ The fanfic.”

Three heads turned to him at once. Ivy looked like he’d just touched the face of God. 

“It’s… it’s AO3 gold. Posted at like 3am,” he whispered in awe. “Damn, they were fast.”

II groaned and sank dramatically into the couch. “Oh my fucking god.”

“I need to hear this,” III said immediately. “Read it out loud. Dramatic voice. Go.”

“Do NOT read that. I will actually die,” Vessel squeaked. 

But it was too late. Ivy cleared his throat and began, in a theatrical, overblown narrator tone:

“‘They collided like comets, all gravity and inevitability—’”

“Jesus Christ,” Vessel hissed into a pillow he’d buried his face in.

“Let him cook,” III whispered eagerly, eyes wide.

“‘—the sweat of the stage still clung to their skin, their mouths searching like they’d never tasted anything sweeter than each other’s desperation.’”

II made a strangled, absolutely broken noise.

“Oh my god,” Vessel said, vibrating with secondhand embarrassment. 

“‘III’s hands—godlike in their precision, calloused from practice and aching with restraint—’”

“Hey! My hands aren’t calloused!” III held them up as if to prove the point. 

II just snorted derisively. “Who’s the main pairing then?” 

“Oh,” Ivy hurriedly scrolled up, then turned his phone to him. “It’s all of us. Each and every one. And group, of course. They didn’t even try to be subtle about it.” 

“There’s a tag that just says ‘slutty divine tension’,” III reported, leaning in closer. 

“That's it, I’m suing.” Vessel chucked the pillow aside in a pathetic kittle arc. 

“Oh my god—look at this part,” Ivy choked, grinning. “They describe II as ‘a quiet storm of rhythm and devotion, with hands built to make a body unravel.’”

II scoffed but his ears went bright red anyway. 

“…I mean,” III said casually, “they’re not wrong.”

“I’m leaving,” II announced flatly. 

“No you’re not,” Ivy said firmly, tugging on his sleeve. “You’re gonna sit there and listen to the prose sing your your drumming praises.”

Vessel groaned but morbid curiosity won. “So, what am I? A sentient metaphor with abandonment issues and a praise kink?”

III smirked. “Nope. You, my dear friend, are ‘a man made of obsidian and ache, divinity cracked open and bleeding gold.’”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Do you need to be alone?” Ivy asked , tilting his head innocently. “Like, for privacy? Need emotional support? Lube?”

Vessel ripped out another piece of paper, crumpled it up, and aimed at Ivy’s face. He caught it mid air with a laugh, launching it right back at Vessel. It hit him square in the nose. 

II was covering his face with both hands now. “Why is my dick getting confused?” he grumbled, mostly to himself.  

“Mine’s not confused,” III muttered.

Everyone stared.

“I’m kidding,” he said, completely unconvincingly. “Shut the fuck up.”

They all collapsed, shrieking with laughter, too giddy and overstimulated and chronically horny to survive this.

Vessel, a beaten man accepting his inevitable fate, sighed. “It’s not even that bad,” he admitted. “That’s the worst part. It’s… well-written. Sort of. I’ve read worse smut in actual published books.”

“You’ve read—wait what?” Ivy tripped over the question. 

“Don’t encourage him,” II said, but even he couldn’t suppress a smile. “Do not make this a thing.”

It was, of course, already a thing.

***

Title : Deliver Us Not From Temptation

Summary : They tore him from the velvet clutches of Sleep with blood-wet hands and boundless love. Now, Vessel sings not for salvation—but for the ache of what comes after. A tale of forbidden sanctuaries, sacred sin, and the unholy soundcheck that ended with a virgin sacrifice against the dressing room wall.

Tags : #Polyvessels  #Smut With Feelings #Virgin Sacrifice (Consensual) #Hurt/Comfort But Horny #Vessel Is Going Through It #Body Worship #sluttydivinetension #no beta we die like artists 

Chapter 1: 

They had ripped him from Sleep’s embrace like sinners tearing down an idol. Silk-wrapped wrists undone by trembling, blood-warm hands. Rituals defiled. The altar desecrated. The sanctum sullied not by shadow, but by love—reckless, raw, ruinous.

Vessel—a man made of obsidian and ache, divinity cracked open and bleeding gold— had wept as the last tether broke, not from pain, but from knowing. From the unbearable ache of being chosen. From the weight of hands catching him before he fell. From the memory of devotion once twisted, now reborn.

They slew Sleep beneath a moonless sky, its shrieks swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

And then, they took to the stage. The reborn. The boundless. Each note they struck was a dagger into the past, every harmony a holy act of reclamation. Vessel sang like a man with a cathedral in his lungs, his voice a gospel of survival, of lust, of deliverance. He was but a trembling psalm made flesh. 

When the final chord struck, it was not silence that followed—it was hunger.

They stumbled offstage like revenants pulled from fire, breathless, half-mad, fevered from the taste of freedom and the memory of chains. Vessel’s knees nearly buckled. II’s arm wrapped around his waist. III pressed his forehead to his temple like a benediction. Ivy whispered something hoarse and broken in a language no one remembered.

No one spoke.

Because they didn’t have to.

Vessel’s back hit the corridor wall. Fingers gripped fabric, lips collided in blind heat. A holy undoing. A sacrament.

Then Vessel’s belt hit the floor, followed by a gasp that was anything but holy.

***

Ivy finished reading with a long whistle.  “I love them,” he declared. “I would die for this anonymous author.”

“I was not, in any way, ready for this,” III said, mock seriously, staring into the distance. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I think… I think I’ve had a religious experience.” 

Vessel lifted a brow. His mouth opened, then closed, trying to find words that made any semblance of sense. “They called me…,” he finally managed, “... a trembling psalm made flesh.” 

“BECAUSE YOU ARE A TREMBLING PSALM MADE FLESH!” Ivy howled, trembling in a fit of maniacal laughter. 

To no one in particular, Vessel mumbled in half a whisper. “What the fuck does that even mean?” 

“And,” Ivy continued triumphantly, “III is the devourer of man with teeth kissed by flame. God, that is poetic. Vessel, take note. This is so much better than your emo whining.” 

Vessel threw a hand to his chest like a Victorian lady about to faint in shock, then flipped him off. 

II let out a little wheeze of air, eyes rolling so hard they were in danger of actually getting stuck at the back of his head. “I can’t believe people write this shit about us.” 

“Don’t lie,” III said, scrolling further through the fic on Ivy’s phone. “You’re thrilled someone called your hands ‘divine instruments of ruin.’”

“I am NO–” II started, then paused. “Okay, yeah, that’s pretty fucking great.” 

They all descended into howling laughter, completely undone. Through the wheezing and cackling, III heaved “I need to sit down” while fully seated and Vessel again whispered in reverent disbelief, “trembling psalm made flesh.” 

Eventually, Vessel froze, eyes wide, mouth parted like he was halfway through a reboot sequence. Slowly, he turned to Ivy.

“Do you realize,” he said very softly, “that I can never look another person in the eye again. Ever. Not after this.”

“You say that,” Ivy said, grinning, “but I’m pretty sure you’re glowing.”

“I’m burning from SHAME,” Vessel snapped.

“You’re blushing from being called a trembling psalm made flesh,” III corrected, grinning with all his teeth. “Which, by the way, I’m getting tattooed.”

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

“I’ll do it in Latin.”

“Oh my GOD.”

II just lost it again.

Vessel let out the most betrayed sound known to man. “This is psychological warfare.”

But his eyes were sparkling, and the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a smile he couldn’t bite back.

“You love it,” Ivy sang.

“I hate it.”

“You adore it.”

“I’m repenting for it in real time.”

“Someone write that down,” III said. “Put it in the next chapter. ‘He repented in real time, holy and absolutely wrecked .’”

Vessel gave up entirely and flopped face-first onto the couch with a muffled scream.

This—t his of all things—would be his end. 

Chapter Text

They kept waiting for the crash—the comedown, that head-spinning tumble into normal after the breathtaking high from The Show. But it never really came; instead, it drained slowly, seeping between the fissures of the air saturated with all the words they weren’t saying.

It seemed that everyone was waiting for someone to make some sort of move, but no one did.

It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable. They laughed like always; they passed snacks between them, chucked empty cans at bunks when one of them snored too loudly, and fell asleep on each other halfway through the third episode of whatever series they were devouring at any given moment.

But it all felt wound tight. Charged. Like one wrong look could send someone reeling. And the right one could unravel them entirely.

But III, for one, was managing just fine. He was doing great, in fact. So great he’d only made three objectively questionable comments before noon (down from five yesterday), hadn’t obsessively stared at anyone’s mouth for longer than ten seconds, and hadn’t even asked II if he was mad at him in over twelve hours. A well-adjusted, emotionally stable adult making healthy, celibate choices alongside his three devastatingly hot bandmates who looked at him like they wanted to eat him alive, whose mouths constantly lingered just above his skin, whose fingers traced over his arms absently, who constantly kissed him on stage and pressed against him on the couch and he definitely—definitely—never got twitchy just thinking about it and his showers had just coincidentally gotten nearly twice as long. He was killing it.

He absolutely did not find himself picturing what it would feel like to sink his teeth into Vessel’s neck, to grip II’s hips and drag him into his lap, to completely accidentally wander into a wrong room with Ivy and somehow end up against a wall. Or to just, you know…  rail all of them. At once.

Absolutely not. He was fine. All good.

Except… sometimes. Well, a lot of the time.

Because he didn’t want to be too much. Again. He didn’t want to just act without thinking like he always did. He wanted—no, needed—to slow down. But how was he supposed to tell, really, if no one fucking said anything, ever. When Vessel just blinked at him all the time, slow and soft and unreadable, and II kept giving him those little once-overs and tight nods like he was supposed to just know, and Ivy had started doing this thing where he was about to say something flirty and him but then just didn’t, and maybe it was all fine, maybe this was how it was supposed to be, maybe they were all just tired and busy or whatever, but then why did it feel like something was brewing or maybe fading, and he couldn’t figure out if maybe it was him, if maybe he was too loud and forward and thoughtless, and they were just being nice to him because they didn’t want to hurt him, because maybe it really had been his fault even though Vessel had apologized a million times and reassured him that it hadn’t, maybe that was only because they thought he was too fragile or too stupid to handle the truth, so they weren’t saying anything because they didn’t want to start something again, and he was just crossing some sort of line he didn’t even know was there, over and over and over again, and Vessel would start hating him again and the others would blame him, too, for ruining this all. Maybe he'd already ruined it.

But then they’d look at him, all full of affection and warmth and something that said I see you and I love you and that didn’t really make any sense either. And God, his head shouldn’t be sent spinning every time Vessel laughed, his smile so stupidly devastatingly beautiful, lighting up the fucking sun itself. Or every time II’s too-blue eyes glinted right before he said something sarcastic and snarky but went all soft and wide when he ran a hand up Ivy’s untattooed arm. Or when Ivy dad-danced his way through a bridge, looking like the stupidest and most beautiful man alive, and III rewatched the reels afterward just to see it again.

And all the while, his dick had a reeling mind of its own. He could hardly glance at any one of them without a twitch between his thighs. Every subtle touch coiled deep and low, made him fucking ache. But no—he could be good. He could keep himself together. Just a while longer; give Vessel time, let him heal from the hell Sleep put him through. He repeated the thought like a mantra, as if it could bridle that unholy horny buzz under his skin.

So, when Vessel sat curled up in the seating area with his headphones on, staring out the window at the passing countryside, mouthing little snippets of lyrics or melodies, III hardly noticed the flash of pointy fangs from beneath soft lips curled into a half-smile.

And when II pushed up the sleeves of his sweater to help carry a drum case, his brain only spun a little. The vibrant colors did nothing to catch his eye, the strong, taut muscles shifting beneath really hardly registering at all.

At the rest stop somewhere along the German Autobahn, III did trip over his own damn feet when his gaze drifted to Ivy casually leaning against the bus, lazily scrolling on his phone, beanie pulled down over his ears and cheeks pink from the chill. But that was only because of the blinding glare of the reflecting sun. Never mind that it was overcast and snowing lightly.

He yanked his hood up and looked anywhere but at Ivy, heading directly for the bus door.

“Wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”

III startled, literally flinched, like he’d been yanked back from another dimension. He twisted around to find Ivy watching him, an amused smirk on his lips, hands shoved into his pockets. “You good?”

“Yeah, fine!” III laughed too tightly. “Why shouldn’t I go in?”

“Vessel blew up a chili.” Ivy’s face was entirely serious.

“I’m sorry, what?” III frowned, not quite following. “What do you mean he ‘blew up a chili’?”

Ivy shrugged lazily, that smirk still lingering. “Doesn’t matter. What were you just thinking about? You looked like you were about to fall on your ass looking at me.”

Oh, just that you’re the most painfully hot man alive and I wanna rip that stupid phone out of your hands and slam you against the side of the bus and absolutely wreck you with my mouth and hands.

III’s brows sprang up, eyes going wide. He absolutely could not say that.

“Oh, uh, just… Germany. Roads. They’re good here—the roads.”

Ivy didn’t blink, just stared at him for a second. “… Roads?”

“Yeah,” III tried for a lopsided grin. Natural. Easy. He was totally nailing this. “Roads.”

Another moment of a blank stare. Then, Ivy huffed a breath; not mean, really, but tight. Without another word or smile, he turned on his heel and walked off toward the toilets.

He hadn’t meant to look at III like that. Nor to scoff like that. But something about III’s face—too bright and too forced like he was covering up something—made Ivy’s chest twist in an awful and by now far too familiar way. And then III had laughed that tight, too-loud, too-quick thing that Ivy knew meant something was wrong.

And instead of doing something properly fucking disastrous—like trying to fix it with words or his mouth or his hands—he bolted.

Like a fucking coward, like it didn’t matter, he walked away, just left III standing there with nothing but a snort and a sneer. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He stomped off to the shit rest stop restroom for no other reason than it had a lock. It smelled like piss and trucker arse and god-knows-what, but he didn’t care. Just slammed the door behind him and leaned his whole body against it like he could barricade his feelings outside.

He pulled out his phone again, stared at it like there was something worth looking at. There wasn’t. Just spam emails and missed Instagram notifications he didn’t give a fuck about. But it was something to hold on to. To curl his fingers into because they couldn’t have what they really wanted. It was something to keep his eyes on when all he could see was them.

He hated how much he needed.

Them.

Attention.

Intimacy.

Touch.

To be—

…

To be shown he was loved.

To show how much he loved.

It was fucking pathetic. Like a kid crying for a sweet they couldn’t have.

And it wasn’t even like they didn’t touch him, didn’t show him affection. They did. III had fallen asleep half on top of him two nights ago, drooling into his lap. Vessel had practically blanketed him before the last show, clinging on like a goddamn barnacle with his mask digging into Ivy’s neck. And II had woken him just that morning with a sloppy kiss on the cheek and ruffled his hair when he groaned some sleepy Welsh insult . Domestic fucking bliss.

And it was good. So good. Everything he used to beg the universe—and Sleep—for.

But it just… wasn’t enough.

Because every time someone touched him like that—soft, sweet, so painfully loving—it lit him up and hollowed him out at once. It made him want to grab them, kiss them, drag them into the nearest fucking corner and beg for more.

And he fucking could.

God, he could.

He could reach out and pull someone in, right now. They wouldn’t stop him.
He knew that. But he also knew what would come next—that split-second hesitation. That flash of guilt, of remembering why they were all still holding back.

So instead, they touched like it didn’t mean anything. Held each other like they weren’t all burning. And it killed him.

Because he didn’t just want to fuck them—though fucking hell, he did. He wanted to be touched in that low, warm way that said I see you. I’m here. I want you. All of you. Just like this. Always.

And it was there, sometimes: in III’s palm resting on his back; in II’s knee knocking into his under the table; in the way Vessel’s eyes lingered on him when he thought Ivy wasn’t looking.

But then the moment would snap shut. Averted gaze. Dropped hand. Gone.
And Ivy would be left in the wreckage, pretending it didn’t feel like he was starving.

He’d frozen when III had fallen asleep on him. Had wanted to run his fingers through that ridiculous, straw-like hair but didn’t. Couldn’t. And before the show, that playful hug hadn’t stayed that way, not to Ivy. Especially when Vessel’s breath ghosted over his throat like it had. He’d almost turned around. Almost leaned up. Almost kissed him. And Vessel would’ve let him. Would’ve kissed him back.

But then he remembered. Wait. So, he’d swallowed it down and spat out some snarky, flirty joke. Had kissed him during The Offering like he was supposed to, like it was just a performance, and ignored the flaming in his chest. Had let III drag him around the stage by the mask, followed obediently, touched him like it didn’t really mean anything. He’d held his breath through the whole bloody stupid thing.

Because the touches weren’t the problem. The problem was the way they almost asked for more. And then didn’t. Each time was a slap in his face, a punch in his chest, a kick to the gut.

And he couldn’t ask for it. Couldn’t ask for what he needed because it was unfair.

Unfair to Vessel.

Unfair to the promise they’d made. Wait.

So, every day, every damn second, he sat with this unbearable tension coiled just below his skin. He smiled and grumbled in Welsh and made jokes and touched when he was invited to and not once asked, please hold me longer; please touch me like you mean it; please don’t let go before I’m ready.

And of course it was one of those dumb, flirty jokes that it started with.

Ten minutes later, when he climbed back onto the bus, Lawrence gave him a sarcastic “have a good shit?” He didn’t reply, just blinked away the lingering chili sting in the air.

Vessel was inexplicably in Ivy’s bottom bunk, shaking the SteamDeck in frustration, muttering something vaguely insulting at the screen. Utterly fucking desperate for some sort of closeness, Ivy thoughtlessly climbed in beside him and shoved him over for space. Vessel refused to budge more than an inch, so Ivy simply squashed himself closer. Vessel cracked a smile. Said something dry and deadpan. Ivy shot back something vaguely insulting and audaciously flirtatious before he could think.

Vessel’s eyes caught his and after a quiet second, laughed. Really laughed. The kind that tipped his head back and made his whole body shake and that made Ivy’s chest ache with how stupidly beautiful he looked when he was happy.

So, he leaned in. Enough for a soft kiss on the cheek. Harmless. Silly. Just teasing. But Vessel turned into it, caught him in a kiss. A real kiss.

Ivy felt it in his whole fucking body. It wrecked him. Vessel’s mouth was soft but insistent. His hand curled gently around Ivy’s arm, hesitant but present.
Ivy forgot everything. The band. The tour. The reason he was always so careful.
Just Vessel. Just his mouth. His breath. The flick of his tongue—

No. No.

That familiar, sick fear twisted in his gut. He was clinging. Being too needy. Too much.
What if Vessel didn’t want this? What if this was the one time that Ivy was going too far? What if he was pushing too much and ruining this?

Before he could second-guess himself again, before he could absolutely lose his shit, Ivy pulled away. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest like a corpse in a casket. He dared a glance—Vessel looked… shocked. Eyes wide, lips parted, raw and vulnerable.

But Ivy couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not when everything felt so dangerous. Not when he had come so close to asking for something he wasn’t supposed to want.

He swallowed hard, then laughed too loudly. “Sorry,” he muttered, swiping a hand through his hair. “I—I didn’t—don’t—let’s just…” He floundered for something to fill the space, but the words just dissolved.

Then came the ache. The hollow absence. He needed more. But that wasn’t the fucking point, was it?

Vessel was mid-breath, about to say something, when the bathroom door clanged open. II strolled out, damp-haired with a towel slung around his neck.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” he asked, eyebrows arched. “Sneaking around in each other’s bunks like horny teenagers who think their parents can’t hear them snogging?”
Ivy’s heart tried to break his ribs from the inside.

He scrambled out of the bunk in a full-body flail, hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, and couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t even breathe.

II gave him a half-smile, like it was funny. Like Ivy wasn’t imploding.

Ivy pushed up, barely looked at him, and bolted toward the front of the bus with a strangled little laugh that didn’t match the tremble in his hands.

Behind him, Vessel didn’t move, still clutching his SteamDeck like a lifeline. He looked like he was halfway to saying something, but was… stuck. Like he didn’t know whether to give chase, talk to II, or simply stay where he was and disappear under Ivy’s blanket altogether.

II’s eyes briefly lingered on Ivy rummaging around for a mug, before snapping back to Vessel. He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

Vessel swallowed down unspoken words before answering. “Don’t worry about it.” Hardly a clipped whisper-grumble. Which annoyed II more than it should have.

He clambered out, then, with a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes, heaved himself up into his own bunk, pulling the curtain shut behind him.

What the hell had II walked into? Or, rather, in on?

He must’ve said something. Had to. Because Ivy bolted like he'd been hit with a flashbang, and Vessel wouldn’t even look at him. Which meant... something.

Jesus, he really thought he was past this. Thought the days of secret dry-mouthed spirals and frantic overanalysis were behind him.

Apparently, they were not. Apparently, he was still a walking, talking, emotionally stunted problem. And that just now—whatever that had been—just drove the point home.

Instead of doing something, he flopped into his own bunk and yanked the curtain shut. Shit. Now he was just stuck with himself. Which, it turned out, was even worse.

He fucking hated this all. Hated how complicated it all was. It was supposed to be easy. They were supposed to be free now. Everyone around them just… did what felt right. Touching, kissing, fucking, whatever. But for them? Everything was there, but he could take nothing. Every glance, every touch felt like some meticulously negotiated legal contract with sub-clauses that made no fucking sense. And were written in Latin. In invisible ink.

God, he should’ve said something not fucking dumb. That joke, the smirk, the lazy jab at their awkward teenage fumbling. What the fuck was that? A defense mechanism? A fucking flare gun aimed at himself?

He was the one to hold shit together, not blow it up. To rein in the fucking shitshow circus they had always been. If hecracked… everything would.

But now every time he looked in the mirror all he saw was some lost, floundering idiot who had no fucking idea what he was doing. Someone who didn’t how to hold all of this up. Or even how to keep himself from imploding.

Because that’s what was happening—it was gnawing at him, burning him, building into something that was ticking down the seconds to collision.

Was he even doing anything right? Was he helping? Or just making it worse? Was he pushing Vessel too fast? Smothering him? Did Ivy mean to recoil? Had he misread something? Did he even want II to touch him? Was he imagining all of it?

And III hadn’t made poked fun at him in three hours. Had he done something? Stared too long at his mouth? His arms? His fucking lip when he chewed it in thought?

And Vessel. Fucking Vessel. Radiant and glowing and finally laughing again—and still unreachable. 

He’d been through hell. II knew it. He knew why he still pulled away when kindness cut too close. Why he still trembled at phantom touches. He understood. 

But Jesus fucking Christ, he was so tired of understanding.

He wanted Vessel. Wanted all of them. Every second. And he kept telling himself it’d be worth it. Just wait. Be the strong one. Be patient.

And because everything wasn’t shit enough already, his dick was of fucking course half-hard again. Just from thinking about them. Just from Vessel’s eyes on him, from Ivy scrambling out of his bunk like they’d been caught doing something. Something II wasn’t allowed to want, too. Because he was the stable one. The protective one. The one always on Vessel’s side. The one who didn’t need but gave.

He lay back in his bunk and stared at the ceiling, every muscle tight. What was he even holding in? He didn’t know.

He rolled onto his stomach and groaned into the pillow. It didn’t help. Just made the hard-on worse. So he flipped back over and unceremoniously shoved his hand into his joggers.

Fast. Frustrated. Barely even a jerk-off. Just his fist frantically stroking himself with his eyes squeezed shut, thoughts guiltily flickering between Vessel’s mouth, Ivy’s hands, and III’s cock which he’d seen one too many times in the communal showers not to picture in high definition. He came with a ragged, stifled grunt, jaw clenched, hating how badly he wanted to be touched.

It didn’t help. He was still wound up. Still pissed off.

“You’re being fucking weird,” he muttered, wiping off on his shirt. “What the fuck is wrong with you.”

He tried to push it down. Swallow all the sickening shame and guilt. The not knowing what to do. Tried to summon that old version of himself, the one from before—a little cocky, a lot naive; someone who would grin through a disaster, even if it killed him inside. Someone who’d look at this whole situation and laughed his ass off.  

But that guy had been twenty-three. That guy hadn’t stared into the eyes of a god and walked away with his brain melted. That guy hadn’t had to grit his teeth through his own panic the first time he found Vessel collapsed behind a motel desk, gasping so hard he nearly passed out. Hadn’t sat up at 3 a.m. while Ivy sobbed into his t-shirt after finding his first guitar carefully tucked in the back of a closet, snapped in half. Hadn’t spent two hours telling III every dumb joke he knew until he smiled again after fumbling a bass line at their first show.

That guy had been useful. He’d had a purpose. This one? Just floundering. Scrambling. Losing his grip on everything. 

And they’d realize—they’d realize how fucking pointless he was. That he pushed too hard and took too much and shoved anyone and anything aside to get what he wanted That it was all for show. That he wasn’t strong at all. He was just selfish. 

And worst of all?

He was bitter. Resentful. That awful, quiet twist in his chest when Ivy’s fingers slid over the neck of his guitar, or III’s jeans slipped too low on his hips, or Vessel traced shapes into the back of his hand.

Because he couldn’t have them. Not like he wanted.

Because they had wait for Vessel.

Because after everything, it still wasn’t easy.

For a second—a sharp, ugly second—he resented Vessel for it. For still being stuck. For still being hurt. For not being ready.

And then the guilt swallowed him whole.

How the fuck did he even dare think that?

It wasn’t his fault. Of course, it wasn’t his fault. II knew that. Knew why he flinched at kindness. Knew why he jerked away from affection too gentle to be real. Knew he wasn’t there yet. He knew.

But god, he was just so fucking tired of it.

He dragged his hands over his face, then stared up at Vessel’s bunk above.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a selfish cunt,” he muttered. “Get it together.”

But he couldn’t. The ache reached too deep, the want too raw, and the guilt too loud. Vessel was healing—wasn’t he?—and II was moping and whining, angrily jerking off and cursing the universe and everything beyond just because he wasn’t getting fucked.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to beg for touch, for more, for the right to fall apart just once.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he lay there. Furious at himself for even wanting it. For needing.

Because what if they saw him the way he feared they always had?

Selfish. Useless. Just a volatile liability.

The bad guy, all over again.

“No. Fuck. Stop. Stop.” The words were a hiss through clenched teeth.

Then, a tiny, quiet breath just beyond the curtain. His head snapped toward it. Fucking fuck—had someone heard him? Mumbling? Jerking off?

 He held perfectly still. Held his breath. Pretended he wasn’t there.

But there was silence.

He exhaled, barely, and grabbed his headphones from the foot of the bed, cranking the music up so loud he was pretty sure it’d blow his eardrums.

Good. Maybe it’d be quiet in his head for once.

Vessel hadn’t meant to linger. To listen. But when he pulled off his headphones, he heard the barely there, stifled grunts from II’s bunk and just froze.

His heart tripped over itself, his breath solidified in his lungs.

He should’ve moved. Left. Or at least turned around, put the headphones back on, anything. But he didn’t.

He just stayed there. Like a fucking pervert.

He didn’t even know what he was feeling. Embarassment? Arousal? Guilt?

It didn’t even matter anymore. It was all there. Always.

And then those mumbled words, barely audible but unmistakably angry.

Selfish cunt. Get it together.

Vessel’s skin went ice cold.

He’d heard those words from II once before. Years ago. Hissed at himself in a smudged hotel mirror. Vessel hadn’t said anything back then, either. Hadn’t done anything.

And just like then, he buried his face in his hands, tugged at his hair until his scalp stung, pretending he hadn’t heard. Hadn’t heard the spiteful words. Hadn’t heard it happening. And most of all, pretending he hadn’t felt it. That he hadn’t wanted to go to him. To touch him. Kiss him. Soothe him. Make him feel… anything but that.

Jesus—what the fuck was wrong with him? He shouldn’t have been listening in the first place. It wasn’t his to hear. A private moment. He shouldn’t have wanted it. Not like that. Not when II was clearly hurting. Not when he sounded so mad. So tense. So… unhappy.

Was it…

Was it because of him?

Because he couldn’t… not yet, not when everything still felt so wrong, when he’d destroyed so much. When he was still so broken.
He didn’t even know what the hell they all were now. Friends? Lovers? A bunch of misfit toys stuck on an island together?

And what was he supposed to do now? Act normal? Go about his day like he hadn’t lain frozen in place listening to someone he loved hate crumble under the weight of himself?

Something cracked. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop his trembling hands.

He had to get out of the bunk. Now. Before the air turned to cement. Before he sank too deep to crawl back out. He ripped the curtain back and dropped to the floor as quietly as he could. But then, more mumbled words.

No.

Fuck.

Stop.

Stop.

He was right next to II’s bunk. Nothing but that flimsy ass curtain separating them. His breath caught and he knew II had to have heard it. For a second, he didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe.

He didn’t know why. He hadn’t technically done anything wrong. But it felt… dirty. Tainted.

So he held his breath, locked up like a statue frozen in place, doing nothing.

Eventually, fabric ruffled—II rolling away, hopefully. He took the chance and fled down the hall.

What was he even doing anymore? Why did they still let him be here?

He was the one who broke everything. The one they had to carry.
The reason they had to tiptoe. To wait. To measure every gesture like it might shatter him.

And now—II. Fuck.
His anchor.
The only one who always knew what to say. Who held him together through every blackout moment, every scream he didn’t remember letting out.

And he’d sounded shattered.

Because of him? Because Vessel couldn’t stop needing him, couldn’t stop leaning on him like he wasn’t already exhausted from carrying too much?

God.
He hated this.
Hated himself.

He could feel it again: that black, blooming fear that he was taking too much. That he was a hole they kept pouring love into, never filling. A vacuum. A problem. A body full of cracks that made everyone less just by being near him.

Was that why Ivy always hesitated now?
Why III barely looked at him when he passed?

Why II didn’t lace his fingers through his anymore like he used to?

And here he was: still stuck in his own head.
Stuck in the ache of wanting and being too broken to have. He wanted to be touched. And to touch. Properly.  

Hell, he wanted it more than anything ever before.

He wanted II’s hands, wanted III’s smile against his neck between kisses, wanted Ivy pressed up against him without the static of the past screaming through his nerves.

But every time he got close, something shorted out. His muscles locked. His breath snagged. His thoughts tore sideways. He wanted it so desperately, but every time, his brain betrayed his body.

They didn’t deserve that.
Didn’t deserve to be punished just for loving him. For wanting him.

And maybe—maybe II was cracking because he was finally beginning to see it;

because he was starting to realize Vessel would never get better.
Not really. Not enough.

Because even though he sometimes did, the afterburn was always there.

That one morning when Ivy had made him coffee. Vessel had leaned in, kissed him, just because he could.

And that excruciating drive to Berlin—long haul, crappy roads, too much snow—and everyone had been tucked into thick blankets in the lounge. II had started to doze off and he curled up next to him, head in Vessel’s lap. Like he used to. But different. Oh so very different. And Vessel let himself have it.

And with III—before a show, lacing their fingers together on the couch, bringing them to his lips. Because they were beautiful. Because they were there. Because he wanted to know what they felt like against his mouth, even if just for the blink of an eye.

Fuck.

He needed out.

Out of the bus.

Out of his skin.

Just out.

He didn’t remember making it outside. Just that suddenly the air was cold and sharp and his hands were braced against the side of the bus. Bent over like he might throw up. Or scream. Or disappear.

He wasn’t sure which he wanted more.

Everything hurt. His thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning. Around and around like water circling a drain, dragging him down with them.

Why couldn’t he just be okay?

Sleep was gone. He should be better.

So why was he still like this?

Why couldn’t he stop being a fucking project?

He tried to steady his breathing. One hand to his chest. The other against the steel.

But it didn’t help.

So he started walking. He didn’t know where to. Just… away.
Vans crunching on frozen earth, louder than it should’ve been. The day too dark. The air too cold. He didn’t even have a fucking jacket.

He couldn’t stop shaking. From the chill? Or from something else? It didn’t matter.

He didn’t know what was worse: how badly he wanted to be held, or how completely convinced he was that he didn’t deserve it. That if anyone touched him right now, he’d ruin it. He’d ruin them. Again.

Because that’s what he did. That’s all he’d ever done. Tainted every moment, poisoned every breath. Just by being there.
Just by needing.

And the worst part… the worst, most hideous part was how badly he still wanted it. Even after everything. Even after the wreckage he left behind.

He wanted to crawl into someone’s arms and sob until there was nothing left.
He wanted to be kissed stupid and touched until his body shook and be told he was enough.

But he wasn’t.
He wasn’t.

They were all hurting: II was coming undone. III barely laughed anymore—not properly. Ivy flinched when their shoulders brushed.

Because of him. Because he was still broken. Still in progress. Still hardly an echo of what they needed.

They were waiting for him to get better.
But… what if this was it? What if he never did? What if this was as close to "healed" as he would ever be?

He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to be that.

So he kept walking. Shaking. Freezing. Failing. Trying not to cry because he didn’t think he’d be able to stop if he started.

He rubbed his arms, like he could scrub the shame off from the outside in.

God, what if they hated him? What if they were just too kind to say it? Too tired to leave? What if every moment of tenderness was them gritting their teeth through the rot he brought with him?

Maybe they didn’t see him as fragile anymore. Maybe they just saw him as a burden. Dead weight they’d gotten used to dragging around.

He couldn’t… he couldn’t bear being that.

The one they settled for out of guilt. He didn’t want to be the fucking black hole in the middle of all their lives. He wanted to be something good. Even just once.

But maybe the wanting was the problem.

Maybe it always had been.

Maybe this is what it would always be.

Chapter Text

Vessel somehow dragged himself back to the bus, half-frozen and fully wrecked. The driver's cabin was empty, the front deserted and quiet.
Soft voices drifted from the back: a stiff chuckle; something that might've been a snarky insult.

He scooped up the fuzzy blanket rumpled on the couch, pulling it tightly around his shoulders. It was huge—covered nearly the entirety of his bed at home—but now it hardly reached mid-calf. He shivered and huddled into it.

He drifted like a ghost down the aisle, briefly stopping by II's bunk. There was soft breathing and the low thud of drum and bass bleeding out of his headphones—how he even still had eardrums was beyond Vessel.

For a fraction of a second, he considered it—considered pushing aside the curtain, running a soothing hand over II's arm, maybe even climbing in to hold him, to tell him just how fucking precious he was. Instead, he sighed and willed the want away. It didn’t go, so he clenched his hands into fists and dug his fingernails into his palm until his legs worked again.

III’s and Ivy’s voices grew louder. Vessel didn’t know whether to approach, whether he was allowed after earlier.

How fucking stupid could he be? Kissing Ivy like that? When he’d pulled back every time Vessel leaned in; when his flirty quips broke off mid-sentence; when his eyes dropped away every time Vessel sought his gaze.

Just like earlier, he stood there frozen, only paces away in the shadow of the aisle, listening like a goddamn creep.

“Fucking hell, he just freezes every time,” Ivy grumbled in a low voice.

Shit—were they talking about him?

“I know, I know,” III said just as low but more anxious. “I keep trying, but…”

Fuck. They were.

Vessel’s stomach churned, bile climbing up his throat, burning the back of his mouth. His skin felt like it was peeling off in chunks. His nails almost drew blood from his palm.

He’d been right.

About everything.

The world tilted. Blurred. Narrowed to black.

He stumbled back and felt his way along the wall to the bathroom.

Handle. Clink. Lock.

The tears came instantly. Silent. Hot. Choking.

He was shaking. Heart slamming against his chest so hard it felt like it was going to break right through the bone.

He stumbled across the small room and sank down the wall to the ground with weak limbs. The noise in his head was unbearable. It hadn’t been this bad since—

Since Sleep.
Since their cruel voice had wrapped around every thought. Since they had broken him, consumed him, nearly taken all of him.

Sleep.

Layla.

Touch.

Comfort.

Pain.

Hurt.

Betrayal.

It had been him.

His fault.

…

No.

No, it hadn’t.

Had it?

Fuck, he didn’t know. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything was too much and not enough.

They saw it. They realized. It wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth it. He was too broken, too slow, too much of a burden.

No. No.
They told him. All the time. Over and over.
You deserve this.
You’re worthy.
We love you.

But then why…?

Why would they talk about him?
Why did II’s smile not reach his eyes?
Why did Ivy pull back halfway?
Why did III grow tense with every joke?

He was shaking. Fingers curled into his scalp. Tugging at his own hair. Tears coming fast now. Fuck, he was sobbing. They would hear, they would—

A soft creak from across the room. Someone leaning against the wall just beside the door.

Vessel’s heart slammed to a halt. He held his breath.

But there was silence. No one tried to get in. No one yelled his name or begged him to open the door.

After a long, heavy moment—

Humming.

Low and soft. Something familiar. Something warm.

II.

That one melody. Written years ago. Just the two of them.

It was simple. Almost boring. Never used for anything.

A melody II had hummed a million times. That Vessel had hummed a million times.

Absentmindedly. Lost in thought. Brushing their teeth or sorting through socks or just staring into the abyss. Something soothing. Something forgotten, like a long-lost lullaby.

And now, II hummed it over and over. The same handful of notes. Never saying a word. Never stopping.

Once or twice, it hitched. Breath catching. Only to start up again, right where it left off.

Vessel’s breathing slowed as he listened.

The tears dried in salty, sticky streaks down his cheeks.

His eyes fluttered shut, the cacophony in his head stilling just a bit.
Just enough for it to become bearable.

Fingers loosened. His heart began to match the lull of the melody.

His head flopped gently against the wall. He just listened.

Listened and listened and listened.

He listened until he stopped shaking. Stopped spiraling. Stopped panicking alone, shut away in a tiny tour bus bathroom.

Carefully, he got to his feet, still a bit unsteady. He swallowed, running his hands over his face to wipe away the worst of the dried tears and snot.

A glance at the mirror.
Puffy face. Blotchy skin. Haunted eyes.

He looked like someone who wanted to vanish completely.
Someone who didn’t know how to let himself stay.

His hand reached for the lock. For a moment, he hesitated.
The humming had stopped.

Waited.

Finally, he turned it. Opened the door.

II stood there, looking small and uncertain and so fucking… loving. His eyes were full of it. Aching. Deep.

There was a heavy moment. They just stared at each other. Still like statues.

Then Vessel fell into II’s arms. Wrapped himself around him. Held on and buried his red, blotchy face in II’s warm neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough and raw. “Thank you, II.”

Something cracked.

Or healed.

Or maybe both.

***

They stayed like that for a long time. Quiet. Breathing the same air.

Then, wordless, II tugged him gently toward the bunks.

II climbed in first, shuffling back against the wall, lifting the edge of the blanket in silent invitation. Vessel hesitated only for a second, then crawled in after him, careful not to brush too hard against anything, like even now he was still afraid of being too much, of taking up too much space. The curtain slid shut behind them, cocooning them in dim warmth.

The space was tight, and their legs bumped and tangled. Vessel folded himself in, instinctively curling in on himself. But II opened his arms. He said nothing; just looked at him.

Vessel exhaled slowly and let himself press in. Forehead tucked under II’s chin, arms around his middle. He could feel the rhythm of II’s breathing, slow and solid, against his chest.

The smell of him hit all at once: citrusy soap, just a faint hint of sweat and—fucking hell, he had not changed his shirt. Vessel ignored that, instead focusing on the old familiarity of being held like this. He nearly cried again just from the sheer relief.

Soon, he felt II’s breathing slow and deepen with the first breaths of sleep. Vessel turned his head slightly, pressing his nose into the crook of II’s neck, inhaling deeply—that warm, familiar scent again. Home. His fingers curled more tightly into II’s (disgusting) shirt.

He let out a slow breath. II shifted, pulling him closer even in sleep, as if his body knew exactly what Vessel needed.

That was the last thing Vessel remembered—warmth, weight, steady breath, and the sound of someone’s heart beneath his cheek—as the darkness pulled him under, not like a tide but like a deep, slow exhale.

Vessel blinked awake slowly, the darkness of II's bunk only broken by the thinnest sliver of dawn light leaking through a gap in the curtain. His head felt heavy, pounding from bawling out his soul. His muscles were sore, and eyes crusted with dried tears and sleep.

But he was warm.

II was still wrapped around him with one arm loosely draped over his waist and his face tucked against his arm, breath puffing against his bare skin.

There was an ache in his chest. But now, it was softer. Gentler. Like a balm smoothed over a burn.

He sank into.

The warmth. The safety.

Let himself have it, if only for a moment.

And then, the memories of the previous day came crashing back.

The panic. The fucking sobbing.

He just freezes every time.

I keep trying.

Fuck.

And—oh God.

II.

The bunk. Lying there, listening to him.

Doing nothing. Wanting.

And now he was pressed against his side, breathing slow and heavy, asleep with no idea how fucking up he really was.

Out. He needed out.

As carefully as he could, Vessel dislodged II from himself. He mumbled something quiet and sleepy but immediately rolled around and kept sleeping. Vessel slipped out, quickly shutting the curtain behind him.

Blearily, he shuffled down the aisle.
Sludge. He needed sludge. A fucking gallon of it. The bitter, throat-scalding kind that scraped sleep from his brain.

By the time he realized Ivy was curled up on the bench by the kitchenette it was too late to turn around and bolt.

His eyes shot up but didn't quite meet Vessel's blank stare.

"Hey," he said, voice shy but a little bit too perky to be believable.

"Oh," Vessel mumbled, clenching his jaw. "Morning."

Ivy hesitated a moment, then leapt to his feet.

"I made you stick brew!" He twisted around and scooped up the steaming mug from the counter behind him.

Vessel blinked at the drink. "... thanks."

"I, uh..." Ivy stared at the murky brown contents. "I heard you yesterday. Saw II sitting by the door."

Vessel didn't reply.

"Thought that maybe... I dunno. Your throat. Just... for singing. Tonight. The show."

"Right." Vessel barely mumbled but took the mug from Ivy.

An unbearably heavy silence stretched between them, neither looking directly at one another. But neither moved away, either.

"Vess," Ivy began, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry. About yesterday. I didn’t mean—"

"It’s fine."

"What? No. No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have—"

Vessel didn’t let him finish. He couldn’t bear to hear it.

"You’re right, okay? You’re right, so just... leave it."

Ivy flinched.

"But I... V..."

"Stop. Okay? Just stop, Ivy." He set the mug on the small table, liquid sloshing over the rim, then dropped onto the couch. "I know I’m too slow. I know I freeze up. I know you’re tired of waiting. So just... I don’t know."

Ivy frowned, blinking like he couldn’t keep up. "Wait, what?"

"You don’t have to," Vessel said. "You can just—"

"Vess." Ivy stepped in until their knees nearly touched. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Vessel finally looked up. "You and III. Yesterday. I came back to the bus and heard you talking about me."

Ivy’s brow furrowed. "We didn’t talk about you."

"Ives. I heard you. That I freeze up. That III keeps trying, but I..."

A dry, shocked laugh broke out of Ivy. "V! That wasn’t about you. We were talking about that stupid game he likes. The one with that boss that looks like a monkey's arse? His character always freezes right before the kill—"

Vessel blinked. "What?"

"It wasn’t about you," Ivy said, soft now, sinking beside him.

"Then what were you talking about just now?"

Ivy’s face flushed. He looked away. "Oh. Uh. The kiss."

"...The kiss?"

"Yeah. I didn’t mean to pull away like that." His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. "I just... I don’t know. I got overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed? Why?"

"Because, V." Ivy stared at him—tired eyes, mussed hair, shadows under his lashes, all raw concern. "God. Fuck. Because I want it so badly. And I didn’t know if I could stop. I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t want to mess it up. So I panicked."

Vessel reached for his hand, still fidgeting, and enclosed it in his own. Ivy didn’t pull away.

"I don’t want you to think I don’t want you," Ivy said. "I do. I want to kiss you. Touch you. All of it. But I don’t want to... cling. I don’t want to ask for something I shouldn’t be asking for. And don’t you dare apologize or spiral into that self-deprecating shit."

"I wasn’t—"

"You were. I know you, Vessel. And this? Not your fault. Get that in your pretty little head. Not. Your. Fault."

"But isn’t it?" Vessel’s voice was too quiet. "It is me—"

Ivy couldn’t stand it anymore.

He kissed him.

He probably should’ve asked. Probably shouldn’t have grabbed him and pulled him in and kept kissing him until they were both breathless and blinking and dazed.
Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do. But it was the only thing Ivy knew to do. The only way to make Vessel get it.

When they finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, Vessel’s lips curled into a small, crooked smile.

"Okay, yeah," he murmured, voice low and a little smug. "I’ll stop with the self-deprecating shit."

Ivy laughed, chest too full, heart a mess. "You gonna drink that stinking stick shit I made you now?"

"Uhhh, no." Vessel smirked. "It smelled like arse. I’ll take sludge."

Ivy huffed, half-offended, half-delighted. "Fine. I’ll make you sludge. But you’re drinking your stick brew before the show tonight. Remember—you’re our golden ticket to fame."

Vessel rolled his eyes and shoved him toward the kitchenette. "Just make me sludge, coffee boy."

"Coming right up, boss," Ivy said with a coy wink.

Vessel’s stomach dropped.

Fuck.

This had not become any simpler.
At all.

Chapter Text

The show had gone off without a hitch.

Light, noise, fog. Six thousand screaming mouths. Heat and an electric crackle rising through the air. III watching Vessel kiss Ivy during The Offering and briefly wishing they’d put Sugar back on the set list.

Vessel had obediently drunk his stick brew, making sure III was the one to make it—he was the only one to actually stick to the brew time. And it helped. Of course it did. It was his fucking magic concoction. His voice felt smooth. No strain. No cracks. Just clean notes and, the familiar pulse of II’s drums behind him.

And it was good.

No breakdowns—at least not the emotional kind. No slips.

Fine. Normal.

And the next morning, Vessel slept in. By the time he stirred, they were parked at the next venue—Prague, maybe?

He rolled onto his back and stretched, groaning as his arms cramped in the tight space. Black smudges clung to his skin. How the hell had he missed a whole section in the shower? He sighed. Not like it mattered—he’d be painted up again in a few hours anyway.

He forced himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. III heard the soft thud of movement and pulled out his one earbud—he had no idea where the other had gone.

Vessel shuffled in, still sleep-drunk and disheveled. And mostly naked.

No hoodie. No baggy t-shirt. No sweats. Just those stupid fucking boxers with fire-breathing unicorns.

III’s brain absolutely bluescreened.

Error 404.

System failure.

Dead.

Vessel didn’t seem to notice. Still bleary-eyed and half-asleep, he rubbed at his neck and sat down heavily on the couch beside III, their thighs almost touching.

Jesus Christ.

It wasn’t just the outline visible through the criminally thin fabric. It was the warmth of him. The solidity. The dazed softness, the little remnants of paint still clinging to skin. The sheer intimacy, raw and unaware.

Vessel said something, voice rough with sleep.

“Huh?” III croaked.

“I asked where II and Ivy went.”

“Oh,” III blinked, still reeling. “I don't know. They were already gone when I got up.”

Vessel hummed, slouching lower. He was not ready to be a person yet.

III glanced down again—just for a second. But the unicorns didn’t hold his gaze.

The scars did.

Long, faded slashes. Some wide, some narrow. Pale ridges stretching over thighs.

He swallowed hard. He’d seen them before, of course. They’d all seen Vessel naked far too often to count—onstage, backstage, emergencies. But this time…

This time they weren’t just old marks. This time they felt fresh, even if they weren’t. He wanted to reach out. To fix it. To undo it. To say something he didn’t even have the language for.

His fingers hovered, shaking slightly—not touching; not even brushing.

But Vessel’s gaze snapped to his hand. And then everything cracked.

He jerked back like he’d been burned. Froze. Stared at III like he wasn’t III anymore.

Because he wasn’t.

He was someone else.

A face Vessel half-remembered—brown eyes, damp curls from the rain, that blinding perfect smile.

A mouth he’d imagined too many times.

A boy who’d distracted him so badly he’d failed a maths exam.

Lucas.

And now Lucas was in his bedroom.

Lucas, whispering at his ear, hands warm on his body. Kissing down his neck, laughing under his breath.

Was this real? Was this really happening?

He’d wanted it for so long.

He fumbled with his jeans, kicked them off with shaking legs. Lucas’s hand slid under the waistband of his boxers, wrapped around him. Vessel made a broken little sound he couldn’t stop.

Lucas smiled against his throat.

Another hand, up his thigh.

He exhaled into it. The heat. The closeness. The dizzying unbelievability of it.

But then—

The hand stopped.

Lucas’s gaze dropped.

Silence.

Vessel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.

“What the fuck,” Lucas muttered, voice sharp and disgusted. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He yanked his hands away like Vessel was filth. A disease. Something that would infect him.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Lucas spat, eyes still locked on the lines carved across Vessel’s skin. Where there had been heat and wanting, there was now only revulsion.

Lucas backed up, stared one last time at Vessel, spread open and silent.

“Freak.”

Then he turned and walked out.

Vessel squeezed his eyes shut. You’re fucking crazy. Freak. Crazy. Freak.  

“Vess?” III’s voice cut through the static.

Vessel’s breath hitched. His throat worked around half-formed words, but nothing came out. Just a shattered silence.

“Hey,” he said, soft and careful. “Hey, you—you okay?” Vessel shook his head. Just once. Sharp. Like it stung.

“I didn’t mean to—” III started, then stopped, because… what had he even done?

Vessel’s whole face was wrecked. Not crying, not trembling, not even fully there. Just stunned. Ashamed. Eyes wide and blank, lips parted like he might speak if he could remember how.

“I didn’t mean—fuck, Vessel, I wasn’t—I was just—”

But Vessel flinched, like the sound of his own name hurt. And then he was up. On his feet. Gone. He practically sprinted down the hall before III could even ask what had happened.

A thud of a door. A lock.

III sat there, heart pounding and mouth dry. He didn’t know what had happened, but it felt like he’d just watched a vase shatter in slow motion. Like something precious had cracked apart, and all he’d done was sit there and stare stupidly.

He waited. No phone. No music. Just the silence left behind by Vessel’s panic.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

Half an hour.

Eventually, Vessel reappeared with quiet footsteps, completely avoiding III’s gaze. He was dressed now—although that might’ve been an understatement. Baggy band hoodie zipped all the way up, sleeves tugged low, hood up even though the heat was cranked. Not a glimpse of skin, not even at his wrists or collarbone. Like he’d scrubbed himself out of existence.

III looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Hey.”

Vessel didn’t say anything. Just nodded once and sat down on the opposite end of the couch, pulling his knees to his chest and propping a cushion between them. Every scar was covered. Hidden. And still, III couldn’t stop seeing them.

***

Vessel didn’t leave again.

Just stayed there in the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, hood pulled low with big headphones clamped over his ears, drowning the world out in static and string sections. The sketchpad balanced on his lap shifted with every stroke of his pencil. Thin lines--all of them obsessive. Teeth. Fins. Empty black eyes.

III sat on the other end of the couch, legs bouncing restlessly. Every so often, he glanced sideways at Vessel’s hunched frame, at the way his hoodie sleeves nearly swallowed his hands. He wanted to say something. He ached to say something. But every time he opened his mouth, it stuck there like glue behind his teeth.

Eventually, the door clattered open. II and Ivy stepped inside, still laughing about something. Their voices cut off when they saw the room. The silence was immediate.

“What the hell happened?” Ivy asked quietly, crossing over to III with a frown.

III just shrugged, palms up and helpless. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

Vessel didn’t even look up. “Need space.”

His voice was calm. Flat but not angry. Not even sad. Just… sealed shut.

II stared for a beat. “Okay,” he said finally. “Yeah. Okay.”

They all gave it to him.

It was late. Probably too late to still be up. 

Most of the lights were off, just a warm amber glow from the kitchenette strip lighting and the low flicker of a forgotten phone screen on the counter. III was curled up in the corner of the booth, one leg tucked under him, half-asleep with his forehead resting on the window.

He hadn’t gone to bed, just showered and posted up where he was now. Waiting. Just in case.

There was a soft creak. A shifting of weight. 

Vessel hovered in the threshold between the front of the bus and the bunks for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to be here. His hood was up again, and his hands buried in the pocket of his sweatshirt. His eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed. But he looked… calmer. Like the storm had passed, and only the debris remained. Maybe performing had helped. Maybe being someone not quite him had made him forget, just for a bit. 

III lifted his head, sitting up a little straighter. Vessel didn’t speak, just padded over slowly, and slid into the seat across from him, pressing his back against the wall and pulling one foot up on the bench. He didn’t meet III’s eyes, instead staring down at the table.

“I…” His voice was rough. Tired. “Earlier. I wasn’t… with you. I mean—I was. But then I wasn’t.”

III let his eyes drift over Vessel’s face—brows pulled into a tight frown, jaw clenched like his body was unwilling to let go of the words, eyes darting from one spot on the table to the next. Slowly, he reached a hand across, settled it softly on the table, palm up. An invitation, if Vessel wanted. 

And hesitantly, like he was afraid something might shatter, Vessel reached back. III gently pressed a thumb against his palm, rubbing slow rhythmic circles. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

Vessel didn’t let go, just stared at the place where their palms touched. His lips parted. Closed again.

III didn’t push—just waited.

Then, quietly, so quietly it barely made it across the table:

“I really liked him.”

The words slipped out like they’d been lodged in his throat for years.

Vessel blinked rapidly, his jaw set tight. “Lucas. That was his name. We had maths together. He was… cool. You know? Confident. Fit as hell. God—I thought he was so out of my league. Thought someone like him could never like someone like me back. But… he did.” 

Vessel paused, swallowing hard. His fingers twitched in III’s hand. 

“I used to spend whole nights just… imagining stupid things. What it’d be like if he kissed me. If he touched me.”

III didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. He just listened, hand still curled around Vessel’s.

“I never thought it’d happen. But then one day he waited for me after school. Said he liked my band shirt. Told me I looked hot in it.”

A bitter little laugh escaped him. “I cried that night. Wrote a fucking song. Like an absolute twat. Just because someone like him liked someone like me.”

III’s heart cracked clean in half.

“It started really fast. Texts. Late-night calls. And then—one night, he came over when my parents and brother were out. We were in my room. It was raining and his hair was still damp. And he touched me like… like I was something wanted. Like I was… normal.”

He laughed, bitter and small. “I was so excited. I thought—I don’t know. That if he touched me like that, maybe I’d stop feeling so fucked up. And fuck, I was sixteen and about to get my first blow job.”

Another huff.

“I didn’t even think about hiding them. I forgot they were there. His hand was already on me and I thought I was going to fucking ascend. And then—”

Vessel’s words sputtered out. His eyes flickered, like he was right back there for the second time that day. But he pressed on. 

“He ran his hand up my thigh. Stopped. I was so far gone it didn’t even occur to me why he’d stopped. When I opened my eyes, he looked at me like I was some deranged animal to put down. I swear I could feel every inch of my skin just turn inside out. It was like… like I’d tricked him into wanting me.”

He rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I couldn’t stop hearing it for weeks. Freak. Crazy. I didn’t even want him anymore after that, but I kept replaying it like it was some punishment I deserved. He never told anyone. Didn’t want people to know he’d nearly sucked off a lunatic.” 

III couldn’t stay across the table anymore. He stood, crossed the little booth and sat down beside Vessel, knee to knee, shoulder brushing his.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, letting it settle. Then, he moved to gather Vessel into a hug—but stopped short. 

He didn’t know if he could. If he should. If Vessel wanted him to. 

Vessel did—he leaned in without hesitation and III wrapped his arms around his too-still body. 

“I know they’re ugly, even now.” 

III froze. He gripped Vessel’s shoulders and pushed him away just enough to look into his eyes properly. 

“No. They’re not.” 

“They are. And when you reached out to—”

“Wait.” III cut him off. “You think I looked at you like that because I was… judging you?” His laugh was watery. “Vess, I was one neuron away from absolutely combusting. You walked in wearing those stupid fucking unicorn boxers and I bluescreened. You’re stunning. All of you. Every part.”

Vessel had absolutely no idea what to say. 

“Look at me,” III tentatively moved his fingers to Vessel’s cheek. “You don’t have to hide anything. Ever. You’re fucking perfect.” 

Vessel’s chest swelled. Ached. But not with darkness, no with shame or guilt.

“It’s fucking hot in here.” Without another word, he tugged his sweatshirt over his head, leaving him in only a thin tank top. 

The scars were there. The three that nearly took his life. The old, faded ones on his bicep. Every thin pale white line that had almost vanished.

Vessel didn’t flinch when III looked. Really looked. And then, he reached out.

“This one,” he said, brushing the curve of Vessel’s upper arm, “kind of looks like a really fucked up prawn.”

Vessel snorted.

“Like, if you squint.”

“That’s deranged,” Vessel said, laughing through his nose. “You’re the crazy one. Seriously.” 

A small smile, a lazy little shrug of the shoulder. “Maybe,” III said quietly. “But I love you. All of you.” 

Then, he softly took Vessel’s wrist and brought it to his lips. He paused for just a moment, long enough for Vessel to pull away if he wanted. When he didn’t, III pressed a feather-light kiss to the inside of it. He couldn’t see the scars in the low light, but he knew they were there. 

Next, he kissed the first of the gashes. Carefully. Almost reverently. 

And he kept going. Scar by scar. Hurt by hurt. Covering the pain with love.

Vessel let him.

And when III looked up at him, he whispered, almost too soft to hear:

“…I love you, too.” 

Vessel nuzzled into III again, tucking his head against his chest. For a few long minutes, he listened to the steady thumping of his heart.

And then, in a low voice: “III?”

III hummed in response, gaze flicking down to him.

“Can we go shoot the shit outta each other?”

III smirked. Fuck, he loved that man.

“Absolutely not,” he sighed. “You’re bloody awful at Warfare. But! I will wreck you on Rainbow Road.”

“Are you sure you want to risk our relationship like that?”

“Oh please,” III huffed, mock-serious, but the grin on his face was bright. “You just bared your soul to me. I lovingly kissed away the bullshit words of a sixteen-year-old cunt. I think we can make it through some banana peels.”

“You have great faith in shared emotional trauma for someone who cried when Ivy broke your Fruit Ninja record.”

III shoved him in the shoulder. “Fuck off, I did not cry.”

“Oh, but you did,” Vessel said, laughing. “Sobbed like a fucking baby.”

“Alright, that’s it.” III leapt to his feet, standing at full height like it gave him some sort of moral high ground. “Rainbow Road. Now.”

When II got up to pee at precisely 2:37 a.m., stifled cackles drifted through the thin sliding door separating the lounge from the rest of the bus.

He blinked blearily. Tilted his head. Listened.

Then, curiosity getting the better of him, he padded down the short hallway, carefully slid the door open, and peeked in.

Unhinged goblin laughter. The crunch of a crisp. The flickering lights of the TV.

At the center of it all: III and Vessel, sprawled across the couch in a tangle of limbs and blankets. III was mid-rant about some kind of blue shell injustice and how this was absolutely the worst mistake of his life. Vessel smirked, chucked a crisp at his face, then gleefully careened into him on-screen.

They hadn’t even noticed II. They were too far gone.

II stood there for a second, eyes wide, staring in awe at the sheer stupidity of these two grown men.

Then, very slowly and very gently, he took a step back. Then another. He backed out of the room, quietly sliding the door shut like he’d just stumbled upon two feral hobgoblins in their natural habitat.

And after he’d shut the bathroom door behind him, he smiled to himself and whispered, “We’ll be okay.”

Chapter Text

Budapest was freezing. No snow. No winter wonderland. Just cold. Icy wind, icy footpaths, icy everything. 

But it was their day off and Ivy be damned if they weren’t getting a proper breakfast for a change. 

II leapt up at the mention of “eggs Benedict” and “Red Bull Restock Run”, disappearing into the bathroom in a scramble to get out the door. 

Vessel and III, on the other hand, were nothing more than grumbling heaps of irresponsibility. 

They were both sprawled out in their respective bunks, curtains wide open, too-long limbs hanging over the edges. 

Ivy tried Vessel first, poking just above his knee. No response.

He turned to III. Poked his cheek. Just a lump.

II re-emerged from the bathroom with a toothbrush clamped between his teeth.

"What the fuck's wrong with them?" Ivy scowled at the unmoving bodies.

"Idiots," II mumbled, toothpaste trickling down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. "Found them wrecking every good thing in our lives with Rainbow Road at 2:30 in the morning."

"And I wasn't invited?!" Ivy’s voice pitched high with genuine shock as if his entire ancestry had been mortally offended.

II just rolled his eyes dramatically. "Seemed like they were having a moment."

Ivy hummed, turning it over in his head. "Good. Seemed like there was something going on between them when we got back yesterday."

II trodded back to the bathroom to spit, and Ivy trailed behind him like a starving puppy. 

"I was wondering about that," II said, splashing his face with cold water. "Do you know anything?"

Ivy shrugged. "V heard us talking the other day. Thought it was about him. That's why he was—"

"Panicking?" II finished for him.

"Yeah." Ivy leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms and watching II poke at his face. "He didn't say anything to you about that?"

II sighed. He was… disappointed but definitely wasn’t about to admit it, least of all to himself. "No."

"Well," Ivy huffed after a long moment of heavy silence. "I'll get them. I want food."

"Good luck," II scoffed.

"Don't need it." Ivy smirked wickedly, then stalked off to the front of the bus. He threw the door open and a freezing gust of wind whipped through. Then, he stomped back to the bunks, grasped both blankets at once, and in one swift motion yanked them off.

"RISE AND SHINE DICKBAGS!"

Vessel nearly fell out along with his blanket.

III's skull cracked against the top of his bunk.

Ivy doubled over in maniacal laughter.

And II shook his head, a tiny smile betraying his amusement.

“IVY YOU ABSOLUTE CUNT!” III’s voice echoed through the space and he fumbled to get his blanket back. 

Vessel half-flopped onto the floor, freezing in nothing but a faded t-shirt and boxers—axolotls this time, which was, somehow, even more absurd than the unicorns. 

“Gonna pay for that,” he grumbled, snatching his blanket from the floor and wrapping it tightly around his shivering shoulders. 

The snickers continued as Ivy jogged to the door and slammed it shut, cutting off the biting frost. 

III groaned, still hiding in his bunk. “Why the fuck are you waking us up at the crack of dawn?” 

“It’s 10, you dingbat.” 

Vessel’s eyes flicked to him. He squinted. “That’s a decorative font.” 

“Yes,” Ivy said deadpan. “It is also a silly or stupid person. And an architectural style of apartment building. But I mean the stupid one. Definitely the stupid one.”

“Slipping on those insults, Ives.” II grinned at him from down the aisle. 

“Whatever. Can we PLEASE go get breakfast now?” 

“Fine,” Vessel huffed. 

Another pained groan. “Don’t wanna. Tired. Leave me alone.” 

“Aww, c’mon, Trippy,” Ivy cooed, strolling to him with that absolutely heart—and dick—breaking glint in his eyes. “I’ll buy you as much avocado toast as you want.” 

III perked up, sticking his head out. Ivy’s face was mere inches from his. 

“And a pistachio croissant?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

Ivy smiled, reaching out a hand, trailing soft fingers over his cheek. “Anything you want, love.” 

III considered a moment and his gaze flickered down to Ivy’s lips for a fraction of a second. “Ok. But I’ll hold you to that!”

Ivy trailed a finger over his jaw for another moment and then—smack! A playful, teasing slap that stung just enough. “Good! Now get the fuck up!” 

III rubbed at his cheek but swung out of the bunk, grin pulled wide. 

When they’d finally—finally—found a cafe serving III-approved coffee, all four flopped down, red-nosed and starving.

It was full, but not crowded. The waitress set down their food with a huff—two avocado toasts and a pistachio croissant for III as promised and French toast fit for someone far more famous for Vessel and Ivy. To II’s chagrin—and a murderous stare for Ivy—they did not have eggs Benedict and he was stuck with an omelette. It was good, really fucking good. But tainted. Tainted with betrayal. 

The clatter of cutlery was only broken by an occasional moan of satisfaction from III who declared his croissant a “weapon of mass destruction” and was now on his third coffee. II poked moodily at his omelette, annoyed at how good it was. And Ivy—

Ivy should’ve been grinning. He should’ve been basking in the domestic absurdity of sitting at breakfast with his three whatever-they-were-now, inhaling the best French toast he’d ever had, and, for once, feeling like a normal person. 

But he wasn’t. 

He sat slightly curled in on himself, beanie still pulled over his ears as if it could keep out some sort of cold that had followed inside. He sat a bit too stiffly, too aware of keeping a sliver of air between his body and Vessel. Almost unwillingly, his fingers kept drifting toward him, but recoiled each time. 

Vessel noticed. Of course he did. 

He stayed quiet, like always, studying Ivy over the rim of his mug. He set it down, shifting just a little, nudging his knee under the table until it bumped against Ivy. 

“Ives,” he said, voice low, only for Ivy to hear. 

Ivy blinked and looked up at him like he’d been caught; or maybe he was just surprised he could still be seen. 

“You okay?” he asked softly, almost carefully, like he was trying not to break something very delicate. 

Ivy gave him a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired, you know.” 

“Mmhm,” Vessel hummed with a knowing, sad smile. Such an obvious lie. But he didn’t press. Instead, he turned his body just slightly toward him and tugged lightly at his sleeve. Ivy gave in immediately, melting into his arms. 

“Better?” Vessel asked, voice muffled by Ivy’s hair. 

Ivy just hummed contently, lacing his fingers through Vessel’s. It seemed like it was allowed; wanted, even. Right now, at least. 

Vessel pressed a quick little kiss to the top of his head, smiling into himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, like if he stayed still enough, this could be real forever.

III caught the whole thing and froze, mid-bite. His eyes went soft, warm in a way that almost didn’t fit his face, and for a few seconds—shockingly—he just watched. One hand hovered near his plate, like he’d forgotten it entirely. His grin started slow, lazy, tucked in like a secret he wanted to keep just for himself.

He leaned back a little, chewing absently now, gaze flicking between the two of them with something dangerously close to quiet fondness. Respectful, even. He let them have their moment. Didn’t interrupt. Just let it happen.

For exactly fourteen seconds.

Then, like something in him snapped from sheer glee, he reached across the table with both arms and clapped them on their shoulders at the same time, hard, with a reverent little smirk.

“Gross,” he said, delighted. “I’m obsessed. Don’t stop.”

Then he dropped back into his seat, biting into the last of his croissant with the self-satisfaction of someone who’d just smushed two dolls together and made them kiss.

Meanwhile, II looked like he was about to vibrate through the floor.

He didn’t just sip from his mug—he drained it bone dry, staring dead ahead like it might refill out of sheer willpower. His other hand clenched and unclenched on his thigh. When that didn’t help, he crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them. Then reached for the sugar packet and crushed it flat without opening it.

His knee bounced. Then stopped. Then started again.

His jaw clenched hard enough to grind teeth.

And still, his eyes kept drifting, again and again, to Ivy’s hand curled so easily in Vessel’s. To Vessel’s head tilted just so. To the way they fit. Like Ivy just belonged there. Like they were made for this.

He exhaled through his nose. Adjusted in his seat. Then stilled again.

III side-eyed him once, narrowed his eyes, and hummed all too knowingly. But he didn’t say a word. Not yet.

It was still freezing but II stood outside the bus anyway, puffing grumpily on a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His whole body was stiff, tight at the shoulders, jaw clenched hard enough to grind enamel. Smoke curled past his lips in shaky huffs.

III wandered over, hands stuffed in the pockets of a ridiculous red puffer jacket so garish he looked like a sentient strawberry on stilts. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside him, letting the silence settle. Then, a subtle lean, their shoulders brushing.

II didn’t move, just took another shaky drag of his cigarette.

III glanced sidelong at him and offered a crooked half-smile. “You gonna tell me what’s chewing you up inside or do I have to drag it out of you?”

“Nope.” II took another drag, but coughed. “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” III said, entirely unconvinced. He tilted his head, studying him quietly.

II made a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.” III rocked forward on his heels. “So: you’re out here freezing your ass off, chain-smoking, refusing to make eye contact—and that’s just… normal Tuesday stuff for you?”

II’s jaw ticked. He refused to turn his head. “It’s Friday.” 

“Not the point, mate. You reek of jealousy,” III said. “Like my fucking shoe after a show.”

II grimaced. “Jesus. Gross. And I’m not jealous.”

III didn’t reply right away. Just let a small, maddening smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Then, in a voice almost too soft: “II.”

No response.

Without thinking, he slid a hand up into II’s hair, slow and careful. He could feel the cold in his scalp, the tension buzzing under the surface like electricity.

“They love you just as much as they love each other.” His fingers curled lightly. “I do too.”

That did it. II flinched, like the words hit bone and sawed clean through it. His breath caught and he quickly turned his face away.

II opened his mouth. Closed it again. Tried to argue, but the pressure against his neck short-circuited his brain. 

III’s hand slid down, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. Then lower, ghosting over his throat—his pulse was pounding—and coming to rest just above the collar of his jacket. The other hand found his hip, warm through his clothes, gripping tight as he tugged him closer. The edge of II’s jacket lifted just enough to let a cold finger skim skin. 

II jolted like he’d touched a live wire and the cigarette slipped from his fingers and landed on the frozen ground with a hiss.

III pressed in. Not too close—but close enough that II had to tip his head back to look up at his face. Close enough that every exhale fogged between them.

“You okay?” III asked.

II swallowed hard. A fresh flush–not from the cold—spread over his cheeks, neck, ears, throat. His hands twitched at his sides.

“Keep touching me like that,” he mumbled, so quiet it nearly got lost in the wind, “and I’ll be begging you to fuck me.”

Then he froze. Every single muscle in his body locked up. His eyes went huge, like a deer in headlights. His mouth worked open and closed. “Oh my god—fuck—I didn’t—I didn’t mean—shit, ignore that, please—fuck, just—”

His voice shot higher with every word. He stumbled back, tugging his jacket collar up like it could somehow erase him from existence. His breath came short and fast, fogging the air in panicked bursts.

III just stared. Heart pounding. Skin lit up like firecrackers. Cock twitching.

Begging.

II had said begging.

III might’ve blacked out for a second.

He didn’t think.

Just acted. 

He reached out. Fisted the front of II’s jacket. Yanked him closer. 

II stumbled right into him with a surprised sound. The flicker of a moment–still, hot, taut–stretched between them, then snapped. III caught II at the back of the head, pulled him up until he was on tiptoes, breath ghosting over his mouth.

“Say that again,” he whispered, not sure if he meant it as a challenge—or a plea. 

II swallowed hard, completely frozen on the spot. His head spun, his cock ached, and his mouth opened, completely useless. “I—”

“Hey, lovebirds,” came Thom’s voice, lilting with amusement. “Wanna maybe fuck in the bus instead of against it?”

They jerked back like they'd been electrocuted. II looked horrified. III just blinked. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” he added with a wink, then disappeared inside. 

They stood frozen in the cold, staring blankly at each other.

“…He has the worst fucking timing,” III muttered, still blinking like he’d been hit with a brick.

“Thank fucking God for that.”

Chapter Text

II stormed right past Vessel, Ivy, and Thom, pretending he hadn’t just ruined his entire fucking life. There was absolutely no way he was looking any of them in the eye. Especially not Thom. Not after he saw—Oh, God.
He barely managed a half-coherent “checking messages” before disappearing down the aisle. He flung himself onto the mattress, yanked the curtain shut, and shoved his face into the pillow. For good measure, he dragged the blanket over his head, too.

Muffled from the depths of his grave, he groaned. “I’m dead. I have died.” 

Silence. No reprieve. Not even the walls had mercy.
“And going to hell. Definitely hell.” 

He rolled onto his back, eyes wide in the dimness, staring at the ceiling like maybe he’d find an answer there.

What the fuck had he done?

His mind wouldn’t stop replaying it. The pressure of III’s hand on his hip. The heat of his breath. The way they’d paused, breath mingling. The flush on III’s face. And his voice: Say that again.

Jesus Christ. II had said it without thinking. Or maybe he had been thinking. Just not with the part of his brain that should be allowed to make decisions.

Keep touching me like that and I’ll be begging you to fuck me.

His own stupid voice had gone all low and needy and wrecked. He might’ve as well moaned directly into III’s mouth. 

This was bad. This wasn’t just crossing a line. This was setting it on fire and blowing it to hell.  This had been a breath away from—

From what? If Thom and his impeccable timing hadn’t prevented a truly catastrophic shitshow, how far would it have gone? Would he have said it again? Would III have shoved him against the side of the bus? Kissed him? Touched him? Would he have— STOP.

II groaned again and yanked the pillow over his face.
“Idiot,” he muttered. “I hope a fucking demon strangles me in my sleep."

***

Outside, III paced like he might actually start levitating from sheer force of emotion. His hands were on his hips. Then in his hair. Then tugging his sleeves. He could still feel it. All of it.

The way II had looked at him—flushed and panting. His voice so goddamn unbearably needy. Wanting. That breathless little whimper after III had told him to say it again. The way his body had arched under his hands.

Fuck.

He shoved a hand into his hair and tugged hard, trying to pull himself back into reality. But it was useless. Every nerve ending was still high on the possibility of what they had almost done and his skull still screamed the words on a never-ending loop. Keep touching me like that and I’ll be begging you to fuck me. 

 “It’s fine,” he muttered to the empty air. “Totally fine and under control. Absolutely.”

A beat.
Then, just to make sure the silence heard him:
“Idiot. Fucking idiot.”

Just then, Thom—of fucking course—came out. 

“You kind of are.”

He smirked at III, looking far too satisfied with himself. III squinted at him.

“Did you—?”

A short, huffed laugh. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” The he walked off leaving a trail of wicked chuckles in his wake.

III stood there with his mouth half-open, frozen in disbelief.

Then he groaned and covered his face with both hands.

“Fucking hell.”

He bolted back onto the bus, cheeks burning. Vessel was curled sideways on the front couch, knees pulled to his chest, doomscrolling on his phone. Ivy sat on the narrow counter, chatting pointlessly at him. Both of them paused when III passed, eyes flicking toward him like they could smell the scandal on him.

“Don’t mind me!” III chirped, a little out of breath. “Just need a shower. Super quick. Cold out there!”

He vanished into the bathroom before anyone could reply. The door clicked shut behind him, and III exhaled heavily, bracing his hands against the sink. For a second, he stared at his reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, blown pupils, ruffled hair. Then, he grinned at himself and fucking giggled.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck was that?”

He turned the water on and stripped at record speed, like if he didn’t move quickly enough, he’d combust. The second the hot spray hit his skin, his knees buckled a little. He braced himself against the wall, head dropping forward, steam curling around him like it wanted in on the moment.

It hadn’t been a joke. It hadn’t been teasing.

II had meant it. Even if he regretted it now—he’d meant it.

And III had felt it. Felt him trembling. Felt him want.

I’ll be begging you to fuck me.

His hand slipped down, fingers wrapping around himself. No preamble. He was already half-hard from the memory alone.

Keep touching me like that—

He let his forehead thud against the wall, his teeth gritted to stifle his rasped grunt.

II’s mouth. His breath. The pressure of his hips. His fucking voice.

I’ll be begging you to fuck me.

III’s breath hitched as he picked up the pace, other hand pressed flat to the slick wall for balance.

Say that again.

Keep begging.

Moan my name.

He came with a gasp, hand clamped over his mouth, hips jerking forward so violently he nearly slipped.

“Holy shit,” he panted, dazed and grinning like a fool.

He rinsed off as quickly as he could with trembling fingers, still humming with aftershocks, then leaned back into the wall, head resting there like he didn’t trust himself to move yet.

This?

This was trouble.

***

Only one thin wall away, in his blanket fortress of shame, II was still dying.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even breathed properly since the moment he’d collapsed there. He just laid there curled up in the exact same position, legs drawn to his chest, heart jackhammering against his ribs.

Every time he closed his eyes, it came rushing back: the heat of III’s mouth only half a breath from his, the scrape of his stubble, the way his body had pressed into his, “say that again”—

II groaned softly and rolled over to suffocate himself with the pillow again.

As if it wasn’t bad enough, he could hear the shower sputter to life.

No. No, no, no, this wasn’t happening.

He curled tighter, like that would stop his dick from twitching at the very idea. Like he hadn’t already humiliated himself enough for one night. II pressed both hands over his face and tried not to disintegrate on the spot. Because fuck—he wanted to slip into the shower with him, to kiss him breathless, to finish what they’d almost started. He wanted to make III absolutely lose it, wanted to feel him.

And not just him.

Ivy.

Vessel.

II’s fingers twitched, hand drifting lower for a heartbeat. But he yanked it back and instead forced himself still, tortured and aching vibrating with guilt and tension and the knowledge that he’d made everything so much worse.

***

Eventually, III re-emerged, cheeks still pink from the heat, damp strands clinging to his forehead. His shirt hung half-on, like he’d given up midway through dressing, and there was something infuriatingly pleased about him—his lips curled at one edge, eyes sparkling with mischief, stride too damn peppy.

Vessel watched from the couch, one leg pulled against his chest. “You seem oddly… chipper.”

III grinned and tilted his head. “Just had a good shower.”

Vessel’s gaze dropped before he could stop it—down the long line of III’s throat, across the bare strip of stomach where his shirt had bunched. A heat prickled low in his chest, thick and stupid and annoying.

From the kitchenette, Ivy snorted. “Hope you used soap after.”

III tapped a single finger against his lips, mock-thoughtful. “Think I did?”

“Gross. Keep your hands to yourself,” Vessel mumbled, but his eyes snagged again, this time on the waistband of III’s sweats, hanging dangerously low.

“I think that’s the point, Vessy,” Ivy said with a knowing smirk, tossing him a wink.

“You know what I mean,” Vessel grumbled. “I just don’t want his giant spaffy mitts all over me.”

Liar, a voice whispered somewhere deep inside. Yes you do.

“Better watch that cheeky mouth or I’ll fondle your toothbrush with my spaffy mitts,” II said, eyebrows vanishing into his hairline.

Ivy howled, hopping off the counter. “Better go hide it if you don’t want spunky toothpaste, V.”

“You are all disgusting.”

“You started it!” III squeaked.

“WHAT? HOW?!” Vessel’s voice jumped three octaves. “You’re the one who wanked in the shower! And possibly didn’t wash after!”

“Christ, Vessel, of course I de-spunked myself,” III replied, horrifyingly casual about it.

Vessel made a noise that was half-gag, half-despair. “How can I ever believe you? A man doesn’t joke about spunk hands, III.”

  “Okay!” Ivy jumped between them, arms outstretched like warding off a hoard of pterodactyls. “Real names now–well, sort off—but that’s it. Truce. I’m not letting this turn into War of the Worlds: Spunk Hands.”

For a moment, silence.

Then III dove forward, shoving Ivy’s arm aside and scrubbed his hands all over his face.

“Fuck mate, uncalled for!” Ivy yelped, scrambling away, flapping at him like a cat caught in the bath. “Duw a’m helpo,” he mumbled, “ I’m washing my fucking face.”

“Careful!” III called as Ivy fled down the hall. “Might’ve missed a spot wiping up!”

“I hope for your sake you didn’t!”

III was still laughing when Vessel stood with a long-suffering sigh. “Alright. Enough cum talk. Cards.”

III blinked at him. “It’s our day off and you wanna sit in the bus and play cards?”

“We were already outside,” Vessel said with a shrug. “It’s cold as Vin’s balls the time we went skinny dipping. Don’t need to go out there again.”

“Skinny dipping?” III tilted his head again, squinting. “When did that happen?”

“What do you mean, ‘when’? You were there. It was your idea.”

“Oh. Right.” A pause. “Yeah. That sounds like me.”

Vessel clapped him on the shoulder, shaking his head. “You are the most chaotic creature I’ve ever encountered.”

“Checks out.”

“So. Cards?”

“Only if we play Go Fish,” III said, suddenly solemn.

Vessel groaned, running his hands down his face like he was trying to shed his very soul. “We are not playing Go Fish.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No, we’re not.”

“We are. Or I’ll go wank again and really won’t wash this time.”

They locked eyes. The tension was absurd—like cowboys at high noon, but only one of them had a semi. And it wasn’t Vessel.

Finally, he cracked. “FINE. We’ll play your stupid children’s game.”

III’s face split into a grin. “Knew you’d come to your senses.”

Vessel muttered something vaguely profane and stomped off. “I’ll get II. Start dealing.”

Just then, Ivy emerged from the bathroom, cheeks flushed raw like he’d tried to scrub away the entire encounter. “Did I hear Go Fish?”

“Unfortunately,” Vessel grumbled.

Ivy’s eyes went wide with betrayal. “Why would you do that, Vessel? Why would you put us in this position?”

“He threatened me.”

Ivy shook his head, devastated. “You’ll regret this one day.”

“Pretty sure I already do.” Vessel stomped away with a grunt, knocking against the side of II’s bunk. No answer.

Headphones, obviously.

Easy fix. For some reason, II had foolishly logged his Spotify into the communal TV—a grave mistake; one none of them ever forgot.

Vessel swaggered to the lounge, pulled up The Song, and hit play.

“ARSE!”

Bingo.

II despised it. Refused to even utter its name. Had declared an official ban upon first listen: “Drumming so bad, I’d rather set my DWs on fire.”

The reaction was immediate: stomping, snarling, a sonic boom of fury as II stormed in like a pissed-off mongoose.

“You absolute cunt. Do you want me to gouge out my own eardrums?”

“Not how that works, Twoofer.”

II’s hands were fists, his ears bright red, and his glare promised violence.

“Fuck off.”

“No, wait!” Vessel jogged after him, catching the curtain before II could yank it closed. “Please?”

II sighed, already defeated. “What do you want?”

“Come play cards.”

“No.”

“Oh, c’mon, you owe me.”

“For what?”

“I dunno. Something. Something emotional and… vague.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“ Yeah but I am your idiot. So, come play cards with me and the other idiots.”

“…What are we playing?”

Vessel hesitated.

“Not Go Fish?” II begged. “Please don’t say Go Fish.”

Vessel twiddled his thumbs. “…Go Fish?”

That damn sheepish smile should’ve been illegal.  II groaned but was already heaving himself up. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, I swear to god.”

***

III was there.

Of course he was there. Why wouldn’t he be?

He sat across from Ivy at the table, deck of cards shuffling lazily between his fingers. That dumb grin was plastered on his face—too pleased and too knowing. His eyes glittered with danger, the kind that said: I know what you want. And I’ll give it to you. All of it. But I’ll also torture you and tell the others.

II forced his gaze anywhere else. Pretended he didn’t feel the weight of that look pressing into him. Pretended “say that again” hadn’t been looping incessantly in his skull, louder than any track he tried to drown it out with.

“I want Ives,” Vessel said suddenly, half-jogging to slide into the booth beside Ivy.

The heat hit II like a sucker punch.

His face went crimson, pulse rocketing. Nope. Too much. He was going to combust.

“What—why?” His voice cracked, panicked.

Vessel hesitated, blinking. But Ivy beat him to it, already grinning.

“Reckon he doesn’t wanna sit next to Splooge Fingers.”

II’s head snapped toward III. Bad move.

III raised his brows, that wolfish smirk playing at his lips.

“What?” II stammered, tripping over his own feet. “What the fuck does that mean—?”

“Nevermind,” III cut in smoothly before Ivy could explain. “Just sit down. It’s time to… Go Fish!”

II hovered for a beat too long. Every inch of his skin prickled. His head buzzed. His body screamed. But there was nowhere to go.

He sat, stiff and deliberate, keeping a chaste inch between himself and III like physical proximity might cause detonation.

But Ivy noticed: The stiffness. The darting, avoiding eyes. The way III did look—all sly glances and secret smiles like he knew something no one else did.

They hadn’t even started playing and Ivy was practically vibrating.

“What the fuck is this tension?” he blurted, throwing his hands up. “Someone fuck and forget to leave a note in the morning?”

II choked on his own breath.

Vessel sputtered his water across the table.

But III only chuckled, completely unfazed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t you dare,” II growled, aiming his death glare squarely at III.

“Wait, what—?” Ivy leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “That was a joke!”

III let out a dramatic sigh, lounging back like a cat in the sun. “Well, not exactly.”

The table froze.

II seethed. “I hate you. I fucking hate you.”

III arched a brow. “Twosie and I had a… quiet little moment, is all. My finger barely grazed his hip and he—” he paused, savoring it, “moaned–quote– ‘Keep touching me like that and I’ll be begging you to fuck me.’”

Ivy’s jaw dropped to the floor, but only for a second; then his grin split ear to ear, wicked and gleeful.

“That is the best thing I’ve ever not heard,” he declared.

“Wha–no–I–” II shot up like he’d been electrocuted. “He wanted me to say it again!” He screeched the words,  jabbing an accusatory finger at III, who was now full-on cackling.

“I want you to say it again,” Ivy said honey-slick, eyes flitting to his lips, then back up in a way that could wreck a man.

“Shit outta luck, mate,” II snapped. “You’ll never hear anything like that from me. Ever.”

He twisted toward the aisle, ready to flee.

“Fucking wanker,” he spat over his shoulder, clearly meant for III.

“Literally,” Vessel muttered, deadpan, earning another round of snorts and groans.

II didn’t make it an inch before Ivy grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and yanked him back down.

“Twosie.” Ivy’s voice dropped low, teasing and dangerous. “Sit the fuck back down… I’m begging you.”

II groaned so hard it looked physically painful. “Oh my god.”

His forehead hit the table with a thunk. “Burn this entire fucking bus,” he muttered. “Set it on fire. Kill me in my sleep. Please.” The laughter that followed was immediate, chaotic, and merciless.

“Oh, come on, Twoofer” III said, beaming like he’d won the lottery. “I couldn’t not say it. That was like—top five moments of my life. Maybe top three. And trust me, I’ve had some moments.”

“God, I hope you get athlete’s dick.”

“Not really into sports,” III mumbled. “Although I do stretch--”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“—but only when I’m about to—”

“JESUS FUCK, SHUT UP!”

Ivy choked on a laugh. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“You’re all insane,” II declared. “This band is deranged.”

“What does that say about you?” III shot back with a cackle.

No one had noticed that Vessel had gone quiet. Something about the way Ivy had said “I’m begging you” curled too deep in his gut. It ached. It burned hot and low and coiled like wire under tension. He could feel it in his teeth, his chest, his fists.

He wanted to hear it again. From Ivy. From II. He wanted to make them say it. Wanted them all on their knees—wanted hunger in their eyes, desperation in their voices. Wanted—

“What if I ask nicely?”

Ivy’s voice suddenly cut through the turbulence rattling in Vessel’s skull.

“No. You’re an absolute dickbag. I usually love you, Ives, but right now, I want to take your Jackson and shove it up your arse.”

Ivy tilted his head, eyes narrowed, smile curling smug and slow.

“Hm. Not really into that, I’m afraid.”

II looked like he was about to launch himself over the table–muscles coiled, jaw clenched tight, hand braced on the edge like it might tether him to sanity.

Ivy didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. That smug little twitch of amusement tugged at his lips—lazy, flirty, and infuriating. Every look was a dare. Every breath a tease too close to what II actually wanted but wouldn’t—couldn’t—admit.

III caught him by the shoulder just in time.

“Aw, come on, Toobs,” he cooed, grinning like an absolute little shit. “All in good fun. It was hot.”

II spun on him, finger stabbing toward his nose.

“Youuuu—shut up. This is all your fault.”

“Eh… technically, you said it.”

III beamed, utterly unbothered, and ducked the half-hearted swing II made at him.

But Ivy had noticed what the others hadn’t: the way Vessel had stilled.

Not dramatic. Not even withdrawn. Just quiet. He sat hunched beside Ivy, lips pressed thin, each finger tapping his thumb in a steady, compulsive rhythm. He watched the chaos like it was happening behind glass. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression but was gone before it landed.

Ivy’s gaze flicked sidelong at him, laughter faltering for a beat as he leaned in a fraction.

“Hey, V, are—”

“I’m just gonna grab a jumper. Bit nippy, innit?”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just stood and brushed past them without making eye contact, moving like a ghost on a mission to the afterlife.

II and III still didn’t notice, too deep into another round of bickering about who started the Fuck Me Please Incident. Their voices trailed off behind him like static.

But Ivy tracked Vessel’s retreat. “Be right back,” he said, voice casual, tossed to the void, and followed.

***

Vessel sat slumped at the edge of the lounge couch, eyes downcast and far away. Instead of fidgeting like he usually did, he was perfectly still; a statue suspended in between time. Ivy lingered by the door, leaning against the wall, watching him with patient, careful eyes..

"You don't have to talk," he said after a few moments of a thin, fragile silence. "Can I just come sit by you?"

A nod. A quiet, "Yeah."

Ivy crossed the room in a few careful, measured steps and hovered for a moment before easing down beside Vessel, mindful not to touch him. He didn’t know if it would help—or hurt—so he stayed in his own space. Just in case.

Neither of them spoke, existing together in a space between turmoil and intimacy. Something deep and dark but shared.

Vessel listened to Ivy’s breath: a shaky inhale; a slow, steady exhale. He matched it with his own, feeling his pulse thrumming in his chest and rushing in his ears. Ivy's fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for Vessel's hand, but didn't. So Vessel turned his palm up and leaned into him. Ivy laced their fingers together without hesitation, clutching like he was holding on for dear life.

"You know," Ivy whispered after another moment of quiet longing, "you can lean on us. Always."

A faint smile tugged at Vessel’s mouth. “I am.” He let his full weight lean into Ivy’s side.

Ivy let out a quiet huff. "Idiot. You know what I mean."

He flipped their intertwined hands and began tracing slow, light circles over the back of Vessel’s with his thumb.

"Don't have to keep all this shit locked up," he murmured into Vessel's hair.

Fucking hypocrite. Ivy hadn't said a word to any of them. Hadn't once let on that it was eating him alive. With every touch came a prick of fear. Maybe... maybe he should just tell Vessel.

Tell him that those long-gone words still echoed. That even now—when Vessel’s eyes were all hunger and softness and I want you—Ivy could still feel the phantom of that hard, cruel stare. The one that screamed I don't want you near me. The one that had carved into him You need too much. You give too much.

That look had gutted him every time Vessel flinched away. Every time he passed by without a word. Every time he rejected Ivy’s small offerings of affection.

No. Now wasn't the time. What did it matter? It was different now. Ivy just needed to get the fuck over it. There was nothing to tell. Nothing worth talking about. This was about Vessel's trauma. Vessel's pain. A few rejected hugs didn’t compare to what Sleep had put him through.

So instead of oversharing something painfully honest, Ivy wrapped a tiny truth in snark and let it slip out sideways. 

“You know,” he muttered, “for someone who spent months glaring at me like I’d pissed in your cereal you’re awfully cuddly now.” 

Vessel’s lips twitched. He didn’t look up, but the edge of his mouth quirked faintly. “Always been. Just… forgot for a little while.” 

Something in Ivy’s chest twisted. He squeezed Vessel’s hand just a little tighter. “There’s no rush, V.” 

Vessel’s breath hitched and his fingers shifted in Ivy’s grasp. He tried to swallow the words, but they slipped out anyway. “Isn’t there?” 

Ivy reached up, cupping his cheek with his free hand, and tited his face until their eyes met.

“No,” he said gentle. “There isn’t.” 

It didn’t matter who leaned in first. Who closed the distance. The kiss was nothing, and everything. Barely more than a brush. Almost chaste. A promise. A comfort. A here I am.

And then:

“I HOPE TO GOD EVERYONE IS NORMAL AGAIN BECAUSE I’M CERTAINLY NOT!” 

III exploded into the room.

Ivy turned slowly, like someone waking up from a dream just in time to get hit by a bus.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Hey! You have II moan at you and see what it does to your entire goddamn psyche.” 

Ivy raised a finger. “First of all: yes, please. Second: not what I meant, dumbass.”

“Oh, right, yeah.” III fizzled and just stood there limply like a broken ornamental flamingo.

Vessel blinked back at him. “So?” 

“So what?”

Vessel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So, why are you storming in here like a flayed chicken?” 

“Oh! Yes. Well. II stomped off again. Seems freezing his ass off and chain-smoking himself into oblivion—and lung cancer—is more appealing than staying on this nice, warm bus with the single best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Ivy snorted. “I’m assuming you mean yourself?” 

“Obviously.”

But Vessel was already on his feet. “I’ll get him.” 

Something tugged at him—instinct, maybe. Or guilt. Or just want. Whatever it was, it said: go. Don’t leave him alone out there.

“Grab my jacket,” III offered. “It’s warm. And already smells like an ashtray.” 

Vessel didn’t even look back. “Absolutely not. You wouldn’t catch me dead in that atrocity, I’d rather literally freeze my dick off.” 

He was nearly at the door when Ivy murmured soft and teasing but too low to carry, “Please don’t.” 

Chapter Text

Regrettably, Vessel stepped out of the warm bus into the bite of cold afternoon air. It pricked the exposed skin of his face, turning his cheeks and nose an instant, vivid pink. He shoved his trembling hands into the pockets of his winter coat and exhaled a puff of misty breath.

It didn’t take long to spot II, small and hunched against the wall of the venue. The distant throb of someone else’s soundcheck pulsed faintly through the bricks behind him. Fans were already queuing somewhere out front, out of sight. Vessel huffed a breath of quiet laughter—if only they knew the members of the internet’s favorite masked, anonymous cult collective were just around the corner amidst a collective gay-panic meltdown. The internet would implode. Then explode. Then implode again.

He ambled up beside II, tilting his head slightly as he watched him take another drag and glance up.

“Please don’t say anything,” II said between puffs. “I’m already humiliated enough.”

“You really don’t have to be,” Vessel replied, sinking down next to him. “We all say… honest shit sometimes.”

II scoffed, casting a sideways glance but staying quiet.

“More than I’ve done,” Vessel added softly, low and trembling, though not from the cold.

“Really?” II shot back, skeptical. “You wanna beg III to fuck you, too?”

Something in Vessel’s stomach lurched, equal parts humiliation and unbearable want. He gave a helpless little shrug, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“You know the other day, when you found me napping in the green room?”

“Thought you were meditating.”

Vessel rolled his eyes. “Shut up. I’m trying to tell you something.” His gaze darted away, suddenly very fascinated by a spot on the pavement.

“Dreamt he—uh—railed me against the couch.”

II choked and laughed. “That’s why you were trying to hide a massive hard-on?”

Vessel went scarlet, heat flooding his face like he’d just been smacked. “Fuck, you saw that?”

“Impossible not to, mate.”

“Jesus. That’s almost as bad as moaning at III to fuck you while conscious.”

II scowled and shoved him, but Vessel only laughed, rubbing his arm where he’d been hit.

“Dick,” II muttered.

“That’s been established, Toobs,” Vessel smirked.

A dramatic eye roll, but the corner of II’s mouth twitched into a real smile.

“Do you remember,” II began, quieter, “when I showed up on your doorstep? Grinning at you like an absolute idiot?”

“It’s burned into my memory forever,” Vessel grinned.  “I was wearing those embarrassing, way-too-short joggers you ruined in the wash a month later.”

“Good riddance,” II snorted. “Although… you did look adorable.”

“Oh shut up, I looked like an overgrown kid whose trousers had landed lead in Honey I shrunk the kids.”

“That’s what I said: adorable.”

“Have you always been this unbearable?” Vessel’s voice was all sheepish affection and fondness. “If so, why the hell did I let you stay?”

“Because I’m irresistible,” II said, flashing a grin.

“No,” Vessel shot back. “You’re just stubborn.”

“I’d argue—” II reached out and laced their fingers together, “—but you’re not wrong.”

“At least he’s self-aware.”

II smiled—but there was a tremor beneath it, something brittle and too self-knowing. “Maybe a bit too much so,” he muttered, like it had slipped out before he could swallow it down.

But it was out there now, and Vessel turned, frowning gently. “What do you mean?”

II sighed and hesitated before answering. “When we first met, I thought it was so fucking weird how desperate I was to be near you. Like, I could’ve climbed you like a damn tree the second I laid eyes on you—but not in a ‘need to fuck this man immediately’ way—which totally would’ve made sense. But not then. Now…” II trailed off, glancing at him, shy and unsteady.

“Now you do want to fuck me, and it’s still weird?”

“Not… weird.” II squeezed his hand, then loosened it with a quiet sigh. “But yeah. I definitely do.”

“I do too,” Vessel said, tentative and almost too honest. “I’m just—fuck, II. I’m scared.”

II’s expression creased. “We’d never, ever do anything you don’t want. You know that, yeah?”

“Of course I do.” Vessel reached up, brushing II’s cheek with trembling fingers, then tucking back a loose strand of hair. “I trust you.”

“But… Sleep?”

Vessel swallowed, his eyes narrowing slightly with thought. “No. I mean, yes, that, too. I can still… feel them, sometimes. Their touch. Their breath. But it’s not just that keeping me from—” He stopped and took a deep, slow breath. “It’s that I’m finally allowed to feel this. All of it. This insane want. God, I’m so fucking horny it hurts. Don’t laugh!” He poked II in the arm with a huffed laugh, then grew solemn again. “ It wasn’t just that Sleep wouldn’t… let me. Before, too…it all came at a cost.”

His voice broke, and the crack of it felt like a wound ripping open. 

“What if it happens again? I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to ruin this.”

“Hey.” II let go of his hand gently, then touched Vessel’s cheek, coaxing his gaze back to his. “You’re not. There’s nothing you could do to ruin any of this. We’re here. However long it takes.”

Vessel flinched; his whole body tensed, coiled at the edge of flight. But he didn’t pull away. Against every miserable instinct, he stayed.

II felt it—the flicker of fear or doubt or whatever ghost it was—and faltered. His fingers twitched.

“If—if you want me,” II said, voice trembling. Then quickly, “Us. I mean.”

Vessel straightened with sudden urgency. “Fuck, II, of course I want you.”

His hand slid to the nape of II’s neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. Eyes closed. A breath shared.

“You.” The word dropped like an anchor. Heavy and with absolute certainty. Just for him.

Vessel looked up to meet II’s gaze—those piercing blue eyes locked on his like they already knew the question and held the answer.

Their lips met—searingly hot in the cold air, full of desperation, a collision of breath and and hunger and need. The first brush was reverence; the second, a claim.

II made a sound low in his throat as Vessel’s hand gripped the back of his jacket, dragging him in like he couldn’t get close enough. Their mouths moved in sync, slow only because fast would mean breaking the depth of the moment. But even its softness, it was not gentle.

Teeth scraped. Tongues slid. Vessel shuddered when II's lips parted with a gasp, just enough for him to deepen it—slick and heated, Full of hunger and devotion. II whimpered when their tongues tangled, when Vessel angled his head and kissed him like he was everything, like this moment was all there had ever existed.

Fingers clawed into clothing, into skin beneath it. Vessel’s hand slipped under II’s jacket at the waist, fingertips brushing the warm line of his back. Just that, and II nearly buckled.

They were pressed so close there was no room to breathe, no space to think. They strained at the fabric of their jeans, friction absolutely maddening, just enough to make it worse—a reminder of everything they weren’t doing. Not yet.

A moan slipped from Vessel’s mouth into II’s, and II drank it like it was his first taste of water in years. His hips twitched. His hands were in Vessel’s hair, then on his throat, then gripping his hips like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Like if he didn’t hold on, he might unravel entirely.

They broke apart gasping, foreheads still touching, noses brushing, panting into each other’s mouths like they’d just been pulled from underwater. Vessel’s lips were swollen and kiss-bitten. II’s eyes were glazed over, pupils blown wide.

And still, he smirked.

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

Vessel let out a breathless laugh, dazed and disbelieving, and crushed him into a hug like he could crawl inside him.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, voice hoarse, eyes dark. Then, lower:
“I hope you know I’m gonna have to jerk off to that later.”

II choked on a laugh. His gaze dropped to Vessel’s hands curled tightly around his arms, then lifted—slowly—back up to his face, lingering on his mouth like he could still taste him and wanted more. His eyes flicked up, pupils blown wide, with a shallow breath through parted lips. With a spark, II’s entire face lit up in that helplessly amused kind of awe. Then, with hunger shaking in his voice, he murmured, “One day—when you’re ready—I’ll help.”

Vessel inhaled sharply, throat bobbing with the wave of need he swallowed down. A small, satisfied smile curled his lips. “And I’ll let you.”

Then, a breath became a moan and the moan became a kiss, all over again.

Chapter Text

The city was still half-asleep under a grey morning sky, cloaked in a thick fog that clung low to the ground. Morning commuters zipped past in hurried steps and impatient mutters. Already, the early fan crowd was gathered at the front of the venue, huddled in puffer jackets and beanies, glittering gold under foil blankets like little gods of devotion.

Around the corner, the first truck ramp clanged open. Crew filtered out in twos and threes, shoulders hunched in jackets, headsets already on. For a change, their voices were bright and refreshed—the day off had done wonders for everyone. Someone laughed—a puff of breath in the cold—and someone else swore, uncharacteristically cheerful, at a jammed lock. One of the local crew pulled a theatrical grimace at the tangled rat’s nest of cables in the second truck.

“Start with the risers,” called a voice in a thick Scouse accent, pointing to the stacks labeled STAGE L+R. “Then lights.”

Pallets rolled out: cases of lighting gear, coils of cable, and road-worn flight cases scuffed and stickered from a hundred cities. One was Sharpied with DO NOT TIP – CRYING INSIDE in fading marker. Another just said ALTAR in thick red slashes.

Thom was already weaving through the chaos, barking instructions, narrowly dodging a precarious stack of merch boxes. He snapped at the nearest roadie, who mumbled an apology and scrambled to move them.

Everything was good, exactly as it should be. Organized chaos. Shouting, laughing, swearing in English and Hungarian.

Until—
“STOP! Stop loading! All of it!”

The yell rang across the lot like a gunshot. Dozens of eyes turned. A venue staffer stood by the entrance, hi-vis vest stretched over a bulky jacket, walkie-talkie crackling at his belt.

The noise stuttered. Then died.

Inside the tour bus parked further out of sight, everything was still. Vessel lay curled under his blanket, tucked to the chin, too warm and cozy to open his eyes just yet.

Someone shuffled down the narrow hall to make coffee. Someone else was groaning about socks—III, of course. The mood was light and easy after their day off; despite the gay panic chaos, it had felt like a reset. Today was going to be good.

A slow grin tugged at Vessel’s mouth. Images flickered back: lips, hands, tongue, teeth. The small, stifled sounds II had made. The ones he had himself made.

It had been a joke, when he’d said it, but he had gone to the shower sometime after midnight, desperate to relieve the ache he couldn’t yet ask the others to help with. The hiss of water, the muted drag of breath, the low, not-quite-guilty throb of memory. A whisper from II’s bunk had found him in the quiet just before he lifted himself back into bed: “Good night, Vessel.” But instead of horror, or embarrassment, he’d only felt a smug little twist of satisfaction. Like he’d made good on a promise.

A hum drifted down the hall—a familiar melody, faintly off-key—and Vessel finally rolled out of his bunk with a sleepy groan.

He found II, fully dressed and with Red Bull in hand, in the kitchenette. Seeing Vessel, he looked up with a smile.

“Mornin’,” he chirped, stabbing a finger at the coffee machine.

Vessel yawned, stretching his arms overhead with a satisfying crack of joints, then mussed his hair into something somehow even messier than before. Definitely time for a cut.

“You’re up bright and early,” he mumbled, voice still thick and rough with sleep.

II shrugged, casting an amused sidelong glance at Vessel. “Feeling good today,” he said, sipping the drink. “Though I did wake up once or twice last night.”

An immediate blush crept up Vessel’s cheeks, but his lips curled in a slow, smug smirk. “That’s a pity.”

“It was alright.” II handed him his full Cult Leader mug, their fingers brushing. “Thought I heard you in the shower at some point.”

“You did.” Vessel’s face was burning now, but the smirk lingered. “I was a bit tense. Thought a hot shower might help.”

“And?” II met his eyes with an unwavering look.

Vessel smirked and took a long, slow sip of sludge. “It did,” he said with a wicked grin.

II stepped closer, still watching him. He took the mug from Vessel’s hand and set it aside, never looking away. He leaned in, pressing close, and his fingers skimmed Vessel’s chest, light but deliberate.

Vessel smiled down at him, heart thrumming wildly in his chest, and his hand found II’s waist instinctively. II rose onto tiptoes, enough to brush their lips—

A shrill BRRNNNGGG popped their bubble of domestic morning bliss.

II groaned, twisting to glare at it. Thom. Of course. He couldn’t ignore it however much he wanted to.

“Hello, Thom,” he greeted every bit as enthusiastic—and red—as a lobster in a boiling pot.

“V didn’t pick up. We’ve got a problem. Come out front.” The line went dead.

II blinked, then looked up into Vessel’s questioning eyes. “Some kind of problem—”

Vessel didn’t wait. He yanked on a pair of sweats, threw on a jacket, and jammed his feet into boots without bothering to tie them. He stormed across the lot half-asleep and fully on fire.

The crew muttered in agitated voices, standing strewn about between the trucks like lost NPCs in an outdated game. Thom and other Greg were talking to a middle-aged man in a black wool coat and a too-serious tie.

Vessel stormed over to them, unfazed by the confused stares of the crew. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Shit, V—” Other Greg started, but Vessel raised a hand, silencing him cold.

“You.” He pointed at the coated man. “Talk.”

“Mr. Vessel, there—”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “That’s ridiculous. It’s just Vessel.”

“Oh, uh, yes. Right, yes—”

“Jesus fuck,” Vessel groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Thom. Explain.”

Thom looked equal parts apologetic and furious. “Show’s canceled, V. Electrical’s fucked.”

Silence dropped like a hammer.

Vessel’s brows shot up and his voice went dangerously low. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Last night’s pyro short-circuited something. They thought they fixed it. They didn’t.” Vessel looked like he might launch into orbit. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, ready to punch whoever or whatever happened to make a sound first.

He slowly turned back toward the venue manager. “You cleared us. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, well… that was before the, uh, ‘electrical was fucked’ as your, uh, colleague here said.”

“So, unfuck it, then.”

A young, sharp-eyed woman beside the manager spoke. “We did, but the fire marshal has not approved. It’s not safe.”

“Then make it safe.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” the woman said, voice unfazed and almost bored, “but there is no show tonight.”

Vessel’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle clicked.

“Thom,” he barely hissed through his teeth, “we are not canceling this show. We can’t cancel this show.”

“You heard her, V, we—”

“Don’t fucking ‘V’ me right now, just get this fucking show done. Now.”

“HEY!” II’s voice suddenly cut through the tension. “Pipe the fuck down, Vessel. It’s not Thom’s fault so stop being a cunt to him.”

“We’re not canceling this show, II!”

“Yes, we are.” II’s voice was steel. No softness now—just quiet, steady command. “We’re not playing if it isn’t safe.”

“Three shows, II.” Vessel’s tone dropped lower, more raw, almost vulnerable. “Three shows we’ve canceled; we’re not canceling a fourth.”

Suddenly, III appeared beside II, hair sticking out at every angle and red strawberry puffer jacket zipped to his chin. “We’ll do a candle lit acoustic concert on the sidewalk. It’ll be grand!”

The joke crashed and burned.

Vessel rounded on him, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up, III, Jesus Ch—”

Ivy leapt between them, a firm hand to Vessel’s chest. “Back the fuck off.”

No malice. Just calm and cold.

Vessel staggered back, stunned. His hands shook and his skull screeched. For a long second, no one breathed. Then, he turned and walked away without a word, vanishing around the side of the building.

II started after him, but Vin—wherever the fuck he’d come from—caught his arm.

“Stay,” he said with a curt nod. “I’ll get him.”

Vessel didn’t go far. Just enough to be alone.

He leaned against the side of the building, arms crossed tight like a straitjacket that might keep him from combusting. The air was still fog-heavy, clinging to his clothes and skin. Just around the corner, past the barrier line, fans still waited, completely unaware. Chatting. Laughing. Singing, maybe. One of them strung bracelets with trembling, half-frozen fingers.

Vessel stared at them through the gap in the fencing, the edge of his profile pale and taut. His breath puffed slow and shallow, hands twitching with nervous static.

Vin’s voice cut through behind him. “You alright?”

Vessel didn’t answer for a beat. He let his eyes linger on the fans—like if he looked hard enough, he could make the whole mess unhappen.

“I feel like shit,” he said finally. “They’re out there waiting. And I’m… here. Letting them down.”

Vin stepped beside him, hands in the pockets of his coat. “You didn’t set the wiring on fire.”

Vessel shook his head once. “I promised them. God—they queue all day. They believe in this.” His throat worked around something jagged. “And I just… keep letting them down.”

“They’re not being led to the gallows, mate. They’ll be fine.”

 “That’s not the point,” Vessel murmured. “You didn’t see it in Bristol. The way they looked at us. At me. Like they…”

“Like they what?” Vin arched an eyebrow.

Vessel shook his head. “Nevermind.”

Vin studied him quietly for a long, heavy moment. “They’ll hear the music. They’ll see you. The others.” Vin paused, sighed. “Just… next time. In a proper venue that’s not trying to toast us all like marshmallows.”

“It’s not just that. It’s not just a gig to them. You’ve seen them.” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “This is where they come to feel seen. To feel like they belong somewhere. And I promised—I promised I’d give that to them. I said I’d be there.”

“They’re not expecting miracles,” Vin muttered in a low, calm voice.

“Yes they are,” Vessel said, more ragged than he meant to. “That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal. I split myself open so they can find a way out.”

“You’re not Jesus, you know. You get to be human once in a while.”

Vessel huffed dryly but didn’t respond.

“They love you,” Vin said simply. “They’ll understand.”

“Maybe,” Vessel murmured. “But… they’ll go home wondering if I cared enough to fight for them.”

Vin didn’t respond right away.

Then, gently: “They know you care.”

Vessel’s fingers twitched restlessly. His gaze drifted toward the front of the building, sweeping over the blissfully ignorant crowd beyond the fence.

And then he moved.

One slow step. Another. Toward the edge of the wall. Toward the open street. Toward the waiting fans.

“Vess…”

“I could just go out there,” he said, mostly to himself. “Just for a moment. Speak to them. Sing one song. Let them know they weren’t wasting their time.”

“Vessel—”

He turned slightly, hands loose at his sides. “I’d just tell them that… that it matters. That they matter.”

Another step toward the light. “That I—”

Vin grabbed his arm hard and yanked him back, nearly pinning him to the wall.

“Are you fucking stupid?” he hissed.

Vessel froze, his eyes wild and breathing coming fast now.

“Do you have any idea what that would do? You step out there and it becomes a circus. Security goes mental. Someone breaks the line. You think you get to do a little fireside chat and then slip back into the shadows? You think you get to just sing a song and go back inside?”

“I’d make it quick—”

“Vessel!” Vin interrupted in a frenzy. “You show your face, and that’s the show. You think they’re not filming? That it doesn’t become a viral fucking moment? That your face wouldn’t be everywhere?”

“They deserve something,” Vessel snapped.

“They already have something,” Vin shot back. “You’ve given them everything. The music, the words, the whole damn you. And they see that. That’s why they love you. Not because of some myth. Not because of the mask. Because you let them see what’s underneath.”

Vessel’s mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“They don’t worship the mystery,” Vin said more softly. “They love what you represent. That there’s meaning in this. That they’re not alone. You already give them that every damn day.”

Vessel stared at the pavement. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.

Vin’s grip loosened, but didn’t let go entirely. “You want to do right by them? Start by not being an idiot and running out into a crowd like you’re bloody Edward Cullen in the last Twilight movie.” Then, before Vessel could comment, he added, “Shut up.”

A brief, uncertain phantom smile flashed across Vessel’s face, then dropped again. A long silence passed.

Then, very softly: “I just don’t want them to leave thinking I didn’t care.”

Vin let out a breath. “They won’t. You think they don’t already know you care? They’ve seen the state of you. What you put yourself through. Seen you cry a thousand times.”

“That was like, one time.”

“Wasn’t. But alright.”

Vessel huffed another laugh, a little wetter than before. He scrubbed a hand down his face. He didn’t move again.

“They love you. They’ll keep loving you. They’re not expecting you to bleed for it.” Vin said, gentler now.

Vessel nodded slowly. “Yeah. But sometimes… I think I should.”

Vin gave him a long, unreadable look. “That’s what the music’s for,” he said finally. “Now get your messianic ass back inside before someone livestreams your redemption arc in 2040p.”

By the time Vessel and Vin returned, there was chaos. Not the usual, choreographed packing-up chaos—true chaos.

They’d only been gone ten minutes, but in that time, the mood had gone from tense to unglued. Their crew rolled cases back up the ramps with grim resignation, only narrowly avoiding one another. Someone nearly clipped a lighting crate and shouted, “Watch it, fuckhead!” Lights and sound were dragging coils of power cable across the lot, stageboxes shoved out of the way with booted feet. Someone swore violently, kicking a cable drum hard enough to send it spinning across the asphalt. The venue staff had retreated to the loading dock doors, cigarettes lit, watching the mayhem unfold with vaguely amused this isn’t our fucking problem expressions.

Thom was everywhere at once—pointing, waving, spinning in place—barking into his headset with one hand pressed to his ear, the other windmilling directives like he was attempting to land a crashing plane.

“No, no, those risers stay packed. We’re not building—I said leave it. Rick, stop lowering the ramp, goddamit!” Then, into his headset to whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end: “Yeah, Vienna’s aware. What? No pyro—not that we were ever doing pyro—but for the love of God, tell them anyway.”

He pivoted mid-sentence to shout toward the lighting rig. “Frankie! If that Mistral gets dropped again, I’m sending you home in a goddamn flight case!”

Behind him, something crashed—loud, metallic, and absolutely bone-jarring—and someone screamed, “JESUS, FRANKIE!”

The noise rattled in Vessel’s skull—the clangs of ramps, the crunch of gravel under Pelican wheels, the slam of truck doors, the cursing and yelling. It was too much. The fluorescent-orange safety vests blurred into staccato movement. Even the dissipating fog scraped wrong against his skin.

But his thoughts were louder than any of it. They screeched at him, looping and looping, like a mic too close to its own speaker.

He shouldn’t have yelled earlier. He knew that. The shame of it clung to the inside of his throat. He didn’t want to see the others. He didn’t want to see III, or the startled look he was probably still wearing. He didn’t want to catch Ivy’s eye and see guilt there—or worse, that dull, defensive wall he threw up when he thought Vessel was about to take another swing at him.

But then, across the mess of bodies and cables and smoke, he caught sight of a wool coat and slicked-back grey hair. The venue manager.

Something red-hot reignited in him. His jaw clenched hard enough to grind enamel and his hands flexed open and shut like he was trying to shake out an electric shock. He was already out of Vin’s reach when he started shouting again.

“Hey! What the hell are you gonna do about this?”

The manager turned toward him, face draining a shade lighter. “I have told you,” he said, with his heavy accent, “there is nothing we can do. There can be no show.”

“I’m talking about the crowd of people out there,” Vessel spat, jabbing a finger toward the venue entrance.

“That is not our problem,” the man replied, far too fast.

“Like hell it isn’t! I—”

“VESSEL!” Other Greg’s voice cut in, sharp and commanding, with both palms raised like he was trying to calm a rabid animal. Vessel faltered, breath catching.

Other Greg stepped forward quickly, voice softer now. “Thom and PR are handling it. Emails and texts for refunds should be going out within the hour. Early early access for next leg. Massive surprise giveaway for ticketholders. They’ll be fine.”

“Not enough,” Vessel snapped. “They’re already here. They’ve been waiting. They deserve more, they—”

“Get him out of here, Greg,” Thom barked, somewhere behind him, still mid-sprint toward another disaster.

“What? No. No, I’m not leaving, I’m not—”

But Other Greg had already stepped in close, hand firm on Vessel’s upper arm, steering him away. Vessel tried to twist free, but his boots caught on a cable and stumbled half a step, which Greg used to nudge him forward.

They’d nearly reached the end of the loading dock when it happened. Yells erupted over the noise—security voices raised in Hungarian and broken English, ringing out from the far side of the venue.

“Nincs koncert! Mindenki kifelé, most! No show tonight! Out! Out now!”

The roar of the disappointed crowd hit like a wave against the building.

“Fuck no,” he muttered, yanking his arm free. He pivoted, eyes blazing, and stomped back toward the front, gravel kicking up under his untied boots.

Vin caught him with an arm across his chest just in time.

“Absolutely not,” he groaned, voice exasperated. “You’re staying put. I’ll go.”

“Vin: let go. Now.”

“Vessel: no.”

“Just let me talk to them for one goddamn second.” The words spilled out in a desperate attempt. “Let me explain. Let me—”

“No, Vessel. We talked about this. We’re handling it.”

Vessel opened his mouth again, desperation splintering across his face, but Thom appeared from behind with the speed of someone who’d dealt with catastrophe one too many times .

“Time to go, poppet,” he snapped, tone breezy with effort. “Let the grown-ups deal with it, yeah?”

“Fuck you, Thom,” Vessel bit back, breath short and face flushed, but he didn’t move.

“Please don’t.” Thom shoved him forward, hard and impatient. “You’ve got three perfectly willing volunteers, leave me out of it.”

“Fine,” Vessel barked. “Fuck off, then.”

“No chance,” Thom growled. His hand was firm and furious, and he didn’t stop pushing until he’d dragged Vessel up the steps of the bus, yanked the door open, and shouted inside:

“Don’t let him leave!”

The door slammed behind him.

And Vessel was left in a suddenly too-quiet space, heart still pounding like he was about to walk onstage, except there was no stage and nothing to sing—only the bitter knowledge that he’d just let down four-thousand people counting on him

Chapter Text

The bus was moving. Vessel hadn’t even realized it at first, too busy counting seconds between inhales, pretending not to watch the others watching him.

Someone—maybe Ivy—had plucked the phone from his hands with a low, “Alright, that’s enough of that,” in a voice too gentle to fight. Vessel hadn’t even tried. His thoughts were still clattering around his skull, echoing with the clipped shouts of security and the disappointed cries of fans. Or maybe that was just the engine, rumbling up through the floor and into the table pressed against his cheek.

A clink of glass jolted him. He blinked.

“Drink.” III’s voice was soft, but firm.

Their eyes met briefly before Vessel looked away again.

“It’s just water,” III added. “You look like you haven’t seen a drop in centuries.”

Vessel’s fingers curled around the glass with a faint tremor. He drank deep, the coolness soothing the rawness in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, once he set it down. His voice was hoarse. “About earlier. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” III said plainly, brow creasing. “I didn’t.”

Under the table, Vessel’s fingers tapped against his thumb. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, hesitating.

“Will you…” he started, voice barely audible over the rumble of the engine.

“Forgive you?”

Vessel nodded, a soft hum in his throat.

III tilted his head, watching the utterly crushed look on Vessel’s face.

“…Hmm. Depends,” he said eventually, trying—and failing—to smother a grin. “What are you gonna do to make it up to me?”

Vessel blinked. “Uh… what do you want?”

“I can’t tell you.” III crossed his arms. “You’ve got to come up with something.”

Vessel blankly stared at him for a second. Then: “Socks.”

III frowned. “What?”

“Socks,” he repeated. “You get a pair for every day of the year. Hand-picked.”

III’s mouth fell open. “That’s 365 pairs. That’s 730 individual socks.”

“You and Ivy bought me a hundred oranges once.”

"A hundred and three—but those don’t get sucked into the seventh circle of Laundry Hell." 

“So… you don’t want the socks?”

“Of course I want the bloody socks.”

“Alright. You get 730 socks, and I get your forgiveness. Deal?”

III squinted at him. “And a kiss.”

Vessel laughed, breath catching in his chest before it bubbled out of him, warm and surprised. “And a kiss.”

“Then deal.” III stuck out his hand.

Vessel clasped it; but instead of shaking, he gave it a tug. III stumbled forward, grinning, and it was clumsy, all teeth and missed angles, until Vessel reached up, cupped his jaw, and kissed him properly. The world narrowed to that single point of contact and time was suspended, a moment in flux.

“Seems like you two made up,” Ivy said as he walked in, smirking with barely concealed fondness.

“Shit, Ives,” Vessel jerked upright, hand still wrapped around III’s arm. “I’m sorry about earlier. Thanks for… not letting me punch him.”

“Would you really have punched me?” III asked, more amused than offended.

Vessel frowned, thinking hard. “No? I mean… I don’t think so.”

“Oh please,” Ivy cooed, pinching III’s cheek. “I’d never let anything happen to this pretty little face.”

“You’ve almost punched me. Multiple times. I swear I’ve felt the breeze of a knuckle.”

“Oh, shush, you.” Ivy stood on tiptoe to plant a loud, wet kiss on III’s cheek.

Vessel smiled, letting the warmth of the moment soak into him.

They didn’t hold onto it—the anger, the judgment. They never did. Every time, without fail, they forgave him. And once they had, they never made him pay penance for it. No cold shoulders. No sideways barbs. No punishment hidden in silence and darkness.  Just… forgiveness. Real and undeserved and kind.

Ivy twisted around to face him, smirking and eyes narrowed. “Want one too?”

Vessel’s gaze flicked to III’s cheek, still glistening with Ivy’s loving slobber.

“Uh, no, that’s alright.” He grimaced, stepping back.

But Ivy was already on him. He lunged and threw his arms around Vessel, dragging him down and smushing his entire face into his side, deliberately leaving extra long streaks of spit as he went.

“Oh my god—disgusting—” Vessel yelped, wiping frantically at his cheek. But he was laughing. He couldn’t not laugh.

Just then, II strolled in, laptop tucked under one arm.

“You lot being disgusting again?”

“Ivy is,” Vessel muttered, still wiping.

“No,” Ivy corrected, jabbing a lazy finger at him. “I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being an absolute toe-rag,” Vessel shot back.

“And you love it.”

“I do,” he sighed dramatically, burdened by that unfortunate truth. “But that’s not the point.”

Ivy tilted his head, mock-innocent. “Then what is?”

Vessel frowned. “You can’t just go around licking people’s faces.”

Wrong move. Ivy’s smirk turned devilish. “Then what can I lick?”

His eyes dropped, then snapped back up to meet Vessel’s.

Vessel felt his heart stutter.

The room went breathless. Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, waiting. The moment dragged, charged and perilously close to becoming… something else.

He tore his gaze away, latching onto the nearest distraction.

“So, II!” he blurted too brightly. “Surely you’ve had some very important things to do that you’re dying to tell us about.”

II shifted on the spot, fingers wringing around his laptop like it might leap out of his arms. He tripped over his words, the sudden spotlight catching in his throat.

“Oh, uh, yeah—just finishing up some last emails about the—” He hesitated, eyes flicking to the tiny creases forming in Vessel’s expression. “—situation.”

The air went cold; not a shiver but just enough to notice.

Nobody moved, but three sets of eyes trailed to Vessel in quiet anticipation.

There was a small click of his jaw; a bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Still more to do then?” he asked at last, voice even but a little too sharp around the edges.

“Just logistics stuff,” II said quickly, clutching the laptop like it could shield him. “Refunds. Hotel. Keeping Vienna in the loop.”

Vessel didn’t reply and just stared at the laptop.

“It’s all handled, really,” II rushed on, the calm slipping through his fingers. “But you know how I am. Like to keep on top of it. Double check. Control freak, and all that.”

The joke didn’t land; the room swallowed it whole.

Then, Vessel gave a singular short nod.

“Yeah.” His mouth pinched into a line. He tried a smile, but it got stuck halfway. “Okay.”

That was it. No blow-up like before. No collapse. Just a silence gone brittle under the tension.

II’s fingers tapped a nervous paradiddle against the laptop shell, searching for something to fill the quiet.

“I’m all done now though!” he blurted, voice pitching high. “So…”

Vessel cut in. His voice was steady but flat, like a tire slowly leaking air.

“Let’s go over the setlist for tomorrow, yeah?”

He spun on his heel and slid into the booth, fingers tapping briskly on the table.

Ivy frowned. “But… it’s the same.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Tap tap tap. “It can always be better.” Tap tap. “The fans deserve the best.”

He looked up, gaze skimming across their faces.

“Toobs. Laptop?”

II scrambled forward and handed it over, silently grateful he’d closed the email tabs. Vessel pulled it in and opened their sprawling master file—setlist, lighting, transitions, cues. Everything. He didn’t speak at first, fingers moving with precision like he knew exactly where every note lived. He slouched forward, nose only inches from the screen, as his foot tapped out a silent sixteenth-note rhythm against the floor. He muttered something to himself, clipped half-words and tiny noises of concentration.

“This cue here was a bit shit last show,” he mumbled, maybe to himself, maybe to the others. He pinched to zoom in on the timeline, leaning in even closer and squinting. “If we delay it by, like, a third of a bar, it’ll line up with the last hit of the snare better.”

III screwed up his face. “A third of a—Vessel, what the hell diffference is that gonna make? No one will notice.”

“I will,” II cut in before Vessel could open his mouth. He looked over Vessel’s shoulder, pointing to a spot a millimeter left of the cursor. “Ghost note right here,” he said, “could do a roll right before, too but… no, too much. We need punchy but subtle.”

He tapped the rhythm on the back of the seat absently, quiet but precise. The pattern looped again.

“And that transition there in Jaws,” Vessel muttered, still hyper-focused, “it’s too clean. There’s no tension. It just happens.”

He traced shapes in the air like he was strumming through it. “We need dissonance. Let it hang for a sec. One of those awful harmonic bends that makes everyone wince.”

“Your favourite,” III chuckled.

“No,” Vessel muttered still staring at the laptop, but his lips tugged into a smile. “Those are A minors. Everyone knows that.”

III barked a sharp laugh. “You really do relish that tortured Victorian poet image, don’t you?”

Vessel just smirked, swiping to another window. He scanned over the jumble of his half-mad post-show notes, brow furrowing in deep lines. He started to mumble under his breath again.

“Ok, but hear me out,” he said after a minute, stabbing a finger into the air. “That synth swell—wait no, that wouldn’t work… but… no, no, it would! If we shift it to match the vibrato tail on the vocal loop and then layer in the—fuck, no, that’d ruin the pacing—but maybe if the delay tails out before the drop, not on it…”

He trailed off, foot now tapping in a rapid, cut-off pattern—but still, somewhere beneath there was harmony.

Even II looked lost. “What?”

“Nothing,” Vessel muttered. “Just… sonic scaffolding.”

“What the fuck is sonic scaffolding?” Ivy said through a laugh.

“I… don’t know,” Vessel snapped, gesturing wildly. “I’m just... workshopping.”

It made sense. In his head, at least. Sort of. He could hear it; felt how it would land. But describing it was like trying to paint a Rembrandt with broken crayons.

So instead of using words, he made a loose gesture in the air, sketching some invisible shape. Then again. Then both hands at once, like conducting two different orchestras. He hummed something tuneless under his breath, then tapped the table. Hummed again. Squinted.

“You’re just making noises now,” Ivy said.

“No,” Vessel shot back with a glare. “No, this is a real idea. Probably. Maybe.”

“Ah, right” Ivy said with a cocky grin. “And here I was thinking you were just glitching in real-time.”

Vessel huffed but ignored him. He started shaping things midair again, fingers twitching like they were plucking strings. His foot tapped without discernable rhythm. Then he stopped, shaking his head. “No, that’s shit,” he muttered. “That’s—what was I thinking. Ignore that. Dumb.”

Suddenly, he tapped his temple twice with a low, almost whispered, “reset. Recalibrate.”

III cocked his head at him, eyes narrowed, then mimicked the gesture. “Should we be worried about this?”

“Probably. If you knew what it sounds like up here,” Vessel began, shaking his finger at III, “you’d be tap-tapping, too.”

Then, his eyes lit up. “Actually, since you’re so clever: fix it.”

“Oh I will,” III said, flopping into the booth beside him and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Starting with pyro.”

“No pyro. Absolutely no pyro. Not ever.” II said reflexively from behind them.

“Fine,” III groaned dramatically. “Fake pyro, then. A single guy with two sparklers and a kazoo crouched behind the speaker stack.”

“Only if it’s you and you’re wearing II’s cheese hat,” Vessel said without missing a beat.

“And doing interpretive dance,” Ivy supplied dryly.

“He already does that,” II muttered, hardly looking over.

“I’m not opposed to dairy-inspired headwear,” III mused.

“What a shame we don’t have it,” II said, tapping a violent triplet on Vessel’s shoulder.

“Who says we don’t?”

II’s eyes went huge. His fingers curled into Vessel’s shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. “I swear to God, III, if you BROUGHT that atrocity I will—”

III broke into manic giggles, cutting in before II’s head could explode. “I didn’t! I promise I didn’t.”

II glared daggers at him, piercing straight through his stupid grin.

“But only because Lawrence wouldn’t let me bring it on the bus,” he added with a wink.

Vessel snorted into the sleeve of his hoodie. “Fucking menace,” he muttered, but he was still smiling. The good, real kind—a bit lopsided and sheepish, pointy canine catching on his lip.

Then he shifted forward again, eyes snapping back to the screen. It had gone black.

His brows slowly crept up. “Wait. Waitwaitwait.”

He lifted one hand, fingers curled like he was holding something invisible. “Offering. After the last ‘take a bite.’ Right before the drop.”
Everyone stilled and turned their eyes to him.

“We kill the lights.” He looked up, a gleam in his eye. “Total blackout. Like a glitch.”

Ivy leaned in slightly, eyebrows raised. “Like… total dark? Not just dimmed?”

“Gone,” Vessel said. “Just for half a second: nothing. Like the whole system dies. And then—boom. Drop hits, flashy lights slam back in. Sync it perfectly.”

III’s mouth had dropped open. “That would scalp people.”

II straightened up, eyes wide with genuine interest. “That’d actually be… terrifying. No warning, no swell. Just black. They wouldn’t be expecting it.”

“Exactly,” Vessel said again, already slamming into the keyboard to punch in a note. Then, he carved a motion into the air with both hands, fast and sharp. “Lights—off.”
Another chop—“Drop. Hit. Chaos.” His grin was downright wicked.

There was a pause. Then II whispered, “Ohhh, that’s so nasty.”

“I love it,” Ivy said in awe. “You’re an absolute psychopath.”

“Thank you,” Vessel said, still typing. “I take that as a—”

Ding.

The laptop blinked. A small pop-up appeared in the corner of the screen. Just an email notification—completely normal. Mundane. Except the subject line.

Budapest refunds confirmed – 4,217 tickets

Immediate silence fell, thin and taut like plastic stretched too far.

Vessel’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, still for the first time in ten minutes. The cursor idled next to the pop-up. II shifted behind him, mouth half open like he might say something, but he didn’t know what. Ivy scratched at his elbow, then pulled his hand away like it burned. And III leaned back in the booth, biting the inside of his cheek.

And Vessel just stared for a moment.

It could’ve pulled him under; could’ve dragged him back to the morning, to the sick curl of guilt in his gut. Four thousand people. It buzzed at the edge of his thoughts. But that idea still crackled in his chest; it pulsed under his skin, alive and electric and ready. So, he exhaled softly through his nose, tapped the touchpad once, and closed the notification without a word.

“So,” he said, voice lighter now, like trying to push the air back into his lungs, and back into the room. “Where were we?”

“Murder blackout,” Ivy offered with a twinkle in his eye. “Chaos. Headbanging so hard they get a collective concussion.”

“We’re not concussing our fans, you twat.” II swatted the back of his head.

“Whatever, they’ll be fucking delighted,” he grinned back.

Vessel was already shoving at III to get up. “Phone!” he yelped in a near-shriek. “Need to text Art immediately.”

III scrambled to let him out. Vessel stopped short and stared at Ivy like a madman. “Where is it?”

“Under your pillow,” Ivy answered lazily.

Vessel blinked at him. “You put it under my pillow?”

“Figured you wouldn’t look there.”

Vessel tilted his head, made a short humming noise, then stalked to his bunk. He swiped up his phone and typed rapidly.

Need blackout timed to Offering breakdown. Half sec full dark. Glitchy energy. Can you do it?

It took about five seconds before the phone rang.

Vessel hit speaker and walked back to the others, holding the phone out like a live grenade.

“WHAT is wrong with you people!?!”

Art’s voice exploded from the speaker in apocalyptic fury. “Do you just sit there and dream up new creative ways to BREAK MY SOUL? Do you understand what a blackout cue is, or do you just shout words and hope the universe renders them be?!”

Vessel grinned. “Hi Art.”

“Oh no. No, no, no. You don’t get to ‘hi Art’ me after dropping a blackout cue request TWENTY-FOUR HOURS before showtime like we’re fucking Eurovision wizards. Do you have any concept of timing cues? Do you think this is some goddamn light switch I flick while I’m sipping tea?!”

“I know how lights work,” Vessel said, already laughing as he half-collapsed into the booth beside across from III.

“YOU KNOW—YOU KNOW HOW LIGHTS WORK?! VESSEL, I SWEAR TO GOD.”

“Oh, come on, Arty,” II cooed, pouting. “It’s just half a second.”

“HALF A SECOND IS AN ETERNITY—AN ETERNITY—IN TECH, II. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PIXELS ARE INVOLVED? HOW MANY DMX CHANNELS I’LL HAVE TO REROUTE TO GET THAT TO LAND CLEAN?!”

“…Yes?” II said faintly. He actually sort of did.

There was a long pause. They could almost hear Art pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Okay. Okay, this is fine. It’s—no, actually this is terrible and I hate you all.”

“You love the idea, don’t you?” Vessel snarked.

Another pause. A low, furious grumble. “Fuck you, I’ve had ulcers that were less stressful than working with this band. BUT—” an exasperated sigh—“Jesus Christ, it’ll look like the fucking simulation cracked. That drop’ll hit like a sledgehammer. You people are deranged. DERANGED.” Another pause. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re the best, Arty,” Vessel beamed.

“I’m the last surviving light technician in hell,” Art snarled. “Send me the exact cue time and pray I don’t turn the entire venue inside out.”

“Aw, you love us,” Ivy said sweetly.

“I respect the art. I detest the artist. There’s a difference.” Then, directly to II: “I’m going to need your entire supply of Red Bull.”

“Get your own!”

“II. The second we’re in Vienna, you’re bringing me every damn can. Or no blackout.”

II groaned. “Fine.”

“See you there.”

Click.

For a moment, they all stared at the silent phone in Vessel’s hand. And then—laughter. Chaotic, full-bellied, and just a little bit smug.

Eventually, the chaos mellowed, and they drifted into their own corners at the front of the bus.

Vessel hunched in the booth, scribbling half-formed bass lines and wisps of lyrics in his notepad. Ivy curled up in a nest of blankets, halfway through yet another Definitely Written for Adults and Not for Teenage Girls series, book held aloft like he was reading Shakespeare. II’s drum and bass pounded out of his headphones at a volume that seemed unsafe at best, sadistic at worst. And III lay upside-down across two seats, bare feet propped against the window, gleefully liking every fan art post he came across, reposting his favorites to his story and grinning smugly at every Bassy Boy comment.

When the bus rolled up to the border, a guard in a high-vis vest barely glanced at the license plate before waving them through.

“Huh,” III said, craning his neck to squint at the uniformed figures outside. “Austria will deeply regret letting us in like that.”

Ivy lowered his book an inch, brow raised. “Do you think they’re emotionally prepared for this?” He swept a hand toward the four of them in theatrical dismay. “Should we send a warning tweet? 'Hide your wine, hide your architecture, hide your unsuspecting Wieners'?”

“We are not responsible for any cultural damage we inflict,” III replied solemnly. “That’s on the EU for not blacklisting us.”

Vessel didn’t look up, but a crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. “They think we’re coming for the music. But really, we’re just here for the psychological devastation.”

“And the Schnitzel,” Ivy added cheerfully.

“You’re obsessed with that,” II said, slipping his headphones off and stretching with a groan.

“Fuck yeah, I am. It’s delicious.”

“One day…” III murmured wistfully. “One day I shall get it right. I promise you, Ivers.”

Ivy clutched his chest in mock despair. “Not like them. No one can do it like them.”

Vessel chuckled softly and jotted something in the margin of his page somewhere between arguably the best musical phrase he'd ever written.

Find Austrian to teach schnitzel making.

He underlined it four times.

Finally, he looked up. And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Ivy—slouched against the window, hoodie half-zipped, lips puckered in a tragic pout, eyes wide and gleaming.

III—hair wild and falling into his eyes like always, long legs folded like a grasshopper, casually flicking Ivy in the arm.

And II—

Sitting sideways, posture loose, smiling faintly to himself as he lifted his headphones again. His fingers tapped out a rhythm against his thigh, clean, controlled, and perfectly timed, each movement shifting the muscle under his trousers. His face was relaxed: cheeks flushed, lips parted, lashes grazing the tops of his cheeks as his eyes slipped shut. Then, just for a second, they flicked up. A glance, maybe accidental, maybe not. Just as quickly, they were closed again.

But Vessel’s heart caught anyway.

II looked so perfect. So ready to be taken. Like he could be leaned back against the pillow, hips tilted up just right, those same hands digging into Vessel’s arms, voice breaking into a desperate moan against his mouth…

The memory of that kiss the day before reignited in his chest like a flare. No, not just a kiss. II had offered himself, body and soul, no hesitation. Like he belonged to Vessel. Like they belonged to each other.

Vessel’s skin buzzed. He ached with it. He wanted II to fall apart under him; wanted to pull him back together again, breath by breath, with his hands and mouth and whole goddamn body.

He barely noticed the shift in his breathing or that he’d stopped writing.

When you’re ready, I’ll help.

He was. He was so fucking ready. One more look like II had given Vessel the day before, one more whispered please, one more reverent touch and he’d hand himself over completely with nothing held back.

Take me. Touch me. Ruin me.

He had no idea how long he’d been staring until III’s cackle snapped him out of it.

“Finally! The Wieners welcome us,” III declared, loud enough to rattle the windows. “Thank fuck because I’m starving. So ready for a proper wiener.”

“You’ve been waiting for hours to say that,” Ivy said, nose scrunching as he snorted.

“What can I say? I came for the culture. I’m staying for the sausage.”

“Technically, you came to do your job,” Vessel muttered, voice a little shaky.

III pretended not to hear him. “Can’t wait to order a Wiener wiener. Double wiener. Ultimate Vienna experience.”

II blinked slowly at him, already regretting removing his headphones again. “I hate this bus.”

“You love this bus,” III said cheerfully. “You’re just jealous you only have one wiener.”

II let out a strangled noise halfway between a groan and a plea for mercy. “V, I veto all future shows in Vienna.”

Vessel turned toward III, fixing him with a grave stare and one accusatory finger. “You—are banned from sausage until further notice.”

“That’s not fair!” III cried. “I just respect and embrace the culture!”

“More for me, then,” Ivy said sweetly, winking over his book.

II tipped his head back with a long, weary groan. “I’m getting out the second we park. No—I’m not even waiting for the bus to stop. I will launch myself out of this moving vehicle.”

“Don’t forget Art’s Red Bull!” Vessel called, the glint in his eyes brighter than ever. “We need that blackout!”

II didn’t reply. Just shoved his headphones back on with a bitter little mumble and disappeared into the filthiest breakdown he could find.

Chapter Text

They arrived at the Vienna venue just past midday under a washed-out sky the exact color of old dishwater. Grey heaps of slush piled against the sidewalk curbs, a scattering of salt and gravel the only defense against collective icy pavement disaster.

The bus had barely rolled to a halt at the far end of the line of parked trucks when Vessel unceremoniously shoved a twenty-four pack of Red Bull into II’s arms.

“Off you go. Bring Art his peace offering,” He handed it over with a lopsided smirk.

“Why do I have to be the sacrificial lamb?” II scowled at the carton.

“Because he asked for you specifically.” Vessel gripped II’s shoulder and spun him toward the door. “Also, I don’t want to die.”

“And I do?!” II moved to thrust the drinks back at him, but Vessel took a step back, both hands raised in defense.

“Probably not. But he respects you. And loathes me at the moment, I reckon.”

Vessel tilted his head as if turning the fact over in his mind. “You have to deal with me all the time, after all. There’s something… admirable in that.” He clapped II on the shoulder with an innocent, appreciative smile of affection like he truly believed II deserved a medal for enduring him. II only made a vague, noncommittal sound. Grinning, Vessel jogged the few paces to the door and swung it open for II.

“Good lad,” he said with unnecessary bravado as II squeezed past him into the cold winter air, piercing daggers into him with bright eyes.

Art didn’t even look up when II entered the production bus. He was hunched over two laptops and a shiny new grandMA3 onPC command wing, the screens casting eerie shadows of regret over his features.

Before II could mutter as much as a greeting, Art stabbed a finger at the console, muttering in furious whispers. “A blackout. He wants a blackout. For the vibes. For the mystery.” His voice pitched high and mocking, grimacing as he spoke them.

II stood limply by the door and blinked. “Uh. Hi?”

“YOUUUUUU—” Art roared, spinning around on his chair like he’d been waiting for this moment. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.”

“How is this my fault?” II frowned, arms tightening around the box as if it could shield him from whatever volley of fury Art was about to hurtle at him.

“A BLACKOUT. A FULL BLACKOUT. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, YOU GODDAMN GLORIFIED CYMBAL WITCH?”

II didn’t dare move. “Uhhhh…”

“AND YOU ARE THE ONE TO LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THIS.”

Swallowing a retort and suppressing the instinct to roll his eyes, II stuck out the box with a forced, tight smile. “Peace offering?”

Art lunged forward, snatched the carton and dropped it onto the desk with a thud. “Gimme that,” he mumbled in a frenzy, tearing out a can, then cracked it with a hiss and drained half in one go.

“II…” his voice dropped into a frantic, clipped whisper. “I’m unpatching reality. I’m building a goddamn intensity void between two hard-tracked cue stacks. If I mess up the fixture grouping, we get a strobe loop instead of darkness and then… then everyone dies!”

He downed the rest of the can, slammed it on the table, and kept going.

“I had to build a blocking cue between 97 and 98 because otherwise the intensity tracking from the previous wash would roll forward and murder the emotional impact. Like—absolutely slaughter it. So now I’ve got every fixture parameter going to zero, no fade, straight kill, which is fine except that the followspots weren’t cleared from the front truss, so if I don’t insert a fixture group override, he’s gonna glow like a haunted meatball mid-silence.”

II opened his mouth but Art steamrolled him.

“But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is Vienna’s dimmer curves are on a two-frame lag and we’re using a house rig with inverted strobe priority. Which means if I don’t manually suppress those cues from the master executor, we get a full audience blind instead of black. That’s not theatrical. That’s liturgical punishment.”

II blinked, pursing his lips. “So… it’s fine?”

 “NO, IT’S NOT FINE,” Art bellowed. “IT’S AN INFERNAL ASSWANK DESIGNED TO BREAK ME. IT’S EIGHT UNIVERSES OF HELL!”

“But… you sound kinda happy about it?”

“OF COURSE I’M HAPPY. I’M RAGINGLY ECSTATIC. I AM THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN THIS SHOW AND ABSOLUTE ANARCHY. I’M A TECHNICAL DEITY, II. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXCITING THAT IS?! BUT IF THAT MASKED WANKSTORM EVEN BREATHES ANOTHER LIGHTING IDEA, I WILL PROJECT A 12K SPOT INTO HIS SOUL.”

“Cool,” II said, now slowly backing toward the door. “I’ll... tell him you’re feeling empowered then.”

“Tell him I hope he gets stage herpes,” Art muttered darkly, already cracking open the next can.

Once II returned, all four of them were herded into a hastily arranged shuttle. It was only a twenty-minute drive, snaking through the crowded inner-city streets until they pulled up in front of a stylish, almost unassuming hotel tucked into a lively neighborhood. Outside, young people clutched paper bags from vintage shops, the fronts of restaurants buzzed with laughter and cigarette smoke despite the chill, and dove-eyed couples—many of them definitely queerer than a pair of penguins—wandered hand-in-hand down the pavement.

II’s retelling of Art’s blackout cue meltdown had been met with howls of laughter, the kind laced with awe. There was a shared appreciation for the sheer absurdity of it; and for Art’s—and everyone else’s—continued willingness to indulge Vessel’s whims like long-suffering saints. Vessel, for his part, had been absolutely delighted with the whole thing, particularly the well-wishes of stage herpes—whatever that was supposed to be.  He’d immediately fished his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick “II passed on your message—love you too, Arty”, adding a kissy emoji for good measure.

But then, Vessel had grown quiet and nestled deep into the backseat with his head leaning against the cold glass of the window, watching the old, red tram lines zipping past.

He wasn’t moody, exactly. Just coiled in on himself as if he was wrapped in a warm, tight blanket of his own thoughts.

II’d shot him a glance from the seat beside him.

Then another.

And then a third.

But he’d stayed quiet, just shifting restlessly, adjusting and re-adjusting his seatbelt, pretending he wasn’t counting the seconds between Vessel’s soft inhales.

Ivy’s eyes, too, had kept drifting toward Vessel, trailing over his soft features, the shadow of a crease between his brows, the loose, parted lips that curled into a small smile every time they passed someone with a dog. Except the one time that a middle-aged woman yanked on her Golden Retriever’s collar—that time Vessel scowled, muttering something venomous under his breath.

From the seat behind them, III had been mid-doomscroll on his phone but hadn’t liked anything in over three minutes. His gaze had kept flicking up, short little furtive looks that registered every minutia of Vessel’s form. But like the others, he’d stayed still.

Vessel had, of course, noticed.

He’d felt their eyes on him. Had seen their little shifts, the way they seemed to almost reach out to him before stilling with little sighs. Usually, it would’ve annoyed him. The hovering. The unwarranted worry. The staring as if they were only waiting for him to fall apart.

But they hadn’t been staring. Their eyes had lingered, yes; but it had felt different. Not like the anticipation before a storm but like they were quietly watching clouds moving in the sky.

It had made Vessel’s stomach churn the same way it did when Ivy’s fingers brushed his when handing over a cup of sludge. Or like it did when III howled at one of his idiotic puns with his head thrown back and wild locks whipping about his face. Or when II sidled up to him in the wings before a show, leaning his head against Vessel’s arm until he disappeared to his drum kit in the dark.

So, instead of prickling or brooding or spiraling like he usually did, Vessel had just looked out the window, feeling the slick, icy glass under his cheek, letting the warmth spread through is chest to slowly chip away at the guilt of failing 4,217 of their fans.  

The hotel was warm and inviting, like someone had lit a candle and pressed a cup of something spiced into your hands before you’d even asked for it.

Which was, probably, because someone had pressed something warm and spiced into their hands as they passed through the sliding doors. They sipped the hot mulled wine—Glühwein, III thinks, remembering that one awkward Christmas they’d spent at his Great Aunt Hilde’s when he was thirteen. He wasn’t even sure whether she’d actually even been related.  

The scent of red wine simmered down with orange, cinnamon, star anise, and something woody and spicy curled through the air. Beneath it, whatever soft magic they used on their linen wafted from the laundry tucked somewhere in the depths of the building.

Behind the front desk, classic rock hummed from a record player—designed to look vintage but all four of them knew better—and a neon sign glowed softly above a rack of craftfully battered books and local art prints. A young-ish man with neat braids pulled into a loose ponytail in the nape of his neck smiled and greeted them in English.

Ivy waved back with an almost flirty smirk, II gave him a polite nod, Vessel mumbled a warm greeting, and III boomed “GUTEN TAG!” across the lobby with far too much enthusiastic confidence for a man who did not, in fact, speak German. At all.

While Thom checked them in and collected their key cards, Ivy twirled around like he’d turned into a goddamn Disney princess, poked at a plush reading chair, and inspected a decorative porcelain cat, nose almost booping it.

“Na fe,” he breathed with a delighted noise, “this is definitely not the stuffy beige abyss of lost hopes and dreams I was imagining.”

“Cheers, Thom,” III grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Wasn’t me.” Thom gave a soft, tired snort before II could speak. “That was your little control freak in the corner there.” He nodded toward II leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“You’re welcome,” he shot with wide eyes and just enough bite.

Ivy spun on his heel. “This was you?”

II raised both eyebrows. “…Yes?”

“But,” III began, eyes flitting around the room as if to inventory every detail. “it’s so… nice.”

II scoffed. “I have taste,” he muttered, snatching a room key from Thom. “And you’re all ungrateful little shits.”

Vessel, who had been quietly drinking in the space—the velvet chairs, the textured wallpaper, the way the light hit the plants near the window—offered a grateful smile.

“Thank you, Tootsie,” he said, pressingly a soft kiss against II’s cheek.

II flushed immediately. The pink started beneath the tattoos and climbed up to his ears. He looked up, caught Vessel watching him with fondness, and nearly melted into the tile floor.

He wanted to kiss him back. Properly. But here, now, after that morning? No. He held back, only managing a dopey smile.

“C’mon, lovebirds,” III pouted and grabbed II’s wrist to pull him toward the elevators. “I need to go faceplant into a over-stuffed pillow and scroll through horny fan art until my last brain cell dies.”

 II dragged his feet in pathetic protest. “Why?” he asked, snorting a half-laugh, half-scoff.

“It makes them happy when I like their stuff,” III said simply with an amused grin.

“Not the fan art bit,” II rolled his eyes. “The horny bit.”

“Oh,” III stopped short, then shrugged. “Matches my mood.”

 “Ugh.” II narrowed his eyes and pulled a face. “Well—I’m going to take a real shower, scald off my skin, and have a bit of a cry. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Excellent idea!” Ivy squealed from behind him, swooping in to wrap his arms around his waist. “I, for one, am going to roll around a proper bed.”

“Naked, that is,” he added. “Maybe treat my arse and balls to something a bit more luxurious than a tour bus wash.”

“Gross,” II grimaced, wiggling out of Ivy’s clutches. “Don’t touch me with those crusty fingers.”

Ivy raised a brow and a smug, lopsided grin pulled at his lips. His gaze dropped to II’s lips, then lower. “You sure about that?”

II swallowed the thick knot suddenly rising in his throat. “Fuck off,” he muttered with a scowl and roll of his eyes.

Vessel, trailing behind, nearly tripped over his own feet.

Images. So many images. All of them unhelpful.

His thoughts were still a tangle of bare skin against cool sheets, hot water running over inked shoulders, eager fingers brushing over… well, everywhere.

He bit down on a cracked spot on his lip, worrying at it until a flake of skin came loose.

III noticed. “None of that in my presence!” he barked, fishing a chapstick from his pocket and smacking it into Vessel’s palm. “Lather up, pretty boy. I’m not kissing sandpaper.”

“Who said anything about kissing?” Vessel mumbled, but obediently applied half the tube.

“I did,” III said sweetly, then leaned in to peck him on the lips.

Vessel smiled, only mildly losing his mind at the way that brief press left heat blooming in his chest and pooling low in his stomach.

The lift dinged on the second floor. Normally, they’d have adjacent rooms, but with the last-minute booking they were lucky to get a handful of scattered singles at all. Ivy stepped forward with a smirk and a “Later, you wankers” but Vessel caught the door before it slid shut.

“Wait!” He paused for a second, scrambling for something to say, then settled on food. “I’m starving. Lunch?”

Ivy beamed. “If it’s schnitzel, then abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Obviously,” Vessel sighed, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation.

“Fantastic. Reassemble in half an hour? Lobby?”

  “Sure,” Vessel smiled, and the others nodded with soft sounds of agreement.

Ivy’s eyes sparked with something mischievous as he stepped back. He raised a hand, pointing at them. “Love you guys,” he said with a coy wink, then spun around to amble to his room as the door slid shut behind him.

II and III got off next on the third floor, though their rooms were on different ends of the long hallway. Finally, Vessel reached the top floor and shuffled out of the lift, slinging his half-empty travel bag over his shoulder. He quickly found his room and slipped the key card out of his pocket.

But he faltered before he could tap it to the handle.

Alone. He’d be alone.

In a room with a shut door. There would probably be a large, empty bed made up with stylish, textured pillows and a neat blanket smelling of unfamiliar detergent. The hallway was quiet, and the room would be, too. The bathroom would be spotless, a stark bleach white, with a bare counter and the end of the toilet paper roll folded into a little point, God knows why.

Vessel stared at the door, hand hovering. The others were just floors below. Not far. But right now, it felt like miles. He held still, listening.

Listening for the saccharine voice. Waiting for the suffocating heat to crawl up his spine. For the pinpricks of unbidden pleasure in the back of his neck.

But there was nothing.

He exhaled slowly, letting the relieve settle into his chest. The others weren’t there, but neither was Sleep.

He was alone.

And it would be alright.

III didn’t binge consume horny fan art. Or any, for that matter. Instead, he stripped off his rumpled clothes, stepped into the positively ginormous shower, and let out a low, contented groaned as the hot stream hit his back.

He stood there for a long while with his hands braced against the wall and head dipped, mouthing snippets of lyrics and humming melodies—not theirs—trying to empty his mind. It had been far too full since the morning. The usual mix of buzzing background noise, flashes of the others in various states of undress, and where the fuck did I put my phone had been joined by the uneasy memories of the morning tugging at the edges of his thoughts until his skull throbbed.

The bathroom had grown hazy, the mirror fogged up with steam, when he finally set to scrubbing off layer after layer of muddied thoughts, tangled emotions, and that unmistakable feeling of having shared a moving tin can with three other humans for too many days in a row.

With a sigh, he squirted an overflowing glob of conditioner into his hands and winced as the slick, slimey liquid oozed between his fingers. Why did it have to be so… gross?

He knew that the others—anyone else with eyes—were right. He wasn’t an idiot. His hair would probably (absolutely) fall out in dry, straw-like sloughs sooner rather than later. But he just couldn’t put himself through this on a regular basis. He refused. If it all broke off and he had to shave his head—so be it. His skull was a nice enough shape, wasn’t it?

The mush clung to his dead strands, squelching as he rubbed it in. Why didn’t it foam? It should foam. Hair things were supposed to foam. But this? This was too smooth. It slid between his fingers, left that horrible, filmy residue on his hands that made his skin crawl.

He rinsed it out as fast as humanly possible. Then grabbed the foamiest soap available and scrubbed his hands raw until not a single slick remnant remained, only bubbles, rushing away in a satisfying swirl down the drain.

Ivy did roll around stark naked.

His clothes lay tossed over a chair by the window, curtains yanked shut. With a grin, he flopped onto the crisp, fresh sheets, arms outstretched, landing spread-eagle on his back.

He sighed heavily, then rolled onto his stomach to inhale the clean, slightly floral scent of the bedding with a blissful hum. There was nothing better than a thousand-thread-count sheet and silky-smooth comforter against bare skin. Well—maybe not nothing. Ivy could definitely think of a thing or two that beat it out by a long shot.

Vessel’s warm lips, for instance.

Or III’s smooth fingers.

Or II’s lean, firm body pressed against him.

He barely reached the end of that thought before he felt the unmistakable pressure building against the mattress—every ounce of blood rushing to his cock like it had a goddamn personal vendetta against him. He groaned into the pillow, equal parts frustrated and resigned.

Because for fuck’s sake, this was getting ridiculous. Even at his peak adolescent wank-a-thons he hadn’t been this relentlessly hard this often.

Could you get carpal tunnel from constant wanking? That didn’t bode well for his career. But it’s not like he could just… not.

With another guttural noise, Ivy flipped back over and cast a stern look at his erection, as if its very existence was a mortal personal offense.

“Really?” he asked aloud in an affronted, harsh voice. “Is this necessary?”

He paused—because some part of him clearly expected a reply—then scowled harder. He gave the head an annoyed flick. A sound somewhere halfway between a tortured moan and a suppressed yelp pushed through his gritted teeth.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, wrapping a hand around himself—only to immediately remember how meticulously clean the sheets were.

With a dramatic groan, he rolled off the bed and slunk toward the bathroom.

“Just want a goddamn schnitzel,” he grumbled, kicking the door closed behind him.

II showered down quickly with almost clinical efficieny, then wrapped himself up tightly in the hotel’s plush bathrobe. It probably hit Vessel and III just above the knees; on him, it nearly brushed his ankles. It had a hood and he flipped it up.

The mirror was fogged with steam and he wiped a small circle clear to stare at his own hazy reflection. His face was flushed red from the hot water; he figured his skin beneath the tattoos would be just as blotchy and irritated, if he could see it.

He gave his hair a rough rub with the hood, then frowned at the mirror.

“Well,” he sighed. “That’s that taken care of.”

Then, narrowing his eyes: “Now go on and have a nice little cry.”

Nothing happened.

Just his own face blinking back at him, blank, tense, set like stone.

It wasn’t like he didn’t cry. He did. A lot, actually. Usually tucked into the crook of a warm neck or curled up in strong arms. Safe. Shielded from the world.

But now, alone in this posh-but-in-a-cool-way hotel room, his muscles wouldn’t let go. The tightness in his chest stayed where it was, gripping hard, like if he let go for even a second, the whole world would split open

The canceled show. Vessel’s look, hollow and caved-in. His voice, raw with guilt. The ache of it. The heaviness of everything.

He needed it out. Needed his head to clear.

Just a few tears. Just enough to make space inside his head.

But his body wouldn’t give in.

With a scowl, II padded out of the bathroom. He settled in front of the full-length mirror by the closet, legs crossed.

“Stop holding it together,” he told his reflection.

“They’re not here.”

“You can be weak.” He clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. “Just for a second.”

Dry eyes and an empty face. He pulled the hood down further until it slipped past his brow, over his eyes, so the robe enveloped him completely.

And then he flopped soundlessly onto his back and stared up at the blank ceiling. He wanted his headphones. Wanted—needed— to drown out the deafening silence of the room.

That’s when he realized, with a soundless wail of despair, that he’d left them on the bus.

Vessel couldn’t sit still.

He tried writing, but no words came. No melodies either. Just the relentless churn of noise inside his skull.

He tried sketching, but his hands shook too much to get a single line down.

He tried a shower, but the water felt too wet, the walls too close, and the steam too thick. He was out again in under a minute, wet towel abandoned in a heap on the floor.

He tried push-ups but even that made his body feel all wrong.

So instead, he rifled through the neat row of vinyl above the desk and dropped one onto the turntable without looking.

But Aretha Franklin’s voice was too calm and too steady. It scraped against the frayed edges of him.

He ripped the record off mid-verse and replaced it with something else, just as blindly. He paced with tight, hurried steps, wringing his hands, tugging at his hoodie strings, and raking through his damp (but still dirty) hair.

Sting got out exactly one “barley” before Vessel snatched that one off too. The room collapsed back into silence.

He dragged both hands over his face and pressed his fingers into his closed eyes until sparks exploded behind his eyelids.

The silence was unbearable. Was this really better than Sleep’s whispers? Their cloying reassurances? Their velvet nothingness disguised as meaning? As… love?

Yes. Yes, the silence was better.

But still: it was fucking awful.

This time, Vessel took his time scanning over the sleeves of the LPs until one caught his eye. Tall, red letters. Spinning brown wheel. Pyramid in the center. The sleeve was worn, edges scuffed, marked by too many fingers.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

With almost reverent care, Vessel placed the aged vinyl on the turntable. The first scratch of needle meeting groove shivered up his spine. Then, Chris Cornell’s voice saturated the air with his gritty timbre.

Badmotorfinger. Not the remaster. Original pressing. So much fucking better.

He didn’t stop the pacing. His body still couldn’t rest, limbs refusing to settle even for a second. But the silence behind the music felt just a little less oppressive now. A little less hollow. A little less alone.

They reconvened in the lobby as promised. At the receptionist’s recommendation, they strolled—or rather, speed walked—down to one of the countless restaurants lining the streets. There, they piled into a cozy nook with varying degrees of damp hair and half-functional brains. The smell of fried things and roasting potatoes was nothing short of divine.

“God, yes,” Ivy groaned as he collapsed into the booth. “If I don’t eat something in the next thirty seconds I’m going to perish like a Dickensian orphan.”

“You’re from Swansea,” II muttered, sliding in next to him. “Calm down.”

III took the seat across from them and immediately flagged the server. “Four schnitzels and, four of… whatever that is,” he said, pointing at an amusing word on the drinks page.

Ivy glanced over. “Make it two for this one.” He nodded toward Vessel, who looked like he’d been mowed down by a snow plow, and had then thanked it kindly.

“I don’t even drink that much,” Vessel muttered, tying his hoodie strings into a lopsided bow.

“You look like you’re vibrating out of your own skin,” Ivy said. “You need to be sedated.”

“And you need to be slapped,” Vessel shot back with no real bite.

The drinks arrived first—light golden with a suspicious lemony glow—and four pairs of eyebrows lifted in unison.

Vessel took a swig and nearly choked. “What the fuck—why does this taste like lemonade?”

“It’s Radler,” II said flatly, inspecting the beverage menu more closely. “Beer and lemonade mixed. Very normal.”

“It’s treason,” Ivy hissed.

“I dunno,” Vessel offered, taking another tentative sip, “it’s kinda nice.”

III raised his glass dramatically. “To imposter beer and confusing emotions.”

They all clinked together. The schnitzel followed shortly after, crispy, golden, and larger than the plates they came on. Ivy moaned obscenely on the first bite. III made an “I could orgasm” face. Vessel didn’t speak, just tore into his like he’d been starved for weeks.

And II—well, he tried to eat like a normal person. But every time he looked up, Vessel was already looking back. Eating like a menace, lips slick with Radler and grease, head tilted in that infuriating way. And his gaze was too heavy. Hot. Like he wanted to be watched.

The others were laughing, groaning over their food, arguing over the superiority of potato sides—but II could barely taste anything.

Because Vessel’s eyes were on him again.

And II was one look away from crawling across the table and begging.

Lunch mellowed them all out, at least a little. There was something about fried food and fizzy imposter beer (which was offensively delicious, though they’d die before admitting it out loud) that softened the edges of the day. They lingered for a while, forks scraping across plates and an arrant chip or two chucked at II when he wouldn’t stop pouting at his empty bowl of potato salad.

Outside, daylight began to thin out into a dusky gold-grey. Using his finely-tuned caffeine spidey senses, III located a third-wave coffee shop two blocks down. He chatted up the barista like an old friend while the others ogled the pastries. III laughed, said “one of everything,” and paid with a dramatic flourish.

By the time they trudged back into the hotel—stuffed and buzzing—they were warm and lulled into a rare sense of peace. They parted at their respective floors again to III’s moans of “I’m so full I shall perish, but be glad about it!”. Even Vessel was glad to crawl into the bed that he actually fit him, pull the covers up to his chin, and flip on his SteamDeck.

It lasted all of thirty-two minutes.

Their phones pinged simultaneously with a message from Ivy:

EMERGENCY. COME TO MY ROOM IMMEDIATELY!! 🚨🚨

Vessel blinked at the screen, hoodie already half over his head.

III was out the door before his shoes were on.

II stared at the message like it was a trap.

Because of course: it was.

Two minutes later, they all burst into Ivy’s room.

It was chaos incarnate. Well, really, it was Ivy who was chaos incarnate and the room had merely submitted.

“IVY! WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG? YOU SAID EMERGENCY.” II shouted teetering on the edge of panic.

“Ohhhh, II-bach,” Ivy cooed, bouncing on his feet. “It’s an emergency if there ever was one.”

II opened his mouth again but didn’t even get the question out before Vessel crossed the room and gripped Ivy’s shoulders.

“IVES,” Vessel croaked, eyes ripped wide.

Ivy’s mouth curled into a manic grin.

“There’s a new chapter,” he said in a low, gritty voice. “And let me tell you, the bit I read…” He paused and winked. “Filthier than ever.”

“AND YOU READ IT WITHOUT US?” III sounded genuinly betrayed.

Ivy cackled, eyes sparking with something downright wicked and insatiable. “Just enough to know that someone is gonna have to read the moaning lines with dramatic flourish for the full fic experience.”

“You mean the full fuck experience,” Vessel murmured to himself under his breath.

Ivy smirked. “Wow, Vess,” he shook his head. “That was—God, that was terrible. A new low, really.”

Vessel scowled. He thought he’d said it quietly enough not to be heard.

“Your puns really are getting pretty shoddy, V,” II agreed seriously with a clap on his arm.

Brilliant. They’d all heard.

III grinned but stayed mercifully quiet. The others had done well enough taking the piss.

“Alas!” Ivy cried, dropping onto the bed with a theatrical gasp, one arm dangling across his eyes like a fainting Victorian widow. “Shall we?” He wiggled his phone midair.

“My willy waits with bated breath!” III sighed, sprawling across the bed beside him with an air decidedly paint me like one of your French girls.

Vessel sucked in a sharp breath. Yep. So did his. But not necessarily for the fic. Not exactly.

After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully perched at the edge of the bed and pulled his feet up in a pretzel underneath him. But his back was too straight, his mouth set too tightly, and the thumb tap-tap-tap too arrhythmic. It was a bitter betrayal from his own damn body.

II was off even worse. He skipped the bed entirely and instead settled into the plush reading chair by the desk, crossing his legs defiantly. You know—just in case.

Ivy cleared his throat, phone held aloft like Hamlet’s skull, adopting a gravity wholly inappropriate for this level of literature.

“They did not knock,” Ivy began solemnly. “For their fists were already bruised from the breaking.

II groaned quietly from his perch like he’d just bitten into a lemon only to discover it was actually perfect and sweet and delicious.

“Jesus fuck,” he gritted. “This is gonna be a long night.”

“Shush!” III hissed and rolled on his stomach, propping his face in his hands. II just rolled his eyes.

“III came first, as always,” Ivy continued dramatically, and III let out a strangled noise of protest.

 “I do not! I have self-control! …. Sort of.”

“Ffyc fi,” Ivy groaned. “Not like that, you platypus.”

“Now let me continue. We must respect the author’s sacred liturgy.”

***

Title: Deliver Us Not From Temptation

Chapter 2: The Flesh Is Weak (And So Is The Floor Apparently)

They did not knock for their fists were already bruised from the breaking. III came first, like always, teeth bared and hands reverent, not like a man but a disciple. His knees hit the ground—begging, worshiping at the altar of Vessel’s trembling skin.

II followed—silent, trembling, the ghost of guilt clinging to his spine. But even he could not resist the blood-warm call of divine sin. He fell to his knees, forehead to thigh, voice breaking with a whispered ‘please.’

And then Ivy, who pressed him to the wall—back to brick, knees gone to jelly. ‘You’re not dreaming anymore,’ he whispered, tongue tracing the edge of a whimper. ‘You’re real. You’re ours.”

Vessel writhed under the words like a psalm being torn apart mid-sermon. His body was no longer flesh—it was scripture, rewritten in sweat and bruises, annotated by moans, each touch translated into a new gospel, one with fewer morals and much more oral.

III then sucked a mark into his thigh like he was signing a sacred contract in spit.

II mouthed prayers into his ribs, each one stitched with tongue and teeth.

Ivy—sweet, depraved Ivy—fucked a whimper into his mouth with nothing but a look, a benediction carved from lust and filth.

Vessel bucked, incoherent. Somewhere between a lamb at slaughter and a lightning rod for holy wrath.

There was gold behind his eyes. Blood under his nails. He glowed, not metaphorically but literally—radiance dripping from him like oil down a saint’s statue in a miracle.

And still, Sleep watched.

He was the fourth body in the room. The god in the vents. The static behind the amp.

It licked at the edges of their pleasure like mold on communion bread.

Not gone. Never gone. Just lurking like a sermon you can’t unhear.

And still—

The holy trinity of sweat, spit, and shame slicked Vessel’s throat as he gasped through a sound that wasn’t meant for mortal ears. His body—his once-sacred temple—had become an orgiastic reliquary, a living shrine to the blasphemous union of lust and love and terrible, terrible band dynamics.

II licked the sweat from his collarbone like it was consecrated wine. III moaned a hymn into his stomach, pressing kisses like nails into a cross.

“You’re shaking,” Ivy whispered, cupping Vessel’s face like the skull of a martyred saint.

His body unraveled like a rosary ripped by the devil himself. He howled like a demon burning in the fire of a confessional.

Still, they kept going.

Because this wasn’t indulgence.

It was ritual.

A black mass of the obscene.

Vessel arched like a cathedral collapsing into itself, keening something between divine ecstasy and total ego death.

They weren’t just fucking him. They were canonizing him.

Making him holy through filth.

Sainting him with fingers and tongues.

By the time he came, it was with a sound like the final note of a requiem—a crescendo that cracked the ceiling tiles and nearly summoned the fire alarm.

And Sleep hissed. The lights flickered.

 Somewhere deep in the building, the PA system whispered:

“Come back to me.”

….

***

III was the first to crack.

It’d been his turn to read, and he’d been fine—giddy, theatrical, moaning dramatically at every filthy, ridiculous metaphor. But then he read: “His body—his once-sacred temple—had become an orgiastic reliquary.”

It broke him.

He let out a strangled sort of noise, something unhinged and animalistic between a snort and a sob. He broke off mid-sentence and flung himself sideways.

“Who WROTE this?” he wheezed between helpless gasps. “I need to ravage them. Or fight them. Or both.”

He sucked in another breath. “Probably both. No—definitely both.”

Ivy didn’t miss a beat. “It’s called art, darling. Try to keep up.” His cheeky wink sent III back into convulsions..

“Alright, alright,” III groaned, clutching his stomach. “But—I can’t keep reading this. Someone else. Please. For my sanity.”

“Gimme,” Vessel said, making grabby hands at Ivy’s phone. A shit-eating grin was plastered across his face.

Ivy hummed teasingly from deep in his chest. “Hmmm, our orgiastic reliquary wants a go,” he purred, hardly keeping his laughter under control.

Vessel snatched the phone from III with a smirk. “I’ll make it good,” he said with a dangerous spark in his voice. “Promise.”

He began in his best Globe Theater baritone—no small feat all things considered.

“Jesus, Vess,” II groaned, barely looking up. “You’re reading this like it’s bloody Shakespeare.”

“It IS Shakespeare,” III interrupted. “If Shakespeare had a thing for cock and religious trauma. Which, actually—yeah.”

“Oh my God…” II said under his breath, head dropping back into his hands.

It wasn’t the fic that was killing him. Not really.

It was Vessel.

More specifically, Vessel sitting at the edge of the bed, poised like a posh Etonian in chapel (II absolutely did not think of his first wristy in a stuffy Eton dorm—which he’d snuck into wearing one of those stupid caps—from a violently repressed boy who swore he was straight and then came on II’s stomach). He was flushed a too-perfect pink. The point of his canine caught on his lip when he smiled. And each word was practically a moan.

II was dying inside.

 Ivy had flopped backwards in a pile of limbs and overstimulation, feet dangling off the bed.

“God, that line,” he sighed dreamily. “‘They weren’t just fucking him. They were canonizing him.’” He shook his head with a radiant smile.

“Canonize me next.” The words slipped through his lips with a tiny moan. Shit—he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.

II looked up and shot him a glare with raised brows.

“Oh, shut up,” Ivy muttered in his direction, unabashedly unrepentant. “At least I can admit that this is fucking hot.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” II said quietly, almost as if he had to will his voice above anything but a whisper.

Three pairs of eyes slid over to him, glinting with satisfaction. Or perhaps something else, something II was not prepared to think about in any amount of detail.

He made a wounded noise, then hissed, “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Vessel blinked. He tilted his head in just that way. His cheeks were still flushed pink and the top of his lip glistened with a small bead of sweat. It sent a shiver through II.

“That look.” II forced his voice into a semblance of control and held Vessel’s gaze even though he could feel his own face heating. “All of you. Stop looking at me like that.”

III cackled. “He’s spiraling!” he howled gleefully. “They’ve done it! They’ve broken II!”

“I am NOT spiraling,” II snapped, ears a shocking shade of pink. “I’m just… processing. Through the exact right amount of… outrage. Like a normal person.”

“You’re hands are shaking,” Ivy pointed out lazily.

“They’re not.”

“They kind of are, Twosie,” Vessel murmured.

II glared. This was betrayal on so many levels.

“Well,” Ivy began with delight, “if you aren’t spiraling, you can finish reading the chapter.”

II opened his mouth, then closed it again stupidly. Ivy snatched the phone from Vessel’s hands and tossed it toward II with a gleeful “Think fast!”

II caught it mid-air on reflex. “Fine,” he growled, eyes piercing daggers through Ivy who was smirking, far too satisfied with himself.

He read through gritted teeth, white-knuckling the device in his hand. It was only a few paragraphs but each word was torture.

And Vessel sat there watching him read, mouth tugging into a wiked half-smile. He kept his eyes fixed on his fingers tapping out the rhythm of the twenty-third bar of Like That.

But then II read the final line—“Come back to me.”—something in him cracked.

The ache of arousal vanished, a sickening sense of static taking its place. A whisper, memories not yet faded.  

He schooled his face into stillness and thought it worked.

The others caught the shift in the air around Vessel, but only barely. It was just a flicker at the edge of the moment and they were too wrapped up in their own spirals to see it clearly.  

A tense moment lingered—quiet and a little too long.

And then—bless him—III flopped back and declared, “Right. I need to have a lie down and rethink my entire existence.”

“You’re already lying down,” Ivy pointed out.

“Exactly,” III replied flatly, face to the ceiling. “Step one: complete.”

Vessel let out a soft, breathy laugh. It cracked something open in the room, just enough for the tension to settle into something a little less sharp.

They didn’t rush to leave.

They stayed a little longer, sprawled across Ivy’s bed and floor and furniture in the kind of lazy, companionable mess that only came after something vaguely traumatizing, vaguely horny (ok, very), and wholly hilarious. A few more jokes were made. III insisted he was going to write his own fic, “from the perspective of the amp that witnessed the whole orgy.” Ivy screamed into a pillow. II somehow ended up lying facedown on the carpet and refused to move.

Eventually, though, the hour grew late. One by one, they peeled themselves off the furniture—and, in II’s case, the floor— and shuffled toward the door, all of them a little slower now, their bodies loose with exhaustion.

They exchanged soft goodnights—no grand fanfare, just murmured words and sleepy smiles—and headed toward the lift. II and III slipped out with soft touches on Vessel’s arm and muttered love yous.

But just as the door was sliding closed, Vessel shot out a hand and caught it, pushing it back open with a light shove.

III was already down the hall, turning the corner with his long arms dangling by his side.

“II—“ Vessel called out hesitantly.

II stopped and spun on his heel. He hummed an inquisitive little noise with a smile.

Vessel tugged hia hoodie sleeves low over his hands, mouth parted like he’d meant to speak and then forgot how.

“I…” He rubbed at his wrist, eyes flicking briefly to the floor. “I know it’s dumb. But—can I stay with you? Just to sleep. I don’t—” He swallowed, voice tighter now. “I just don’t really want to be on my own tonight.”

II didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said softly, smiling affectionately. He understood. “C’mon.”

Vessel sighed in relief. They walked down the hall together, side by side, shoulders brushing, untouched by words.

For tonight, at least, they didn’t have to sleep alone.

Chapter Text

Vessel had immediately slipped under the fluffy down comforter on II’s bed and pulled it up to his chin, curling up into the smallest ball possible for a man of his ridiculous size.

II regarded him gently, affection blooming in his chest. It was warm and familiar, but there was a dull ache beating beneath it. It had only hit him when Vessel called his name, and he’d turned to find him standing outlined by the lift door, shoulders hunched and expression pinched with something barely held back.

The fic. The words he himself had read out loud.

Come back to me, whispered by fic-Sleep.

It had been too close and way too soon.

How the hell hadn’t he seen it straight away?

He’d felt the shift—the sudden tension, the pull of something darker—but II had been far to stuck in his own little spider’s web of inopportune arousal and prickles of shame to notice properly.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

But he was here now. With Vessel tucked into his bed, looking small and vulnerable despite his size. It tugged at II’s heart, and he moved closer to the bed.

“Aren’t you hot?” he asked softly, eyeing Vessel’s burrito-like form. He hadn’t even taken off his hoodie, much less his sweats.

Vessel made a small movement of his head, followed by a hummed negative. “‘m cold.”

II smiled, already pulling his t-shirt over his head. “You won’t be for long,” he said cheerfully, moving on to tugging off his joggers. “I’m a fucking furnace. Heat’s turned way too high.”

Vessel smiled into the blanket and stuck both hands out from under the blanket, reaching like greedy vines toward the sun.

“Thank God,” he muttered in that slightly rough, sleepy voice II loved and that always made his heart go embarrassingly fluttery. “Can you imagine our heating bill if you weren’t a tiny mobile fire?”

“Hey!” II exclaimed but his smile didn’t falter. “Not that tiny.”  

“Mmm,” Vessel cooed, slowly untangling himself from the bedding just enough to lift a corner. “No—just the perfect little spoon size to curl around.”

“For heating purposes only, of course,” he added with a lopsided smile.

“Of course,” II laughed, then climbed into bed beside him, instantly scooting close as if gravity pulled him in.

For a few quiet moments, they lay there, breathing each other in, feeling the comforting pressure of their bodies. Vessel’s fingers slipped into II’s hair and twirled it around absentmindedly.

“V—” II whispered into Vessel’s chest. “You okay?”

He didn’t respond right away. His fingers kept twisting the longest strands of II’s hair around and around. Then, they stilled, and he exhaled quietly.

“Yeah. Today was just…” he trailed off, withdrawing his hand.

II reached up to cup his cheek tenderly. “I know,” he murmured, little more than a breath against Vessel’s throat.

Their eyes locked, that unspoken understanding passing between them, subtle but sure.

Vessel’s smile, when it finally broke through was a tiny, fragile, precious thing. With a soft stroke of his thumb across Vessel’s cheek and one last glance, II tucked himself back in.

“Night, Vessy,” he murmured. “I love you.”

Vessel’s arms tightened around him. “I love you too, Twoofer.” A pause and then, even softer: “thank you.”

At first, II wasn’t sure what pulled him from sleep at 4:27 in the morning.

Vessel was sprawled beside him like always: limbs flung wide, comforter twisted around his waist, one cheek smooshed into the pillow, mouth slightly open. His hand dangled off the edge of the mattress, long fingers lax and nearly brushing the floor.

Dim streetlight filtered in through the sheer curtains—they hadn’t had the mind to shut the black out ones—and it lit up the outline of Vessel’s features, the too-quick rise and fall of his chest, and the barely-there movements of his parted lips.

That’s when II heard it: a low, breathy moan.

Then another. Sleepy and rough, stirring in Vessel’s chest and spilling out unguarded from whatever dream played in his subconscious.

Something flipped in II. His stomach clenched and his breath caught, his pulse violently slamming against his ribs like a sledgehammer.

He chanced a cautious look at Vessel’s sleeping face, sure it would only make it worse. It did. Vessel’s face was still but not peaceful. There was a small furrow between his brows, and his lips were parted. Another needy sound escaped him and II felt it nipping at his whole fucking body.

Then, Vessel turned his head. There was a pillow-print on his cheek and fuck somehow that made it all worse.

II squeezed his eyes shut, muttering pleadingly to himself. No. Stop. Don’t you dare.

His breath came out shakily as he clung on to whatever shred of self-control he had left. It wasn’t much.

Really, he should be worried. He was worried. Vessel needed comfort tonight, not… whatever this was.

But Christ, that hoodie. He was desperate to pull it off. He knew there’d be nothing under it. He knew how warm and firm Vessel’s chest would be. How he could just reach over, press into that solid weight, tease out more of those delicious whimpers, and—

Nope. No. Fucking stop. II gritted his teeth.

Still, his gaze flicked down to the blanket bunched around Vessel’s middle.

Of course. What the hell was he expecting.

There was a clear outline beneath the fabric. The sight struck him with a jolt, thighs twitching with the effort not to move.

He should just leave. Get out. Take an early morning walk. Take an icy shower. Or hell, bury himself under the cold, grey slush lining the streets until his dick froze off.

But he didn’t. Why would he when Vessel was lying there, flushed and warm and perfect and whimpering…

Another sound. A soft one, high in the throat.

II’s eyes snapped to Vessel’s lips.

“Please.” It was more breath than word, but it was clear.

II bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron and his fists clenched in the sheets.

But it got worse.

Vessel twisted onto his back, humming low in his throat.

And moaned. Properly. “II…”  

II’s lungs seized, and he nearly keeled forward. For a second, the world tilted. Or maybe it was only him. His skin buzzed with searing heat, and his cock grew painfully, helplessly hard.

He froze. He needed to stop this. He needed to care more than this.

He wouldn’t. Nope. No wanking. Not when Vessel had stood there at the lift looking like a kicked puppy, had been so open and vulnerable, had crawled into his bed needing safety, needing someone to hold him while the guilt and fear and memories drained from his body. Not II pathetically wanking in the next room.

II dragged his hands down his face, trying to regain control. But the echo of his own name still rang in his ears and seared into him.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if the sparks exploding across his lids could chase away the echo of Vessel’s moans and the straining erection in his boxers.

He wasn’t going to. He really wasn’t. He—

He did. He ached too much. There was no version of the world where his dick would settle the fuck down without physical intervention; no way to undo the sounds he’d heard, or the way Vessel’s voice—the way he’d whimpered his name—had hit him like a drug straight to the heart.

II made quick work of it, shame already welling in his chest as he ducked into the bathroom. Shower. Stifled groans. Cum splattered tiles. He kept his forehead pressed to the wall for a long time after.

But still—he couldn’t fall back asleep. Couldn’t even get himself to climb into bed with Vessel again.

Instead he curled into the reading chair, making sure to turn his back to Vessel, and doomscrolled mindlessly until the first beams of daylight fell into the room.

Vessel woke with a smile.

That dream had been good. Really fucking deliciously good. It left his limbs heavy and loose, a lingering haze softening the edges of his mind, the sweetest of vices still running through his veins—hot and intoxicating and impossibly sweet.  

It flickered behind his eyes in flashes: II’s voice, ragged and low and shattered with lust. The press of skin, sweat clinging between them. He could still feel the tug of greedy fingers in his hair. The others had been there, too. Mouths, warm and wet, on his skin. Teeth nipping just enough to make him gasp. And hands. Everywhere. Moving over him like they knew every inch. Opening him up, unravelling him, stitching him back together.

But it’d been II who’d teased out that final, overwhelming rush of sensation. II whose mouth he’d moaned into when he came. The shape of that want was so vivid and so real his body still remembered it.

With a deep, contented sigh, Vessel opened his eyes, blinking into the brightness.

And then, he saw him.

II was curled up on the velvety purple reading chair across the room, legs tucked under him, the hotel bathrobe pulled tightly around him like plush armor. His body was still, phone in hand but not scrolling. He was hardly even blinking.

His back was turned to the bed, but when Vessel shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, the slight twitch of II’s head gave him away. The blush was unmistakable—red stained the curve of II’s cheeks, creeping up to the tips of his ears. His jaw was set tight like he’d been clenching it for hours and his gaze didn’t stray anywhere near the bed.

Vessel stilled for a beat, then smiled to himself.

Oh.

The dream must’ve bled over. His moans must’ve slipped from his mouth while he slept. II’s name, soft and wrecked on his lips.

And II had heard.

But instead of panic, instead of the prickle of embarrassment he expected, there was nothing but a warm thrill spreading through him. It curled low in his belly and set a satisfied thrumming alight in his ribs.

He liked that II had heard him. Loved that it had undone him this thoroughly.

He relished the idea that his sleeping, needy little moans and whimpers had been enough to keep II up all night by the looks of it. That his gasped-out name left him flustered and fidgeting and trying not to lose it.

Maybe II had even slipped into the bathroom to take care of it. Quietly, with his forehead pressed to the tile, rutting into his own hand, panting and biting down on Vessel’s name. The thought had Vessel grinning as he dropped back onto the mattress.

It’d been those kisses the other day. He was sure of it. They’d snapped something inside him and unlatched that last piece of hesitation. He’d been sent spinning headfirst into sharp clarity, and with it: freedom. It had let in the kind of bravery that allowed him to want. To dare. Dare to claim. To give. To indulge. To lose himself in all of it without fear.

And by God, he was going to have so much fun with it.

The hotel breakfast spread was unreasonably elegant—far too posh and indulgent for a place this… cool. There were porcelain teapots, tiny silver tongs for sugar cubes, and a honeycomb display like some kind of apicultural altar. Where the hell did they even get that in the middle of winter?

III had already declared the whole thing “deeply suspicious,” but still loaded his plate with a ludicrous ensemble of mini avocado toast bites, smoked salmon arranged into little floral rosettes, a wedge of proper French brie, and tiny jars of marmalade labeled in loopy cursive. When he reached their table, he surreptitiously slipped a quail egg out of his hoodie pocket with a wink.

Ivy, meanwhile, slouched in his chair, hiding behind sunglasses and cradling an oat flat white.
(III had muttered something scathing under his breath, opting for tea “in light of this sacrilege they dare call coffee.”)

And II—

II hadn’t said a word since sitting down. He was perched stiffly at the edge of his seat, poking at a rosewater pistachio muffin like it had personally wronged him by merely existing. He’d hardly managed a “morning” when Vessel walked in, yesterday’s hoodie tied loosely around his waist, hair damp from the shower. Somehow, it was perfectly tousled, and II found himself wishing it had been his hands that had done it.

Now he just sat there, completely silent, flushed, vibrating out of his skin, and doing an absolutely terrible job pretending he wasn’t very much dying on the inside.

Vessel, by contrast, was glowing.

His plate was a carefully curated spread: freshly baked rolls—one poppyseed, the other some multigrain cloud topped with a mix of seeds—a slab of burrata with heirloom tomato slices, a few avocado toast bites, and a pistachio scone. Beside it, there was a delicate porcelain bowl filled with passionfruit halves (again—where did they get those in December?!) and juicy dried figs. He was sipping coffee—not sludge, to his dismay—from an oversized handmade ceramic mug, peeking over the rim with that distinct smug, lopsided smirk.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” he said sweetly, eyes trained on II, who refused to meet them.

II took a quick sip of his cold brew. (Yes, in winter. The hotel paid no mind to the concept of seasons.)

“Tired,” he mumbled after swallowing.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” Vessel asked, all innocent affection. “You fell asleep curled into me straight away, didn’t you? I thought you did.”

“Yeah,” II muttered, stabbing the muffin again. “I did. And I slept fine after that, too.”

III looked up from cracking his quail egg, eyes narrowing as they flicked between them. Ivy, too, raised an eyebrow and slowly pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head.

Vessel hummed, pleased, and just the tiniest bit smug, like a cat who’d knocked something off the shelf and gleefully watched it fall. He popped a bite of tomato into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and then added, “That’s good. I had the most fantastic dream.”

II choked on absolutely nothing.

A strangled sound escaped his throat as he coughed violently into his fist, turning a deep, blazing shade of pink. In a panic, he shoved a huge bite of muffin into his mouth.

Across the table, III raised an eyebrow with slow, dramatic precision. “Do tell,” he cooed at Vessel, clearly sensing blood in the water.

Vessel smiled into his mug. “Mmm. It’s a bit… personal.”

III let out a low, knowing chuckle and turned back to his egg.

Ivy was now looking between them like he’d missed a vital plot twist, already spiraling in a way that teetered on hazardous. He took a long drag from his flat white. “Fuck me, why are you both being so weird today?” He slammed the now-empty cup down. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you fucked him and didn’t stay for cuddles. And stole his Red Bull.”

Vessel laughed, reached for a slice of passionfruit, and gave II a look that could only be described as perilous.

“Never,” he said softly, then popped the fruit into his mouth.

II, still red from the ears down, shoved the rest of the muffin into his mouth in one go and muttered something that might have been “fuck off.”

And so, breakfast continued. Painfully for II. Deliciously for Vessel. And very confusingly for the others. By the time they left the hotel lobby—luggage slung over their shoulders and the shuttle waiting out front—II was visibly twitchy. He strode a few steps ahead, pretending to check his phone and nearly walked straight into a bright orange garbage can. When Vessel brushed his arm to steer him toward the shuttle, II didn’t flinch but his ears went pink again.

They stayed flushed like that for most of the ride.  

II was the first to scramble out of the shuttle, still pink-faced and tripping over his own feet. Vessel was right behind him, a grin plastered across his face like he was harboring a dangerous but delightful secret.

The others followed lazily, slowly heaving themselves from the shuttle’s warm interior into the chill air nipping at their noses. III moved to take a long step toward the building but Ivy caught him by the elbow, pulling him close. He made a small yelp of surprise, then frowned down at Ivy who pressed his lips into a thin line.

"What?" III asked, eyes flicking to the hand still gripping his arm.

Ivy hesitated, then blew out a sharp breath that turned to mist between them. “Just…” His gaze drifted to the two retreating figures ahead, slipping through the doors one after the other. “You see it too, yeah? Something’s going on.”

III followed his line of sight, lips blooming in a slow, lopsided smile. “Definitely. And whatever it is?” He looked back at Ivy and winked. “I’m so fucking here for it.”

Ivy chuckled but it wobbled at the end. "Is it weird? That I'm really happy for them but also kinda... you know?"

Ah. There it was. That soft sting. The I-know-I’m-not-left-out-but-what-if-I-am ache that III knew persisted deep in Ivy’s soul.

He let out a quit snort. "Please, Ives. Vessel still blushes every time you flutter those ridiculous lashes at him, and II stares at you like you're the last bloody cigarette on this miserable floating orb."

Ivy blinked, lips twitching. He considered the earnest glint behind III’s smile and broke into one of his own. “I know.”

III rolled his eyes and gave Ivy a playful shove, then tugged him back in and pressed an obnoxiously wet kiss to his forehead.

"But seriously," Ivy continued after a moment. "It was always gonna be them—just them—first, wasn't it?"

III shrugged. He could feel the want skittering just below his skin. It felt like years, not weeks, waiting for this—maybe it really had been, and they just hadn’t been allowed to feel it. Just the thought of Vessel inching toward that surrender thrilled something deep in him. And the mental images of II moaning into Vessel’s mouth? Yeah. Those didn’t help.

"Kinda makes sense though, doesn't it?" he finally said.

Ivy hummed, nodding. His own thoughts of the two tangled up together slithered into his mind. Vessel, flushed and gasping. II, gripping tight and desperate. Wrecked moans and bruised lips. He had to force them away before he melted on the spot. "But they'll..." He trailed off after stumbling over the words.

"Come fuck us silly the moment they're done?"

A full-chested laugh burst out of Ivy. "Yeah, that."

"Most definitely." III’s eyes gleamed, something eager and primal lurking behind the grin. "And if they don't..." He stepped in closer, chest nearly pressing against Ivy's. He bit his bottom lip, eyes dropping to Ivy's mouth, and his hands slid around his hips. The distance between them was hardly a sliver—they could feel each other's breath, almost taste each other's mouths.

Ivy strangled down a whimper, completely unwilling to give III the satisfaction. He shoved him back and pushed past him with a smirk. "Not gonna work, Trippy," he teasingly called over his shoulder, "I don't beg like II."

III swallowed hard. God. Those words still clanged around his skull with a relentless fury like he’d been cursed.

Keep touching me like that and I'll be begging you to fuck me.

He tried to shake off the sudden rush of heat, but it clung to him like stage fog. Instead, he jogged after Ivy—and slapped his ass.

Ivy yelped, flinched, and spun with both hands protectively clutching his butt.
"OW," he stated with betrayal etched into his expression. "That fucking hurt, asshole."

III cackled. "Oh, c'mon," he tried with mock innocence. "You know how it is, ass-man."

"Oh my fucking God," Ivy groaned with soul-deep regret. He had only himself to blame for that time he’d gotten a little too handsy during the Higher debut in Reading and pinched Vessel’s ass mid-song. They hadn’t shut up about it since. But it hadn’t stopped him from staring. Or grabbing. Often.

They were still squabbling like schoolboys when Thom appeared behind them and gave them both a firm shove toward the entrance. "Stop bickering," he snapped. "You're worse than my parents—they're divorced, by the way."

"It's how we show how much we love each other," Ivy chirped, drawing out love in an obnoxiously high-pitched voice.

"It's how you show love, Ivers," III squeaked. "I'm just fucking annoyed." There was no bite in it; just affection wrapped in sarcasm.

"Fucking hell," Thom murmured with a grimace. "Just get on with it. They want to do soundcheck early."

They both shrugged, completely unbothered, but followed him inside obediently anyway.

Once inside, Ivy beelined to the nearest washroom. No way he could deal with crew or venue staff yet. Not before he had a moment to defrost. And un-spiral. He stalked the halls with quick, determined steps until he spotted the ubiquitous toilet symbol and slipped inside. Thank God: it was single stall. The door clicked shut behind him and he exhaled with a grateful sigh.

Leaning lightly against the sink, Ivy found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, gaze trailing over the curve of his cheeks, pink from the cold—or maybe from the heat still creeping up his spine—to the shadow cast by his lashes, then followed the upturned slope of his nose down to parted lips. They were dry from the winter air, and he reached to pluck off a flake of skin. He’d have to raid III’s stash of chapstick again.  

With slightly trembling fingers, Ivy pushed the fringe of his hair back. Finally, he locked eyes with his reflection. The bright light radiating from the sconce next to the mirror lit up his irises, making the blue hue cast over grey shine like sea water.

Ivy knew he was handsome; or at least people told him so often enough. They’d fawn over the arch of his neck when he tipped his head back, cooed over the spark of his eyes when he grinned surreptitiously beneath his mask. Women and men and everyone, really, showered him in compliments without ever having seen his face. But at that moment, he didn’t feel all that.

 He felt like the small posh boy from Swansea. Shy and always stumbling over his words. A too-round face, always marked with mask indents. Red-rimmed eyes from crying himself to sleep again. None of that was there now. But his thoughts became slippery, and the memory of it clung on, drawing its claws up the back of his neck.

He frowned at himself, confused at the old ache spreading in his chest. He was loved. He was cherished. He was strong. He was healthy. That he made damn sure of.

And he was wanted. Desperately. He knew he was—

Just… not always.

A sharp knock at the door made him jump, a startled little yelp escaping before he could swallow it.

“Ives?” Vessel’s voice drifted through the thin wood. “You alright? They want us for sound check.”

Already?

Ivy didn’t answer. He opened the door instead and blinked up at Vessel who stood so close their chests were nearly flush. Vessel looked down at him with that devastating tenderness, his perfect smile lighting him up from the inside out.

“Hey,” he said quietly, lifting a hand to gently cup Ivy’s cheek. His thumb swept under his eye, as if he were wiping away a phantom tear.

Ivy shuddered, feeling his skin light up under the touch. He couldn’t help the pleased smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Hey,” he muttered back, the flutter of his lashes failing to fully cover the shyness in the word.

Vessel considered him a moment longer, then dropped his hand from Ivy’s cheek to take his hand instead and laced their fingers together without hesitation.

“C’mon, the stage is calling,” he said, his smile becoming ever brighter, and gave Ivy a little tug.

Between the warmth unfurling in his chest and the heat pooling low in his groin, Ivy felt more flushed than ever. He could do nothing but follow Vessel, dazed and a little breathless, with a dopey grin spreading across his face.

Not five minutes after sound check had wrapped up, III stepped up to the catering spread before him and eyed the chicken thighs suspiciously. They looked juicy enough. And they smelled deliciously herby—rosemary and thyme, he was sure and maybe hints of sage and oregano. No garlic, though. Shame. He sighed and loaded three onto his plate.

By the time he plopped into the seat opposite II, he’d added a heap of roast potatoes and a splash of bright, colorful salad. The tables were round and draped with cheap tablecloths, but the chairs weirdly comfortable. That was a first.

II, meanwhile, was fidgeting with a napkin. He looked like a wound-up spring, on the verge of launching into space. It reminded III of one of those terrifying Jack in the Box toys—if one could even call those monstrosities toy. But there was a tiny, bemused smile and the familiar crinkle at the corner of his eyes betraying him, hinting at… something III couldn’t quite place.

III tore off a piece of chicken with his teeth, chewed, then immediately shoveled potatoes into his mouth. Garlic really would’ve made the whole thing sing angelic psalms of alliums, but the meat was tender, and the potatoes crunched satisfyingly so III couldn’t complain… much.  

II was still fiddling with the napkin, only half-heartedly nibbling on his salad.

After sating the worst of his hunger, III wiped his mouth and set down his cutlery.

“Ives sounded good today,” he said, eyes locked fixedly on II’s face. “Sometimes I can’t believe those brutal screams are coming out of our precious, needy little sloth.”

II blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “Sloth?”

III shrugged. “Clingy. Dopey. And very cute when tired.”

II chuckled despite himself. He wasn’t wrong.

“So, what does that make me then?”

III studied him like he was inspecting a new, fancy bass pickup, brows knitting together in deep concentration.

“A rabbit,” he declared with finality as if it was completely obvious.

“A rabbit?!” II squealed, voice jumping half an octave.

“Yes. A rabbit,” III repeated, nodding serenely. “Twitchy. Adorable. Thumps when angry.”

“Ridiculous,” II grumbled under his breath, balling up the napkin and chucking it straight at III’s grinning face. It bounced off his forehead with a satisfying flop and III cackled with glee.

II rolled his eyes—as always—but failed to suppress the grin curling at his mouth. Because yeah. Fuck. He’d walked right into that.

For a few minutes after, they ate in comfortable silence. Even II gave in, taking proper mouthfuls of salad and swallowing down his risotto with gusto.

When his own plate was clean, III set it aside and cleared his throat quietly, just enough to get II’s attention. He hadn’t really meant to. But II looked up at once, brows lifting in a silent little hm?  

Fuck it.

“Did—did something happen?” III asked, voice low but steady. “Between you and Vess, I mean. I won’t be upset if it did.”

“III.” II’s voice was stern. “No—of course not.” He reached across the table and let the tips of his fingers brush over III’s knuckles. “Do you really think that we wouldn’t tell you—and Ivy—straight away?”

III shrugged. It wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t just pretending. He really wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d be fucking thrilled. He just wanted to know. (Or, ideally, watch.)

He watched II a beat longer, then squinted with something knowing playing under the surface. “No—no you would, wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t need to say it out loud, because II knew—knew exactly what was echoing in III’s head.

I’ll be begging you.

II flushed but didn’t look away. III let his fingers stretch out until they were fully resting over II’s. II didn’t stop him.  

“I kinda like it,” III murmured in a voice like velvet and thorns. “Like you all… flustered like this. Like you’ve been all day.”

II scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he flipped his hand over and laced their fingers together.

Only seconds later, a heavy plop and accompanying dramatic sigh burst the moment.

“Am I interrupting something?” Ivy grinned from ear to ear. Fucking menace. Absolutely insufferable.

“Yes, you are, you prick,” II snapped, though he couldn’t quite keep the grin off his face. “Can’t you see? Twootsie and I are having a moment here.”

Ivy tilted his head and tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips. His eyes flicked between the two.

“Don’t care!” he finally announced and shoved his hands between theirs, linking fingers with both. “I’m here now.”

“See,” III shifted his attention to II. “Sloth.”

II chuckled, giving Ivy’s hand a squeeze.

“Huh?” Ivy looked questioningly between them, his face unsure whether to frown or raise an eyebrow.

“You’re just an adorable piece of pumpkin pie is all,” III said sweetly and gave Ivy’s hair a ruffle within an inch of its life.

It wasn’t until they were mostly painted up—Vessel’s full upper body was already covered in black—that III dared a glance at him. Dared to let himself really look.

All the little self-satisfied smirks and loaded insinuations and radiant but ravenous looks he’d given II all day had had III reeling in all kinds of ways. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself staring stupidly if he let his eyes drift anywhere near Vessel.

But the flashes of bare skin and sinewed muscles in his peripheral vision were too much to ignore. They pulled at him like fucking magnets and once he gave in there was no way back. Predictably, III was completely hung up on Vessel’s bare chest. On the swoop of his collar bone and his strong arms and elegant hands and—oh fucking hell, the low-slung trousers hanging off his hips. It was near indecent.

He was going to combust, right there, in a dramatic cloud of smoke and lust and a complete lack of impulse control.

III forced air through his lungs—he couldn’t ogle Vessel if he was passed out on the floor. Eyes were scorching into him and with a small hitch of his unsteady breath he met Vessel’s hard stare.

No. Not hard.

Focused.

Zeroed in. Unwavering and relentless. Dark but inviting.

Dangerous.

Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.

Vessel’s eyes were like a goddamn siren beckoning to him; beckoning him to let go, to give in, to drown. And III would. He’d probably say thank you with a stupid smile on his face and a hand already down his trousers.

The movement of Vessel’s lips tugged his gaze down. Smooth, perfect bows. Still bare, still a pale light pink begging to be ravished, to be bitten red and swollen.

But the smile they curled into wasn’t what III expected. It wasn’t the wicked, smug smirk Vessel wore when his eyes glazed over with that slightly dazed, slightly threatening sheen. This was the other one. The really dangerous one. The one that shone like the sun and made III’s stomach twist, and his chest jolt and his own smile grow dumb and dopey, like he was completely enchanted and made giddy with affection.

They grinned at one another for a beat longer, locked into place like some sort of ridiculous, beautiful feedback loop.

Then the edges of Vessel’s lips quirked. Just a tiny pull followed by the tip of his tongue darting out between his teeth, swiping over his bottom lip.

Arousal hit III like a ton of bricks and an audible gasp betrayed just exactly this was doing to him.

Vessel just tilted his head and asked smoothly, “Can you do my face?”

III’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he realized what Vessel meant.

“Oh uh—yeah,” he tripped clumsily over the sounds intended to be words. “Isn’t what’s-her-face supposed to do that?”

Shut up shut up shut up, he thought, panicking. Just paint is stupid, beautiful, radiant face.

Vessel chuckled. “I don’t know where she went. And anyway—” he scooped up the pot of paint and extended it to III “—I want you to do it.”

They’re fingers brushed—of course they did—and III startled a little at the warm shiver that crawled from the fleeting, innocuous touch up his arm, through his chest and seemed to seep directly into his bloodstream. Vessel didn’t seem to notice. If he did, he kept it to himself.

III swiped the paint on with careful fingers. He began at the edge of Vessel’s jaw, just below the ear. The skin was freshly shaven, a smooth canvas, perfect for the color to settle on. He scooped up more of the black goop to smudge along the lower part of Vessel’s cheek, then to the tip of his nose. His mask covered most of it, but more and more photos of a pale nose tip had begun to emerge—and as delightful as it was, it looked pretty fucking stupid.

III did the same to the other side of Vessel’s face, keeping his touch gentle and even. He could feel Vessel’s eyes lingering on him. Watching him. So, he kept his own gaze fixed on his work, though a few darting flicks did sneak in. Okay, more than a few. But he was trying. Really.

Only Vessel’s lips were left then. III stared a beat longer, oblivious to the fact that he’d stopped breathing. He wanted to say something. Something funny. Something clever. Something to break the suffocating tension clawing up between them. But his mind was just white noise now, fully and wholly stuck on Vesselvesselvesselvessel.

“III?”

He saw the word formed by Vessel’s lips rather than hearing it. He hummed, delighted at the shape of his name in Vessel’s mouth.

“Lips need painting, too, you know?” Vessel murmured. “Staring won’t quite cut it.”

An uncharacteristically shy giggle slipped out, and III wanted to flush himself down the loo. A giggle? Really? Really? He mumbled an apology, dipping into the pot of paint a final time.

Without a word, Vessel simply parted his lips and waited. Pulse clanging loudly in his skull, III brushed over them with a careful smear of black. But his thumb caught on Vessel’s lower lip, and he froze. Neither of them moved—they didn’t even breathe—for a long moment.

Slowly, III let his hand fall away but before he did, he could’ve sworn he felt a flick of a tongue brush against the pad of his thumb.

His brain cracked in two.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked in a breathy, low voice, eyes still locked on Vessel’s mouth.

It curled into a coy smile. “But you’ll ruin my pretty makeup.”

Vessel’s dark blue eyes sparked with pleasure when III looked up to meet them.

“Promise to be extra careful,” he whispered so quietly he hardly heard his own voice.

“Well,” Vessel murmured, just as quietly. “In that case…”

He caught III gently under the chin, easily pulling him into a warm but achingly chaste kiss.

III leaned in, hungry for more. But Vessel pulled away maddeningly softly, leaving behind tingles and trembling lips and a body strung tight with want. III blinked at him, dazed and happy.

Yep. Fucked. He was absolutely, entirely, definitely fucked.

Sometime after, somewhere backstage, II paced restlessly. The chatter of crew and last-minute grunted instructions beat pointlessly against his skull—he wasn’t listening anyway. His nerves felt exposed at the ends. Painfully raw. Electric. The moment he popped the IEMs into his ears, the world went quiet—more or less. No clicks yet. No playback, no instruments, no Vessel. Just a muted, barely-there rush of muffled voices and cheers in the dark. It was almost peaceful. Except—

Vessel’s voice was there. Not in his monitors. Right at his ear. Whispered against his skin in a warm wave of breath.

“I know you heard me.”

II’s entire body jolted. His skin prickled, a shiver chasing down his spine. He swallowed hard, breath catching half in his throat, half in his chest.

There was no time to answer. Another voice filled his ears, this one transmitted over the IEMs from somewhere further backstage. He didn’t really hear it, but he knew what it said anyway.

What he did hear was Vessel. Not just the breathy whisper from moments ago. Not just the voice at his ear. But the echo of that low, wrecked moan of his name in the dark morning hours.

It’d been obvious that Vessel knew. Painfully so. But hearing it confirmed just like that? So casually, so surely, so full of goddamn satisfaction? It made II’s pulse rage in his chest, slamming into his ribs hard enough to hurt.

He needed to move; needed to get to his kit. The voice in his ear repeated itself—more sternly this time—and it pushed him into motion. He set one wobbly foot in front of the other, slowly slinking through the dark, then crawled up the riser to finally slide in behind the drums. His body had moved on muscle memory alone. But his hands were already shaking.

Vessel caught the exact moment II’s eyes snagged on his belt line.

There was a lull in the drum line, synths pounding a steady rhythm through the room, and II bopped his head, keeping time. Vessel could feel II’s eyes burning into him and when he turned and shifted just right, the head nodding stuttered. II was too far away to see it, but he knew his bright blue eyes had dilated into dark, hungry orbs. It was like he could feel the breath catch—like the air was too thin and stood too still for a fraction of a moment.

And he grinned.

The last of the apprehension swept out of him like a flood. All he felt was thrill. Something scorching, all-consuming, and deadly. A hunger and impatience curling so deep in his body that every breath felt like inhaling poison. The kind that ran through your veins and seeped into your heart and consumed you entirely before you’ve even realized what was happening.

II’s attention was locked on him. Wherever he moved, II’s eyes followed.

It was deliberate—every step, every sway of his hips, every flick of his fingers was for II, and II alone.

The crowd screamed for him, too, drinking in the sex radiating off him. But the sounds barely registered.

Even the piercing stares of the others were nothing compared to the desperation in II’s gaze.

Prowling the stage like a feral animal, Vessel cast a glance sideways. He let his fingers skim the waistband of his pants, thumb dipping beneath the fabric just for II to see.  

And it did something to him. Knowing he was being watched. That he was being devoured. That he—his body, his movement, his mere existence—was enough to provoke this. It made his head spin with an intoxicating, addictive sensation.

So, he kept doing it.

Hypnosis was—like always—perfect. That was, until the end. II was late on the snare hit. It had been hardly more than a stutter, a mere fraction of a moment, but it’d been there. And Vessel knew, it’d been his fault.

He smirked at II, endlessly pleased. He’d made II fuck up. He’d wormed so deep into his mind, had such a tight hold on him, that II had faltered, had done something he never had before. Made a mistake.

Had it been the painfully slow raise of his arms? His sleeves slipping down and exposing the bare skin, muscles shifting and tightening with the movement. Or had it been the gradual stretch of the sliver of unpainted skin lengthening above his belt? Or maybe it’d been the slight bounce of his admittedly not altogether soft cock when he’d hopped into the usual position.

Whatever it had been, it had clearly pushed II past the edge. He looked about ready to bolt, like a tiny prey animal that knew it was about to be devoured. And Vessel was ready for the hunt.

He didn’t let up after that. If anything, Vessel doubled down, achingly aware that his own cock was pulsing in time with his heartbeat, but he forced his attention on the music. He let the words form in his mouth, rounding his lips around each vowel with meticulous care—which, unfortunately, only let his mind drift to what else he’d like to curl his lips around.

It was with that thought that Vessel stalked toward Ivy. He was already on his knees, head tilted up in reverence and reaching eagerly.

Jesus fuck. It was like Ivy was begging for it—not just a kiss. Begging to take Vessel, all of him, let himself be—

Vessel forcefully put a stop to the thought. Not now. Not when he could feel II’s eyes piercing into him, hear the thousands of voices, feel the heat of the lights and the fog curling around him. Not when he was about to kiss him but had to hold himself back.

In fact, he probably should’ve held back a little more. Because when his teeth grazed Ivy’s bottom lip, the low whimper that slipped from his lips went straight to Vessel’s cock. Even through the thin Lycra, he could feel the hot, damp flick of a tongue pleading for more. With every damn ounce of self-control remaining, Vessel pulled away just in time for his cue. Blunt fingernails scratched lightly against Ivy’s jaw as he pulled away and he heard another little head-spinning sound from Ivy. His cock swelled and hardened into an undeniable erection, the outline most definitely visible through the light fabric of his trousers. But there was nothing Vessel could do about it now but deal with the inevitable comments sure to litter the comments of every post showing his situation. Nothing but pray to all the gods (except Sleep, obviously) that his utter Judas cock wouldn’t leak precum mid-fucking-show.

Frankly, this may have been a terrible idea—what had started out as undoing II had now turned into cruelly edging himself into wrecked, needy oblivion. It would be a goddamn miracle if he made it through the rest of the show without coming in his pants from the sheer thrill of it all.

But it was worth it—the last sounds of the instruments and Vessel’s voice had hardly rung out when II shoved himself out from behind the kit and all but bolted off stage. Vessel couldn’t help the chuckle as he raised his arms above his head, clasping his hands together in gratitude to the fans.

And he really was grateful. There was no question about it. But right now… right now he wanted to get the fuck off stage and hunt down II.

With a pounding heart, Vessel ambled off stage, his composure wound tight and splitting at the seams. He passed into the wings, pushed through a door, and cracked. Without another thought, he ripped out his in-ears and pressed them into the hands of the nearest tech—it didn’t matter who it was, they’d manage to get them back to Monitors.

A few people tried to get his attention, but he brushed them off with an impatient grunt. Every second he lingered was a second less he could spend with II. A second less spent taking him apart. A second less teasing filthy moan after filthy moan out with his tongue. A second less to relieve him from the torture Vessel had just put him through all evening.

III and Ivy caught up to him, pulling him to a halt by the sleeve of his robe. Vessel stopped and turned to face them, their faces flushed and damp with sweat, hair sticking against their foreheads, flat from being pressed down by their masks.

Ivy opened his mouth to speak but Vessel beat him to it.

“II and I have to settle something with the venue,” he said in a firm voice that only shook a little with the impatient arousal coursing through his veins. “Why don’t you two head back to the bus, yeah? Heard someone say the water pressure’s shit in the showers here.”

“Can’t be worse than on the bus,” III mumbled, frowning.

Vessel shrugged and smiled sheepishly, although it was a bit too strained. “If you wanna risk it, go ahead.”

Ivy grimaced. “Ugh, no thanks.”

He turned to III and absentmindedly linked their fingers. “C’mon,” he said, giving III’s hand a little tug. “I call dibs.”

Vessel watched them go, low voices and sharp giggles carrying down the hallway. They pushed past a frazzled-looking venue tech, then disappeared around the corner.

A pang of guilt lurched in Vessel’s stomach. He hadn’t lied—the showers really were shit at the venue. But that hadn’t been the reason he sent them away.

It was II. II who’d been there (nearly) from the beginning. Who’d shown up at his doorstep with drumsticks in hand and a huge, dopey grin plastered on his face, and just never really left. Who’d held him through the darkest days and nights, who’d get lost with him in the haze of melodies, who understood his mind better than he did himself. Who’d crawled under Vessel’s skin, broken him wide open, and shown him that touch—closeness, connection, love—was something precious. That it was not something he had to earn, but that he deserved simply by existing. By being him.

So, Vessel stood, suspended in time, caught somewhere between desperate lust and bone-deep fear—thrill, he realized—and stared at the back of the door. His eyes traced the muddy brown paint, noted the small crack by the handle, and settled on the label card reading Sleep Token. Just beyond, he knew, was II, likely spiraling, likely wrecked and sweat-drenched and ready. Ready to be taken. Ready for Vessel.

With a last shuddering breath and pounding heart, Vessel let himself feel it. Every ounce of need. He let the arousal flood through him, let the sweet sting of hunger saturate his blood, let his skin crawl with it. The echoes of Sleep’s saccharine whispers were silent. The phantoms of Layla’s hands left him untouched. The cruelty in Lucas’s eyes faded to nothing. For the first time maybe ever, there was no shadow hiding in the wings.

There was only him. Nothing more. Nothing less. His desire. His hunger. His. He belonged to himself.

And now, so would II.

Finally, Vessel reached for the handle with a slow but surprisingly steady hand. He pressed down and felt the quiet, satisfying clink. As he stepped inside, the sound of it closing behind him shuddered down his spine.

II stood with both hands braced on the counter opposite the door, staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes flicked toward Vessel as the door shut, and his entire frame stilled.

Their eyes met in the reflection and, fuck—

Vessel’s breath caught but a slow, sure smirk unfurled.

II looked wrecked, exactly like Vessel had predicted. He was flushed up to his ears, his skin gleaming with sweat. It soaked through the edges of his shirt, and a small droplet trailed down his temple. His bright blue eyes were eclipsed by the black orbs of his blown pupils. He was heaving, chest rising and falling quickly, like he’d tried to outpace a predator, only to be cornered anyway. Christ, he was trying so hard to hold it together—and failing beautifully.

The sight alone sent a shockwave through Vessel, and he sucked in a grounding breath. He twisted the lock easily and the bolt fell into place with a final clink, as if sealing their fate.

The corners of Vessel’s mouth quirked, his sure smirk turning nothing short of dangerous. He cocked his head.

“You seemed a bit distracted today, Twoofer,” he said, letting the words drip like warm caramel.

His own voice sounded different, somehow. Darker. Lower. Laced in something primal.

II’s breath hitched visibly, and a faint tremor passed down to Vessel’s fingertips as he watched. II was just so fucking pretty like this.

His eyes locked on the hollow of II’s throat, watching it flutter with each swallow. Vessel tracked the movement carefully; the need to sink his teeth into the graceful curve, to mark the perfect colorful skin clawed its way up his spine, into his chest, and settled somewhere low and deep.

For the first time, there was no shame in it. No guilt. No fear. Just the crushing need to get his fucking hands on II now.

“You know full well why,” II rasped, voice cracking halfway through.

Vessel finally moved toward him in slow, controlled steps, his gaze fixing II in place. He could see II trying to calm his breath. Could see the ripple of muscle along his arms as his knuckles turned white gripping the counter. Could feel the tension in the room snapping tauter and thrumming like a plucked string.

“Oh, I don’t think I do,” he whispered, rounding on II but not quite pressing against him. He only placed both hands on his shoulders with a strong, possessive grip. Heat bled through II’s shirt, and Vessel felt a shudder beneath his palm.

“Why don’t you tell me?” he purred, his breath ghosting against II’s ear, and felt another visceral shiver. His lips were close enough to II’s jaw that he could feel the shadow of a stubble. He almost—almost—moved to nip at the soft, sensitive skin just below II’s ear but held back with threadbare restraint. He’d endured the ache this long—what were another few minutes if it meant watching II fall apart from just a look and a few whispers.

Their eyes locked in the mirror again and for one electric, loaded second, they stared at one another, and Vessel felt weightless.

And then, he split right open.

Ravenous, insatiable need slammed into him like a tidal wave. With an almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, he fisted II’s hair and tugged his head back sharply, exposing the untouched, smooth column of his throat. The rush of control and arousal surged through him so viciously it almost knocked the air from his lungs.

“Tell me what you want, Tootsie.” His voice was a demanding growl.

II twisted out of his grip and turned to face him, trembling slightly. Dark, dazed eyes traced over Vessel’s body, dropping to the beltline of his trousers; then, for only a second, they dipped lower before snapping back up.

Fuck. FUCK.

That wide-eyed, hungry, overwhelmed look made Vessel’s cock twitch. It was unbearable. It was perfect.

His own words barely registered as the world narrowed to a sharp point of need—his own echoed in II’s eyes. II whimpered heady words in desperate broken whispers. They rang in Vessel’s skull, vibrated through his bones, saturated his blood, ached in his groin. With an explosion of sensation far more intense than he could’ve ever anticipated, Vessel felt the light brush of fingers along the unpainted line of skin above his belt. He dug his own fingers into his palms, seeking that grounding prick of nails marking flesh. He found nothing. All his body could feel was the tips of II’s fingers brushing over the strip of skin.

Finally, the last of Vessel’s self-control cracked. He fisted II’s hair roughly and yanked, tearing a helpless little sound from II’s lips.

Vessel mumbled something that made II smirk—as if he had any idea what he was getting himself into. Without a thought, he pressed into II until the backs of his thighs hit the counter, then caged him in with his hands planted firmly on either side of his head. It was like he owned the air between them; like he swallowed each breath, claiming it for himself.

But then, hesitation—

It flickered in II’s gaze: the ghost of doubt. Vessel recognized it immediately and he eased back just a fraction, loosening his hold on the space between them. Just enough to let him breathe. To let him decide.  

Vessel’s voice softened into its usual steady, harmonious timbre.  “Colors?”

II’s reply was instant and certain. “Green, go. Orange, slow down. Red, stop immediately.”

His gaze didn’t waver and, although his body was taut with tension, that half-lidded, impatient look returned.

“Which is it?” Vessel asked, but he knew the answer before it came.

“Green.”

The word had barely left II’s mouth when Vessel was on him. His hand gripped II’s jaw, fingers digging into the slim, elegant bone to keep him still.

“I said: tell me.”

II’s mouth opened then closed again, but his words refused to form.

God, he was falling apart in Vessel’s hands.

It was intoxicating and Vessel was desperate for more. More of those pathetic whimpers. More of those broken, hitched breaths. More of the trembling need. He needed him. He needed II. Needed to slowly unravel him, to reduce him to a moaning mess of ecstasy.

With an almost feral, animalistic growl Vessel didn’t realize came from his own chest, he spun II around in one fluid motion, shoved him against the wall, and let instinct take over.

He pinned II in place with the weight of his body, hard cock pressing against II’s lower back. He was muttering desperate little sounds again—they could hardly be called words—and each hiccupping breath, each full-body shiver wrecked Vessel more.

“Good boy,” he purred, his lips to the shell of II’s ear.

II shattered. A strangled whine more needy than any before slipped from his mouth. Vessel’s stomach clenched; he was sure II had felt his cock twitch.

Praise.

II liked praise.

This? This was going to be the end of him.

Grip tight on his upper arm, Vessel spun II around again, keeping him pushed firmly against the wall. But then he found the soaked, tented fabric of II’s trousers.

Just like that, Vessel’s patience snapped.

He yanked II from the wall and shoved him roughly to his knees, then forced him to meet his eyes with a pull on his hair. Impatient fingers fumbled at Vessel’s belt until the buckle finally came undone, but II dragged his trousers down in cruelly slow movements. Vessel found himself panting, fighting the urge to rip them off himself. No—he wanted to let II have this. He wanted to let II have everything.

When he finally stood bare, II—kneeling at his feet as if in goddamn worship—drank him in; with wide eyes and a slack jaw he just stared. His lips were only half a breath from the tip of Vessel’s cock, and he wanted nothing more than to thrust forward, to sink deep into II’s willing, warm mouth.

And still—he stopped himself. Yanked sharply on II’s hair.

“You said touch.” He forced the words through a clenched jaw. “Be a good boy and stick to your word.” 

II’s gasping moan and needy begging were worth every second of agony. So were the slow, controlled strokes of II’s fingers and the friction of his palms and the teasing grip pulling out moans and curses from Vessel’s throat.

He felt II’s touch slip lower, the tips of his fingers grazing his entrance. His hand—still tangled in II’s hair—shot to II’s wrist, stilling him with bruising force. Panic flicked briefly across II’s expression as he gazed up at Vessel.

“Not yet.” His voice was hoarse and just as desperate as II’s now. “Not until I’ve utterly ravaged you.”

His brain hadn’t caught up yet when he sank into II. The sensation of damp heat and tight pressure zapped through him, and his vision blurred out, becoming one bright explosion of white behind his lids. II relaxed his mouth, letting his throat open willingly for Vessel to slide deeper, inch by inch. Completely losing himself, Vessel thrusted forward. II gagged instinctively and sucked in a ragged breath, but Vessel gave him hardly a second before he buried himself to the hilt again. And again. And again.

He was taking. Demanding. Giving.

Tears—perfect, reverent tears—streaked down II’s cheeks. Vessel met his gaze and ran his fingers through II’s hair, fingernails dragging lightly across his scalp, and whispered praise in a voice nearly delirious with pleasure.

A sound more an animalistic groan than anything tore itself from Vessel’s chest when he came. II let him fill his mouth with cum, then obediently swallowed it, taking it all down.

Vessel pulled back slowly. II’s eyes were dazed, heavy-lidded, lips swollen and shining with spit and cum. Vessel stared at him—drank him in—with adoration carved deep into every breath.  

“Look at you,” he cooed, just as wrecked, as he reached down to smear the mess of cum and spit across II’s flushed, swollen mouth with the pad of his thumb. “So fucking perfect like this.”

And he was. Ruined and radiant. A vision of obedient, primal need. Vessel’s chest ached with it.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do.

“Thank you,” II whispered. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me take you.”

The words—so sincere, so adoring—broke something open in Vessel. Shattered him clean down the middle. The heat that surged through him felt almost sacred. His knees buckled from the weight of it, and he wanted to collapse, to press his forehead to the floor and worship at II’s feet.

Instead, he hauled II to his feet in one fluid motion, his hand flat and possessive on his chest. He pushed until II stumbled backward, catching against the armrest of the couch. He stripped II with frantic precision, yanking the sweat-soaked shirt over his head then tearing the trousers and boxers down in one swift tug. He wanted to be slow, to savor this moment. But there was no time—the need was too loud.

 He gripped II’s jaw in one hand, while the other closed around his hip hard enough to bruise. The tips of their cocks brushed in a maddening, agonizing touch. II twitched in his hold like he’d been shocked, hips canting forward in a desperate little grind to chase the friction he so badly wanted. Vessel didn’t let him have it. He held him just shy of it, breath trembling against II’s throat as he laughed. It was a soft, delighted sound. Almost cruel.

Still mumbling and whimpering things Vessel couldn’t quite make out, II let himself be spun around and bent over the armrest. Vessel heard his breath hitch when he dropped to his knees behind him.

He scraped his nails down II’s back, leaving long red streaks, and felt II shiver all the way through. Then his hands slid lower, greedy and rough as they palmed the curve of II’s ass and spread him open. II moaned into the upholstery and Vessel didn’t know if it was a sound of need or surrender.

Didn’t matter.

He was going to take him apart either way.

Vessel didn’t just hear II’s breath catch. He felt it—the muscles twitching and tightening under his tongue and the sharp, helpless clench rippling through him. Vessel couldn’t stifle the moan it dragged out of him.

He licked deliberately over the flushed, sensitive skin again, slower this time. He wanted to savor it. Wanted to claim it for himself.

God, the taste of him. Salt and sweat and something vaguely bitter beneath it all. Vessel’s lips dragged a little lower, breath warm and damp against the twitching muscle, and he felt II shudder.

Part of him wanted to devour—to bury his face in the heat of him until II sobbed. But not yet. Not yet. The torment was too intoxicating, too addictive.

The game—the teasing, the cruel rhythm of holding back—burned bright in his veins, so he licked soft, featherlight, barely-there touches that made II writhe and clutch at the upholstery with shaking hands.

He pressed a kiss to the very centre of him. Then another. Then paused, just to hear II curse and whine and try to push back onto his face.

That did it.

Vessel took mercy. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe it was damnation rather than grace.

He groaned as he buried his tongue as deep as he could reach, his grip bruising on II’s hips as he hauled him closer. The sound II made couldn’t be called human—something obscene and cracked and utterly ruined ripped out of him and bounced off the walls.

Vessel was lost.

He had no thoughts. No direction. Just the slick heat and taste and the knowledge that he had II at his mercy, just a moaning, trembling mess.

He licked him open in relentless strokes, spit-slick and downright depraved.

When II begged to cum, Vessel pulled away with a gasp. He hauled II upright and his knees buckled. He caught him easily with strong hands and rolled his hips into II’s ass, grinding against him.

That wrecked little whimper…

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Somehow, they made it to the mirror.

Vessel wasn’t sure how. All he knew was that II’s body was flush against his, wrists pinned behind him, their chests heaving in tandem. He could feel II’s heartbeat pounding against his own. Feel every shiver, every twitch of overstimulated muscle. Smell the sweat and sex hanging thick in the air.

They looked wrecked. A distant thought flashed through Vessel’s mind: sacred.

Black paint smeared across their sweaty skin, mouths red and raw. A deep crimson mark bloomed just below II’s tattoo, faint but already darkening. Their chests rose and fell together, both of them trembling. They were stripped bare, inside and out.

“Color?” Vessel mumbled into the crook II’s neck, but it came out as a plea rather than a question.

“Green.” II’s voice scraped from his throat. “Definitely green.”

Vessel grinned wickedly.

“Good,” he drawled, dragging the word out just long enough to let the tension coil tight again. “Because I don’t want to fuck you.”

Panic flashed in II’s eyes and Vessel allowed himself only a moment to relish the desperation.

“I want you,” Vessel whispered, lips brushing the shell of II’s ear, “to be a good boy—”

II gasped and Vessel felt the flutter of his throat.

“—and fuck me.”

For a breath, the world stopped. Then Vessel let go, loosening his grip just enough for II to break free and spin to face him. One slender hand rose and ghosted up Vessel’s throat, pressing lightly against the rapid pulse there.

Vessel was transfixed. Every atom buzzed with raw energy. With expectation.

“Always knew you had to be a desperate, needy little switch,” II teased, too cocky for his own good.

Fuck no.

Vessel surged forward, crowding II backwards and casting him in shadow. “I said fuck me,” he snarled, jaw clenching. “Now.”

II didn’t need to be told again.

Vessel obeyed his command to get on the floor easily. The wood was cold against his spine, but with II’s weight pressing in from above him, the edges of the world became soft, and it all vanished. He felt himself become… pliable. Like his soul would wrap around any form II gave him.

Before II could move to stop him, Vessel spat into his own hand and reached down between his thighs, two fingers sinking into himself with a low moan.

A sharp sting on his wrist stopped him.

Vessel froze, but then—

Oh. OH.

The slide of II’s fingers was slower, deeper, more deliberate. Precise. A high, needy, frankly embarrassing whine slipped from Vessel as II curled them just right. A third fingers slipped in, and he cried out again, back arching and toes curling.

He begged. He begged as he moaned and gasped and squirmed beneath II. Begged to be fucked—

Fuck. The stretch, the fullness, was dizzying. His body jolted, breath knocked clean from his chest, at the sudden overwhelming sensation of II thrusting into him. There was the faintest shadow of pain, the pleasure of it being almost too much.

But he wanted more still. His arms flew up, grabbing at II’s shoulders, and his legs locked around him on instinct, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

“Color?” II asked somewhere beyond the veil of bliss.

“Fuck’s sake, II—” Vessel choked out, “—move. Now.”

He did.

Vessel’s mind went blank. He gave himself over to the feeling. Gave himself over to letting go; to the bliss of being taken. To the pleasure as II fucked into him, driving deeper and harder until the world was nothing but pulsing nerves and slick, shaking limbs. Vessel clung to him, digging his nails into his back, pulling him in tighter, whining into his throat. II was inside him, gripping his thighs, tugging his hair, pressing rough fingers into flesh but still, he wasn’t close enough. Could never be close enough.

Every thrust sent electricity cracking through his body, but the low pull in his gut coiled tighter and hotter, writhing into something exquisite and unbearable. His muscles shook. His back arched.

The world narrowed to a pinprick of sensation.

“Need to cum,” Vessel gasped, voice cracking on the words.

And II fucked him harder.

His hand slid down and wrapped around Vessel’s cock and stroked. Once. Twice.

That was all it took.

Vessel’s orgasm ignited like a lightning strike to the base of his spine. His body arched off the floor, a ragged half-cry, half-scream bursting from his throat. His vision whitewashed. His thighs trembled and locked around II’s hips. Pleasure scorched through him—not in crashing, endless waves but like an unstoppable, vicious storm of fire.

Cum shot between them, spattering across both their chests and stomachs, slicking their skin, mingling with sweat and paint and breath. But he barely felt it—he was gone, swept under by a tide of sensation and overwhelm so all-consuming it nearly hurt.

And still—II didn’t stop.

He kept fucking Vessel through it, deeper, harder, merciless and reverent, dragging the climax out past the point of bearing. Vessel sobbed a soundless moan and his whole body convulsed, twitching with overstimulated tremors. There was nothing. No thought. No voice. No breath.

He didn’t want any of it.

He wanted this: to be owned and taken and known.

Only when II finally came—gripping his hips and groaning into his throat, his thrusts faltering at last—did Vessel start to drift back down. Their bodies slumped together, slick and heaving, tangled on the floor.

They were both spent, their bodies completely limp and boneless, their skin sweat drenched, and chests sticky.

Vessel matched his breaths to II’s, still quick and heavy but slowing as the orgasm made way for the warm afterglow of… whatever the hell that had been because that hadn’t been just sex. He wanted to pull II in closer, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

II said something about not kissing him and Vessel replied with something kind and genuine, making him smile, but his mind twisted and turned around only one thought. Though his lips still tingled and he could feel II’s liquid slowly dripping out of him, the yearning for III and Ivy burned under his skin.

That heat curled around him, in him, snaked its way through him. And for a moment Vessel couldn’t quite believe that he felt all… this. That he was allowed to. That he could.

“Come on then,” II’s voice was warm but there was something playful. Knowing, maybe. “I’m sure they’re waiting for us.”

Vessel grinned. Yeah, they probably were. And he was waiting for them, too. Had been waiting for far too long.

And now, finally, he would get to have them.

He’d get to be theirs.

All of him.

And all of them.

Chapter Text

There was a lightness in the air when Vessel and II clambered onto the bus. Something pure; not quite innocence, but close. Like floating, weightless but tethered, held by something steady beneath. Something safe. But even in that quiet, the faintest dark, turbulent undercurrent coiled just beneath the surface. The charge of a secret. Of words left unsaid in daylight. Of tension passed between bodies, carried in the curl of a lip and the flicker of an eye.

The others were sprawled across the front couch. Ivy reclined against an absurd amount of pillows propped against the armrest, his feet in III’s lap. His hair was damp and his cheeks still flushed from the shower. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, and wore only his obnoxious Sleep Token shorts, Vessel’s face ludicrously stretched across the fabric. The blackout tattoo on his forearm shifted as he turned a page in his book, tension rippling through his muscles.

III’s hands were still stained with red body paint, his hair sweaty and dishevelled, a smug grin plastered on his face. He was probably spewing nonsense in the official unofficial Discord. Or shitposting deranged memes. Probably both. 

They glanced up when the bus door opened and closed, only briefly acknowledging Vessel and II’s entrance. Their eyes darted back to what they had been doing, but a subtle twitch of a smile tugged at each of their lips. They weren’t looking directly at the two flushed men stumbling in, but they didn’t miss a thing.

“Well, well, well,” Ivy tutted, “what have you two been up to? Been waiting for ages.” He turned a page in his book absently, his smile growing wider.

II’s fingers twitched at his sides, and he felt his face burn. His shirt still stuck to his skin where he’d missed wiping off Vessel’s cum. He was only too aware of the marks on his neck, still stinging where Vessel had bitten down. For a moment, he wondered if the deep red bled through the colorful canvas of his skin. He hoped it did.

Vessel’s fingertips brushed over his hip in a small, possessive touch—a reminder of what had just happened—and II’s breath stuttered. 

A slow, teasing, absolutely wicked smirk curled the edges of Vessel’s mouth. That same insatiable hunger still simmered under his skin and flashed in his eyes. Fuck, he hoped the others noticed it—noticed how he burned for them.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he hummed, letting his fingers drag more firmly across II’s waistband. 

III slowly looked up from his phone (which he hadn’t really seen since the bus door had opened, anyway), eyes flicking between them. His smile bloomed into a wide, knowing smirk. “I see.” 

II’s heart hammered against his ribs, desire rushing back, urgent and dizzying.

God, Vessel had been perfect. That relentless hunger. The control. Cruel in the best way. But now…

Now III was watching him.

III, whose self-satisfied grin was laced in mischief. Whose fingers curled into the fabric of his sweats like he was trying to anchor himself. Whose eyes turned hungry when they dragged over II’s body. 

And Ivy.

Jesus fucking Christ. Ivy. With those long-lashed, heavy-lidded steely-blue eyes glinting up at him. With that coy smirk far too dangerous for his pretty face. And Jesus—his tongue flicked over his bottom lip, then bit down lightly, and II nearly choked on his own breath.

Vessel felt the heat of II’s body. He turned to him, his smirk softening and turning into a small, affectionate smile. He raised a hand to the back of II’s head, fingers slipping into his hair, and pulled him closer.

With one last warm breath between them, Vessel closed the distance.  

The kiss was slow and deep, the complete opposite of what had transpired only minutes before. This was all warmth and open invitation, unrushed and gentle.

II reached up, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Vessel’s shirt, pulling himself closer and rising onto his toes. He deepened the kiss, tongue trailing over Vessel’s bottom lip. 

Vessel opened for him immediately, lips parting with a small, needy gasp. He gripped II’s hips, dragging him in and pressing their bodies as close as physically possible.

Then, between kisses, a sly smile crept across Vessel’s lip. He bit down on II’s lower lip. A quiet, wanting moan slipped from II’s throat. 

That did it. III was set into motion.

His expression shifted with danger in an instant. “Absolutely not,” he growled, voice pitched lower than usual. 

He stalked across the space with two long strides and didn’t hesitate, grabbing Vessel by the jaw and dragging him away from II.

II whimpered from the sudden loss, but III didn’t even glance at him. His lips crashed against Vessel’s before anyone could react. There was nothing gentle about it. Just searing, raw need.

Vessel moaned into it, meeting him with just as much ferocity. Their tongues tangled and teeth scraped against lips, hands gripping and pulling. Vessel wound his fingers into III’s hair and tugged hard. A growl rumbled in III’s throat. His hand snapped up to Vessel’s throat, thumb pressing against his pulse, squeezing just enough to make his breath stutter.

Only when Vessel loosened his grip did III release him. He pulled back just far enough to see the damage; to see Vessel gasping, chest heaving, eyes glinting darkly. And smiling. Asking. Challenging.

Ivy leapt up, eyes never leaving the sight before him. He’d wanted this for so damn long and now it was finally right fucking there. 

He greedily reached for II first, tugging him away from Vessel and toward himself.  II didn’t resist and smiled into the kiss. Their mouths met gently—at first. Ivy kissed like he was memorizing him, exploring each movement. He took his time, soaking in the electric warmth of each touch. II responded just as slowly and carefully, each movement mindful and precise. But it didn’t stay slow for long. Ivy’s hands slid to his jaw, tilting II’s face to kiss deeper and hungrier. Impatient and frenzied, his desperation started to show.  He wanted more. He needed more. Needed everything.

A hand on his arm pulled Ivy out of his haze. 

“Ivy.” Vessel’s voice, just a soft, hoarse whisper. “C’mere.”

Ivy turned, dazed and blissful. III was still gripping Vessel around the waist, and he reached out in silent invitation—or, maybe, desperation. Ivy went willingly, and Vessel caught him below the chin to draw him in. The kiss was nothing like III’s. Nothing like II’s. It was a caress, soaked in heat and bleeding affection. Ivy melted into him, his tongue teasing Vessel’s lips open further, the tip brushing the roof of his mouth lightly. Vessel whimpered quietly.

Ivy faltered for a breath, then moved. A roll of his hips. A slow drag. Just enough friction to make his point. Vessel froze for half a heartbeat, then shuddered with pleasure. Ivy could feel him, hard and hot, pressed right against him.

A wicked smirk tugged at his mouth, his own cock twitching with satisfaction and anticipation.

“Did you like that, Vessy?” he murmured, voice dipped low but loud enough for the others to hear. His hand slid up under Vessel’s shirt, palm grazing bare skin. “Me grinding into you?”

“You have no idea.” Vessel’s voice was tight and rough.

III’s eyes flicked down, locking on the space (or lack thereof) between them. 

Then his fingers tangled into Ivy’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp. “Good boy,” he breathed, the hot breath making Ivy shudder. “Getting our Vessy so desperately hard.” He paused, then shot Vessel and II a dark look. “Again.” 

He tugged Ivy’s hair hard enough to sting, yanking him into a demanding, forceful kiss.

Ivy didn’t resist. He kissed back just as urgently, hips twitching forward against Vessel as III held him there. His brain was static. Body buzzing. Fuck. Fuck, he could get used to this.

II couldn’t stop watching. He was enthralled. In awe. His entire being was humming with it. With the pleasure and want and the profound sense that everything was exactly as it should be. They were made for each other, in every way.

He wanted to be in all of it. Wrapped around them. Owned by them. Consumed by them, just as he had been by Vessel. 

Vessel had moved to Ivy’s neck, teeth scraping over the smooth, pale skin. But he held back, savoring the warmth and the slight shiver when his tongue traced along the column of Ivy’s throat. 

II’s arms snaked around Vessel’s hips from behind, his fingers brushing over the tip of his aching erection. Vessel let out a small broken sound; just a desperate, needy sigh, betraying his eagerness. 

At the sound, III broke the kiss with Ivy but didn’t pull away. He let Ivy mouth along his jawline, soft pants warming the skin there.

“Didn’t you just fuck II?” he asked, catching Vessel by the cheek. His thumb dragged slowly over it, the calloused tips scraping the soft, flushed skin.

Vessel’s breath hitched, hands curling tighter into Ivy’s soft flesh. 

II guffawed. “As if,” he grinned, smug as all hell. “I fucked him.” 

Snarky little shit.

III raised his brows with an evil glint in his eye. Ivy paused, dislodging himself from III enough to twist toward them.

“Vessel here is a desperate, needy little switch.” II stared up at him with his huge, crystal-clear blue eyes, a single finger trailing lightly over his arm. “Aren’t you, Vessy?”

Vessel’s head snapped toward him. His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around II’s jaw in a tight, punishing grip and glared down at him.

“And II here will do anything you want him to,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Won’t you, Tootsie?”

II cocked his head. “Yes,” he said, voice airy and agreeable. “I will.”

Jesus fucking Christ. They all felt it—he was desperate to please, whatever that meant. The air in the room was sucked out. Something thick and rich twisted through it, like gravity was being turned on its head.

III pinned the tiny drummer with his gaze. He wanted to take him apart right then and there. He was already imagining it: every sound, every shiver. He wanted to know every inch of II. Wanted to know exactly what’d make him unravel; what’d make him cry out in pleasure. 

II turned to Ivy, gaze heavy, watching him. No, measuring him. He already looked wrecked. His skin was flushed, lips red and raw, and precum had already soaked through the fabric of those hideous shorts. But there was something… defiant under the soft bedroom eyes.

“What?” Ivy asked, voice too light, and that infuriating grin plastered on his face. Flirty, challenging, and very snarky. As always. But now… now there was a new kind of daring lacing it.

II hummed. “Well,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on Ivy. “We know what I like. We know what Vessel likes. And it’s obvious III is gonna pound all of us into the ground.

He paused, brows twitching into a playful frown.

“That only leaves you, Ivers.” 

Ivy’s grin sharpened and he reached down. His fingers slipped into the waistband of II’s trousers, tugging him closer.

“Guess.” 

Vessel scoffed. His large hand wrapped lightly around Ivy’s throat, a finger tracing his jaw. “Seems like you,”—he squeezed, just enough for it to be a promise, “—are gonna need to be put in your place.”

Unblinking, Ivy’s gaze flicked to him.

“Correct.”

Vessel’s grip tightened slightly. “And you aren’t gonna make that easy, are you?” 

“Correct again!” Ivy smiled brightly but his voice was rough, and his head spun for a second from the pressure on his throat.

But then—

He booped Vessel’s nose. Fucking booped it.

Bad move. 

Vessel caught his wrist in a brutal grip that made Ivy flinch. But still, he didn’t waver and only smiled back with that little cocky, shit-eating grin. His eyes gleamed knowingly. 

Fuck. Ivy would get whatever he wanted, and he definitely knew it.

“I think I’ve had enough of that attitude,” Vessel growled under his breath. Before Ivy could do so much as take a breath, Vessel’s lips were on his throat, sucking a deep red mark. Then, he bit down. Hard. Enough for the sharp tips of his canines to break skin.

And Ivy could do nothing but smile and let him.

“Let’s see how long you can keep that up,” Vessel snarled, then licked a slow trail over the angry mark. 

Ivy hummed contentedly, pressing forward and bringing his body flush with Vessel’s. Their cocks brushed through soaked fabric, and both shuddered from the cruel, too-brief friction.

“Not today,” Ivy whispered. “Today I just want you.”

His hand slid up the back of Vessel’s neck, tugging him down into a kiss that left him breathless and his heart full. Like Vessel was his oxygen. His heart. His soul. His everything. 

Slowly, he pulled away, completely dazed and giddy, then looked to the others.

“All of you,” he said, in barely more than a breath. There was need—and something close to command—, desire curling around his words.

II didn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. Not another second.

He grabbed Ivy by the wrist and pulled him along.

“I think we should take this to the back.” 

Chapter Text

They stumbled down the slim aisle of the bus. Hands were everywhere, never leaving one another. They tugged at shirts, grabbed for wrists, reached for any and every part they could find. Their lips crashed against each other, uncoordinated and sloppy and completely unwilling to part for a single moment.

III led the charge, tugging Ivy along. Every few steps, he shoved Ivy against the wall, strong fingers pressing bruises into his hips and waist. More than once a light touch ghosted over his chest, only for a hard pinch of his nipple to pull out a strangled whimper.

Vessel pushed them forward each time with desperate pleas to just get to the fucking back of the bus. III only scoffed and gripped him firmly by the jaw until Vessel yanked his hand away by the wrist, smirk splitting his face in two.  

The tension between them was electrifying. A battle of the wills. Tense and heavy and painfully fucking hot.  

But Ivy was close to crumbling. Those stupid shorts stretched across his aching cock, precum soaking through the point of Vessel’s mask. And for God’s sake, he wanted the real Vessel to wrap his mouth around him.

“I’m usually not one to beg,” Ivy heaved, his voice cracked and heady, “but can we please—please—just get to the goddamn back lounge?”

III turned to him, fixing him with a dark, half-lidded glare.

“You look so pretty already wrecked like this,” he cooed, almost gently into Ivy’s ear, teeth grazing his skin. “All you had to do was ask nicely. I’ll make sure you remember this forever.”

Ivy whined desperately, attempting to push into III’s space. But he was held in place, finger-shaped bruises forming under III’s touch.

The sound sent a jolt down Vessel’s spine. His head spun with it. Heart hammering, cock twitching. II’s voice came from behind him, his hand catching Vessel around the waist.

“V—” Vessel turned, and hungry bright blue eyes stared up at him. “—Up.”  

Usually, it was an affectionate ask. Now, it was insatiable lust. Vessel barely had time to mutter a low “c’mere” before II was wrapped tightly around him. Their cocks pressed against each other and II deliberately rolled his hips.

“Feel that?” II whispered, breath searing against his neck. “So hard for you again. Just you. All yours.”

Vessel nearly stumbled from the sensation, and he instinctively curled his fingers into II’s back. His nails dug crest moon shapes into II’s skin through the thin fabric of his (ruined) t-shirt and II moaned against the searingly hot skin of his throat.

“Want them, Vess,” II whispered. “Now.”  

As answer, Vessel slipped his hands under II’s thighs. He held his slight form in place, pulling him infinitesimally closer. Vessel smiled into the kiss as he carried II the last few meters to the lounge.

But before Vessel reached the ludicrously large couch, a hand fisted the back of II’s shirt and yanked, sending them both toppling over. II’s back hit the couch and he groaned when Vessel landed like a wet noodle on top of him. His leg slotted between II’s, and he shifted just enough to press his thigh against the growing bulge. II let out a broken “Fuuuuuuck”, eyes rolling back.

“Those sounds,” Vessel murmured, “they’ll fucking end me.”

II shivered, eyes finding Ivy smirking lopsidedly down at him. III was kneeling behind him, one hand splayed across Ivy’s chest, the other disappearing into the hem of his (stupid) shorts.

“Took too long,” Ivy mumbled at II before his voice cracked when III’s grip on his cock tightened. “Fuck. I need you. Need to be yours. All of you.”

II’s pulse was rushing in his ears. The need was becoming unbearable.

“Get off, Vess,” he half begged, half demanded, wriggling under the much larger man. Vessel moved obediently but pressed his leg further into II’s growing erection as he rolled off. Another breathy curse made Vessel chortle.

“Such an eager little drummer boy,” Vessel murmured. His eyes flicked up to III. “Isn’t he?”

III held his gaze. “I’d like to know what he can do,” he hummed, genuine curiosity lilting in his tone. “I’ve wanted to find out for so fucking long.”

Then, his attention shifted. “Tell me, II,” he paused, a memory from not so long ago echoing in his mind. “If I touch you, will you beg me to fuck you?”

Heat clawed its way to II’s cheeks, spreading in a red bloom up to his ears. But all that remained from the horror and embarrassment was the unbearable want boiling under his skin. He was left breathless, robbed of an answer by the rushing of his blood.

Ivy’s eyes raked over II, following an invisible trail from the bulge in his sweats to the tattooed skin of his abdomen where his t-shirt had ridden up, and up to his raw, reddened lips parted around ragged breaths.

“Yeah,” Ivy said, low and steady. A last lingering look on II’s flushed face. Then, he looked up at III. “He will. He’ll beg.”  

“Ivy…” II found his voice again. It was still low and breathy and choke full of desperation.

No one said anything for a long, breathless moment. Then, II leaned in, closing the last few inches to Ivy. He dipped his head, pressing a trail of light kisses along Ivy’s throat and over his shoulders, soft at first, then open-mouthed and greedy.

Ivy sighed, eyes fluttering closed as his head tipped back against III’s bare chest.

“Can’t believe this is finallg happening,” he said in a whisper. “Finally get to have you.”

III’s fingers carded gently through his hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver as II’s mouth wandered, tracing from one shoulder across Ivy’s collarbones and to the other., Ivy was practically purring, breath fluttering in his chest.

But then II’s mouth left his skin, leaving Ivy aching for his lips. Every nerve in his body burned for the touch, and a jolt of grief struck him at the loss. A pathetic needy noise escaped him before he could help it.

 But when he blinked his eyes open, he found Vessel already there, yanking II’s shirt over his head, baring his inked torso. For a second, Ivy just stared. Hazed, undone, and overwhelmed by how fucking gorgeous both of them were.Then II’s mouth was on him again, kissing along his jaw, sending a wave of relief and desperate need crashing through him.

III kept winding his fingers through Ivy’s hair, twisting the longest strands around and around as he watched II kiss him, showering him in all the affection Ivy so desperately craved.

“Look at you,” III cooed, “so open and ready. So well taken care of.”

Vessel caught III’s eye. With a single downward flick of his gaze and a twitch at the corner of his mouth, III understood. He canted his hips forward, pressing himself against the curve of Ivy’s lower back. There was only the thin cotton of III’s boxers between them, and Ivy—lost in every soft pass of II’s lips—distantly felt the damp patch of III’s precum on his skin.

III’s strong hands splayed wide across Ivy’s chest, holding him flush in a possessive grip. With a slow, gentle move, III tipped Ivy’s head back, ducking into the crook of his neck. The tip of his tongue traced the shell of Ivy’s ear, feather-light and barely there, sending sparks up his spine. His breath came hot and ragged against Ivy’s jaw, and the low words that followed nearly unravelled him.

“You’re fucking perfection like this,” III muttered, lips brushing over Ivy’s skin. “We’re gonna ruin you. Gonna have you begging.”

II swallowed Ivy’s shaky moan with a greedy open-mouthed kiss. His hands were everywhere, groping and tugging and desperate for a hold.

Only III noticed Vessel shuck off his clothes, leaving him naked and wanting. Their eyes locked, and they shared a wicked grin. Vessel crawled in closer, shuffling on his knees toward II, cock—impossibly hard and leaking—springing with every shift.

III slid his hand down, slipping into Ivy’s shorts again and brushing his thumb over the slick, sensitive tip of Ivy’s cock. Ivy shuddered and bit down on II’s lower lip, desperate for more, hips bucking up into the touch. III kept his gaze fixed on Vessel, silent challenge written in every line of his body.

Finally, Vessel reached II and pressed up behind him, mirroring the others. His hand found II’s bulge, gripping him just hard enough to make him groan and II thrusted forward into his palm.

Vessel and III moved torturously slowly, driving both Ivy and II half-crazy. They whimpered, mumbled, and desperately begged for more.

With matching glints in their eyes, Vessel and III crowded closer, trapping II and Ivy in a feverish tangle of heat and breath and sweat. Their lips crashed in a fierce, demanding kiss—all tongues and teeth and low, guttural sounds vibrating in their throats, every groan feeding the next. At the same time, they both let go of the cocks in their hands, breaking contact in a way that left Ivy and II both gasping, hips bucking helplessly for friction. Pressed together so tightly, every tiny shift sent shocks through their bodies.

Vessel’s cock, pressed tight against II’s back, throbbed. The pressure was maddening. He reached forward, hands finding Ivy’s hips and yanking him in, holding him against II. II was helpless between the other men. His breath stuttered, head falling back onto Vessel’s shoulder, and his mouth parted in a broken plea.

“Ask Ivy what he wants, II,” Vessel breathed into his ear. “Have him tell us how to wreck him. Make him say it.”

III smiled down at them pride and hunger flickering across his face as Vessel took control. When Vessel glanced up, III met him with a quiet, approving, “That’s it. Good boy.”

II struggled to lift his head, already dizzy from the feel of so many bodies pressed around him, so many hands on his skin. His cock ached, his mind spinning from Vessel’s voice, from the friction, from being wanted so thoroughly.

“I—” he tried but his voice caught halfway, cut off when Ivy moved just enough to grind against him, stealing the rest of his words with a sharp gasp. “Ivy,” II panted, voice rough and raw. “Wha—what do you—fuuuck.”  

A sharp nip just above his collarbone made his brain short circuit again. The slow drag of Ivy’s tongue over the mark melted him completely.

Vessel grinned against II’s neck, dark and so goddamn smug.

“What was that, Twoosie? Didn’t catch that. Wanna try again?”

“Fuck V—” II gasped, brain scrambling completely as Vessel practically latched onto his neck, sucking deep, vivid marks onto his skin.

“You’re mine,” he muttered between vicious kisses. “You’ll still feel these in the morning. Everyone will see. Everyone will know.”

III let out a dark chuckle, eyes glinting with pleasure. “Just a little plaything for Vessy, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you, III,” II stammered, barely able to form a coherent sound.

“You’ve got that the wrong way ‘round, babe,” III replied sharply. “Gonna have my cock buried so deep inside you, you’ll be seeing fucking stars”

Ivy made a high, needy noise, his hands scrambling desperately. One twisted into II’s hair, the other clawed at Vessel’s chest, nails leaving red lines along his pale skin.

“Vess—,” he pleaded. “I want Vess.” He took a shaky, panting breath. “Want his mouth. For real. Not just—fuuuck—not just the shorts.”

That got a smirk from II. “Your own damn fault for wearing those hideous things.”

Vessel tugged sharply on his hair. “Oi! That’s my face you’re talking about.” His voice was venomous. “Maybe don’t say things like that when I’ve got you by your throat—and cock.”

II let out a strangled “Oh God,” just as Vessel’s teeth scraped warningly along his neck.

III hummed darkly. “Behave, you two.” He stretched his arm past Ivy, thumb brushing over II’s cheekbone. “Ivy deserves his reward for being so lovely. So good.”

He leaned in, lips against Ivy’s hair. “So fucking beautiful. Just for us. Ours.”

A darker flush bloomed across Ivy’s cheeks, creeping down his throat and chest. III’s affectionate words spread a different kind of heat through him, burning deeper than any lust—something close to awe. He smiled, eyes blinking open.

“II,” III said, his voice low and commanding. He tugged II away from Ivy, heaving him aside with effortless strength.

Vessel didn’t waste a second, sliding in to take II’s place and pulling Ivy into a ravenous kiss. Before Ivy’s brain could even begin to catch up, Vessel dragged him to the edge of the couch then dropped to his knees, tall frame looming over Ivy’s sprawled, boneless body.  

In one swift movement, Ivy’s (ridiculous) shorts hit the ground, leaving him exposed and aching. His cock was as flushed as the rest of him, the tip shining with precum.

Vessel inhaled sharply, the sound catching in his throat. A low hum rumbled through his chest as his hand trailed up Ivy’s muscular thigh, drinking in the sight of him. So beautiful. So perfect. So open. And already so wrecked. 

“Fuck, Ivy—I’ve wanted you like this,” Vessel whispered, voice gone soft and reverent, “for so fucking long.”

Ivy could only whimper his name, shifting his hips closer, aching to be touched. Vessel’s hand stilled on the side of Ivy’s ass, squeezing hard.

His whole body screamed to take what he wanted, to swallow Ivy down and keep him there, but instead Vessel looked up for permission. III had stripped of his clothes and now knelt behind II who was nestled against his chest. His jaw was clenched as III stroked him in slow, teasing strokes.

The sight made Vessel’s head spin and his cock twitch. He met III’s gaze, begging.

III chuckled with satisfaction. “Give him what he wants, Vessel.”

It was not just permission. Not just a demand.

It was a command.

Vessel obeyed without hesitation, mouth hot and open as he lowered himself to Ivy’s cock.

But just as his tongue flicked the tip, a sharp yank on his hair stopped him. A pathetic, involuntary whimper escaped.

“Wait.” III’s grip held him in place. “Safe words. Everyone knows the colors?”

Ivy writhed under Vessel, shifting even closer. “Greengreengreengreen,” he mumbled, barely coherent and far too dazed to care how desperate he sounded.

III snorted, highly amused. Ivy’s desperation was as predictable as it was adorable—and so, so fucking hot. His eyes flicked down to II, who stared up at him with wild, glassy eyes.

“Just let the man have what he wants, for fuck’s sake,” II grinned. “Don’t think you’ll get a red from any of us tonight.”

With another satisfied smirk, he gave Vessel’s hair one last tug, tipping his head back. “Vess?” There was a note of real concern under the edge.

Vessel only grinned, eyes shining with mischief.  “If you get me anywhere near orange, I’ll be at your feet for the rest of my life.”

That was all III needed. He released Vessel’s hair sharply with a shove toward Ivy.

“Suck.”

Finally—fucking finally—Vessel wrapped his mouth around Ivy’s needy cock. He wasn’t as big as Vessel, but he was thick, and Vessel fought to swallow all of him. He gasped for air, jaw already aching from the effort.

“That’s it,” III urged, not letting up and shoving him down, his other hand on II never wavering. “C’mon, Vessel. Relax. Let him fuck your throat. Let him get what he needs.”

Vessel tried, forcing his mouth to open, stretching bit by bit. Ivy whined, hips jerking up, desperate for more. Vessel’s tongue flicked over his tip and Ivy’s whole body jolted.

The sudden force made Vessel falter, teeth scraping accidentally across Ivy’s sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” Ivy groaned, pain and need tangled in his voice. “Teeth, watch the fucking teeth.”

“Shut up, Ivy,” II’s voice rumbled behind him. “You’ve been begging for this. Now take it.”

Ivy tried to argue but his words were swallowed by another moan as Vessel’s tongue worked over him. He groped blindly for anything to hold—one hand slipped into Vessel’s hair, the other finding II’s thigh, nails digging in.

III grinned approvingly. “Good boy,” he murmured. "That’s it, just like that. Fuck, you look perfect with his cock down your throat."

Vessel worked his way down Ivy’s cock, taking him deeper with every bob of his head until Ivy filled his mouth and tight throat.

“Keep watching,” III growled at II. “Don’t you fucking dare take your eyes off them.”

To prove his point, he gripped II’s jaw, holding him steady, Each stroke of his hand drawing gasps and curses from II.

II could feel himself leaking into the fabric of his already ruined sweats until III hooked his fingers in and tugged. “Off. Now.”

Ivy was barely coherent, almost gone with need. He forced himself to hold back, slowing his breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to let go. He needed Vessel. His mouth, his heat. He couldn’t end it. Not yet.

But III noticed instantly.

“Ivy—” Total authority. “Are you about to cum?”

Ivy could only grunt a vaguely affirmative sound, every muscle shaking.

“Vessel, stop.”

Vessel’s response was immediate. He froze, Ivy’s cock still half in his mouth.

“He doesn’t get to cum yet.”

Ivy whined in protest, fingers desperately fisted in Vessel’s hair, refusing to let him pull away fully.

“Flip him,” III ordered in a voice dark and thick like blackened smoke and sharp like ice. He was not fucking around. “Hold him down if you have to.” 

Vessel pulled off slowly, dragging his tongue along Ivy’s length, leaving behind a glistening path.

“You heard him,” Vessel said as he rose. He looked down, head tilted.

With a smug, flirty smile, Ivy rolled over, propping himself on his elbows only to be yanked down, wrists pinned behind his back. His cheek smacked into the mattress, and he grinned.

“You’ll get your time,” Vessel murmured, threading fingers through Ivy’s hair. “Just hold on a bit longer. I know you can.”

Ivy’s answering smile was breathless and wild.

While Vessel kept Ivy steady, III was already manhandling II onto his hands and knees.

“Fuck—yes—God—Please… please III,” II moaned, lips quivering from just how desperate he was. “Just fuck me. Please. Need you.”

“Told you,” Ivy mumbled pleased into the mattress.

III smiled, suddenly soft—but that dangerous edge remained. “I like that you keep your promises, II.”

He pulled out a mostly empty tube of lube—God knows where from—and slicked his fingers then spread II open with practiced care. II could only stammer out more half-formed curses and whimpers as III slid in a finger in, instantly working him open.

“Fuck,” Vessel and Ivy groaned together, unable to look away.

III looked up at them, driving a second finger into II, watching his body quake with pleasure.

“Do you like that? When I make him moan like this?” he teased, smirking.

“Jesus—yes, III. We fucking like that,” Vessel groaned, absently grinding against Ivy’s ass and leaking onto his skin.

“Do that again,” Ivy begged from under him.

Vessel obeyed, rutting his cock between the soft cheeks of Ivy’s ass, sending a rush of pleasure up Ivy’s spine. Just as he rocked against him, III pressed a third finger deep into II.

“I’m gonna wreck you now,” he whispered quietly against II’s ear. “May I?”

“So fucking green,” II heaved, pushing back onto III’s fingers, eager for more. Then the stretch was gone—empty for a single, ragged breath—before the fullness slammed back tenfold, all at once.

II was still so tight it punched a gasp out of III as he drove in slow and deep. “Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he breathed. The heat, the pressure, the sensation of filling him… it was absolute fucking heaven. “Taking my cock so well, love.”

II quavered, fingers clawing at the upholstery, every inch of III’s cock inside him lighting him up. He needed more. Knew III could give it. But he didn’t know how, already stretched to breaking, but still—it wasn’t enough.

On III’s next thrust, II pushed back to meet him, urging him deeper. His muscle clenched around the thick length and III stilled, grip loosening on II’s hips as he dragged nails lightly down II’s back.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he crooned. “So fucking perfect. You feel incredible.”

“Fu—III—I—it’s—” II stammered, voice breaking.

“You’re okay,” III soothed, stroking gently down II’s spine. “Take a deep breath. Let go for me.”

II sucked in as much air as he could, then held it in. His entire existence converged to the sensation of being filled. Slowly, he exhaled, and his body eased up.

The instant III felt the tension leave, he thrust to the hilt without faltering. II cried out with a sound so full of raw pleasure it jolted through all of them like a lightning bolt.

Ivy made a needy noise, twisting under Vessel. Trapped, his hips bucked for any friction he could get. He rocked against the couch, driven half insane by the view. He was shaking, dazed and nearly delirious with desperation.

Vessel felt him twitching, loving the mess they’d made of him. He caught III’s eye and smirked when he pressed the lube into Vessel’s open hand.

“Prep him,” III demanded, driving another hard thrust into II as he spoke. “Stretch him open. Make him feel you.”

Vessel acted instantly. With a swift, smooth motion he had Ivy on his back again, pinning his wrists above his head.

“Hold him, II,” Vessel ordered, and II, shaking with pleasure, reached for Ivy’s wrists. III pounded into him again and II’s fingers tightened, knuckles whitening.

“Fuck, V,” Ivy whined, trying to break free. “Please—God, hurry up. I’ve needed this for so—”

Vessel’s slick fingers sank into him. One, then two, stretching Ivy open with steady, reverent strokes. He worked him carefully but relentless, intent on drawing out every filthy moan and every shaking plea.

“Feel that?,” Vessel murmured, curling his fingers just so. “Soon that’ll be my cock.”

Ivy tried to control his breathing, but the sensation was overwhelming. After years of being denied by Sleep, this was… a lot.

And exactly what he needed.

He cursed, in both English and Welsh, wrapping his legs around Vessel’s waist, forcing him closer and Vessel’s fingers slipped even deeper, scissoring him open.

“Always so eager,” Vessel chuckled, eyes gone dark with barely restrained lust but his voice was full of adoration and his touch possessive, gentle only because he worshipped Ivy. “Making Such pretty noises.”

Ivy was a wreck beneath him Every movement sent pleasure sparking out from where Vessel’s fingers worked him open. They gathered in his stomach and spread to his already over-sensitive cock.

Bruises were already forming under II’s grip on his wrists, but they felt like an anchor, like the only thing keeping him tethered to his body. Somehow, Ivy forced his eyes open. II was right there, bent over low with his chest pressed into the couch, ass held up high for III. Sweat dripped down his temples as III pounded into him with a merciless rhythm.

He tried to release Ivy’s wrists, one hand reaching for himself, but a hard smack made him gasp. III grabbed him instead, fisting his cock. He held II firmly, freezing his thrusts for a second. II whined, body shaking as he teetered at the very edge, so close he could taste it.

“Wrists,” III snarled, tightening his grip.

Trembling and desperate, II found his mark.

Just as II’s fingers wrapped around Ivy’s wrist bone, III slammed into him again and finally, finally gave II a firm tug. He stroked II in time with every hard thrust, wringing desperate sounds from him.

Vessel watched II’s breathing catch. He’d seen that look already. The way II’s lips quivered, and his eyes went glassy. “Cum for him,” Vessel whispered to him, while twisting his fingers inside Ivy.

Ivy moaned deeply the same moment II looked up at Vessel with unfocused eyes.

“Be good,” Vessel urged, “Let go for us. Let us see you unravel.”

II did. With a shuddering moan, he spilled over III’s hand. At that exact same moment, Vessel pressed into Ivy, bottoming out with one slow, solid thrust. Ivy’s moan tangled with II’s in a lewd chorus better than any song.

Ivy breathed into it, instinctively grinding up into Vessel, silently asking for more.

“Vess,” he sighed, voice rough, “you feel… fuck, I’ve never—so good. Need you. Don’t stop—”

A pleased hum rumbled deep in Vessel’s chest, and he caught Ivy’s lips in a deep, greedy kiss.

II was boneless, completely spent, and collapsed onto his front with III still resting inside him, fingers stroking through his hair. But Ivy… fuck, Ivy.

“I want,” II whimpered, limply wriggling closer and nuzzling Vessel aside to steal a slow, deep kiss from Ivy.

Vessel grinned—he adored this soft, needy side of II.

II released Ivy from the kiss. Every thrust of Vessel’s hips sent another broken sound out of Ivy and Vessel took the cue. He set a brutal pace, pounding into Ivy, not giving him a single breath to recover.

Ivy was gone, blissed out and helpless, face flushed scarlet. He didn’t need words. His body did the begging. More. Take everything. Take all of me.

Vessel’s fingers dug into his hips, holding him in place as he drove in deep, again and again.

A firm hand gripped Vessel’s hair, halting his rhythm for a second.

“Keep fucking him,” III growled low. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Vessel’s focus snapped back, and he found his rhythm again. II had long since released Ivy’s wrists, and now Ivy’s nails were clawing into Vessel’s arms, desperate for something to hang onto.

III’s breath trailed over the back of Vessel’s neck. “I wanna fuck you while you’re in him, Vess.”

The shudder sent through Vessel had him slam into Ivy, forcing out another helpless cry.

“Can—”

“God. Yes. Yes, III. Fuck. Please, please.” Vessel’s head spun with anticipation. This was… this was more than he could’ve ever imagined.

III reached for the lube, but II mumbled, dazed and happy, “Don’t need it. He likes it without. Likes when it hurts… just a little.”

III’s eyes swept over Vessel’s body. So beautiful. Fuck. So fucking beautiful.

“That true, Vessy?”

Vessel nodded with a jerky, uncoordinated movement.

“Need you to say it,” III demanded, raking his fingers through Vessel’s hair.

“Is true,” Vessel slurred, struggling to hold his rhythm again. “Please—just—need you—"

III spat into his palm, slicking his fingers, then pressed them between Vessel’s cheeks, teasing his hole. On his next thrust into Ivy, just as he drew his hips back, III roughly shoved three fingers in.

Vessel cursed, gasping, freezing in place for a moment. He loved it. Loved feeling even when it tipped into pain.

Ivy whimpered, grinding back desperately, begging Vessel not to stop.

III smirked and roughly yanked Vessel’s head back.

“Like this, Vessy?” His voice was honey laced in thorns. “Is this what you want?”

“Yeah—fuck yes, exactly like that—God, don’t stop—” Vessel was shaking, barely getting the words out. 

“Good,” III purred, satisfied. “Now, Ivy still needs you. Don’t leave him hanging.”

Vessel swallowed, forcing the pounding of his heart to slow. Carefully, he started to move, moaning as III’s fingers scissored him open even as he drove into Ivy.

It only took a few deep, precise twists of III’s fingers to stretch Vessel. He was still loose, still open from being fucked by II, and so, so ready for more.

“Safe word if you need to,” III said firmly, and when Vessel grunted his assent, he lined up and pushed in.

All three of them moaned, voices tangled together. II, still propped on his elbows and running his fingers through Ivy’s messy curls, let out a reverent, “Fuck, this is hot.”    

They moved together in harmony, bodies matching, giving and taking in perfect rhythm. II shifted to press kisses along Ivy’s neck, alternating sharp nips with sucking deep marks that’d last for days. Ivy was floating, lost and dazed. He didn’t know what to hold on to, how to keep himself from being flung into ecstatic outer space.

Vessel was a beautiful wreck, overstimulated and sensitive and drinking in every beautiful, agonizing second. III couldn’t look away, awe and raw gratitude curling through him.

How the fuck was this real?

“Looks like Vessy’s about to cum,” II mumbled, voice fucked out and blissful.

Vessel grunted—incoherent and feral—but his hips kept moving, rutting into Ivy while III kept up his relentless pace.

“Ivy too—can feel him,” Vessel groaned, words nearly lost to broken moans.

A dazed “Please,” fell from Ivy’s lips.

Vessel’s hand slid up to Ivy’s throat, holding him with just enough pressure, feeling his pulse flutter. III chased his own release, thrusts growing erratic. He was so fucking close, too.

As Vessel’s hips stuttered, Ivy’s breath was stolen, the dizzying tingle rising instantly.

Vessel bucked, completely losing control, and Ivy threw his head back, mouth open in a silent cry. II whispered a string of filthy, sweet praise into Ivy’s ear. Cum spilled over both their bodies and Ivy felt the searing heat of Vessel filling him. III faltered, finally giving in, and came hard inside Vessel with a hoarse moan. Vessel’s own whine guttural, only to dissolve into a long, shaky exhale.

Wrecked and blissed out, Vessel let himself collapse onto Ivy, cum smearing between their bodies. He managed a crooked smile. “You came from just my cock inside of you,” he murmured smugly.

Ivy huffed out a joy-dazed laugh, hiding his face with his hand. “Yeah, guess I fucking did.”

III rolled off with a soft thump, landing next to II. He was pretty sure he’d ascended. Transcended. Achieved Nirvana or whatever. He watched as Vessel nuzzled into the crook of Ivy’s neck with a soft smile, Ivy automatically rubbing his cheek against Vessel’s hair. Ivy’s hand slipped blindly across the cushions and found III’s and he squeezed back. On his other side, II gazed down at him, hunger gone, replaced by nothing but awe and softness, like III was the most precious thing in the world.

“You okay?” II asked, voice low and smooth.

III’s brows pulled together, emotion flickering behind his eyes. He felt something inside him crack open a little. “Me?”

II just smiled, brushing sticky hair back from III’s forehead. “Yeah. You.”

III nodded, a little unsteady. “Of course I am.” He reached up to pull II down for a slow, grateful kiss. “Thank you,” he whispered into II’s ear. A new kind of heat coiled in his stomach—not the sharp, gnawing ache of lust but something deeper and richer. The slow, full-body satisfaction of having given. Of having been allowed to.

He turned his head to Vessel and Ivy, smiling fondly. “Are you alright, V?” he asked in tender, slightly concerned tone. “I know I was a bit… rough.”

Vessel lifted his head from the nest of Ivy’s neck. His face was split in two with his usual lopsided, self-satisfied grin. So soft and so bright. “More than alright, Trippy. I’m so, so fucking good.”

III laughed, pushing up to press a soft kiss to Vessel’s lips. Vessel grinned into it, letting his tongue flick along III’s lower lip, giving a playful little nip before deepening the kiss. III rolled his eyes but melted into it, savoring the closeness.

“Do me now,” Ivy demanded airily, flirty smirk already plastered across his face. III rolled his eyes again but ducked down to kiss Ivy until they were both out of breath.

“Happy?” he asked, panting a little.

“Yes,” Ivy beamed, cheeks pink and radiant. “Yes I am.”

A tap on III’s shoulder drew him away. II was staring at him, big-eyed and mock-serious.

“’Scuse me,” he deadpanned, barely hiding the smile. “I’m feeling a bit left out here.”

Wordlessly, III rolled over, landing right on top of II. The small man grunted from the weight, ready to protest, but III just clung to him and turned them both.

“Well,” II said, sounding genuinely grateful, “thank you.”

For a moment, the world was still. All four of them—naked, sticky, sweat-slicked, and sated—lay tangled together, their laughter filling the air. They were wrecked and rebuilt, shattered and reformed.

Sleep had finally fucked off. Vessel had chosen them. Had chosen himself. Had chosen this.

And more than anything, they were happy.

Just really, truly, fucking happy

Chapter Text

The bus zipped down the freeway and wound around the long, black curves of the Austrian Landesstraßen, quietly slipping into Germany in the dark hours before morning. Munich was just another show city and Lawrence sighed heavily as the streets clogged with early commuters. But at least it wasn’t fucking Amsterdam. He hated Amsterdam.

The main section of the bus was—thank every miserable, damned god—silent. It hadn’t been the night before. Lawrence had put up with the absolute chaos that was Vessel, II, III, and Ivy for far too long to be surprised by much. But this? This took the cake. Really, he should’ve seen it coming. He’d only hoped it would happen far, far away from him, somewhere in Scandinavia maybe, or a deep, echo-less cave that swallowed every sound in existence.

Alas, fate had other plans. He’d barely cracked the door when the noises pulsed through the bus. And his brain—his goddamn useless brain—hadn’t processed it quickly enough. Only when his foot hit the last step up did he register a high, stuttering moan. Ivy’s. He hated that he knew that it was Ivy. Why did he know that? He didn’t want to know that. God, he was going to require therapy—lots of it. Possibly an exorcism, just to be sure. And it would not be him paying for it. Oh no. That’d be coming out of Vessel’s personal pockets.

They hadn’t even bothered to slide the door to the back lounge closed. The sounds—those cursed sounds—had just echoed off the walls, an absolute assault on his unwilling ears.

Lawrence nearly walked into the door as he spun around with an exasperated, “Fucking hell.” He was already yanking out a cigarette with trembling hands, wondering if he could file for workers’ comp, or at least get a fucking raise. By the time he’d chain-smoked the entire pack, he very cautiously returned. To his enormous relief, those awful, awful noises had ceased. He slipped into the driver’s seat, slammed the privacy separator shut, and threw on the engine like the low rattling hum could erase the horror bouncing off his skull.

It was warm in a way the bus’s cheap heating couldn’t account for. The warmth of naked bodies pressed close, of shared breath and tangled limbs. The thick, heady scent of sex and sweat hung in the air. It didn’t whisper of past pleasure; it screamed of it.

The first pale rays of light were just starting to break through the gloom. It couldn’t be past half seven.

Vessel’s brain clawed its way toward consciousness. He felt the weight of an arm slung over his chest and the pressure of someone pressed against his side. His favorite blanket was bunched around his foot, the fuzz soft between his toes. He sucked in slow, heavy breaths, letting the waking world creep in behind his eyelids.

The arm was III’s, and the body cuddled into him was—unsurprisingly—Ivy. II was serving as his leg rest, somehow managing to cling to his knee like a stuborn barnacle.

For a long moment, Vessel stared at the heap of them. Naked, all of them mapped with bruises and hickeys—even under II’s tattoos they bloomed in a dark, angry red. III’s grown-out hair was a tangled bird’s nest, splayed around his head like a bastardized black halo. And Ivy… was Ivy. Soft and pretty, a little flushed, a tiny flirty smile on his lips even in sleep.

Vessel had never liked the post-sex scent clinging to the air. Always too thick and too heavy. Suffocating. A lingering reminder of a warm body that was no longer there, leaving him shivering with the cloying cold of an empty bed.

But now?

Vessel inhaled deeply, holding it in his lungs until his head buzzed. It was strange, to find comfort in something that had always left him feeling alone.

It took a full minute for his brain to catch up.

But then it did, and it came crashing down on him.

She’d stayed too, hadn’t she? At first, at least. He’d press light kisses to her throat and she’d wake up giggling and muttering sleepily. She’d tackle him, pinning him to the bed with her full weight, and they’d laugh until they were breathless. Eventually, they’d stumble to the shower, completely unconcerned about being late to their classes, and stand far too long under the hot water. He’d wash her hair, running his fingers through the long strands reaching almost to her waist when they were wet.

And then…

Well, then he took showers alone.

But this was different. It had to be. Vessel knew—he knew. They wouldn’t do that. II wouldn’t turn his back and slip in the middle of the night. III wouldn’t slam the bathroom door in his face. Ivy wouldn’t leave the smashed vase on the living room floor; wouldn’t hurtle it against the wall in the first place.

… Right?

Suddenly, the air was cloying, sticking to the back of his throat like oil. His skin was crawling, the heat from their bodies searing him right down to the bone.

Vessel wasn’t cold now. Not empty. And what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

In the end, he left.

Fuck. He was no better than Layla. Than the others. A fucking coward.

But he merely slipped quietly into the bathroom—hardly more than ten steps from the sleeping cuddle pile.

A glance into the mirror made him recoil. Jesus, how could anyone want that? A blotchy red face, filthy mouse-brown hair, splotches of faded black paint, spots along his forehead from living in a mask for the past weeks. And then there were the scars.

They stood out more starkly than usual, silvery white against his overheated, flushed skin, puffy from the irritation of nails scraping over every inch of his body in desperation.

A scatter of thin, straight lines trailed down his arm like the grooves of a gutter and led into the three deep, sunken gashes across his lower arm. The slashes on his hips, right below the sharp bone, were a chaotic criss-cross of pain and anger, carved from shaking hands and frantic breaths.

Vessel clenched his jaw, teeth catching on the inside of his cheek. The metallic taste of blood did nothing to distract him from the disgust choking him. He didn’t want to see the old but puffed scars on his thighs—the ones III’s attention had snagged on only days before. The memory of chapstick-soft lips pressed to his arms flashed in his mind, but instead of comfort, a tide of guilt crashed into him. He finally tore his eyes away only to find his own blank face staring back at him in the mirror.

“They don’t want you,” Vessel muttered scathingly at the reflection, brows pulling into a tight furrow. “How could they ever want… this?”

And then, in a small but even more furious voice: “Fucking disgusting.”

The tips of his fingers tingled with a surge of anger. Anger that… that… fuck, he didn’t even know why he was angry. Just that it clawed its way up through his chest and wrapped around his throat like a tourniquet.

Before he could do something fantastically stupid like punch the mirror, Vessel hurried into the shower and turned the knob as far left as it would go. Icy water hit his shoulders and he shivered.

Maybe he could freeze away the unbearable heat if only the water was cold enough.

But all it did was turn his skin an even brighter shade of red. Scrubbed raw, Vessel stepped out and gave his hair a vigorous rub. Somehow, it was even worse than before—clean, but sticking up like static, frizzy from the rough towel. He groaned, no less inclined to put his fist through his own reflection than before.

But then, arms wrapped around his waist, a warm, naked body pressing into him and a breath against his throat, then lips.

Despite himself, Vessel smiled softly and let himself be pulled back into the warmth of III’s body.

“Don’t,” III whispered against Vessel’s skin, voice gruff from sleep but steady as ever. “Don’t look at yourself like that. You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful, V.”

Vessel let out a shaky breath and met III’s eyes in the mirror. There was no lie there. Just hunger and comfort and something that always, always unraveled him.

“You okay?” III asked against Vessel’s ear.

“Yeah,” Vessel murmured, moving to face him, the cruel thoughts zapped from his brain the moment he turned.

Because they were both still naked—Vessel towel-damp and cold, III warm and sticky with sweat and traces of dried cum. Their cocks brushed and both of them stuttered, breath catching and brains short-circuiting. III tilted forward, grinding just enough to make Vessel reel.

Vessel looped his arms around III’s neck, twisting his fingers into the hair at the nape and leaned their foreheads together. “It was just… a lot.”

III shifted back a fraction, his body suddenly taut. Vulnerability flickered in his expression, just for a second. But Vessel followed without hesitation, greedy for contact. He wouldn’t let him go. Ever, if it were up to him.

“Did you not like it?” III asked, voice tight with worry he tried to hide.

“I loved it,” Vessel said, eyes locked to his. “You know damn well I did.”

The tension bled from III’s shoulders. He pressed forward again, guiding Vessel gently against the sink.

“Good,” III breathed, almost slurring, drunk on the afterglow. “Because I couldn’t get enough of you. Of all of it.”

The kiss that followed was slower than anything from the night before; it was deeper and less frenzied. It dripped with soul-deep ache and a growing, dangerous intimacy; almost like their very first kiss, sprawled out on cold, rain-slicked concrete, exhausted, but light, free, and happy.

III gripped Vessel’s hips, grinding against him with deliberate pressure. Vessel moaned into his mouth, tightening his hold in III’s hair. They were already half-hard; it took nothing to tip them into full, aching want.

III broke the kiss, panting lightly. “Should we wake them?”

“Definitely,” Vessel groaned, already dazed.

They were halfway to the lounge before their brains caught up. III grabbed Vessel’s hand and pulled him short just before the couch.

“Hey,” III murmured, close enough to kiss. “I love you. You know that?”

A soft smile touched Vessel’s lips. “Yeah, I do. I love you too, Trips.”

“New nickname already?”

Vessel only shrugged nonchalantly. “New era. New nickname.”

He surged in and kissed him again, full of impatience and bite. III made a startled, needy sound against his lips, and Vessel smirked.

Ivy stirred at the noise, sleep-blurred and flushed, half-tangled in a blanket that did nothing to hide his very present morning boner.

“I want,” he mumbled, stretching and smirking at the sight.

Vessel grinned. “We were just coming to wake you.”

“Got a bit distracted,” III added, watching Vessel slink onto the couch beside Ivy.

Vessel was already on him, tongue tracing his throat, claiming his mouth with a kiss that turned Ivy’s smirk into a hazy moan.

“I like this,” Ivy said, voice still rough with sleep. “Can we do this every morning?”

Vessel dragged his thumb along Ivy’s jaw, catching his lip. His voice dropped, low and hoarse, but he couldn’t keep the affectionate smile from spreading. “I think so,” Vessel murmured. “I bet you’re just as beautiful making those pretty needy noises in the morning as you were last night.”

Ivy’s smirk held, but his pulse raced.

“Twosie,” Ivy called sweetly, turning away from Vessel with visible effort, “wake up. The Odds have come to fuck us good morning.”

II rolled onto his back, eyes still closed, but grinning. “Oh, thank fuck.” He reached blindly for Ivy; any part would do. “Been dreaming about this all night. Someone, please, just get inside me.”

III laughed low beside him. “You weren’t kidding about the begging.”

II cracked an eye, already shifting to face him. “Usually, I’d resent that. But right now, I’m way too horny to give a fuck.”

III arched a brow.

“So yes,” II said, reaching to cup his cheek, “I’m begging you. Please fuck me.”

They collapsed into each other, giving in to the clumsy urgency of morning—their laughter light and muffled against skin, kisses quickly turning into moans, touches melting into pleas until the bus filled with their sounds all over again.

Lawrence was, thank the fucking gods, long gone, fleeing from the inevitable the moment he’d killed the bus’s engine, probably considering a new career in absolute silence.

Art’s frantic shouts boomed across the bus lot before Vessel and the others had even set foot on the ground. They blinked blearily against the bright, grey-overcast day, brains still addled with each other’s moans and the whispered praises as they all came in turn.

II stumbled down the bus steps a little stiffly, followed by Ivy who had such a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face it should’ve been painful.

Art didn’t notice. Nor did he notice the way III’s much too small t-shirt didn’t quite reach over his lean stomach—because it was II’s, absently tugged on in a contented haze. Even Vessel’s state of utter disarray went ignored.

Art only gesticulated wildly, stepping close to the group of sleepy, blissed-out men.

“DID YOU SEE THAT?!” Art’s voice pitched high, then cracked in sheer ecstasy. “NO YOU DIDN’T! YOU KNOW WHY? BECAUSE IT WAS PERFECT. IT WAS PERFECT, VESSEL! DO YOU EVEN HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I DID LAST NIGHT? THE MAGIC? THE PRECISE, UNREPEATABLE BEAUTY I UNLEASHED FOR YOU?!”

Vessel blinked blankly, frozen in place, hand halfway to being tucked into his hoodie.

Fuck.

He’d forgotten.

He’d barely registered anything but the others’ hungry gazes piercing into him during the show.

Definitely not a blink and you miss it blackout.

He swallowed thickly, cowering under Art’s expectant stare.

“I, uh… yeah. It was fantastic Art, really!”

He tried. He really did. But it sounded pathetic even to himself.

Art’s whole body froze. He inhaled sharply, grinding his teeth.

“You actually didn’t see it,” he breathed, lips pulled so tight they barely moved. “Did you?”

Vessel tried not crumble under that seething rage bubbling to the surface, barely contained by the balled-up fists at Art’s side.

“Art… I…look, it was just…there… extenuating…” Vessel was beyond cohesive thought and trailed off nervously.

Then Art noticed II, close to Vessel’s side, stretch his fingers, gently running them along Vessel’s wrist bone in a small, inconspicuous gesture of support.

“Art—” Ivy began, stepping closer, but Art’s hand flew up to shush him.

“You…” he murmured, frowning a little as he studied the pink flush to Vessel’s cheeks and the way he seemed somehow lighter despite his obvious tension. Then his eye caught on the not-so-subtle bruises along Vessel’s throat. And those on Ivy’s wrist, suspiciously shaped like a certain drummer’s fingers. Finally, he noticed III’s shirt.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Art sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “You did. You finally did.”

No one said anything, trapped in some in between just waiting for Art to explode.

“Well… I’M FUCKING HAPPY FOR YOU!” Art shouted, arms flailing wildly. Then adding, in a very low voice, “God knows you needed it.”

III opened his mouth to retort but Art drowned him out.

“But I can’t believe you MISSED THE ABSOLUTE LIGHTING MIRACLE I PREFORMED! I SLAVED OVER THAT PROGRAMMING LIKE A DICKENSIAN ORPHAN IN A SHOE POLISH FACTORY! Tell me, Vessel. TELL ME you saw my masterpiece. If not for me, for the gods of blackout cues everywhere.”

“Look, Art,” II tried placatingly. “We’ve wai—“

“Oh, I KNOW you’ve waited for years! Everyone kno—“

“Now wait a minute!” Vessel chirped, sheepish grin quivering. “It hasn’t been years.”

“Oh, Vessel,” Art said, placing a hand heavily onto his shoulder. “Yes. It has.”

III tried again, but Art was quicker.

“BUT YOU STILL MISSED IT! MY MASTERPIECE. MY PIÈCE DE RÉSISTANCE. MY MAGNUM OPUS. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU. ALL OF YOU. DO YOU REALIZE? DO YOU REALIZE HOW GOOD I AM? HOW PERFECT THIS HAD TO BE? THE SLIDERS! THE BACKLOOP! THE FUCKING REVERSE STROBE PROBABILITY!!!”

Art’s eyes were ripped open wildly and he quaked with absolute fury, and it was absolutely fucking hilarious. The dread of real rage had ebbed and been replaced with the half-stifled cackles only Art’s rants evoked. He’d reached light tech fury which meant he wasn’t really angry. Just… enthusiastic. In the end he’d mumble something extraordinarily rude, scowl, and turn to leave with a reluctant smile fighting its way to the surface.

“Okay but you gotta understand,” III managed to get in at last with a dreamy, cheeky grin. “The sex, Art. The sex. It was so—’

“NOPE. I DO NOT need to hear about your weird little musical polycule fuckfest.”

Vessel spluttered with laughter, far too amused to feel the slightest sliver of embarrassment—that could come later.

“God. You’re all just so—I can’t—why do I do this to myself? They’ve ruined me. No respect. No appreciation.” Art mumbled, groaning at himself.

“Oh, c’mon, we’re not that bad,” Ivy protested with a flirty smile.

“YOU.” Art pointed an accusing finger straight at Ivy’s chest. “YOU WILL WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE OR SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL PROGRAM THE LIGHTS TO BEAM YOU TO OUTER-FUCKING-SPACE.”

Ivy only giggled and winked at him. 

III tried to jump in yet again, but Art held up both hands like he was parting the Red Sea. “NO! I AM NOT DONE. YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST—JUST MISS MY CUE BECAUSE YOU’RE BUSY SHAGGING IN THE BACK LOUNGE LIKE ITS SODOM AND GAMORRAH?! I COULD HAVE DIED OUT THERE. I COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED BY THE LEVELS OF TALENT I DISPLAYED AND NOT ONE OF YOU CARES!”

All four stood like statues, holding their breaths to quell the unbearable laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. Art puffed out air, then rolled his eyes. “Just… go do some more sex stuff,” he mumbled, defeated. “Maybe it’ll make you more tolerable.”

III huffed. “Don’t count on it, Arty.”

Art turned to Vessel, fixing him with a look that promised murder if he didn’t stop this whole thing.  

“You should know us better by now,” Vessel shrugged, completely unbothered.

Art glared. “I DO! But I am a fool. A FOOL.” He turned to stalk off, then spun back, eyes gleaming with unhinged threat.
“If any of you misses tonight’s cue, I will make sure every bottle of lube—every drop—in your little universe disappears.” Then, ripping his eyes wide—"POOF! Gone!”

II chortled wickedly. “Vessel won’t mind.”

Art shot him a look like he was going to physically explode. “Don’t test me, you muscly bastard. I’m a lighting PROPHET and I’m not afraid to use my powers.” He stared at II for another tense moment, then whipped around and stomped off, muttering. “Why? Why do I do this? I could’ve been a dentist like father wanted. I could’ve been happy.”

The day passed by in a blur of stolen glances and knowing grins, smug comments muttered under their breath as they bumbled through their routines. Every brush of a hand, every look, every stretch seemed to teeter on the edge of recklessness, like gravity yanking them into each other's orbit. And no one, absolutely no one, bought their act of innocence for a second.

But not a single person called them out, either, leaving them to float in their own little bubble of newfound bliss.

That is, until Vin, spinning lazily in a swivel chair in the greenroom, a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face, cracked the silence.

“So!” he crowed, voice slicing through the room like a cymbal crash. “You finally fucked, didn’t you?”

III huffed an amused laugh, then pointedly turned back to his phone, black painted fingertips leaving smudges on the screen. Not that he was in any way ready for the show; he'd simply spent ten minutes dipping two long fingers into a full tub of body paint, trying to doodle a crooked dick on Ivy's cheek, swearing up and down that it was meant to be an anatomical heart.

Vessel, not bothering to hide his smile, picked up his stick brew and took a long, satisfied sip. 

 “That obvious, is it?" II asked, looking up lazily from the too-squishy sofa. His cheeks bloomed pale pink, but the way his eyes lit up made embarrassment impossible.

"Mate," Vin said, eyebrows creeping into his hairline. "Have you seen yourself? All of you look like you were attacked by a horny octopus. Your skin’s a psychedelic dreamscape of color and I can still see those hickeys and—Jesus are those teeth marks, II?”

II glared, but only because Vin had dared to insult his ink.

Vin grinned wider. "Also, Lawrence told me."

Ivy gasped, clutching his chest in outrage. "Scoundrel!"

Vin rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I think you broke the poor man. His exact words were, and I quote: ‘Ivy sounds like a birthing llama.’."

"How the hell did he know it was me?!" Ivy wailed, indignant.

“So, you’re admitting you sound like a birthing llama, then?” Vin shot back.

“What—NO.”

II cackled silently, tilting his head in a gesture of cautious agreement. Ivy snarled and threw his book at him.

Vessel chuckled affectionately, then took another sip of stick brew to drain the mug.

“I reckon everyone knows then?” He flashed a sheepish smile.

Vin put on his best fake-sympathy face. “Ehhhh, yeah. Yeah, mate, everyone knows. You should see the group chat.”

“Fabulous,” III said cheerfully without a trace of sarcasm, not a scrap of shame anywhere in his body.

Vin spun the chair, then stopped abruptly.

“You know,” he began seriously. “The fans are going to be feral about this.”

“Like they aren’t already,” II snorted. “And it’s not like they’re gonna know.”

Vin arched a brow, deadly serious. “Oh, they’ll know. You reek of sex. Not literally—ugh, thank Christ, keep your pheromones to yourselves—but it’s just…” He flapped his hand in their general direction. “There.”

II frowned at him, loath to admit he was right, but couldn’t keep a tiny smirk off his lips. Ivy perked right up. “That means The Fic is going to be outrageous.” The look on his face was downright lethal.

Vin cocked his head, eyebrows raising in curiosity. “Fic? What fic?!”

“Oh, never mind that,”  Vessel said with that spark in his eyes. The one that meant something was about to be wrecked. “Time to go break the internet.”

The last show of a tour was always a shot of raw exhilaration: the crowd was louder, the adrenaline hit harder, and the music cut deeper.

This time, it was transcendental.

The anticipation sizzled under their skin, every shout from the crowd like gasoline poured on fire. It surged and swelled and stole every breath. They waited in the wings, unable to stay still for a second. Vessel rocked on the balls of his feet and tapped each finger to his thumb. II’s sticks slapped hard against his thighs, leaving pink stripes to match the long scratches down his back. III did jumping jacks, completely unbothered by the custom Charvel slung across his shoulder floundering jerkily with each hop. Ivy stomped in tiny circles until he got so dizzy he had to stop.

Usually they were late; tonight, they counted down the seconds to curtain.

When the house lights finally dropped, darkness slamming down on the room like a guillotine, all four grinned under their masks. Only Vessel’s smile—stark and bright, more radiant than every star combined—was visible below his half-mask, but all four pairs of eyes sparked and said everything. They were about to set the goddamn city on fire.

The cue came and Vessel clutched his mic, then stepped into the light, straight into a living, breathing chant that threatened to break his eardrums even through his in-ears.

From the first row, fans crushed against the barrier with arms outstretched, reaching with eager hands—anything to be just that little bit closer.

Vessel felt their presence close in on him the instant they stepped on stage. Every detail was painfully sharp: the scrape of his mask, the sweat on his skin, the memories of hands not touching him now but had, so recently, been everywhere.

II’s snare was a whip cutting through him. The bass vibrated in his bones, heartbeat syncing to the deep, full sound. He caught the precise, deft movement of Ivy’s fingers over his guitar—gentle in a way that should be illegal—and almost tripped, mind slipping into unbidden reverie.

The tension between them all was sharp enough to cut flesh. It clung to them, dripped from their bodies in hungry glances and ragged breaths. Frankly, it was a miracle they could even play. For a moment, Vessel wondered if the crowd could see it. Feel it. Taste it in the air, even if they couldn’t name it.

When III hooked a finger under the hem of Ivy’s mask, yanking him close, and dragged him across the stage like an obedient dog, bringing their faces close, Ivy couldn’t bite back the needy sound in his throat. He tried—he really, really did—to empty his mind, to shove aside the memory of III’s teeth scraping his skin and nipping at his clavicle, but his body was a disloyal idiot. Heat stabbed his gut mercilessly and he pulled III in for a frantic kiss, masks frustratingly in the way. It was only that godforsaken Lycra that kept Ivy from burying his tongue in III’s mouth.

The crowd lost their shit. For a second the entire pit was just screaming, a single body pulsing with the band. III grinned wickedly, letting Ivy’s mask snap back with a pop, eyes glittering with purposeful mischief. The edits of this were going to be mindbendingly delicious. III wouldn’t even deny it—he was going to watch those videos until they were burned into the backs of his eyelids.

II watched it all from his riser; couldn’t not watch. He didn’t even bother trying. He tracked Vessel’s every movement, eyes glued to the shifting muscles, the line of exposed skin, the outline of him—all of him. His gaze slid to Ivy’s slow, obscenely sensual sway, and he couldn’t stop the smirk from knowing the way Ivy’s hips stuttered when he was at the edge, from the echoes of the helpless, filthy sounds he made when he fell apart. His head spun from the way III hovered near Vessel, pushing into his space, demanding attention. Thank fuck II was tucked safely behind his kit—the twitching of his cock, already straining against his tight jeans, wasn’t going to get better the longer he watched them. The way things were going, he’d snap the third stick before they made it to Dark Signs.

But then, it happened.

The crowd roared for the next song, breathless anticipation buzzing under their skin. But as II set for the count-in, a flicker of wrongness pricked his spine. The cues felt… off.

His gaze sharpened, hands poised halfway to the electronic pad. The lull between songs lingered too long. The click vanished from his ears, the tracks stalled, and time seemed to stop. Panic shot through him. He was absolutely certain that he’d queued the laptops flawlessly as always.  

In the silence, Vessel clutched his mic tighter, reaching toward his mic pack with his other hand. He felt thousands of eyes on him, phones trained on his still, unmoving form.

Before Vessel could tap for talk-back, the lights flashed, and the tracks kicked in.

Except the lights weren’t pale green, and the tracks weren’t those to Like That.

Cheerful red and green lit up the stage. The crowd hovered, baffled for half a breath then roared with delight as Vessel—metaphorical mask slipping—let out an amused chuckle (you know the one) right into the mic.

Their crew howled with laughter backstage, the sound drowned out by the cacophony of music and eight thousand voices joining Vessel’s. Because no one—no one—had ever done “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer” quite like Sleep Token that night.

Vessel all but growled the verses, trailing off into ridiculous and completely unnecessary falsetto vocal runs just for the dramatics. III and Ivy closed ranks, backs leaned against each other, distortion cranked so high it would’ve knocked Santa’s sleigh right out of the sky.

II grinned like a devil, treading his pedals so hard and so fast it sent a shockwave of blast beats like artillery. His arms moved with lightning speed, sticks pounding relentlessly into the cymbals. The snare hit like firecrackers. He unleashed the deathcore breakdown of his life onto the carol, smirking at the beautiful, controlled chaos he’d created.

Vessel wrapped up the song on a run so absurd it pitched into reckless heights. He was grinning under his mask, barely able to catch his breath. Ivy leaned into III, shaking with silent laughter, and II—flushed and wild-eyed—couldn’t stop smirking behind the kit.

It took a few chaotic seconds for the noise to ebb, for the lights to shift, for the Christmas mayhem to settle back into anticipation. The crowd’s giggles melted seamlessly into that thrumming, feral hunger for more—as II raised his sticks, as III rolled his shoulders back, as Ivy flicked a wink at the first row. All four of them pulled in a single, shared breath, chests rising together, and dove headfirst back into the ritual: real, devastating, beautiful. Song after song, the night surged forward, each note heavier, each second sharper, each breath a bittersweet countdown to goodbye.

Too soon, the last note faded, leaving only cheers and clapping ricocheting through the room. Heart hands shot into the air, ‘I love you’s’ were shouted. Every soul in the room waited, breath held, for potato heart hands and that sheepish, dazzling grin from under the mask. But Vessel stood frozen for a long, suspended moment. He gazed at the sea of faces—some tear-streaked, some laughing, all shining back at him. The warmth—God, the love—that poured from the fans crept along his skin, seeping into his flesh, his bones, until it hit something deep and hollow that had ached ever since Sleep had left. Or maybe since before, since the first time he let someone else’s shadow call him home.

It was that ache that made his feet move. He turned, a small, unseen frown tugging at his brow, and ambled toward the back of the stage in those long, lazy strides. Confused mutters trickled through the crowd. The set was done, and Vessel was just… leaving?

III took a step toward him, fingers itching to tug him back by the arm, while II shared a quick, anxious glance with Ivy. But Vessel didn’t leave the stage. Instead, he drifted to the keyboard. The hush across the room was complete, broken only by the small sound when Vessel cleared his throat.

Then, with his chest almost too full to bear but his mind clear and sharp as glass, he pressed the first key.

II, III, and Ivy all froze, memory and fear twisting in their throats. The panic of watching Vessel being slowly ripped apart on stage was too fresh, too real. II was in motion by the second line. He couldn’t let Vessel get to the third, couldn’t watch, couldn’t—

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. Ivy’s. It anchored him, the gentle pressure something he could cling on to. A tilt of Ivy’s head, and II forced himself to watch.

Vessel’s hands were steady. His breathing even. His voice raw as ever, ripped straight from somewhere beyond his body, but there was none of the tension II feared.

The world held its breath.

There was no red now. Just pale, soft white and thousands of small lights like stars to light his way home.

It was like weightlessness. Like touching infinity. There were tears, yes. But not of the void, not of pain, not of darkness. Tears of release, of acceptance. Of being seen, and known, and kept. Tears that belonged to him.

And then, the tears turned into a small, grateful smile.

You say it doesn’t matter.

He’d written the lyric, sung it a thousand times, but only now—right at that moment—did it come crashing home: it did. It did matter. It all mattered so fucking much.

For one breathless moment, time ceased to exist.

And then, the eruption of sound, not like a flood but like a volcano.

Vessel staggered to the front of the stage, and dropped to his knees, forehead to the stage, as if the only way to say thank you was to surrender his whole body to the moment. An act of worship; of giving himself over to each and every person looking back at him. To their laughter, to their tears, to their pain and awe and joy.

His knees threatened to buckle as he stood, and II all but caught him, hauling him up into a crushing hug. Vessel pressed a kiss to the top of II’s head, the crowd whooping and shrieking, hearts split open, bodies trembling from the sheer thrill of it all. Vessel closed his eyes, letting the noise wash over him, holding onto the all-consuming joy of it for one last perfect second.

And then came chaos.
The show finally ended, and the crew poured out of the wings, like kids cut loose for recess. Thom barreled straight for Vessel, slinging an arm around him, thumping him so hard he nearly lost a lung. II was swallowed by Vin, who mumbled something filthy and loving and made II bark a laugh. Ivy spun, a human hurricane, hugging every crew member in sight, while III ricocheted from body to body, howling, whooping, making noises of pure pleasure.

Someone finally wrangled the lot of them into a cluster for the mandatory end-of-tour photo. The four clung to each other, sweat-soaked and giddy, as if the smallest distance might snap the spell that glued them together.

“Ready?” III breathed, voice a low, wicked threat against Vessel’s ear.

A devilish smirk is all he got in return.

Then, the camera clicked.

And the world exploded.

A storm of shimmering pink, purple, and silver glitter erupted in all directions. It was in shirts, hair, shoes, up noses, and in every crack and crevice known to man.

Vessel, II, III, and Ivy doubled over with laughter. Crew curses soared, someone slapped II’s shoulder hard, a squeal ricocheted from somewhere at the far end.

Vessel threw his hands up placatingly and pointed toward side-stage, where Lawrence—Santa’s grumpiest elf—stomped over with a jute bag slung over one shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he growled, yanking the bag open. “They’re paying me to do this.”

He hauled out the first sweater and lobbed it at Thom, who caught it, stared, and let out a pained groan.

“You can’t be serious,” Thom muttered, giving Vessel a sharp look.

Vessel just grinned wider, absolutely shameless and very satisfied with himself.

 Lawrence shoved armfuls of sweaters at the crew, grumbling curses, but everyone was snorting, cackling, cursing through their smiles.

The crowd roared as the crew pulled on their hideous gifts, and Vin hopped on a riser, striking a pose, the world’s ugliest Christmas sweater stretched over his chest. In all his wool glory, Santa Vessel—complete with jingling hat and fluffy white beard—leered at the crowd.

Lawrence stuffed a Santa hat onto the real Vessel’s head, grimacing, then shoved more hats into II’s hands.
“If you ever make me do this again, I’m switching your Red Bull and kale chips to grape juice and jalapeño Pringles,” he threatened, but even he couldn’t kill the smile twitching on his lips.

II chuckled, dragging III down to fit the hat on his head. Ivy snatched the others, crowning himself and II.
The stage sparkled under the lights—glitter, truly dispicable sweaters, chaos incarnate.
And that photo? It was going live-size above their couch.

“How much are you paying the venue for clean-up?” Thom muttered to II as they finally shuffled offstage.
II snorted, “You absolutely do not want to know.”

Chapter Text

Instagram 

Top Comments: 

@SleepTokersUnited: This is it. Polyvessels come to life! 

   @Jess_98: what the hell is a polyvessel??

   @sleepyboi07: you don’t wanna know…

   @SleepTokersUnited: may I recommend ao3?

   @VesselsWife420: don’t go spilling our secrets!

   @eepy_fanatic_1 fanfic is for everyone, stop gatekeeping polyvessels wtf

   @Jess_98: …

@accidentally_cryptid:

Cant believe the tour is over! They all seem super happy though <3

@eepy_fanatic_1 comment:  Almost kinda weird to see them THIS happy. Like, after those UK shows…

   @stargazer_24 comment: Dude we don’t talk about those

@SleepTokenFan4life: IV making eyes at II the ENTIRE time? I need to be studied.

@sleepydruid: That kiss (fire emojis)

@TayTayRocks493: ngl if i saw this irl i’d collapse like a victorian man at the sight of ankle.

@bassistsbiteme: i am unwell. there was TONGUE, i'm sure of it.

@offbeatdrummer: Deathcore rudolf is my new favorite genre

@accidentally_cryptid: Christmascore yes please

   @heavymetal_maiden: Carolcore!

   @MetalLover2024: ST out here just inventing new genres lmao

@user982: COME TO BRAZIL

@bassistsbiteme: glitter looks permanent. thoughts & prayers to their shower drains.

@toomuchsleep: Does Vess seem different since the Bristol show or is that just me???

   @accidentally_cryptid:RIGHT! all four of them seem somehow lighter or like happier the past few shows??

@existentialfred: Sometimes I think about how ST isn’t forever, and then I spiral because what do we do when it ends?

@EmmyTheGemmy: III if you’re reading this please fold me like a setlist.

@VesselsLegion: the way Vessel breathes is indecent. that’s all.

   @feralgoblin: screaming crying throwing up bc this is so correct.

@drummerthirst: you can HEAR the moaning through this picture. idc.

   @stargazer_24: pretty sure I heard Ivy ACTUALLY moan during that one kiss

@hellhounds69: this has ‘we just fucked in the greenroom and now we’re pretending to be normal’ energy

@fangirlcrying: sometimes i think they’re gonna break up and i feel physical nausea like bro don’t leave me i’m literally feral for you

@jillytheweed: They've always been hot but...

@bravedave: I feel like an orphan in a Dickens novel who's been gifted a chunk of bread

X

@SleepTokenFan4life
HELLO??? they’re literally fucking on stage and no one can convince me otherwise

 [attached video: III dragging IV by the mask, IV pulling him into a kiss, crowd screaming, security looking uncomfortable as hell]

@eepy_fanatic_1
ii in the back looking like he wants to jump in too 💀💀💀

@sleepydruid
I was there and I heard a whimper. A. WHIMPER.

@polyculthistorian
this band is 100% a polycule. no debate. case closed.

@glittercorpse
THERE WAS TONGUE

@metalpoetry 
This isn’t mere performance. It’s ritual consummation. We are all witnesses.

@Thatonesam_33
they are literally boyfriends in heat.

@goblinrat
THE WAY HE GRABBED HIM??? I just ovulated.

@EmmyTheGemmy:
as someone writing my thesis in antrhopology and polyamorous relationships, I can confirm: they’re fucking.

@unhingedrat 
they are 1000% fucking. like. aggressively. passionately. religiously.

@fangirlcrying: Vessel went from sad poet to horny cryptid real quick

@bravedave: get someone who looks at you like IV looks at Vessel's ass

r/STtheories

/softsleeper

Is Sleep… gone?

Okay don’t downvote me into oblivion, but there seems to have been a huge shift in the band over the last few shows, particularly at the closing one in Munich.  Like, the way they’re acting lately isn’t the same as before. The UK shows were all intense and emotional, like we were just watching Vessel fall apart on stage and then those last three were canceled and they come back and are like this. It doesn’t feel like worship anymore. They're far less "ritualistic" and more like a bunch of (hot) British dudes having a good time on stage. Don't get me wrong, the performances were still fantastic. And I’m not mad about it, I’m happy for them. But it’s a little weird, right?

I know a lot of people don't believe that there is an actual Sleep and I know it's kinda crazy but I do. Everything about them always just seemed so mystical. Anyway, couldit be that Sleep is gone? That would kinda explain why the whole thing feels less like a religious experience and more like just a good concert. What could've happened to them though?? Is this the end of ST? SOMEONE GIVE ME ANSWERS

@glitterrat: Nah you’re right, the vibe shift is real. It feels less like a cult, more like watching your mates jam in their basement. But like. Gay.

@cultpoetry: Maybe Sleep was never meant to be permanent. It was a shroud, a vessel (no pun intended) to carry them until they could stand in their own joy.

@fancifulfury: nothing lasts forever.

@nervouspickle personally? I don’t care if Sleep is “gone.” if Vessel’s smiling with glitter on his tits and III’s dragging Ivy by the mask, I’m happy.

@existentialfangirl: It’s like grief ending. We all got addicted to the mourning part, but maybe this is the point — to finally see them happy and let go.

@spaghettiwizard36: Do you not remember being them horny as hell that entire tour a few years ago? Sugar shenanigans??? Vessel literally rode III on stage.

   @softsleeper: yea but that felt kinda different??
   @nervouspickle: Horny is horny if you ask me

@sleepcultist: I was at Bristol and it fucking broke me. Vessel seemed to just dissolve right there on stage. To see him be like this now is so bizarre. Not in a bad way but just weird as hell.

@definitelynotiii: their timelines have finally converged! You hear it in the music, too. All the signals are lining up, the fabric of reality stitching back together. That final Bloodsport performance? Yep, that’s temporal distortion un-distorting itself and WE ARE HERE TO WITNESS IT. Do you guys even know how monumental that is?!

   @spaghettiwizard36: go touch grass wtf is this

   @sleeptokenexpert: you’re the one with the time-traveling clone theory!

   @definitelynotiii: it’s not a theory it’s just straight up fact

@sleepcultist: but does that mean “Sleep” is gone?!

@softsleeper: I have no idea what you’re on about but like, makes sense I guess?

@bravedave: not me crying at 2am because of a reddit post. thanks.

@jigglewigwug: You're onto something. I was at the show back in Manchester and then a few days ago in Vienna and the difference was huge. Not necessarily in a bad way though. I still felt like it was a life changing experience even though it was less emotional than in the UK. Vess was such a mess there though so maybe that's a good thing...

@ratkingfan: If Sleep is gone, does that mean we won't get more music? Bc their music was always "tokens" to Sleep, right? So if they're gone they don't have any motivation to make tokens.