Chapter Text
The sharp jingle of keys rattled in the lock.
III sat curled on the couch, blanket drawn over his knees, the TV’s pale glow flickering faintly in the quiet room.
The door slammed against the wall with a harsh bang. III flinched.
"You’re still awake?" Noah’s voice was heavy, slurred. His silhouette filled the doorway—broad shoulders, swaying slightly, the sharp outline of his coat still clinging to his frame.
III stood, careful, blinking. "Yeah, I—was waiting. You didn’t text."
Noah scoffed, kicking off his shoes without care. One thudded against the wall. "Didn’t know I needed permission to come home now."
III’s stomach dropped. "No, I just meant—"
"Christ," Noah growled, pushing past him. The sharp sting of alcohol hit III’s nose first—bitter and burning. Whiskey, maybe.
"You’re always waiting. Sitting around like a lost fucking dog. You ever think that’s why I don’t text?"
III’s breath caught, lips tight. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure if Noah wanted an answer or just something to punch holes in.
Noah threw his jacket onto the floor, missing the coat hook by inches. He moved like a storm with no target yet—just spinning, building pressure. III stayed rooted to the floor, heart pounding.
"You ate already?" III asked, voice small, trying to change the subject. If he was good,- just this once - he wouldn’t have to face his wrath.
Noah laughed—a harsh, hollow sound. "What, you made dinner? How domestic." he sneered, venom dripping from every word. “Or should I say pathetic” The words hit sharp. III couldn’t help but freeze at his words.
He doesn’t mean it. Not really. He loves you
Noah stumbled toward the kitchen. III followed, always keeping his distance. The table was still set: a plate of pasta, slightly congealed, a glass of water. III had tried to keep it warm, just in case.
"You know I hate this shit." Noah’s lip curled as he poked the plate. "Always overcooked. You’re hopeless."
"I—I didn’t know what time you’d be back," III murmured. "I was just trying to—"
"To what? Impress me?" Noah turned, suddenly in his space. "Jesus. You think slapping together some noodles makes up for how fucked up you are?"
III flinched—not from a blow, not yet , but from the closeness, the spit in Noah’s voice. He could smell the whiskey in his breath now, acrid and thick.
"Noah," he whispered. "I didn’t mean—"
"You never fucking mean anything, do you?" Noah snarled, voice sharp enough to cut
He shoved the plate off the counter. It shattered across the tile floor with a harsh crack, sauce splattering like blood. III jumped back as the plate shattered, glass and sauce painting the floor in ugly streaks. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stared, trembling.
Noah turned toward him, eyes glassy, angry. But there was something sharp beneath the haze. Something focused.
"You’re fucking useless," he said, quiet now. Too quiet. "Can’t cook. Can’t clean. Can’t keep your fucking mouth shut. And you think I’m the problem."
III shook his head quickly. "No—Noah, I didn’t say that—" III moved on instinct, holding both hands up defensively in front of his chest.
Noah was on him in a heartbeat, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him close. III stumbled, caught off balance.
"Don’t lie to me," he hissed, breath hot on III’s cheek. "You’ve been sulking around like some kicked puppy for weeks. You think I don’t notice?"
III tried to pull back, but his boyfriend's grasp was too strong, and hissed from the pain.
"Please—Noah, please calm—"
Then came the slap—sharp and open-palmed against his cheek. Not enough to break skin, but loud enough to shatter the silence.
III’s body went rigid, shock rippling through him. The sting blossomed slowly, burning hot across his face. His eyes filled with tears before he could blink them away.
Noah’s hand still hovered in the air, fingers twitching. His eyes cold. A wicked smirk on his lips.
"Stop crying," he spat. "You always cry when you get called out. Fucking useless." he spat
III blinked fast, trying to stop the tears, body frozen in place. His mouth opened—but nothing came out.
"You wanna be treated like an adult? Then fucking act like one," Noah growled, voice low now, lethal. "All you do is create a mess and expect me to clean up."
Noah shoved III again, harder this time—jerking him back like a rag doll. III stumbled, heel slamming into shards of broken plate. Pain exploded in his foot—a sharp, searing burn that shot up his leg. He almost lost balance, a sick twist in his gut as he teetered on the edge of falling. His back slammed against the cold kitchen wall, the impact stealing his breath, crushing the air from his lungs in a brutal punch. His ribs burned with the force.
Before he could catch himself, Noah was on him again—hand snapping forward with brutal precision, fingers tangling in III’s hair and yanking his head back so sharply his neck ached. The cruel tug sent a shock of pain slicing through his scalp. Noah’s breath, hot and sour with alcohol, ghosted against III’s ear.
"You know what your problem is?" he said between his teeth, mouth too close to III’s ear, voice low and dangerous. "You don’t know your fucking place. Maybe I need to remind you."
III’s heart slammed in his chest like a hammer striking steel—each beat sharp and agonising. His legs trembled, refusing to obey. His mouth opened, desperate to scream, to shout—anything—but his throat tightened like a vice. No sound came. His voice was snatched away, swallowed whole by fear.
Noah’s grip shifted, fingers digging cruelly into the soft flesh of III’s upper arm, dragging him mercilessly toward the bedroom.
“No, no, no.” III whimpered, voice cracking. “You’re hurting me. Noah you’re-” he wailed in pain as Noah held him even stronger, probably leaving a bruise
"Noah, I don’t want to," he managed, barely more than a whisper. "Please. Please I don’t want—"
Suddenly, Noah’s hand jerked up, fingers clawing into III’s jaw, forcing his head back until his eyes met Noah’s cold, unforgiving gaze.
"You think I care?" he said. "After everything I put up with? You don’t get to say no."
III felt tears sting, blurring his vision—not from the slap this time, but from the raw ache radiating through his entire body. Every nerve screamed in protest, but his limbs felt leaden, as if submerged underwater, weighed down by despair and the crushing memory of every time he’d surrendered just to keep the peace, to make it stop.
Noah’s mouth crashed down on his, hard and punishing—teeth scraping, breath ragged and cruel. He yanked at III’s hair, the sharp pull burning like fire. III didn’t fight back. He couldn’t. His body went numb, limp and distant, a hollow spectator trapped inside his own skin, watching a nightmare unfold on mute.
Hands ripped at his clothes with rough impatience. III winced as fabric tore, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, but he stayed still. He was gone—adrift above himself, trapped in a room that spun too fast and echoed too loud.
Noah twisted him around, clutching the nape of his neck with bruising strength, forcing him down onto the bed. "You’re lucky I even still want you," Noah muttered bitterly, voice thick with scorn. "With the way you act? You should be grateful ."
III turned his head to the side, face pressed into the coarse sheets. His breath hitched—shallow and ragged—choking on panic. Thoughts scattered like broken glass.
He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t—
It hurt.
It hurt more because he didn’t fight. Because he’d learned that resistance made things worse. That if he was quiet, if he didn’t cry too loud, if he made himself small, it would pass quicker. And then maybe he’d still be worth keeping after.
But inside, something cracked. Something final.
***
The room was quiet now.
Noah’s breath was thick and rhythmic behind him, snoring against the sweat-damp sheets. One leg thrown over III’s thigh like a claim.
III lay still. Staring at the ceiling. Eyes wide. Not blinking.
His whole body ached. Skin scraped raw where Noah’s hands had held too hard. Inside, everything felt splintered, leaking something silent and awful.
He didn’t cry. Not yet. Crying would mean being in his body again. And he couldn’t do that. Not yet.
His fingers twitched. His toes. Then his breath. He took a slow inhale, but it caught halfway through. He tried again, shallower.
He slipped Noah’s leg off him like it was something dead. Moved gently, afraid to wake him. His limbs worked. That surprised him. He sat up. The sheets clung to his skin. He pulled away like it burned.
Panic bloomed in his chest—quiet, rising, squeezing tight like ice. He bit it back with trembling lips. His hands shook, moving faster than his mind could follow—shirts, pants, jacket—all shoved into his bag with shaky precision. His bass. The worn strap. The tuner with chipped edges. Toothbrush. Wallet. Socks.
No shoes. Shit —where were—
There. Under the chair. One was bent from being stepped on. He shoved his feet in anyway. The right one hurt. He winced. Didn’t stop.
His throat was closing, his vision prickling with tears he refused to shed. But he didn’t cry. Not yet.
He looked back once. Just once. Noah, sprawled across the mattress, arm across his pillow like he hadn’t broken anything at all.
III swallowed the lump in his throat. He turned then left.
The air outside hit him like a slap—cold, damp, sharp against his burning skin. Early morning, maybe. The sky was a bruised dark blue, edging toward soft grey. A streetlight flickered overhead, weak and tired. No cars, no sounds but his own ragged breaths.
He stood on the sidewalk, bag slung over one shoulder, bass case bumping harshly against his back, and let out a sob—raw, ragged, swallowed quick. He gritted his teeth, pressing the pain down, locking it in a box deep inside.
Somewhere—somewhere far away, like a thread tugging at his ribs—he felt it. A pull. A voice, low and ancient and kind.
Come .
He didn’t question it. He just started walking.
III jolted awake, heart hammering.
The room spun around him. Sheets tangled and damp against his skin. His throat burned. His chest heaved violently, like something inside was still breaking apart. His mouth opened but no sound came—just a wheeze, a choke .
Then the bile surged, hot and bitter.
He barely made it to the edge of the bed before it came up—hot, sour, violent, scratching his throat like broken glass. He dropped to his hands and knees, heaving onto the floor, body wracked in waves like it was trying to purge the nightmare through his stomach.
It didn’t help. His heart was still galloping. His whole body trembled, cold sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, breath cutting in and out like he was drowning in open air.
He wiped his mouth with a shaking sleeve and pushed himself up, legs unsteady beneath him. His eyes stung.
You’re not there. You’re not there. He’s not here.
But he couldn’t make himself believe it.
His limbs moved before his mind could catch up. He needed someone.
He left the room like a ghost, silent except for the uneven rhythm of his feet on the floorboards. One sock, one bare foot. No direction—just instinct.
The first door he found he didn’t hesitate. His fist lifted before he could stop it. He knocked—hard, desperate.
“Open up,” he whispered, voice cracked and broken. He kept knocking, hard and desperate.
Then louder: “Please. Please— open up”, a sob escaped “ Please open up. ”
The door opened, sudden light spilling out—and III launched himself forward.
His arms locked tight around II, his whole body trembling and desperate, as if holding on II was the only thing keeping him together. His weight nearly sent them both stumbling.
II barely caught him with a breathless huff.
“Whoa—hey. What the fuck—? III! ?” He gathered him close. One hand moving up and down his back.
But III wasn’t responding. He was hyperventilating , ragged breath stuttering and catching in his throat. He clutched tighter, still trembling like a leaf, like he couldn’t stop himself —afraid his insides might fall apart if he let go.
“Hey—hey. You’re okay, it’s just me. It’s me—III?”
Nothing. Not a word. II tried to move back slightly to look the bassists in the face, but III didn’t let him. His body was shaking too hard, his breathing too shallow. His eyes were wide, wild —like he wasn’t even seeing him. Like he was still stuck there .
II panicked. “Shit. Shit —okay, hold on—”
He reached out for the water bottle on the nightstand, hoping it might help—but III flinched hard at the motion, jerking away so suddenly II almost lost his balance. II let it go, his hands steadying III’s waist as he moved them to the floor. III draped over him like a broken weight.
“Vessel!” he shouted, voice breaking. “ VESS, IV! Anyone —get in here! Something’s wrong ! He’s not— fuck !”
He kept shouting as III clung tighter, breath stuttering, chest hitching like it couldn’t remember how to draw air.
He didn’t let go. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe”
He kept talking, soothing, but he had no idea how to fix it.
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
Vessel was the first to reach them. He burst into the room, eyes wide, taking in the scene: III was clutching II, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. II looked over his shoulder, panic written in every line of his body.
Vessel’s hands twitched momentarily before he clenched them into loose fists at his sides, fighting to steady himself.
“I don’t know what to do,” II said, his voice cracked and breathless. “He won’t let go—he’s not— ” he gestured helplessly “I don’t know how to-” II tried to say, desperately
“Okay… let me think,” Vessel said, swallowing hard to clear the tightness in his throat. He moved carefully toward them. “Let's try to get him onto the bed?”
III flinched as soon as he heard a second voice. His hands clamped tighter around II’s hoodie. “No, no, no— Not the bed — don’t take me back—don’t let him— ”
“Shh. No one’s taking you anywhere,” Vessel said, kneeling beside them. His fingers trembled slightly as he placed a hand on III’s back, but he kept his tone soft and steady. “You’re safe. It’s just us.”
“I promise,” II whispered, arms wrapped around III, grounding them both.
Vessel reached out slowly, placing his hand on III’s back. “We’re just going to move, okay? Somewhere more comfortable. You don’t have to let go of him. Just shift with us.” Vessel explained, keeping his voice sweet
It took time. Patience. A few attempts. But eventually, with II still holding him, they managed to get III onto the bed. He curled in on himself immediately, one hand still locked in the fabric of II’s hoodie like a lifeline.
“Blankets,” Vessel said, turning around, already looking for some of them. “Need to get more. Something heavy.”
IV skidded into the room moments later, nearly colliding with the doorframe. “What the fuck—? What happened?!”
“Nightmare,” Vessel said tightly. “Bad. We need to ground him, now. Go get some blankets.”
IV was gone before the last word left his mouth, returning with an armful of throws and quilts from the communal room. Vessel took them, layering them one by one with practiced care, watching for flinches. III didn't resist. He just trembled, eyes wide and glassy, breathing fast into II’s chest.
“Hey,” Vessel murmured. He was sitting at the edge of the bed now, rubbing III’s calf gently over the covers. “Can you hear me? It’s okay if you can’t talk. But I’m right here. We are here. You’re not alone.”
No answer, just a groan of pain.
His breath stuttered, caught. Lips pale.
“We need to calm his breathing,” Vessel muttered to himself, then turned to IV. “Wet cloth. Water. Anything calming. Get the kit—should still be in the cabinet, there should be some sleeping pills for later.”
IV nodded and ran.
“We’re gonna stay right here,” Vessel told him, voice soft as velvet. “You’re safe. No one’s coming. That man isn’t here. You’re not there anymore. ”
Still no response.
But Vessel didn’t stop. He kept talking—gentle, calm, sure. II held III tightly, whispering his own soft nonsense against his ear. A heartbeat. A presence. Something real in the aftershock.
By the time IV returned—cloth, water and weighted shoulder wrap in hand—III’s shaking had started to ease, just barely. Still raw. Still silent. But no longer slipping, or at least not completely