Archive of Our Own

Second in command, no longer in demand, an underlying hunger hits me

Understandably, I’m struggling to come to terms with it

To love you

It’s the worst thing that I can do

—To Love You, Autoheart

Two listens to the tick of the clock in the hotel room, hardly audible and yet somehow the only thing he can manage to focus on. The bath water has long gone cold, but he hasn’t moved; frozen still, sore muscles aching in protest. Two inhales, exhales.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Two whispers to himself, a confession given freely in the only privacy he’s been allowed since the tour started. His days have been spent in and out of the tour bus, whirling through venues like an oncoming storm, before vanishing just as quickly as he arrives.

There’s no moment of peace. There never is. As soon as he’s sequestered in the bus, fingers clutching at the collar of his shirt like commas, desperate for a pause, Vessel is walking through the door: taking up all the air in the room like he always does.

To Two, Vessel has always seemed too large for every space he inhabits. Even when he was younger, shoulders curled in on himself, face obscured, his voice lured in hundreds. Two, on the other hand, has always felt small. And yet, there’s nothing small about the feeling in Two’s chest, filling his lungs like oxygen, poised to overflow; to drown him on dry land. Two can’t breathe in the bus, can’t relax, and so he secludes himself in his bunk, where no one can witness the way he’s crying out for air.

He doesn’t go to dinner with the crew. He doesn’t join Vessel on the couch for movie night, or accept his offer to play a game, or assist in the writing of the new album; the inspiration that often strikes Vessel late at night. Instead, Two has become someone that lingers in dark corners, avoiding Vessel. The kind of friend that flees; leaves him standing in the hotel lobby the moment he’s handed his own room key.

So here he sits, in a bath that’s been cold for an hour, trying not to well over with emotions that he cannot name, will not allow to affect his job. He stares at the wall, at the thin cracks through the tiles, the way they twist and turn through the grout, a spiderweb alluding to decay lying underneath. Two rubs his eyes with damp hands and finally stands, gripping the edge of the tub, water cascading from him like sheets of ice.

Two’s shivering when he crawls under the blankets, hardly leaving a divot in the king-size bed, the empty space behind his back like a gaping maw, starving. It strikes like a cruel, pointed reminder, a highlight scrawled messily over a sentence, an emphasis on just how alone he is. He turns out the light, and lets the darkness consume him.

Vessel is eating breakfast in the hotel lobby, hair curling around his ears, ever so slightly damp. Two hates that he knows this by shade alone, the darkness of the color; hates that he can’t look away from how Vessel cuts his toast with delicate hands, setting the knife down with hardly a sound. Two hates himself as he fills his plate and sits down across from Vessel.

He’s not impolite. That’s the singular exception to his avoidance; the one time he allows himself to breathe Vessel’s air, to circle his orbit like a temporary dwarf moon. He’d noticed it, in the beginning of this album cycle, how his increased distance had caused Vessel to shrink away, afraid that he was the reason Two could hardly meet his gaze. Two had reassured him. It had been a lie.

Two fulfills his obligations, stands at Vessel’s side when he’s called to, attends meetings with the record label when they’re scheduled. He keeps his input to himself—unless he’s seated behind his drum kit, unless he’s marking down fills in the studio, where he can close his eyes and feel like he’s surrounded by nothing but the music. It’s the only time he lets himself steep in it, letting Vessel’s melodies fill him up, smoothing over the cavern in his chest like rising floodwater.

This is something monumental, he knows. He will stand by Vessel’s side for years to come and cannot afford to jeopardize it—cannot be the force that shatters Vessel’s hopeful dream. He must separate the songs from Vessel , make them his own, make them theirs . It’s a partnership, though it leaves Two wanting desperately for more.

He avoids Vessel’s eyes as he stirs milk into his oatmeal.

“Are you ready to leave at nine?” Vessel asks, almost shyly, eyes silently searching Two’s face for any acknowledgment.

Two nods. “Yeah, I’ve just got to grab my suitcase, that’s it.” He keeps his words short, clipped; bites down on the fondness that resides in the back of his throat.

“Alright,” Vessel says, and Two has the distinct feeling that he’s holding something back; that If Two were softer, more gentle, he would reach across the table and bare some part of his soul. It makes Two’s gut twist terribly, guilt gnawing in the deepest recesses of his soul, but he can’t do anything but clench his jaw and skirt Vessel’s gaze. He takes a bite of oatmeal and forces himself to swallow, to stay silent, to maintain this boundary between them that he knows he must respect.

Vessel has long since finished his food by the time Two scrapes up the last dregs of oatmeal, licking them from his spoon. He glances at Vessel’s empty plate, startles slightly, and meets his eyes—even though he knows he shouldn’t, even though he’s afraid he’ll sink so deep into ocean blue that he’ll never find his way out.

“You didn’t have to wait, Vessel,” he remarks, frowning ever so slightly.

Vessel shakes his head, curling his fingers tentatively around the edges of his plate as he picks it up. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay,” Two manages, but the word leaves his mouth like ash on the wind, delicate and betraying a wildfire that lies beyond the horizon. He blinks, takes a breath, and stands, gathering his own dishes into his hands. “I’ll meet you at the bus, then.”

Two deposits his plate, leaves Vessel alone in the lobby, and doesn’t see the way Vessel’s jaw clenches, the rough swallow of tears held back; an emotion that whispers through a dark forest like a tree falling, unheard.

The night envelops Two in its silvery, perilous grip, like he’s held at knifepoint by the cruel rotation of the sun. Alone in his bunk, accompanied only by the rumble of tires on asphalt, Two’s insides twist like live worms. There has to be something wrong with me, he thinks, prays, even, because if there isn’t some reasonable explanation for this—the way he feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside—then there is nothing to be done. And Two knows. Deep down, he knows that this is the case; that the roiling in his stomach is not sickness, but desperation, each cell screaming like it’s on fire, starving for oxygen.

Two has never known pain like this—not from betrayal by partners, nor from rejection by would-be lovers.. If Two hadn’t met Vessel, he wouldn’t have thought that heartbreak—that yearning— could hurt like this, but he knows it does. Knows it, because that hurt lives within him, and because he’s seen the way it flourishes within Vessel, too: the way he sings of a loss that Two cannot hope to understand. A void that will never be his to fill.

Pain—whether real or imagined, Two isn’t sure—flickers through his chest, and he rolls out of his bunk, straight through the curtain. Stumbling down the dark hall, feeling along the sides of the bunks, Two makes his way to the lounge in the front of the bus. He doesn’t expect to find Vessel there, knees curled against his chest, tears dripping down his cheeks like steady rain. 

Illuminated solely by the moon and passing streetlights, the sight takes the wind out of Two, pulling his focus entirely away from the aching desperation that consumes him. The hand that was on his chest—bracing against that heartsick phantom pain—comes to the wall, steadying himself as the bus rounds a turn in the highway.

“Vessel?” Two asks, the brokenness in his own voice now passable for concern.

Vessel winces, brows furrowing regretfully as he tries to turn away from Two, hiding the evidence of his own pain.

Two cannot help it, cannot maintain the gaping canyon that he continuously carves open, bleeding and wounded, between himself and Vessel. Now, he builds a bridge, light cable suspension, temporary and ephemeral, and promises himself that this will not become a landmark—that this moment will not change what he knows to matter most. “Ves, what’s wrong?” he asks softly, his voice soft and soothing, like he’s trying to comfort a wounded creature, as he takes a seat on the couch beside him.

“I’m okay,” Vessel manages to say, the nickname—so rarely that it falls from Two’s lips—washing over him like icy water. His lower lip trembles with emotion, and he bites down on it, punishing; an action that makes Two’s eyes widen in concern.

“You don’t look okay,” Two almost whispers, keeping his voice low. “Do you need to talk?”

“No,” Vessel sobs breathily, fingers hooking into the collar of his shirt and tugging, as if its mere presence is choking him. “I’ll be fine—you didn’t sign up for this, it’s not—I can handle this by m-myself.”

Two watches as Vessel's entire body trembles beneath the weight of the lie, and the dreadful knot in his stomach tightens once more. The carefully maintained facade of detachment slips away; the idea of speaking to Vessel in clipped, necessary exchanges is no longer conceivable. In this moment—the tears still coursing down Vessel's cheeks—one truth becomes undeniable: there must be room for exceptions. Vessel's pain is the exception.

“Vessel,” Two says, his tone now firm. The name feels heavy on his tongue, heavier than the epithet he’d let slip earlier; the way Vessel is referred to only in the precious, secret corners of his mind. “You can talk to me, that’s fine, I don’t want you to worry about that.”

Still refusing to meet Two’s eyes, Vessel winces. “It’s overstepping,” he whispers, and Two sees the evidence in his eyes: the proof that his distance has hurt Vessel, has twisted a knife in his stomach that remains there, bleeding him dry. He is entirely alone—as alone as one can be when accompanied by an entire crew, but still alone in that there is no one else who understands what it’s like: to slink in the dark shadows of the venue, making quick escapes and avoiding prying eyes, unable to linger or explore. There is a freedom enjoyed by everyone else that is denied to the two of them. Even the touring guitarist and bassist sleep soundly in their bunks, boldly venturing out into the city when the bus stops. Vessel experiences no freedom on tour, only the confines of his mask and shabby greenrooms. And Two has been no company.

Two feels sick at the thought: that the writhing desperation that lives inside him like a wild animal has still managed to snap its teeth at Vessel: to draw blood, despite the way he’s carefully kept it muzzled. Despite the way he’s stayed distant, holding space between himself and Vessel, a careful boundary meant to keep them both safe. Here, now, in the dark of the tour bus, Two finds that this line he has drawn in the sand has become a weapon.

“It’s not,” Two says, his voice tight as he swallows hard. He aches to reach out, to take Vessel’s hand—wants it with every atom of his being—but knows that there is no world in which he can have this. “You can talk to me,” he murmurs softly.

Vessel’s shoulders shake with the force of a sob that he refuses to let escape; to let the sound disturb the sleeping crew. His mouth curls into a trembling frown as he scrubs at his face with the edge of his sleeve, tears seeping into the cotton. “I can’t,” he whispers, his watery blue eyes locking onto Two's with a desperate plea, silently begging to be understood. Hoping his message is clear: he cannot bare his soul to Two—not when his lone companion on the road keeps him at arm’s length.

Something cracks within Two, and it’s irreparable. The vast canyon he’s slashed into the ground between himself and Vessel suddenly seems inconsequential, and Two breaches the distance by sitting up on his knees and wrapping his arms around the other man. Vessel stiffens at first, like he doesn’t expect it, but when he’s faced with the familiar scent of Two’s cologne and the faint rhythm of his heartbeat, he breathes in, and tension bleeds from his muscles. 

The breath steadies him, and Vessel repeats the action, burying his face in Two’s chest, hands coming to the smaller man’s back and grasping fistfuls of the faded t-shirt that he’s chosen to sleep in. Two does not protest, does not move, simply gives Vessel this moment—this comfort—like a gift. 

Though freely given, it is not entirely selfless. As Vessel cries and his breathing steadies, Two allows himself to savor the moment, etching it into his memory. The feel of Vessel’s skin against his own, the comforting warmth; the faint scent of patchouli and violet lingering from his morning shower; the way their difference in height is diminished by Vessel’s weary slump against him. Two clings to the tenderness of it all, wishing desperately that this quiet intimacy existed for any reason other than the anguish that has driven Vessel from his bunk in the middle of the night, when sleep is so precious.

He doesn’t ask why Vessel is crying, doesn’t dare open his mouth to utter a comforting word. Instead, he simply holds Vessel close, hoping that his own steadiness can be enough to soothe him. If this is the only time that he allows himself to touch, to be close to Vessel, Two resolves to imbue it with all the love that he can never speak aloud. Resting his cheek flat against the top of Vessel’s head, he closes his eyes and imagines that things could be different.

Perhaps, in another universe, he might tip up Vessel’s chin with a curled finger and kiss him softly, affection written like a love letter into the way their lips fit together. In another universe, there is a version of Two that asks Vessel what’s wrong, and receives an answer. In another universe, Vessel follows him back to his bunk, and they fit together like parentheticals, cradling this moment between them, precious as it is. 

In this universe, Two simply breathes in and breathes out.

There is no telling how long it has been when Vessel begins to pull away. There is a twinge in Two’s neck that suggests the possibility of hours, and Vessel looks similarly pained, blinking bleary—but no longer damp—eyes and blindly searching for the location of pain in his back with paint-stained fingers. He winces, finds the mirror of his discomfort in Two’s face, in the way he’s rolling his neck, and breathes out the smallest of laughs.

“We’re getting old,” Vessel says flatly, because he can’t muster up the ability to make a joke in this bus, not when Two is so close to him and still forever out of reach. Still, there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes, and it earns a sharp, amused exhale from Two. Even so, it feels like he’s refusing to allow himself to laugh back.

“Yeah, we are,” he responds, covering his mouth as he yawns. Something about leaving feels wrong, but the seriousness of this moment is descending upon Two, and he has to escape— has to, before he lets liquid magma erupt from his chest, permanently filling that vast gorge that keeps his heart at a proper distance from Vessel. Bracing a hand on the back of the couch, Two gets to his feet clumsily, too fast, and nearly flees down the hallway to his bunk. 

There is no goodnight; Two leaves him only with his rapidly vanishing shadow. Vessel’s eyes, blue-black and abyssal in the lowlight, follow Two until he’s disappeared behind his curtain, once again alone with grief that consumes him like the ocean.

Two is drowning. He is breathing in water for Vessel’s sake, and it is killing him.

The venues begin to run together. Two goes where he’s told, listens to the stage manager, and watches the headliner’s set after every show. It reads as friendly support, and it is, but it’s also selfish: it gives Vessel enough time to shower and disappear into his bunk before Two returns to the bus. This brief respite is the only thing keeping Two together, the only way he can fight back against the long sleepless nights, and the days that drag on and on. 

Every so often, Two thinks he might hear Vessel in the middle of the night, making a silent escape from his bunk to sit in the lounge. In some ways, Two wants to follow; wants to make sure everything is alright, to hold Vessel close like he’d done before. The rational part of Two’s mind knows that there is no way he can give this to Vessel. The affection that he had allowed himself to feel—to imagine—in that long moment, while Vessel cried into the thin material of his shirt, had nearly been enough to break him.

As the days stretch on, Two thinks of almost nothing but rudiments and the feeling of Vessel’s body cradled lovingly against his chest. He becomes withdrawn, snapping at his own tech, even though the man is as reliable and steady as he could ever ask for. The apology that tumbles from his lips feels dishonest, but it’s worth the way it soothes the hurt—and the concern—on the tech’s face. 

Two feels ashamed. 

After their set, he exits stage left, leaving Vessel alone to bow to the crowd. He hardly spares a glance to the bass player, doesn’t even hear the question he offers into the wild, electric air— are you okay?-- and bursts out of the exit into the cold night. Sucking down breaths of the winter air, Two cries into the night, tired hands held to his chest—useless when not holding drumsticks—as he hunches over, the weight that rests upon him nearly impossible to bear. 

There are only so many times he can remind himself that he must endure it, that there is no alternative. This is the only way he can have Vessel, and so he forces himself to accept it—the reality that all he will ever possess of his bandmate are the cherished memories of his voice in Two’s in-ears. There will never be a piece of Vessel that is willingly given, no trust placed in love, no part of him truly offered to Two. He must take what he can get, or leave with nothing.

By the time the crew realizes Two is gone, he has returned, hood pulled over his forehead, glad for the darkness of his mask, disguising the way it’s now wet with tears. No one questions where he’s gone, and he waits until he’s sure Vessel is finished before he braves the venue shower.

It’s dingy, but he’s quick, and soon enough Two is crossing the parking lot, shivering at the cold, wishing his hair wasn’t wet. He’s glad to enter the warmth of the bus, and even more glad to crawl into bed, despite the way it makes his chest twinge the instant his head hits the pillow. The acuity of his loneliness remains inescapable, no matter how much he tries. As Two’s eyes close, he can hear Vessel’s voice from the back lounge, an idle hum tracked to the sound of the road rushing by: the night comes down like heaven, the night comes down like heaven. 

It does, he thinks. Heavenly, the darkness overlaid upon darkness leaves room for only the blissful nothingness of sleep.

Creeping in along the edges of his dreams, sunshine trickling into shadows, Two feels as if he’s walking between worlds. He reaches a hand into the sunlight and feels the way it warms his skin; like the closest thing to love that Two is allowed to have. The world becomes bright, watery, and Two opens his eyes to a bus: not the bus he’s become used to, but similar enough. He’s disoriented as a slender hand reaches around the curtains, chasing the darkness back to let the light in. Two feels the way it warms his skin—like love, like déjà vu—and finds that the hand belongs to Vessel.

Vessel, who breaches the distance between them and runs his fingers through Two’s hair, before leaning down to press his lips against his forehead. Sunlight bursts across Two’s vision, blinding, and he leans away from the kiss, but only to look at Vessel with wonder. Mouth slightly slack, he stares; searching Ves’s face and finding softness there. Morning, love, Vessel tells him, deft fingers tucking Two’s hair behind his ear, and Two knows that he’s dreaming.

Knows it, but allows himself to stay in this blissful interstice anyway: this other world where Vessel presses his lips to Two’s and means it. Where the morning is no longer bleary disorientation and yearning, but rather something soft and golden, meant to be treasured. Two loses count of the amount of times that Vessel kisses him, but he doesn’t forget the way it feels.

He wishes he could forget when the rattle of the bus over a pothole shakes him into waking, and the world is cold and dark. Not even shame can silence the sobs that bubble up from his chest, though he tries, pressing his face into his pillow to muffle the sound. There’s a rustle of blankets, a whispery exchange, and someone from the crew slides out of their bunk to check on him. 

Two manages to insist that he’s alright, but the damage has been done. He has been witnessed in all his grief, caught, tangled in a web of his own making. He insists that he’s okay, but does not sleep, and eventually skips breakfast to sit on the steps of the bus. Phone in hand, his thumb hovers over the contact of their manager, millimeters from calling. Two cannot stay here—cannot keep going. It will kill him.

He imagines tapping the screen, begging an apology, recommending a friend to fill in at the last minute. Two knows just the guy—reliable, quick to learn, gentle enough to accompany Vessel on the road. Someone, without this gaping crack inside of Two that yearns desperately. 

Two thinks about the day he met Vessel. It wasn’t that long ago when they shook each others’ hands in a coffee shop, a meeting prompted by friends, those who could see the complementary nature of the music that twined through both of their lives. No one could have foreseen how Two would fade into the background, retreating behind his drums and into silence. He had once been the more outspoken of the two. Now, Two speaks when spoken to—and remains silent otherwise. It’s the only way he knows how to maintain this delicate balance: his dedication to the music, his quiet support of Vessel, and the love that he cannot reveal—cannot allow to ruin the world that Vessel cradles carefully in his hands. 

The future must remain untouched by Two’s wants and desires. It belongs to Vessel, not him. Two thinks about Vessel, sequestered alone in greenrooms for the sake of maintaining his anonymity, protecting his insecurity. How he is the only one allowed in; the only eyes that are considered safe, passing over Vessel’s half-painted, maskless face without judgement.

He thinks about someone else taking his place. Who else knows Vessel’s every pre-show ritual by heart? Who else knows when to stay out of his way, and when to offer a quiet reassurance, pulling the singer from dark, uncertain depths? If Two flees from his own folly, who will accompany Vessel across this unfamiliar country?

The answer is no one. This, Two knows. Vessel will not have it—has never been willing to invite another soul into this dynamic of theirs. It had been written in the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup—Two’s coffee gone cold at the edge of the table—the day they had sat down to discuss the potential of music and left with an unbreakable bond. 

Though Vessel will never fully understand the depth of Two's devotion, he cannot take away the small portion of it that he’s allowed to give. Two will stay. He will follow Vessel into isolated greenrooms, handle the endless questions from unfamiliar staff, and shield the singer from prying eyes. There is no one else Two would trust with this task—to protect Vessel, to do justice to his music. It is an unbearable weight in combination with the love that floods Two’s heart like the ocean. He must bear it.

He does.

The tour goes on.

Somewhere in the southwestern desert, a flood breaks. Vessel leaves the stage sobbing, and is inconsolable. Crew, their eyes wide—shocked, maybe scared—make attempts to settle him, to no avail. He retreats into the greenroom, the place where only Two is allowed.

Two is found dismantling his kit, assisting his tech. They’re not a big enough operation to warrant more crew, at least not while they’re only opening the shows, so he makes a habit of helping. Stays silent, sure, but packs the drums into their road cases all the same. 

The panic in the sound guy’s voice is enough to draw his attention from the floor tom in front of him. “What?” Two asks, because he didn’t hear, because years of drumming and touring still fucks up your ears, even if you’re decently careful. He curses himself retrospectively, wishes he’d been more thoughtful, had protected his hearing better as a teenager learning to play. 

“It’s Vessel,” the tech said. “He’s not okay, can you—”

Two was already up on his feet, swearing at the singular heartbeat of lost time, the extra second that Vessel will spend alone. Time seems to bend, folding meters into centimeters as he rounds the corner, bursting through the green room door. He finds Vessel hunched over the vanity, hair falling over his face as he fights for a breath between sobs.

“Vessel,” Two blurts out, shutting the door behind himself and approaching the crying man as if he’s attempting to befriend a scared, wild animal. Vessel’s fingers, painted black, grip tightly at the counter and simultaneously search for an invisible restriction around his neck, something to remove that would make breath come easier. There is nothing. Two is close to him, now, and the panic that radiates off of Vessel almost has a taste; metallic, like blood. 

Two knows what this is, has comforted himself alone through countless panic attacks alone in his tour bunk. It is a fate he would wish on no one, would walk through the underworld without looking back if it would only spare Vessel from this anguish.

“Vessel, hey,” he says firmly, hands coming to Vessel’s shoulders, gripping firmly. He tries not to think about how it is the first time that he’s touched the other man since that night on the bus; how it feels like his skin is on fire, breaking the one rule that he lives by: don’t get too close.

It’s too late—perhaps it had been too late months ago. But Two doesn’t care, not when something much more important is on the line. “Breathe,” he urges, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside, as Vessel meets his gaze with an expression of utter devastation and fear. “ Breathe , Ves. Come on.”

He listens, or tries to, pushing into Two’s touch and gasping for a wild dose of oxygen. A painted hand comes up to scrub at his face, chasing away tears and the prickling feeling of shame as Two witnesses this moment; this tragedy. Paint smudges under his fingertips, bleeding into his skin.

When Vessel is finally able to breathe deeply—albeit still between cries—he nearly collapses into Two’s arms, head tucked into the crook of the smaller man’s shoulder. It must be uncomfortable, the way he’s leaning down, but Two isn’t about to argue with the way that Vessel’s arms tentatively snake around his body, holding on as if Two is the only thing keeping him tied to land. 

“What happened?” Two asks him, biting the inside of his cheek. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Vessel admits quietly. “It’s just me—it’s always me.” He begins to pull away, and Two lets him, though it feels like a loss that he will never recover from. He meets Vessel’s eyes and is sure that there is devastation written across his face, unhidden. Whether Vessel sees it, whether he knows the reason before it, he says nothing. His eyes are tired, teary, shadowed with paint. 

Two can’t hold back the question, unable to maintain any semblance of detachment—though he’s starting to wonder if he ever truly could. “What do you mean?” he asks softly.

Vessel shakes his head and turns away, his hood falling back over his face, even though his mask lays abandoned on the counter. Through the mirror, Two catches a fleeting glimpse of him curling in on himself, his hands resting against his own sides in a heartbreaking imitation of an embrace.

“Ves, what do you mean,” Two says more firmly, though worry races up his spine like a bolt of lightning—hot and cold all at once. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m fine,” Vessel states flatly, fingertips tracing over his arm, digging into the skin as if the pinch of pain might ground him. Two feels his heartbeat thump in his ears like a metronome and has to steady himself; has to breathe deeply and exhale through his nose. “Vessel,” he begins, unsure. “Something is wrong—you can tell me, I’m here for you.” 

It feels like only half of what he ought to give, yet still more than he can manage without revealing his own heart; the way it beats unbidden, sewn red and bleeding to his sleeve. Two bites his lip, and continues. “I’m not leaving unless you want me to.”

Vessel’s shoulders shake with the weight of a silent sob, and he turns back to Two, tears carving pale tracks through the shadowed paint of his face, flowing freely down his cheeks and neck, paths intertwining before drifting apart once more. Two is struck by the sight of him—how, even in the midst of his pain, Vessel is this beautiful. Still, he can’t help but let his gaze linger on Ves’s damp lashes, the curve of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw.

“I know it’s messy, I’m sorry,” Vessel murmurs, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek, smudging watery black over the fleeting glimpse of pale skin. Two can’t bring himself to speak, can’t tell him he isn’t messy, can’t admit that he’d been watching in a way he shouldn’t have, that it was love—not disgust—shining in his eyes. He swallows the words, unwilling to add to the burden Vessel already carries, and says nothing.

“I just—” Vessel starts, his voice unsteady as his gaze drifts to the mask resting on the counter, like he’s wishing he could disappear behind it. “I’m always going to be alone, aren’t I? No matter how many people fill the crowd, no matter how many sing along or reach out like they know me—like they want me—when the mask comes off, I’m still just me. And I’m still alone.”

Two is stunned silent, and Vessel turns away again, this time to stare at his own reflection in the mirror, his gaze sharp and discerning. His mouth twists into a frown, observing the tragedy written across his face, and he makes a sound that’s almost a laugh—derisive, heartbreaking. 

He takes Two’s silence as agreement, one hand curling around his own waist again, half an embrace. “It’s okay, Two, you don’t have to try to come up with a reason why I’m wrong.”

“That’s not it, Ves,” Two says quietly. He can’t meet his eyes now, can’t risk the idea that the heartbreak he’ll find there will provoke him to confess exactly how much Vessel is loved; how much he’s wanted, in the mask or out of it. 

“I don’t want you to call me that,” Vessel says suddenly, his tone teetering on the edge of sharpness but landing instead in quiet resignation.

Two flinches, instantly aware of the slip—the unspoken acknowledgment of his own doubts, confirming that Vessel doesn’t—and never will—want him the way Two wants him. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, a wave of nausea rising in his throat, hard to shake. The sick, heavy weight of self-disappointment settles over him, seeping into his sinuses and tightening around Two like an iron cage of grief.

“It’s fine,” Vessel sighs, abandoning his own gaze in the mirror, wiping at his face once more. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter, Two, call me whatever you like. I don’t care.” He approaches an ancient leather chair and collapses into it, his body curled like a nautilus shell, as if he’s ready to be frozen in time, his death etched into stone for eternity.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Two whispers, arms crossing tightly across his chest. “I don’t understand, Vessel.”

“I’m just ready to go home,” he responds, his voice flat. It’s an excuse, and they both know it: a hasty cover-up, a rushed attempt to erase the vulnerability that he already regrets. For once, Two feels like the one being held at a distance, watching as Vessel descends deeper into the chasm growing between them, shovel in hand, preparing to dig the divide even wider. 

It’s hard to describe the grief that is seeping into Two’s bones, already road-weary, already weak. He doesn’t try. The silence stretches out long, uncomfortable, but eventually he speaks. As his voice breaks on the first word, he doesn’t even have the energy to hope that Vessel won’t notice.

“I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go, then.”

Vessel’s miniscule nod is hardly perceptible, but Two is fluent in his particular brand of communication, and he doesn’t press for a verbal response. He leaves the greenroom silently, leaning against the closed door in the hall, and breathing deeply through his nose as he tries not to throw up. 

He can’t do this much longer, he thinks. It can’t be good for him; the way that Vessel sends him reeling; ruins him completely. Two finds himself at an impossible crossroads: be the remedy to Vessel’s loneliness, despite the way it will kill him; or withdraw further for his own sake. 

Two finds that the choice is no longer his while standing in a dirty gas station bathroom somewhere in the South. He stares at his reflection in the scratched mirror and discovers that he looks like a specter, haunting this rest stop, unseen and unwelcome. He is just as alone here as Vessel is, and Vessel does not want him. 

There are four more shows to get through, and Vessel does not want him. 

There are three more shows to get through, and somehow, Two has become the most isolated; the most alone.

The crew keeps tabs on Vessel, makes sure he’s settled, wary of another breakdown. No one checks on Two. He’s the steady one, he shouldn’t need it. He understands. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less when he awakes in the middle of the night and sobs alone into his pillow, each cry as quiet as he can make it, so he doesn’t disrupt anyone’s sleep. 

There are two more shows to get through, and Two is pushing a case down the hall when something makes the hair raise on the back of his neck. Loud voices around the corner grab his attention, and something feels undeniably, unmistakably wrong. He abandons the case, whispers an apology to his tech, even though the man isn’t there to hear it, and follows the sound.

“There just isn’t room,” snaps a man wearing a venue staff t-shirt, gripping a clipboard with fingers that have turned white from insistence. The headliner’s guitarist stands next to him, looking idly concerned, while Vessel wilts at his side. “We’ve never had a separate greenroom just for the openers, sorry, that’s just how it is here.”

“But—” Vessel starts, and Two knows what he’s going to say: that his pre-show ritual is critical, that once the paint is on, he can’t stand to be seen without the mask—at least not by anyone but Two. It’s been in their contract since they began touring: they get a greenroom. A private greenroom. Not the dimly lit corner of the open hallway that the venue staff are insisting is adequate. 

“You can share ours,” the guitarist suggests, though he knows it’s no fix. Vessel shakes his head, frowning, and when his lower lip trembles slightly, Two can no longer stand idly by. 

“Sorry, what’s this?” he asks, voice firm. He shakes off the shade of his grief, cracks his skin open, summons some past version of himself: one that’s strong, that is still unhaunted.

The man from the venue takes a deep breath, like he’s said this all before, and can hardly bear to explain another time. “There isn’t a greenroom for the opening band. You can set up over there,” he gestures to the end of the hallway, where a folding table and chairs stand like desiccated remnants of a pier stretching out into the ocean. 

“That’s not going to work,” Two crosses his arms. 

“It’s all we’ve got,” the man shrugs, uncaring. This is hardly at the top of his list; the ire of the opening band doesn’t have much impact on his pre-show checklist. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Two bites out, “because if you don’t find somewhere private to put us, we won’t go on.”

The headliner’s guitarist inclines his head. Two doesn’t know him well, but if he did, he might think that the man is slightly impressed. “They’re as much of a draw as we are,” he explains to the venue staff member. “Half the line out front is wearing their shirts. I don’t imagine it’ll go over well if you have to announce that they aren’t playing because you refused to accommodate their request.”

Vessel remains quiet as the man grumbles, flipping through his clipboard, and stepping back to broadcast an annoyed question over a walkie-talkie. Two can’t help but step closer to Vessel, hoping that his presence reads as support—or at least, that it isn’t unwelcome.

It’s only when they’re settled in their makeshift greenroom—a supply closet that had been hastily cleared out to accommodate for temporary seating—that Vessel speaks again.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, glancing at Two as he applies the dark paint to his arms. 

Two watches him, takes in the dull blue of Vessel’s eyes, the way they’re searching, as if he’s unsure if Two will accept his thanks. The uncertainty in his gaze makes Two’s head hurt.

He takes a deep breath and slumps back in the folding chair. “I know it’s important to you.”

Vessel stares back quietly, and there’s a seriousness in his gaze that permeates into the air. It refuses to dissipate, not even after they’ve walked offstage, when Two is drained of every bit of energy. The world around him has shrunk, becoming incomprehensibly heavy, and his head spins. Two rubs his eyes, attempting to chase away the blurriness that has suddenly encroached. If anything, it gets worse; his vision darkens, the weight of the firmament crashing down upon him. As he steps out of the venue, hair still wet from the shower, Two stumbles and nearly collapses. A hand on his shoulder steadies him, and then Vessel is at his side, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Two mumbles before he can even ask, straightening his tired, weak knees. 

Vessel’s voice is almost panicked. “Is something wrong?”

Two shakes his head, because if he opens his mouth to deny it, his voice is going to break. There’s no way to explain that he is what’s wrong, that the singular glimpse of something close to affection in Vessel’s eyes has sent him reeling, spinning out aimlessly, a lone star racing towards supernova. 

Heartache shouldn’t feel like this, Two thinks. It shouldn’t tear through him like a sickness, ripping at him from the inside, but it does . His chest tightens, and a small bottle of shampoo slips from his grasp, tumbling toward the floor. Two’s vision blurs further, but he senses Vessel bending down to retrieve it, then feels the strong arm that circles around him, guiding him toward the bus, keeping him on his feet. 

Two dissolves. He drifts, untethered, as if his spirit has finally been torn from his body, lingering near its former shell only because it has nowhere else to go. He hears Vessel’s voice, but the words don’t register. The world has become a vast, wide, ocean, and there is nothing but the rush of the waves in his ear; no feeling except the lack of oxygen in his lungs. 

He is vaguely aware when someone takes his toiletries from his hands; when chattering voices stop abruptly and do not restart. The bus becomes quiet, and the engine starts, its hum like the constant crash of waves against the shore.  

Someone gently eases Two onto the couch, and soft hands pull him close, his face pressed against a warm chest. It’s only then that Two realizes it’s Vessel—and that he’s crying, has been crying for who knows how long. Silent tears slip down his cheeks, soaking into Vessel’s shirt. This breaks every unspoken rule, shattering the careful distance Two has upheld as if his very survival depended on it. He feels like he’s drowning, a crushing weight pressing down on his chest, as if he’s finally sinking into the dark depths of the ocean. In the suffocating blackness, there’s only the faintest glimmer of light from above.

Two looks away from the sun. The world goes dark, and he welcomes it.

He wakes up somewhere in Florida with a splitting headache and with Vessel’s arms still around him. Disoriented, he shifts uncomfortably, feeling Vessel’s hold loosen as he moves.

“Sorry,” Vessel murmurs into the darkness, and the apology tightens a knot in Two’s chest, making his mouth go dry. He sits up and pulls away from Vessel’s embrace, but the way Vessel’s fingers graze his skin—like he doesn’t want to let go—twists something painfully inside his chest. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to be wrong, so he stays still. Does nothing.

The silence stretches on for a long moment, broken only by the hum of the road outside. Two hears Vessel take a deep breath just before his hand finds his wrist again, fingers wrapping gently around it. “Two, what happened?”

Two closes his eyes, wincing silently, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not taking that for an answer,” Vessel says, uncharacteristically firmly, as he sits up. His hand stays on Two’s wrist, but his grip is light, careful. “Something’s wrong, Two, something’s been wrong, and I’m really concerned about you.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Two insists. “I’m fine—like you said, I’m just ready to go home.”  

The intensity of Two’s voice and the repetition of his own white lie stuns Vessel silent. The heaviness in the air has returned, and there is something different in Vessel’s eyes when he opens his mouth to speak. It’s something watery and delicate, fragile, even; but Two beats him to it, words tumbling from his mouth like blunt weapons. He must push Vessel away, must escape his gentle grasp, or he will never leave. 

“Thank you, really, but next time, just leave it alone. It’s not fair to you. I’m not your mess to clean up.” He stands, slipping from Vessel’s hold. Despite himself, he glances down at him and instantly wishes that he hadn’t: hurt flashes in Vessel’s eyes—sharp and pained.

“Two, I’m…” Vessel begins, his brow furrowing. “I’m your friend, right? I can’t just—do you really want me to leave you like this, when you're in such a state?”

“You’re making things harder,” Two whispers, and as the words leave his mouth, he has never regretted anything more. Vessel flinches, shrinking away from Two as if he’s been struck.

“I’m sorry,” Vessel stutters out, eyes wide, and the knot in Two’s chest tightens, strangling the life from his body. This is proof of why he’s always held himself back; proof of the fact that he does not deserve Vessel; that he never has. 

Two shakes his head, hoping that it’s apology enough, because if he opens his mouth to speak, there will be no coming back from this. No matter how much he aches, no matter how much his desire utterly destroys him, Two will not ruin this for Vessel. The band comes first; the music matters more than his own desires. He turns away and does not look back, disappearing into the dim hallway, crawling alone into his bunk.

If Two cries, alone in the dark, no one notices. There is no sound but the road. There is no touch but that of the blanket wrapped tightly around him like a chrysalis; but there will be no metamorphosis, no eventual beauty, no spreading of his wings. 

There are two more shows to get through. 

Vessel steers clear of Two during load-in, so he returns the favor while he knows the singer is holed up in the greenroom, preparing for the show. Two doesn’t want to think about it—how his freckles disappear under the carefully applied paint, how he hums to warm up his voice, how he often trembles with nerves in the minutes before the show. Instead, he dresses in the bathroom, where a bare lightbulb flickers over his head. It adds to the unsettling feeling that blankets him from head to toe—it’s fitting, he thinks. 

When Two appears on stage, shrouded in black cloth and fog, the crowd screams. He raises his hands to the sky, pouring all of his focus into the drums in front of him. This is what he’s made for; what he can give to the world. If he is nothing else but this, at least he is useful. He takes every emotion and packs it neatly into a box; seals it with tape, shoves it in some dark corner of his mind. Two becomes nothing, noone. He bows at the end of the show, and wonders if the peace that he feels—the quiet inhale of the earth right before the storm hits—will last. 

It’s halfway through the last show when the hurricane hits. The brief respite breaks as Vessel sobs onstage, stumbling through lyrics with devastating emotion. Two doesn’t always listen to him sing—on this tour it has been easier to ask the sound tech if they’ll lower the vocals in his monitors, turning up the click track. But tonight, he’d forgotten to ask, and their borrowed sound guy doesn’t know his preferences by heart. It’s fine , he thinks, it’ll be fine , up until it isn’t anymore.

Don’t forget, the setlist has changed, someone reports over the monitors. Last song of the encore—Blood Sport.

It isn’t always on the setlist, and Two never knows what possesses Vessel to select it; what earns a particular city the right to watch him sob into the microphone. It never seems easy; but tonight is particularly hard, if the way Vessel’s shoulders tremble is anything to go by. Lyrics aren’t Two’s forte, but this time he finds himself listening to them, holding each of Vessel’s words close.

Two blinks, and finds that his mask is damp, soaked with tears where it’s stretched over his face. Vessel’s voice cracks, bleeding static— you say it doesn’t matter— and behind the drum kit, Two is crying aloud, eyes shut as he finds the drums by feel alone. When the song ends, the cheers of the crowd drown out his sobs—and Vessel’s—and this time, it’s his turn to depart from the stage without bowing in goodbye.

There are hotel rooms, tonight, a chance to rest weary bones before the long flight the next morning. Two begs out of the afterparty, collects his keycard from the tour manager, and flees before anyone can ask him what’s wrong. The truth is, he doesn’t have an answer. 

Despite the fact that it is his only respite, sleep evades Two. He lies awake, staring at the constellation pattern of plaster on the hotel ceiling, pretending it's the night sky above him. He feels like a trapped animal, aching for something vital that he can’t quite grasp, his mind drifting further from reality with each passing moment. 

He wakes to an early alarm, and somehow, isn’t sure whether he slept at all. The morning is a flurry of movement: quick, catered breakfast, unpacking and repacking the gear, and before he knows it, they’re walking onto the plane. Not everyone is returning to the UK, and those who are have slightly different flights, departing at different times, heading to smaller airports. Two is bound for Heathrow, and so is Vessel.

It should be no shock that their seats have been booked together, but for some reason, Two is surprised. When Vessel reaches up to put his carry-on into the overhead compartment and sits down next to him, Two allows himself to look. He finds a tired, weary expression, and Vessel offers him a forced smile. 

“You didn’t go to the afterparty,” he says, and Two realizes that he’s concerned, not disappointed. 

Shaking his head, Two glances out the airplane window. “I didn’t feel well.”

“Oh,” Vessel replies, and Two isn’t sure what to make of it; not while he can’t see the expression on his face. It leaves him wanting, like everything does. Two rests his head against the window and closes his eyes.

Time passes. There are no shows to get through, and the revolution of the earth around the sun feels agonizingly slow. Two sleeps, misses the in-flight meal, and when Vessel wakes him for breakfast— does it even count as breakfast if it’s nearly three in the afternoon? —and Two tries not to feel. 

He lasts until they reach Paddington Station, stepping down from the train straight from Heathrow, and Vessel wraps a gentle hand around his wrist.

Turning to face him, his  mouth slightly open in surprise, the expression on Vessel’s face is unreadable. “What, Vessel?” Two asks, moving out of the way of the crowd.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” Vessel says, and though his face is tired, his eyes sad, his tone is insistent. “What train are you catching? I’ll walk you to your platform.”

Two almost hesitates to let him, not wanting to prolong the heartache that’s eating away at him. But Vessel's expression is so full of hope, and he can't bear to be the one to shatter it.

“Sure,” he says, adjusting his grip on his suitcase. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping on the train app, and glancing up at the schedule. Watching over his shoulder, Vessel hums thoughtfully. 

“Platform four?” he offers, scanning the orange lights that spell out destination after destination.

“Yeah, I think so,” Two replies, checking his phone again before tucking it away. He could get used to this, he thinks; the companionship of Vessel at his side, the easiness of collaboration that bleeds from music into real life. But he cannot have it, so instead, he tries to shove it down, tucking this desire in some deep recess of his mind, to be unpacked at a later time. 

Vessel follows him to the platform, and tension hangs between them as they stand facing one another, both waiting for the other to be the first to break the moment. 

“So—” Two starts, right as Vessel opens his mouth to say, “Have a safe journey, Two.”

Two nods, swallows hard. “Thank you. I, um…I guess I’ll see you in the studio,” he says, and it feels like he’s misstepping somehow. “Whenever that is. I’ll keep an eye on my email.”

“Alright,” Vessel replies, and opens his mouth like he might say something else, but thinks the better of it. 

“I should go,” Two adds, because it’s true, and because if he stays here, in such proximity to the black hole gravity that emanates from Vessel, he will never be able to leave. 

Vessel nods, clasping Two’s shoulder in a silent, small gesture of affection. He offers a smile in return, as much as he can manage, and pulls away from Vessel’s touch before it lingers, before he can soak in the feeling. Catching his suitcase by the handle, he departs, climbing up the steps and into the train. Two doesn’t look back, not until he’s found an empty row and put his luggage up on the overhead rack.

He sinks into his seat, shrugging off his jacket. As Two stares out the window at the station, his eyes land on Vessel, still standing on the platform, his gaze fixed on the train—on the door Two had entered, on the carriage he’d passed through because it was full. Vessel looks as though he’s searching for something important, something without which he is utterly lost.

Two watches as Vessel’s shoulders sink. He hooks his fingers into the handle of his suitcase and begins to turn away, though he does it so slowly, as if the action is painful. With a visible deep breath, Vessel starts to walk away from the train, towards the exit of the station, towards the world without Two in it.

For the first time, Two realizes just how blind he’s been. He remembers the way Vessel held him as they crossed state lines, his concern so profound it could only be expressed by his arms around him. His insistence on knowing whether Two was alright, met only by distance. Now, Two stares at the empty spot on the platform where Vessel had stood, and the weight of his absence crashes over him, relentless as deep ocean pressure, crushing him into the sand, burying him in the seabed. It’s a weight he cannot bear—not after months of shouldering so much. This new burden, the loneliness that snaps its glistening teeth at Two’s heels and draws blood, is too heavy, too painful . Suddenly, Two can’t breathe.

Before he even thinks, he’s on his feet, snatching up his jacket and pulling his suitcase from the overhead rack. Two feels the train rumble to life as he bolts down the carriage, fingers slamming against the button two, three, four times before the door opens. The conductor shouts, tells him the train’s leaving, but Two is flying down the steps and onto the platform just as it begins to move. Heart beating in his throat, he turns and watches it pull away from the station, green carriages stretching into sand and sky, leaving him behind. 

The decision is made, but still, Two can't seem to catch his breath. He knows, now, that only Vessel can ease this ache; only Vessel can fill his lungs with oxygen, allowing him to draw the breath he desperately craves. Pulling his eyes away from the tracks leading home, Two abandons his well-set plans and starts searching for Vessel.

The station seems much more crowded than it had been only moments before, and Two’s heart stutters as he scans the crowd and finds no familiar glimpse of dirty blond poking out from underneath a hoodie. There is a moment where he thinks he may not find him; where he might have missed this very last shot. But then, just as he starts to feel afraid, he catches a singular glimpse of Vessel—it’s just his side profile as he turns a corner, but Two hardly needs anything else to recognize him. He breaks into a run, suitcase wheels rattling over the cobblestones as he weaves through the crowd, calling out apologies with no real regret behind them. Nothing else matters—he needs to get to Vessel. 

He rounds the corner and sees that Vessel has made it halfway down the sidewalk, despite the way he’s moving slowly, dragging his suitcase behind him. Two keeps running, weaving through the crowd, and when Vessel makes to turn down the sidewalk, he can no longer stand it.

“Vessel!” he shouts, breathless. “Vessel!”

Two watches how Vessel flinches in surprise—at hearing his name, at hearing Two’s voice— and stops, glancing behind himself. He reaches up and slides one side of his headphones from his ear, scanning the crowd, like he isn’t sure whether he might be imagining things.

“Ves,” Two yells, and he can tell the moment that Vessel’s eyes land upon him, because his eyes widen with surprise. Two’s heart beats relentlessly as he careens down one curb and up another, cutting the corner to get to him faster—a taxi driver lays on their horn, but Two doesn’t even care. He slides to a stop in front of Vessel, cheeks flushed from running, his chest heaving.

“Two?” Vessel says incredulously, shrugging off the other side of his headphones, letting them fall around his neck. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a train?”

“I got off it,” Two pants, shaking his head. “I can’t—I needed to find you.” He watches Vessel intently: observes the furrowing of his brows, the soft curl of his mouth into a concerned frown. 

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I’m in love with you,” Two confesses, his voice thick with emotion, the words tumbling from his mouth uncontrollably. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, and I can’t—I can’t go home, not without telling you. It’ll kill me. I had to say something, and I’m sorry, and—”

Vessel reaches out, steadying Two by his shoulders. Something about his posture softens; his body angles itself towards Two, as if the movement is completely involuntary. Two takes a deep breath and swallows down his emotions, searching Vessel’s face for an answer that he doesn’t immediately find. He watches Vessel look at him in a new light, watches him understand , blindly tracing stars to find a constellation.

Rapidly, he melts into the deep blackness of outer space, pulling Two closer to him, surging across galaxies of distance to kiss him. It is the only answer Two has ever needed. He kisses back, feels the fiery intensity of reentry, and squeezes his eyes shut to hold back the dampness that is gathering in his eyes.

Vaguely, he becomes aware that his hand has come up to rest on Vessel’s cheek; that it’s dampened with tears that are not his own. He pulls back just slightly, realizing they’re breathing the same air, sharing the same precious space. Fed by the same heavenly molecules, they exist in perfect parallel, the moment sacred and untouchable. Two looks up at him, and finds that he’s smiling, despite the way tears continue to fall down his cheeks. 

Vessel laughs, watery, and loops an arm around Two’s back, pulling him into a tender embrace. “I never thought,” he begins, sniffling slightly and raising his free hand to his own cheek, chasing away several rogue tears. “God, Two, I thought you hated me.”

“No,” Two says, emphatically. “No, never.” He fists a hand in the collar of Vessel’s hoodie, fingers tangling in the strings. 

Vessel breathes his air; keeps breathing it, swaying on his feet and seemingly uncaring that they’re standing on the side of the road, outside one of the busiest train stations in the city, still smudged with paint and grime from tour. None of it matters. This time, Two is the one that leans in for the kiss, his hand splayed across Vessel’s damp cheek. Their noses brush, and Two tries to press every ounce of love that he possesses into Vessel’s mouth, all of the unwritten longing that he’s kept inside for so long. 

Pulling away, Vessel runs a hand through his hair and pushes back his hood. Two takes the opportunity to watch him, now that he’s allowed to, his gaze following the way dirty blond curls tumble over his forehead. There isn’t a single thing about Vessel that isn’t beautiful, he thinks.

“You missed your train,” he says, brows furrowing again. “How are you going to get home?”

Two shakes his head, “I don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead.”

The admission brings color to Vessel’s cheeks, and he tightens his grip around him. “You can stay with me—I mean, until you can get a new train, if that’s what you want, I don’t want to assume.”

“Ves, I don’t want to leave you just yet, not if I don’t have to,”  Two states firmly. 

Vessel nods and finally lets go of Two, as though the assurance was all he needed. “Right then—let’s go home.”

For the first time in months, Two smiles, and it feels effortless. The exhaustion still clings to him, but the gnawing, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach has nearly disappeared. As they walk down the path, Vessel’s free hand rests lightly on Two’s back, tentative. Two reassures him, and the touch becomes firmer, his thumb slipping into one of the loops on Two’s jacket.

They make it halfway down a shaded pathway before Vessel speaks again, his voice tentative. “Is this why you were…why you were so sick?” The question is clumsy, but there is no real word to put to it: the way heartache had twisted its metallic claws into Two’s body, poisoning him from the inside out. 

“Yeah,” Two admits, though the confession tastes bitter in his mouth. “I thought I was going to have to leave the band.”

“Why?” Vessel asks, eyes widening.

“Well, I didn’t think it was fair to you,” Two chews on his lip, sighing. “For so many reasons. But I didn’t want to ruin this.” He looks over at Vessel, his face serious. “I still don’t.”

Vessel frowns, troubled. “What do you mean, ruin things?”

“These things only end one of two ways, don’t they?” Two asks, hating the way that this makes everything feel trivial. “Either it lasts or it doesn’t. And If it doesn’t, I don’t want to be the reason that the band falls apart.”

“Two,” Vessel sighs, almost admonishing. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?”

He stays quiet, but the answer is clearly no, his throat working as he swallows hard, like he’s afraid of the answer. 

“Since that first studio session,” Vessel explains. “I’ve never— never felt that way before, you know. I didn’t understand it for a long time, and then I realized…” he brings his thumb to his mouth, biting at the skin around his nail. “After we met, I couldn’t write about anything but you.” 

Two recalls that day; remembers the pleading lyrics Vessel had penned—ambiguous and abstract, yet yearning for love all the same. Song after song had been scrapped—it was too tender for progressive metal, their producer had insisted. Two inhales shakily. “Really?”

“Really,” Vessel says assuredly, swallowing hard as he glances at Two. “Am I….am I allowed to ask about you? How long it’s been?”

“It feels like it’s been forever, Ves,” Two admits easily, with a shake of his head. “I don’t remember a time where I didn’t want you.”

There’s a flash of incredulity in Vessel’s gaze, like he can’t possibly believe that to be true, before he looks back at the cobblestone path ahead. 

“I’ve tried so hard to separate my feelings, to keep everything professional,” Two explains. “This tour has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.”

Vessel’s face pinches into an unpleasant expression. “That’s why you told me I was making things harder.”

“Yeah,” Two breathes, guilt washing over him like supraglacial water, chilling him to the bone. “I’m sorry. I know that hurt you.”

He shrugs off the apology, though Two can tell that it mends something within him; erases an insecurity that lingers. “You don’t have to push me away,” he explains gently. "Whether this lasts or not doesn’t matter, Two. Nothing lasts forever. I’ll lose you one way or another someday, but I don’t want to deny either of us the chance to be loved just because of an inevitability."

Two stumbles over a cobblestone, Vessel’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. Surprisingly, it’s a weight he finds easy to carry: the certainty that, someday, this will end. And yet, there’s no sense in avoiding it—no purpose in trying to shield himself from the pain to come. Lately, he’s been drowning in so much anguish that the thought of a future heartbreak feels insignificant by comparison.

“Okay,” Two nods. “Ves, I trust you. I’m willing to take this risk if you are.”

“It doesn’t feel like a risk,” Vessel says softly, and Two shivers at the way this trust feels; effervescent and sparkling as it crawls up his spine, precious and freely given. He reaches for Vessel’s hand, and finds calloused fingers already searching for his own. 

Hand-in-hand, they walk the last block to Vessel’s flat as the sun dips below the horizon, bathing the world in midnight blue. When Two glances over at Vessel; watches his side profile lit by the streetlights, he almost cannot believe that he is here, now, and not alone on his train home.

“I don’t know what state I left the house in,” Vessel says as he stops in front of a walk-up. He lets go of Two’s hand to fish his keys out of his pocket, opening the door and holding it after he walks through. Two has been here before—only a handful of times, but enough to know what to expect. It’s not messy inside, but it is lived in, in the way that all of Vessel’s things seem to be loved and preciously maintained. A corkboard sits on the dining table, propped against the wall, lyrics and hastily-penned melodies overlapping each other like leaf litter. 

Two spots his own handwriting on the corkboard—small notes scrawled over the lyrics, drum accents marked above piano lines. Vessel watches him closely, studying his reaction as Two takes in the careful way his contributions have been arranged. There’s love even here, etched between the rests and offbeats, woven through the words. Now that he sees it written out in front of him, it’s unmistakable.

"Ves," he whispers, the realization breaking over him at last, finally tangible and real. He is loved—has been loved—all along, in every quiet way Vessel could manage without forging his own bridge across the chasm Two had carved between them.

Now, that canyon shrinks to nothingness. Vessel abandons his attempt to remove his jacket, hands coming up to cup Two’s cheeks as he kisses him, brows furrowed with the intensity of his emotion. The world shrinks around them, life becoming nothing else but the way Two’s hands fumble for purchase on Vessel’s sleeves, desperation bubbling up to the surface. His back hits the wall, and he can’t help but gasp into Vessel’s mouth. Heartbeat thumping in his ears, Two pulls Vessel further downwards by his collar, and suddenly there is no more pain. Every tear shed in the darkness of Two’s bunk vanishes, every moment on the road where he questioned his existence is gone; the sickness that roiled in his body like loneliness incarnate, now dissolving into nothingness. Vessel holds him, hand on the small of Two’s back, and strips the longing from his body, like aqua regia, drinking the noble metal from his skin and leaving nothing else behind. 

Time slows, then speeds up, then slows again. Two’s thigh is between Vessel’s knees, and now Ves is the one held against the wall, his back arching as he presses into Two’s touch. Someone is whimpering, and Two is not sure who the sound belongs to. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Vessel’s delicate fingertips, tentatively exploring the plane of Two’s stomach, cold against his covered skin. They haven’t left the entry, and soon Vessel urges Two toward the stairs, though they are hard pressed to let go of each other and begin the ascent. 

Vessel abandons his shoes, each one on a separate stair, and Two is so endeared by the action that he can’t help but kiss him again, nearly falling backwards off of the top step as Ves leans in. He’s easily caught, strong arms around his waist, but he gasps at the lack of balance nonetheless.

“I’ve got you,” Vessel insists, his voice raw. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” Two hums, his hand coming to rest on top of Vessel’s. The sensation of his hands on Two’s waist, thumb pressing into his hip bone, makes Two’s breath catch in his chest. There is no denying the way his body is begging for Vessel’s touch—he’s sure it’s written across his face, spelled out neatly in the way his mouth falls open, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

Vessel pulls him from the landing, kissing Two like his life depends on it. When Two tilts his head, pressing his lips to the slope of Vessel’s jaw, he can feel the way the taller man shivers under his touch. “Ves,” he breathes, leaving a trail of damp kisses in his wake.

“ Yes,” Vessel replies, and it’s half response, half plea. It’s as if he doesn’t quite know what he’s asking for, what he truly needs—but whatever Two is willing to offer, he’ll accept it happily. He breaks in Two’s grasp, bends; needy and wanting. There are no words anymore, only flurried, frenzied movements as they careen into Vessel’s bedroom, leaving jackets and shoes on the floor. When Two takes hold of Vessel’s hip, canting their bodies together, Ves whimpers, his hand sliding into the short hair at the back of Two’s neck.

Ves’s eyes are like black holes, starving, as he pulls Two down onto the bed with him. Knees on either side of Vessel’s hips, Two presses him backwards, hands sliding across Vessel’s chest. Now that he’s allowed to touch, he relishes in it, feeling each curve of Vessel’s toned body underneath his hands. Mouth slack and open, watching Two intensely, Vessel folds his hand under the hem of his shirt and pulls it off. 

“There,” he says breathlessly, and moans as Two’s mouth is on him immediately, pressing wet lips to every inch of bare skin that he can reach. There is suddenly no time for slow worship or trailing kisses; Vessel is pulling Two’s hips against his own with one hand, and sliding the other up Two’s shirt. Breathlessly, Two pulls away only long enough to discard his own shirt at the end of the bed, leaning back into Vessel’s touch with urgency—like it will kill him if he doesn’t allow himself to be consumed wholly. 

It’s frantic, a flurry of paint-stained hands as Two and Vessel begin to map out pale skin. There is no time for detail, no time for exploration—only burning hunger, only this sensual sating. Vessel throws his head back, and Two bites at the skin that’s exposed; their bodies move, stuttering, in tandem; Vessel grips Two’s thigh with one hand. He tentatively slides it upward, and Two nods—his lips have made their way back to Vessel’s, and he only barely pulls away to speak.

“You can touch,” he gasps, his hand splaying across Vessel’s cheek. “Please, Ves, if you want—”

The pleading tone of Two’s voice sets something alight within Vessel, fireworks bursting around the sides of his vision. He pulls back slightly, watching the way Two’s face contorts with pleasure as he slides his hand over the zipper of his jeans. This is unfamiliar territory, and yet Vessel wants more—says so, against Two’s mouth, and cries out when Two’s touch mirrors his own. 

It’s hardly enough, just warm hands over clothing, but every touch, every movement is imbued with years of longing. Vessel is trembling, begging— please, Two, please— and Two wants to give him what he’s asking for, wants to remove every boundary that lays between them. As Vessel’s back arches, hips pressed flush against Two’s, he rests a hand on Vessel’s chest and sits up. 

The starving beast within Two’s chest bares its teeth, but he breathes deeply, tames it into submission. This is fast—too fast. Two knows Vessel; knows that he’s had girlfriends in the past, but if Vessel has ever ventured into romances with men, Two is not aware of it. This seems like an important question—there are so many important questions, and Two rests his hand on Vessel’s chest, stops him from chasing another kiss, forces a pause. Vessel rests his head back on the bed, looking up at Two with wide eyes.

“Have you—” Two begins, licking his lips and inhaling slowly. “Have you done this before?” From where he’s settled above Vessel’s body, hair falling into his eyes as he studies his face, he can see the flicker of uncertainty that arises there, even before Vessel speaks.

He shakes his head. “No, not like this.”

Two is struck by an emotion so intense that it’s almost blinding, and he steadies himself with the hand that’s resting on Vessel’s chest. “Is that alright?” Vessel continues, questioning, an eyebrow slightly raised. Where there is steadiness in his gaze, there is also a faint flicker of insecurity lingering just beneath the surface.

“Yeah, Ves, that’s fine,” Two reassures, his voice as controlled as he can manage. His body is still thrumming with desire—almost harmonic—and he takes a deep breath, tries to choke the feeling quiet, like his own light touch on a cymbal. “That’s nothing to worry about.” He trails his thumb across Vessel’s chest, a repetitive, soothing movement.

“But you stopped,” Vessel questions, swallowing hard. 

Nodding, Two shifts his weight just slightly, alleviating the pressure between them. There’s a damp spot on Vessel’s trousers, arousal leaving a mark on the moment that has slipped past, and though the sight chases the breath from his chest, Two simply rests a gentle hand on Vessel’s hip. “I don’t want to rush this,” he explains. “I want you, Ves, I mean, fuck,” he laughs, “of course I do. But you deserve more than something so rushed and frantic.”

“Oh,” Vessel says, his voice incredibly soft, and Two watches the way he blinks quickly, chasing away the hint of a thunderstorm gathering in his eyes. Something passes between them, unspoken, a shared understanding of the love this is—a love that can wait, can be patient. Two lowers himself and places a kiss on Vessel’s forehead, savoring the simple joy of being able to do this—that Vessel is his to lavish with affection. He pulls back just enough to re-establish the space between them, but then leans down once more, unable to resist adding a second kiss.

Vessel smiles, and though there’s something tired about it—the long days on the road have taken a toll, no matter how much his world has changed in the last hour—he looks more at peace than Two has seen him in ages. With a light touch, Two brushes his fingertips across Vessel’s cheek before rising from his lap, trying to ignore the faint, shaky breath Ves exhales as the chill of the air replaces the warmth Two had left behind.

“Let’s figure out dinner,” Two suggests, looking away from Vessel as he picks up his shirt from where it was discarded on the bed. He shrugs it on, and realizes a minute later that it isn’t his—it hangs too loosely off of his frame. Two looks back at Vessel in realization, and finds himself pulled right back into Vessel’s lap, strong arms encircling him as Ves captures him in a kiss. It’s sudden, and near-frantic, but Vessel pulls away to murmur against his lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve imagined this.”

“I probably have some idea,” Two smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he leans into Vessel’s touch. They linger, momentarily, before Vessel releases his hold on him. Somehow—despite the way desire still curls low in Two’s stomach—this feels peaceful.

They walk down the road to Tesco together, Vessel in fresh clothes and Two still in his borrowed shirt, and select a dinner that feels familiar; a welcome contrast from the gas station and airplane food that has been fueling them. They hold hands in the aisle, and it feels as if a dark cloud that had been blanketing Two’s world for months has pulled back, letting sunlight cascade through. 

Two laughs as they put dinner in the oven, because the only pot holder that Vessel owns is crocheted and shaped like a whale shark, because of course it is. Ves looks at him softly, his expression relaxed and unguarded, and Two’s breath catches in his throat. This moment feels like something that should be captured behind glass, cherished forever, held close: Vessel smiles, and leans over Two’s shoulder to kiss him.

Fingers tracing a light pattern over Two’s cheek, Vessel’s voice is impossibly gentle. “I never thought I would have this,” he admits. “I always thought I’d have to love you quietly, and just watch as you loved someone else.”

“Oh, Ves,” Two’s lips curl into a frown, eyes prickling with emotion, because he understands this feeling more intimately than anyone else would. “I’ve always been yours, I wish I had known—that we’d both known.”

Vessel pulls away to set the timer on the stove, but he returns to Two immediately, a hand snaking around his waist as he pulls him close. He rests his chin on top of Two’s head, and Two pouts momentarily about the height difference, but it feels so good to be loved like this that he cannot bring himself to complain out loud. 

It hardly matters, though, because Vessel knows exactly what he’s thinking, grumbles “Don’t even start,” with such affection that Two’s heart skips a beat. He sways on his feet, pressing Two into his chest and kissing the top of his head. It feels comfortable, familiar; as if they’ve done this before, in a thousand lifetimes. 

Over dinner, with his fork full of lasagna, Two glances across the table at Vessel and asks, “So, we should probably have the sex talk.”

His face flushing, Vessel almost chokes on his water. He sets down the glass and wipes his mouth on a napkin, winching apologetically. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Two continues, “I just want to know what you think—what you like. And it’s okay if you don’t know.”

Vessel takes a bite of food, giving himself a moment to think. He chews, swallows, and watches the way Two is studying him—discerning, but gentle. “I think I would rather not be on top,” he says delicately. “I, um—when I imagine it, that’s how it is.”

Two’s eyes glimmer with curiosity, though his smile is warm and reassuring. “Do you think about it often?” he asks, his voice laced with intrigue—gentle, yet deeply engaged. 

Poking at his food, Vessel nods, shifting in his seat. Two watches the way he moves—legs spreading, his grip on the fork tightening—and sips his water. “What about other preferences? Things you don’t like?”

Vessel takes a minute to think again, his brows furrowing in concentration. Two eats as he observes, watching Vessel parse through his thoughts—though this is not an unusual process for him, it is a treat to witness the way his cheeks redden, each thought seemingly written across his face. “I’d feel better if you took the lead, in general,” Vessel offers up, still pushing his fork around his plate. “I don’t really know what I like, yet. I’ve imagined—a lot, and I just want to see how I feel and try things out, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, Ves,” Two nods easily. “That’s more than okay.”

Smiling a little weakly—embarrassment and arousal shuddering through his body in tandem, Vessel reaches for his water and sips it. “What about you?” he questions, raising one eyebrow just slightly, glad to shift the focus off of himself. 

“I’m perfectly happy to be on top,” Two answers, resting his forearms on the table, “but I wouldn’t turn it down either way, just so that’s clear.”

“And you’ve done this before,” Vessel asks, but it’s more of a statement.

“Yes,” Two says. “You’re in good hands, Ves.”

“Well, that’s not—” Vessel starts, and then nearly chokes on his water. Blushing, he clears his throat. “I’m not worried. I’m just—curious.”

Two’s eyes glint with amusement, delighting in Vessel’s awkwardness. There’s a certain satisfaction in being the one to make him stutter, his cheeks tinged with a rosy color. “Curious what you’re in for?” The question is pointed, teasing at first; but becomes gentle. 

Thoughtfully, Vessel licks his lips. “Yeah, I think.”

Reaching across the table, Two rests his hand palm-up, raising an eyebrow. Ves answers the silent question by setting down his glass, folding his hand into Two’s. “Like I said earlier, there’s no rush,” Two explains. “But if you want this—” he looks pointedly at the way Vessel’s legs are spread, one foot braced against the table. “It’s yours if you want it, when you want it. I’m yours.”

He squeezes Two’s hand, the look in his eyes softening, desperation and arousal bleeding into warm affection. “You are,” Vessel replies—awestruck, like it’s a revelation, cast down from the heavens by some strange god. 

Two smiles easily, nods. “I’d like to shower before anything else,” he muses, “and I bet you would too. I still feel like I’ve got paint everywhere .”

Vessel groans. “Fucking tell me about it,”  he complains, “I think there’s been paint behind my ear for months at this point.”

Laughing, Two lets go of his hand with a gentle squeeze, standing up. The dinner dishes are easily sorted out—damp, soapy hands leaving prints on shirts, over trouser pockets—and they separate to wash away the grime from the road. There is a moment where Two thinks Vessel is going to ask if they should shower together, but the question vanishes into a kiss, and Two finds himself in the downstairs guest bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror as steam curls around the room. 

This is real, he tells himself, runs through the day in his mind. You arrived home, you missed your train. You’re home with Vessel.

Home.

Rolling his shoulders, savoring the newfound lightness, the absence of the world weighing heavily upon him. Two ducks into the shower and scrubs the lingering remnants of tour from his skin. He’s quick, efficient; after all, there is no reason to waste time while Vessel could be waiting on him. 

As it turns out, when Two ascends the stairs, Vessel is still in the shower. Two can hear him humming over the sound of the water, the door to the ensuite cracked, and he folds his feet under himself as he sits on the bed to wait. The room is warm, and the scent of Vessel’s soap floats through the air, and Two should feel peaceful, but suddenly, he does not. He has done the very thing he’s sworn never to do: has jeopardized the band, has elevated his own interests above the reasonable, sensible course of action. 

Two feels Vessel’s absence acutely as the room seems to shrink, walls closing in like his bunk on the tour bus, ready and waiting to swallow him whole. And he should let it, he thinks—should let this house open its gaping maw and consume him, gnashing teeth exacting blood as penance. 

When Vessel steps out of the bathroom, a silky robe loosely draped over his shoulders, he finds Two perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide and feral, chest rising and falling far too quickly.

“Two?” Vessel asks, concern lacing his voice as he sets the clothes in his arms aside and moves closer. Two’s gaze snaps up to meet Vessel’s, wild and filled with fear.

“Are we making the right choice?” Two questions, chewing on his bottom lip. “What if this ruins everything—what if I’ve ruined everything?”

Vessel is kneeling on the bed in a heartbeat, pulling Two close to his chest in a tight embrace. He can feel the tremors running through Two’s body, ripples of anxiety marring the surface of a smooth, peaceful lake. “You haven’t ruined anything,” he murmurs, face pressed into Two’s hair. “Two, if anything, this has probably saved everything. How were we ever going to go on—with the way things were this tour?”

Hiding his face in Vessel’s robe, Two takes a shaky, deep breath. Somewhere deep within, he knows that Vessel is right—knows that the anguish that had flourished within them both was putting down roots, reaching twisted tendrils out into the world. It had already infected the band; it was only a matter of time before it choked the life out of it, too, just as it was already strangling the life from Two. 

Stroking Two’s hair, Vessel leans back just slightly, trying to get a look at his face. Two allows it, tipping his head up to meet Vessel’s gaze, still pouty and uncertain.

“Nothing’s ruined,” Vessel repeats, cupping Two’s cheek with a light touch. 

Two blinks, and sighs softly. “You’re right,” he acquiesces. “I just—I’ve been holding back for so long.”

“I know,” Vessel half-whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He leans forward, placing a kiss on Two’s cheek, and allows it when Two turns his head—pressing his mouth to Vessel’s, brows furrowed with emotion. 

The moment lingers, remains soft, until Two’s teeth catch on Vessel’s lip and he can’t help but whimper. “Sorry,” he breathes, knowing that there is still a pause put in place, extended by Two’s unease.

“Don’t be,” Two responds, and the grief and worry has dissolved from his face. Vessel’s reaction seems to serve as a certainty; placing a delicate stamp of approval upon every emotion that Two holds dear. He straightens, a steadying hand on Vessel’s arm, and kisses him again—open-mouthed and wanting. Vessel responds without hesitation, hands spread across Two’s small waist, clutching his body as close as he can manage. He shifts Two’s weight on his lap, presses their hips flush, and Two silently thanks him for wearing the robe, because there is so much friction, and the way Vessel gasps is more precious than anything in the world. 

Fingers curling into Two’s hair, Vessel pulls away, eyes wild. “How do you want to do this,” he asks, breathless. “I don’t..I mean, I know the basics, I’ve watched—actually, that doesn’t matter. How do you want me?”

“You’ve watched what?” Two laughs, sweet and melodic, splaying his hand across Vessel’s chest and gently pushing until his back hits the sheets. 

Vessel groans in response. “I wish you didn’t listen to me when I speak, sometimes.”

“I always listen when you speak,” Two hums, straddling Vessel’s hips. “I love you, you know.”

The depth of the emotion causes Vessel’s lips to press into a soft pout, his voice breaking slightly as he speaks again. “I love you.”

Two smiles crookedly, leaning down to kiss him, and for a moment he keeps the gesture chaste—a promise of love; this love that does not demand, does not rush. He trails his hands across Vessel’s chest—parts the robe, just slightly, and pulls away to whisper against Vessel’s lips. “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” Vessel breathes. “Please, you can—I want you to touch.”

Exploring, Two shrugs the robe from Vessel’s shoulders, letting the duvet catch the silky fabric. He runs his hands over Ves’s chest and stomach—trails fingertips along every defined muscle, every soft curve.

“I want your shirt off too,” Vessel demands, and when Two stretches his arms upwards to remove it, Vessel audibly exhales. They’ve seen each other shirtless before, but the divide between a fleeting glance and the ability to touch feels as wide as an endless canyon.

Vessel slides both hands up Two’s waist, thumbs brushing over his hip bones, eliciting a gasp from Two. He repeats the action and watches as Two blinks, eyes heavy-lidded with lust. “You like that,” he notes, and Two nods.

“I do,” Two says. “I thought about this all the time.” He rests a hand on top of Vessel’s, and their difference in size is apparent, even now. “How your hands would feel, how you would touch me.”

“Tell me,” Vessel asks, licking his lips. “What did you imagine?”

“I imagined you’d touch me here,” Two replies, tangling his fingers with Vessel’s, relocating one of his hands to the soft expanse of his stomach. He lets go; lets Vessel spread his fingers out, sliding from stomach to chest. Two nods, smiles, his gaze heavy. “Yeah, Ves, just like that.”

Vessel explores, and Two observes, tracking each movement as he discovers the way Two’s body feels; how it reacts under his hands. He brushes a thumb over a nipple, earning a hiss from Two, and quickly pulls away—before Two snags him by the wrist and replaces his hand where it was. “Do that again,” he says, and Vessel does. 

Earlier, it had felt like time was racing past, seconds ticking by faster than their hearts could beat, minutes colliding into hours. Now, it’s as if the world has completely stopped—the earth pausing on an inhale, just for Two and Vessel, just to carve open this moment for them. Two melts, bends down to press his lips to Vessel’s collarbone, and explores in turn. 

He alternates between gentle hands and bruising kisses, marking Vessel’s pale skin as his own, and once the action is out on the table, Vessel cannot resist joining in. He catches Two by the back of the neck and pulls him close, nosing along his jaw, teeth trailing over the sensitive skin before he sucks a rosy mark on the side of his throat. Pleased, Two tilts his head back, allowing Vessel further access. 

It’s not long before it’s not enough—light touches becoming less frequent, Vessel’s hips rocking up against Two’s uncontrollably. Two sits up, breathless, running his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, studying Vessel’s expression. “May I touch?” he asks, fingers dancing along the hem of Vessel’s robe, the shadow of fabric between the two of them.

“Yes,” Vessel breathes. “But—I want to see you, touch you, too.” He pushes himself up with an elbow, watching the way Two’s chest heaves at the thought. It’s a request that is easily accommodated, and Two shifts his weight off of Vessel’s lap in order to remove his sweatpants. 

Vessel observes hungrily, and when Two returns to his lap, he reaches out and curls his fingers around Two’s cock. The sensation is simultaneously familiar and not, and Ves takes a moment to adjust, but when he spits to lubricate the slide of his hand, tightening his grip, Two shivers with pleasure. 

“Good job, Ves,” he praises, voice rasping. “Just like that.”

The praise feeds a blooming heat in Vessel’s stomach, and when Two pushes his robe to the side and trails his fingers up the length of Vessel’s dick, the warm, golden feeling burns like fire.

“O-Oh,” Vessel stammers, chest heaving. “Two, oh, fuck.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Two manages, his voice unsteady. Vessel watches him; watches the way he’s looking down, watches the slick movement of their hands in tandem. He can do nothing but moan in response, every corporeal sensation snapping through his body like lightning.

“Two,” Vessel gasps, repeats his name, because the world has shrunk around them—nothing else exists but this bed, this tangled labyrinth of air which they share between each other. “I want you—more, please.”

The urgency in Vessel’s voice makes Two’s cheeks flush pink, and he smiles, the movement of his hand slowing. “I’ve got to prep you still—I’m assuming you know how this works, since apparently you’ve watched so much po—”

Vessel groans and covers his eyes, baffled at the way Two can tease, how he can weave pleasure like kindling, accelerant soaking in between humour and love. “Shut the fuck up,” he bites back, though his lips are curled into a smile. “Christ. I do know how this works.”

Two laughs softly. “Just checking.”

“There’s lube in the drawer,” Vessel offers, an eyebrow raised, as if this fact is proof enough that he is no blushing virgin. Two gives him a light flick on the shoulder, and it feels natural—like their close friendship has returned, filling the empty space left by painful longing. Vessel can’t count on two hands the number of times Two has flicked him to make a point; in recording studios, outside label meetings, in coffee shops. The comfort of that familiarity—the friendship that lies beneath the love—is priceless.

When Two gets up to search through Vessel’s drawer, he readjusts on the bed, laying on his side so that he can observe—can trail his eyes along the expanse of Two’s back, his strong legs, the curve of his cock against his stomach. Open and unashamed, Two has given all of himself to Vessel; will give him the only thing that remains.

As he straightens and returns to the bed, his breath catches in his chest at the sight of Vessel, laid out on his side. Two slides his hand down the dip of Vessel’s waist and exhales shakily. “Fuck, Ves.” 

Vessel captures him in a kiss, unable to say anything that conveys the intensity of the emotion that wells up in his chest. There is a desire in Two’s eyes that he has been chasing all his life; something that he has never been so freely given.

Two kisses him, then withdraws, studying his face. “Will you lay on your back for this bit?”

“Sure,” Vessel nods, rolling over halfway, and Two sits up and moves between his legs, nudging his knees apart. He runs a soothing hand over Vessel’s thigh and clicks open the bottle of lube. There is a moment where he can’t believe this is happening—that it’s real—and then Vessel is nudging him with a knee, grumbling for him to get on with it. Two smiles sunnily and pours lube over his fingers.

His touch is slick and slow and exploratory, pulling breathless whines from Vessel as he teases, snatching the breath from his chest as he presses a finger into him. Ves’s eyes are wide, like the sensation is unfamiliar, and when Two opens his mouth to ask if it is, Vessel is faster, snippier. 

“Don’t even ask,” he gasps. “If you say the word porn right now I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“I wasn’t,” Two laughs, some of the tension of the moment dissipating, up until he crooks his finger, slides it in and out. “Promise, I was just going to ask if—if you’ve done this before.”

“This? Yeah,” Vessel admits, and Two’s touch coaxes the truth from him with little effort. “It’s... it’s different, it’s you—really you, not just my fingers, my imagination.”

The idea—Vessel, eyes closed as he pretends that it’s Two whose fingers are working him open—is equal parts arousing and tender—almost heartbreaking. 

“Ves, darling.” The endearment slips out unbidden as Two’s dick twitches with renewed interest, and Vessel draws in a sharp, beautiful breath at the sight. He reaches for Two’s free hand and laces their fingers together. In response, Two leans in, pressing a kiss to Vessel’s wrist before holding his hand against his cheek for a moment, anchoring them both in the present. “Want another?” he asks, voice low, as he traces a second finger over Ves’s hole.

“Yes,” Vessel gasps, and Two presses his middle finger in alongside the first—slowly, carefully. Two watches Vessel's face closely, attentively, noting the second that the flicker of discomfort of the stretch vanishes from his face. Soon, Two is fucking him with three fingers, his free hand rubbing Vessel’s thigh, watching ardently as Ves arches his back against the sheets. 

Two is struck by the desire to kiss low along Vessel’s stomach, and so he does. Chest heaving, Vessel moans loudly as Two’s fingers and tongue search, seek, press in all the right places. “Two,” he pants. “Please, please. I need you, right fucking now, please.”

“Breathe, Ves, you’ve got me,” Two soothes, carefully withdrawing his fingers, earning a sharp gasp from Vessel at the sudden emptiness. Sweat beads like a fine mist across Vessel’s skin, damp and glistening, and Two trails his finger along the toned muscles of Ves’s stomach. “How do you want it?”

“Can I—” Vessel asks, catching his breath. “Can I lay on my side? I want something different—I just want to be able to see you.” 

Nodding, Two holds Vessel by the hip as he turns. He joins Vessel on the bed, facing him in perfect parallel, and is momentarily struck by a strange sense of déjà vu. Ves parts his legs and Two nudges between them, stroking himself with his still-slick fingers before he presses the head of his cock against Vessel’s hole. He looks up and studies Vessel’s expression—the furrowed brow, the parted lips—and cannot help but kiss him. Two moves slowly; carefully, but when he bottoms out, Ves is whimpering into his mouth, begging him for more. He throws a leg over Two’s hips, pulling him closer, deeper—and Two picks up the pace, fucking into Ves steadily. 

He exhales, and Vessel inhales the same air; he thrusts and Vessel works his hips down in return. Their movement is symmetrical, and it’s messy, and there is nothing else in the world that matters. This is sacred, and Vessel’s lips are on Two’s. It is the closest thing to prayer that Two can imagine in this moment, tongues moving against teeth, love written and rewritten in the scrawl of Vessel’s fingertips on his waist. Desire is spelled in language after language: Vessel’s desperate cries, the sound of Two’s hips colliding with his skin, the soft words that Two offers up to the air between them. 

“Ves,” Two almost wheezes, glancing down at the way his hips move against Vessel’s ass. “I’ve wanted you so badly, I always want you, so fucking hot.”

“Yeah,” Vessel whines, mouth on Two’s neck. “So bad, Two, please.”

“M’right here,” Two manages, snapping his hips with renewed force. Ves cries out, reaches a hand between them to touch himself, and when he comes, it’s sudden; surprising. His body trembling with the force of it, Vessel mumbles incoherently, begging for Two even as he continues to fuck him. His movement slows slightly, becomes irregular, drawing so near to the edge that it is almost disorienting. When Ves tightens his grip around Two, pulls him closer by the leg draped over his hips, Two finally spills over, shuddering with the intensity of it. Still grinding against Vessel, he catches him in a messy kiss, desperate and so, so honest. 

Two presses every word that he’s left unsaid in the last year into Vessel’s skin, noses love notes along his jaw, writes soliloquies with his lips. In return, Ves cries into his mouth, bathing in radiant afterglow. 

As they lay in each other's arms, reluctant to part, Two cannot believe that he was once willing to give this up—to let this love wither and die, never to see the light of the sun. He says so, murmurs his disbelief, and watches the way Vessel’s eyes glimmer with a hint of tears, yet still curve into a smile at the edges. Two swears he has never seen anything more beautiful.

Nothing lasts forever, but this?

This might.