Chapter Text
They arrived at the Vienna venue just past midday under a washed-out sky the exact color of old dishwater. Grey heaps of slush piled against the sidewalk curbs, a scattering of salt and gravel the only defense against collective icy pavement disaster.
The bus had barely rolled to a halt at the far end of the line of parked trucks when Vessel unceremoniously shoved a twenty-four pack of Red Bull into II’s arms.
“Off you go. Bring Art his peace offering,” He handed it over with a lopsided smirk.
“Why do I have to be the sacrificial lamb?” II scowled at the carton.
“Because he asked for you specifically.” Vessel gripped II’s shoulder and spun him toward the door. “Also, I don’t want to die.”
“And I do?!” II moved to thrust the drinks back at him, but Vessel took a step back, both hands raised in defense.
“Probably not. But he respects you. And loathes me at the moment, I reckon.”
Vessel tilted his head as if turning the fact over in his mind. “You have to deal with me all the time, after all. There’s something… admirable in that.” He clapped II on the shoulder with an innocent, appreciative smile of affection like he truly believed II deserved a medal for enduring him. II only made a vague, noncommittal sound. Grinning, Vessel jogged the few paces to the door and swung it open for II.
“Good lad,” he said with unnecessary bravado as II squeezed past him into the cold winter air, piercing daggers into him with bright eyes.
Art didn’t even look up when II entered the production bus. He was hunched over two laptops and a shiny new grandMA3 onPC command wing, the screens casting eerie shadows of regret over his features.
Before II could mutter as much as a greeting, Art stabbed a finger at the console, muttering in furious whispers. “A blackout. He wants a blackout. For the vibes. For the mystery.” His voice pitched high and mocking, grimacing as he spoke them.
II stood limply by the door and blinked. “Uh. Hi?”
“YOUUUUUU—” Art roared, spinning around on his chair like he’d been waiting for this moment. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.”
“How is this my fault?” II frowned, arms tightening around the box as if it could shield him from whatever volley of fury Art was about to hurtle at him.
“A BLACKOUT. A FULL BLACKOUT. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, YOU GODDAMN GLORIFIED CYMBAL WITCH?”
II didn’t dare move. “Uhhhh…”
“AND YOU ARE THE ONE TO LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THIS.”
Swallowing a retort and suppressing the instinct to roll his eyes, II stuck out the box with a forced, tight smile. “Peace offering?”
Art lunged forward, snatched the carton and dropped it onto the desk with a thud. “Gimme that,” he mumbled in a frenzy, tearing out a can, then cracked it with a hiss and drained half in one go.
“II…” his voice dropped into a frantic, clipped whisper. “I’m unpatching reality. I’m building a goddamn intensity void between two hard-tracked cue stacks. If I mess up the fixture grouping, we get a strobe loop instead of darkness and then… then everyone dies!”
He downed the rest of the can, slammed it on the table, and kept going.
“I had to build a blocking cue between 97 and 98 because otherwise the intensity tracking from the previous wash would roll forward and murder the emotional impact. Like—absolutely slaughter it. So now I’ve got every fixture parameter going to zero, no fade, straight kill, which is fine except that the followspots weren’t cleared from the front truss, so if I don’t insert a fixture group override, he’s gonna glow like a haunted meatball mid-silence.”
II opened his mouth but Art steamrolled him.
“But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is Vienna’s dimmer curves are on a two-frame lag and we’re using a house rig with inverted strobe priority. Which means if I don’t manually suppress those cues from the master executor, we get a full audience blind instead of black. That’s not theatrical. That’s liturgical punishment.”
II blinked, pursing his lips. “So… it’s fine?”
“NO, IT’S NOT FINE,” Art bellowed. “IT’S AN INFERNAL ASSWANK DESIGNED TO BREAK ME. IT’S EIGHT UNIVERSES OF HELL!”
“But… you sound kinda happy about it?”
“OF COURSE I’M HAPPY. I’M RAGINGLY ECSTATIC. I AM THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN THIS SHOW AND ABSOLUTE ANARCHY. I’M A TECHNICAL DEITY, II. DO YOU KNOW HOW EXCITING THAT IS?! BUT IF THAT MASKED WANKSTORM EVEN BREATHES ANOTHER LIGHTING IDEA, I WILL PROJECT A 12K SPOT INTO HIS SOUL.”
“Cool,” II said, now slowly backing toward the door. “I’ll... tell him you’re feeling empowered then.”
“Tell him I hope he gets stage herpes,” Art muttered darkly, already cracking open the next can.
Once II returned, all four of them were herded into a hastily arranged shuttle. It was only a twenty-minute drive, snaking through the crowded inner-city streets until they pulled up in front of a stylish, almost unassuming hotel tucked into a lively neighborhood. Outside, young people clutched paper bags from vintage shops, the fronts of restaurants buzzed with laughter and cigarette smoke despite the chill, and dove-eyed couples—many of them definitely queerer than a pair of penguins—wandered hand-in-hand down the pavement.
II’s retelling of Art’s blackout cue meltdown had been met with howls of laughter, the kind laced with awe. There was a shared appreciation for the sheer absurdity of it; and for Art’s—and everyone else’s—continued willingness to indulge Vessel’s whims like long-suffering saints. Vessel, for his part, had been absolutely delighted with the whole thing, particularly the well-wishes of stage herpes—whatever that was supposed to be. He’d immediately fished his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick “II passed on your message—love you too, Arty”, adding a kissy emoji for good measure.
But then, Vessel had grown quiet and nestled deep into the backseat with his head leaning against the cold glass of the window, watching the old, red tram lines zipping past.
He wasn’t moody, exactly. Just coiled in on himself as if he was wrapped in a warm, tight blanket of his own thoughts.
II’d shot him a glance from the seat beside him.
Then another.
And then a third.
But he’d stayed quiet, just shifting restlessly, adjusting and re-adjusting his seatbelt, pretending he wasn’t counting the seconds between Vessel’s soft inhales.
Ivy’s eyes, too, had kept drifting toward Vessel, trailing over his soft features, the shadow of a crease between his brows, the loose, parted lips that curled into a small smile every time they passed someone with a dog. Except the one time that a middle-aged woman yanked on her Golden Retriever’s collar—that time Vessel scowled, muttering something venomous under his breath.
From the seat behind them, III had been mid-doomscroll on his phone but hadn’t liked anything in over three minutes. His gaze had kept flicking up, short little furtive looks that registered every minutia of Vessel’s form. But like the others, he’d stayed still.
Vessel had, of course, noticed.
He’d felt their eyes on him. Had seen their little shifts, the way they seemed to almost reach out to him before stilling with little sighs. Usually, it would’ve annoyed him. The hovering. The unwarranted worry. The staring as if they were only waiting for him to fall apart.
But they hadn’t been staring. Their eyes had lingered, yes; but it had felt different. Not like the anticipation before a storm but like they were quietly watching clouds moving in the sky.
It had made Vessel’s stomach churn the same way it did when Ivy’s fingers brushed his when handing over a cup of sludge. Or like it did when III howled at one of his idiotic puns with his head thrown back and wild locks whipping about his face. Or when II sidled up to him in the wings before a show, leaning his head against Vessel’s arm until he disappeared to his drum kit in the dark.
So, instead of prickling or brooding or spiraling like he usually did, Vessel had just looked out the window, feeling the slick, icy glass under his cheek, letting the warmth spread through is chest to slowly chip away at the guilt of failing 4,217 of their fans.
The hotel was warm and inviting, like someone had lit a candle and pressed a cup of something spiced into your hands before you’d even asked for it.
Which was, probably, because someone had pressed something warm and spiced into their hands as they passed through the sliding doors. They sipped the hot mulled wine—Glühwein, III thinks, remembering that one awkward Christmas they’d spent at his Great Aunt Hilde’s when he was thirteen. He wasn’t even sure whether she’d actually even been related.
The scent of red wine simmered down with orange, cinnamon, star anise, and something woody and spicy curled through the air. Beneath it, whatever soft magic they used on their linen wafted from the laundry tucked somewhere in the depths of the building.
Behind the front desk, classic rock hummed from a record player—designed to look vintage but all four of them knew better—and a neon sign glowed softly above a rack of craftfully battered books and local art prints. A young-ish man with neat braids pulled into a loose ponytail in the nape of his neck smiled and greeted them in English.
Ivy waved back with an almost flirty smirk, II gave him a polite nod, Vessel mumbled a warm greeting, and III boomed “GUTEN TAG!” across the lobby with far too much enthusiastic confidence for a man who did not, in fact, speak German. At all.
While Thom checked them in and collected their key cards, Ivy twirled around like he’d turned into a goddamn Disney princess, poked at a plush reading chair, and inspected a decorative porcelain cat, nose almost booping it.
“Na fe,” he breathed with a delighted noise, “this is definitely not the stuffy beige abyss of lost hopes and dreams I was imagining.”
“Cheers, Thom,” III grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Wasn’t me.” Thom gave a soft, tired snort before II could speak. “That was your little control freak in the corner there.” He nodded toward II leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“You’re welcome,” he shot with wide eyes and just enough bite.
Ivy spun on his heel. “This was you?”
II raised both eyebrows. “…Yes?”
“But,” III began, eyes flitting around the room as if to inventory every detail. “it’s so… nice.”
II scoffed. “I have taste,” he muttered, snatching a room key from Thom. “And you’re all ungrateful little shits.”
Vessel, who had been quietly drinking in the space—the velvet chairs, the textured wallpaper, the way the light hit the plants near the window—offered a grateful smile.
“Thank you, Tootsie,” he said, pressingly a soft kiss against II’s cheek.
II flushed immediately. The pink started beneath the tattoos and climbed up to his ears. He looked up, caught Vessel watching him with fondness, and nearly melted into the tile floor.
He wanted to kiss him back. Properly. But here, now, after that morning? No. He held back, only managing a dopey smile.
“C’mon, lovebirds,” III pouted and grabbed II’s wrist to pull him toward the elevators. “I need to go faceplant into a over-stuffed pillow and scroll through horny fan art until my last brain cell dies.”
II dragged his feet in pathetic protest. “Why?” he asked, snorting a half-laugh, half-scoff.
“It makes them happy when I like their stuff,” III said simply with an amused grin.
“Not the fan art bit,” II rolled his eyes. “The horny bit.”
“Oh,” III stopped short, then shrugged. “Matches my mood.”
“Ugh.” II narrowed his eyes and pulled a face. “Well—I’m going to take a real shower, scald off my skin, and have a bit of a cry. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Excellent idea!” Ivy squealed from behind him, swooping in to wrap his arms around his waist. “I, for one, am going to roll around a proper bed.”
“Naked, that is,” he added. “Maybe treat my arse and balls to something a bit more luxurious than a tour bus wash.”
“Gross,” II grimaced, wiggling out of Ivy’s clutches. “Don’t touch me with those crusty fingers.”
Ivy raised a brow and a smug, lopsided grin pulled at his lips. His gaze dropped to II’s lips, then lower. “You sure about that?”
II swallowed the thick knot suddenly rising in his throat. “Fuck off,” he muttered with a scowl and roll of his eyes.
Vessel, trailing behind, nearly tripped over his own feet.
Images. So many images. All of them unhelpful.
His thoughts were still a tangle of bare skin against cool sheets, hot water running over inked shoulders, eager fingers brushing over… well, everywhere.
He bit down on a cracked spot on his lip, worrying at it until a flake of skin came loose.
III noticed. “None of that in my presence!” he barked, fishing a chapstick from his pocket and smacking it into Vessel’s palm. “Lather up, pretty boy. I’m not kissing sandpaper.”
“Who said anything about kissing?” Vessel mumbled, but obediently applied half the tube.
“I did,” III said sweetly, then leaned in to peck him on the lips.
Vessel smiled, only mildly losing his mind at the way that brief press left heat blooming in his chest and pooling low in his stomach.
The lift dinged on the second floor. Normally, they’d have adjacent rooms, but with the last-minute booking they were lucky to get a handful of scattered singles at all. Ivy stepped forward with a smirk and a “Later, you wankers” but Vessel caught the door before it slid shut.
“Wait!” He paused for a second, scrambling for something to say, then settled on food. “I’m starving. Lunch?”
Ivy beamed. “If it’s schnitzel, then abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Obviously,” Vessel sighed, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation.
“Fantastic. Reassemble in half an hour? Lobby?”
“Sure,” Vessel smiled, and the others nodded with soft sounds of agreement.
Ivy’s eyes sparked with something mischievous as he stepped back. He raised a hand, pointing at them. “Love you guys,” he said with a coy wink, then spun around to amble to his room as the door slid shut behind him.
II and III got off next on the third floor, though their rooms were on different ends of the long hallway. Finally, Vessel reached the top floor and shuffled out of the lift, slinging his half-empty travel bag over his shoulder. He quickly found his room and slipped the key card out of his pocket.
But he faltered before he could tap it to the handle.
Alone. He’d be alone.
In a room with a shut door. There would probably be a large, empty bed made up with stylish, textured pillows and a neat blanket smelling of unfamiliar detergent. The hallway was quiet, and the room would be, too. The bathroom would be spotless, a stark bleach white, with a bare counter and the end of the toilet paper roll folded into a little point, God knows why.
Vessel stared at the door, hand hovering. The others were just floors below. Not far. But right now, it felt like miles. He held still, listening.
Listening for the saccharine voice. Waiting for the suffocating heat to crawl up his spine. For the pinpricks of unbidden pleasure in the back of his neck.
But there was nothing.
He exhaled slowly, letting the relieve settle into his chest. The others weren’t there, but neither was Sleep.
He was alone.
And it would be alright.
III didn’t binge consume horny fan art. Or any, for that matter. Instead, he stripped off his rumpled clothes, stepped into the positively ginormous shower, and let out a low, contented groaned as the hot stream hit his back.
He stood there for a long while with his hands braced against the wall and head dipped, mouthing snippets of lyrics and humming melodies—not theirs—trying to empty his mind. It had been far too full since the morning. The usual mix of buzzing background noise, flashes of the others in various states of undress, and where the fuck did I put my phone had been joined by the uneasy memories of the morning tugging at the edges of his thoughts until his skull throbbed.
The bathroom had grown hazy, the mirror fogged up with steam, when he finally set to scrubbing off layer after layer of muddied thoughts, tangled emotions, and that unmistakable feeling of having shared a moving tin can with three other humans for too many days in a row.
With a sigh, he squirted an overflowing glob of conditioner into his hands and winced as the slick, slimey liquid oozed between his fingers. Why did it have to be so… gross?
He knew that the others—anyone else with eyes—were right. He wasn’t an idiot. His hair would probably (absolutely) fall out in dry, straw-like sloughs sooner rather than later. But he just couldn’t put himself through this on a regular basis. He refused. If it all broke off and he had to shave his head—so be it. His skull was a nice enough shape, wasn’t it?
The mush clung to his dead strands, squelching as he rubbed it in. Why didn’t it foam? It should foam. Hair things were supposed to foam. But this? This was too smooth. It slid between his fingers, left that horrible, filmy residue on his hands that made his skin crawl.
He rinsed it out as fast as humanly possible. Then grabbed the foamiest soap available and scrubbed his hands raw until not a single slick remnant remained, only bubbles, rushing away in a satisfying swirl down the drain.
Ivy did roll around stark naked.
His clothes lay tossed over a chair by the window, curtains yanked shut. With a grin, he flopped onto the crisp, fresh sheets, arms outstretched, landing spread-eagle on his back.
He sighed heavily, then rolled onto his stomach to inhale the clean, slightly floral scent of the bedding with a blissful hum. There was nothing better than a thousand-thread-count sheet and silky-smooth comforter against bare skin. Well—maybe not nothing. Ivy could definitely think of a thing or two that beat it out by a long shot.
Vessel’s warm lips, for instance.
Or III’s smooth fingers.
Or II’s lean, firm body pressed against him.
He barely reached the end of that thought before he felt the unmistakable pressure building against the mattress—every ounce of blood rushing to his cock like it had a goddamn personal vendetta against him. He groaned into the pillow, equal parts frustrated and resigned.
Because for fuck’s sake, this was getting ridiculous. Even at his peak adolescent wank-a-thons he hadn’t been this relentlessly hard this often.
Could you get carpal tunnel from constant wanking? That didn’t bode well for his career. But it’s not like he could just… not.
With another guttural noise, Ivy flipped back over and cast a stern look at his erection, as if its very existence was a mortal personal offense.
“Really?” he asked aloud in an affronted, harsh voice. “Is this necessary?”
He paused—because some part of him clearly expected a reply—then scowled harder. He gave the head an annoyed flick. A sound somewhere halfway between a tortured moan and a suppressed yelp pushed through his gritted teeth.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, wrapping a hand around himself—only to immediately remember how meticulously clean the sheets were.
With a dramatic groan, he rolled off the bed and slunk toward the bathroom.
“Just want a goddamn schnitzel,” he grumbled, kicking the door closed behind him.
II showered down quickly with almost clinical efficieny, then wrapped himself up tightly in the hotel’s plush bathrobe. It probably hit Vessel and III just above the knees; on him, it nearly brushed his ankles. It had a hood and he flipped it up.
The mirror was fogged with steam and he wiped a small circle clear to stare at his own hazy reflection. His face was flushed red from the hot water; he figured his skin beneath the tattoos would be just as blotchy and irritated, if he could see it.
He gave his hair a rough rub with the hood, then frowned at the mirror.
“Well,” he sighed. “That’s that taken care of.”
Then, narrowing his eyes: “Now go on and have a nice little cry.”
Nothing happened.
Just his own face blinking back at him, blank, tense, set like stone.
It wasn’t like he didn’t cry. He did. A lot, actually. Usually tucked into the crook of a warm neck or curled up in strong arms. Safe. Shielded from the world.
But now, alone in this posh-but-in-a-cool-way hotel room, his muscles wouldn’t let go. The tightness in his chest stayed where it was, gripping hard, like if he let go for even a second, the whole world would split open
The canceled show. Vessel’s look, hollow and caved-in. His voice, raw with guilt. The ache of it. The heaviness of everything.
He needed it out. Needed his head to clear.
Just a few tears. Just enough to make space inside his head.
But his body wouldn’t give in.
With a scowl, II padded out of the bathroom. He settled in front of the full-length mirror by the closet, legs crossed.
“Stop holding it together,” he told his reflection.
“They’re not here.”
“You can be weak.” He clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. “Just for a second.”
Dry eyes and an empty face. He pulled the hood down further until it slipped past his brow, over his eyes, so the robe enveloped him completely.
And then he flopped soundlessly onto his back and stared up at the blank ceiling. He wanted his headphones. Wanted—needed— to drown out the deafening silence of the room.
That’s when he realized, with a soundless wail of despair, that he’d left them on the bus.
Vessel couldn’t sit still.
He tried writing, but no words came. No melodies either. Just the relentless churn of noise inside his skull.
He tried sketching, but his hands shook too much to get a single line down.
He tried a shower, but the water felt too wet, the walls too close, and the steam too thick. He was out again in under a minute, wet towel abandoned in a heap on the floor.
He tried push-ups but even that made his body feel all wrong.
So instead, he rifled through the neat row of vinyl above the desk and dropped one onto the turntable without looking.
But Aretha Franklin’s voice was too calm and too steady. It scraped against the frayed edges of him.
He ripped the record off mid-verse and replaced it with something else, just as blindly. He paced with tight, hurried steps, wringing his hands, tugging at his hoodie strings, and raking through his damp (but still dirty) hair.
Sting got out exactly one “barley” before Vessel snatched that one off too. The room collapsed back into silence.
He dragged both hands over his face and pressed his fingers into his closed eyes until sparks exploded behind his eyelids.
The silence was unbearable. Was this really better than Sleep’s whispers? Their cloying reassurances? Their velvet nothingness disguised as meaning? As… love?
Yes. Yes, the silence was better.
But still: it was fucking awful.
This time, Vessel took his time scanning over the sleeves of the LPs until one caught his eye. Tall, red letters. Spinning brown wheel. Pyramid in the center. The sleeve was worn, edges scuffed, marked by too many fingers.
The corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.
With almost reverent care, Vessel placed the aged vinyl on the turntable. The first scratch of needle meeting groove shivered up his spine. Then, Chris Cornell’s voice saturated the air with his gritty timbre.
Badmotorfinger. Not the remaster. Original pressing. So much fucking better.
He didn’t stop the pacing. His body still couldn’t rest, limbs refusing to settle even for a second. But the silence behind the music felt just a little less oppressive now. A little less hollow. A little less alone.
They reconvened in the lobby as promised. At the receptionist’s recommendation, they strolled—or rather, speed walked—down to one of the countless restaurants lining the streets. There, they piled into a cozy nook with varying degrees of damp hair and half-functional brains. The smell of fried things and roasting potatoes was nothing short of divine.
“God, yes,” Ivy groaned as he collapsed into the booth. “If I don’t eat something in the next thirty seconds I’m going to perish like a Dickensian orphan.”
“You’re from Swansea,” II muttered, sliding in next to him. “Calm down.”
III took the seat across from them and immediately flagged the server. “Four schnitzels and, four of… whatever that is,” he said, pointing at an amusing word on the drinks page.
Ivy glanced over. “Make it two for this one.” He nodded toward Vessel, who looked like he’d been mowed down by a snow plow, and had then thanked it kindly.
“I don’t even drink that much,” Vessel muttered, tying his hoodie strings into a lopsided bow.
“You look like you’re vibrating out of your own skin,” Ivy said. “You need to be sedated.”
“And you need to be slapped,” Vessel shot back with no real bite.
The drinks arrived first—light golden with a suspicious lemony glow—and four pairs of eyebrows lifted in unison.
Vessel took a swig and nearly choked. “What the fuck—why does this taste like lemonade?”
“It’s Radler,” II said flatly, inspecting the beverage menu more closely. “Beer and lemonade mixed. Very normal.”
“It’s treason,” Ivy hissed.
“I dunno,” Vessel offered, taking another tentative sip, “it’s kinda nice.”
III raised his glass dramatically. “To imposter beer and confusing emotions.”
They all clinked together. The schnitzel followed shortly after, crispy, golden, and larger than the plates they came on. Ivy moaned obscenely on the first bite. III made an “I could orgasm” face. Vessel didn’t speak, just tore into his like he’d been starved for weeks.
And II—well, he tried to eat like a normal person. But every time he looked up, Vessel was already looking back. Eating like a menace, lips slick with Radler and grease, head tilted in that infuriating way. And his gaze was too heavy. Hot. Like he wanted to be watched.
The others were laughing, groaning over their food, arguing over the superiority of potato sides—but II could barely taste anything.
Because Vessel’s eyes were on him again.
And II was one look away from crawling across the table and begging.
Lunch mellowed them all out, at least a little. There was something about fried food and fizzy imposter beer (which was offensively delicious, though they’d die before admitting it out loud) that softened the edges of the day. They lingered for a while, forks scraping across plates and an arrant chip or two chucked at II when he wouldn’t stop pouting at his empty bowl of potato salad.
Outside, daylight began to thin out into a dusky gold-grey. Using his finely-tuned caffeine spidey senses, III located a third-wave coffee shop two blocks down. He chatted up the barista like an old friend while the others ogled the pastries. III laughed, said “one of everything,” and paid with a dramatic flourish.
By the time they trudged back into the hotel—stuffed and buzzing—they were warm and lulled into a rare sense of peace. They parted at their respective floors again to III’s moans of “I’m so full I shall perish, but be glad about it!”. Even Vessel was glad to crawl into the bed that he actually fit him, pull the covers up to his chin, and flip on his SteamDeck.
It lasted all of thirty-two minutes.
Their phones pinged simultaneously with a message from Ivy:
EMERGENCY. COME TO MY ROOM IMMEDIATELY!! 🚨🚨
Vessel blinked at the screen, hoodie already half over his head.
III was out the door before his shoes were on.
II stared at the message like it was a trap.
Because of course: it was.
Two minutes later, they all burst into Ivy’s room.
It was chaos incarnate. Well, really, it was Ivy who was chaos incarnate and the room had merely submitted.
“IVY! WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG? YOU SAID EMERGENCY.” II shouted teetering on the edge of panic.
“Ohhhh, II-bach,” Ivy cooed, bouncing on his feet. “It’s an emergency if there ever was one.”
II opened his mouth again but didn’t even get the question out before Vessel crossed the room and gripped Ivy’s shoulders.
“IVES,” Vessel croaked, eyes ripped wide.
Ivy’s mouth curled into a manic grin.
“There’s a new chapter,” he said in a low, gritty voice. “And let me tell you, the bit I read…” He paused and winked. “Filthier than ever.”
“AND YOU READ IT WITHOUT US?” III sounded genuinly betrayed.
Ivy cackled, eyes sparking with something downright wicked and insatiable. “Just enough to know that someone is gonna have to read the moaning lines with dramatic flourish for the full fic experience.”
“You mean the full fuck experience,” Vessel murmured to himself under his breath.
Ivy smirked. “Wow, Vess,” he shook his head. “That was—God, that was terrible. A new low, really.”
Vessel scowled. He thought he’d said it quietly enough not to be heard.
“Your puns really are getting pretty shoddy, V,” II agreed seriously with a clap on his arm.
Brilliant. They’d all heard.
III grinned but stayed mercifully quiet. The others had done well enough taking the piss.
“Alas!” Ivy cried, dropping onto the bed with a theatrical gasp, one arm dangling across his eyes like a fainting Victorian widow. “Shall we?” He wiggled his phone midair.
“My willy waits with bated breath!” III sighed, sprawling across the bed beside him with an air decidedly paint me like one of your French girls.
Vessel sucked in a sharp breath. Yep. So did his. But not necessarily for the fic. Not exactly.
After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully perched at the edge of the bed and pulled his feet up in a pretzel underneath him. But his back was too straight, his mouth set too tightly, and the thumb tap-tap-tap too arrhythmic. It was a bitter betrayal from his own damn body.
II was off even worse. He skipped the bed entirely and instead settled into the plush reading chair by the desk, crossing his legs defiantly. You know—just in case.
Ivy cleared his throat, phone held aloft like Hamlet’s skull, adopting a gravity wholly inappropriate for this level of literature.
“They did not knock,” Ivy began solemnly. “For their fists were already bruised from the breaking.
II groaned quietly from his perch like he’d just bitten into a lemon only to discover it was actually perfect and sweet and delicious.
“Jesus fuck,” he gritted. “This is gonna be a long night.”
“Shush!” III hissed and rolled on his stomach, propping his face in his hands. II just rolled his eyes.
“III came first, as always,” Ivy continued dramatically, and III let out a strangled noise of protest.
“I do not! I have self-control! …. Sort of.”
“Ffyc fi,” Ivy groaned. “Not like that, you platypus.”
“Now let me continue. We must respect the author’s sacred liturgy.”
***
Title: Deliver Us Not From Temptation
Chapter 2: The Flesh Is Weak (And So Is The Floor Apparently)
They did not knock for their fists were already bruised from the breaking. III came first, like always, teeth bared and hands reverent, not like a man but a disciple. His knees hit the ground—begging, worshiping at the altar of Vessel’s trembling skin.
II followed—silent, trembling, the ghost of guilt clinging to his spine. But even he could not resist the blood-warm call of divine sin. He fell to his knees, forehead to thigh, voice breaking with a whispered ‘please.’
And then Ivy, who pressed him to the wall—back to brick, knees gone to jelly. ‘You’re not dreaming anymore,’ he whispered, tongue tracing the edge of a whimper. ‘You’re real. You’re ours.”
Vessel writhed under the words like a psalm being torn apart mid-sermon. His body was no longer flesh—it was scripture, rewritten in sweat and bruises, annotated by moans, each touch translated into a new gospel, one with fewer morals and much more oral.
III then sucked a mark into his thigh like he was signing a sacred contract in spit.
II mouthed prayers into his ribs, each one stitched with tongue and teeth.
Ivy—sweet, depraved Ivy—fucked a whimper into his mouth with nothing but a look, a benediction carved from lust and filth.
Vessel bucked, incoherent. Somewhere between a lamb at slaughter and a lightning rod for holy wrath.
There was gold behind his eyes. Blood under his nails. He glowed, not metaphorically but literally—radiance dripping from him like oil down a saint’s statue in a miracle.
And still, Sleep watched.
He was the fourth body in the room. The god in the vents. The static behind the amp.
It licked at the edges of their pleasure like mold on communion bread.
Not gone. Never gone. Just lurking like a sermon you can’t unhear.
And still—
The holy trinity of sweat, spit, and shame slicked Vessel’s throat as he gasped through a sound that wasn’t meant for mortal ears. His body—his once-sacred temple—had become an orgiastic reliquary, a living shrine to the blasphemous union of lust and love and terrible, terrible band dynamics.
II licked the sweat from his collarbone like it was consecrated wine. III moaned a hymn into his stomach, pressing kisses like nails into a cross.
“You’re shaking,” Ivy whispered, cupping Vessel’s face like the skull of a martyred saint.
His body unraveled like a rosary ripped by the devil himself. He howled like a demon burning in the fire of a confessional.
Still, they kept going.
Because this wasn’t indulgence.
It was ritual.
A black mass of the obscene.
Vessel arched like a cathedral collapsing into itself, keening something between divine ecstasy and total ego death.
They weren’t just fucking him. They were canonizing him.
Making him holy through filth.
Sainting him with fingers and tongues.
By the time he came, it was with a sound like the final note of a requiem—a crescendo that cracked the ceiling tiles and nearly summoned the fire alarm.
And Sleep hissed. The lights flickered.
Somewhere deep in the building, the PA system whispered:
“Come back to me.”
….
***
III was the first to crack.
It’d been his turn to read, and he’d been fine—giddy, theatrical, moaning dramatically at every filthy, ridiculous metaphor. But then he read: “His body—his once-sacred temple—had become an orgiastic reliquary.”
It broke him.
He let out a strangled sort of noise, something unhinged and animalistic between a snort and a sob. He broke off mid-sentence and flung himself sideways.
“Who WROTE this?” he wheezed between helpless gasps. “I need to ravage them. Or fight them. Or both.”
He sucked in another breath. “Probably both. No—definitely both.”
Ivy didn’t miss a beat. “It’s called art, darling. Try to keep up.” His cheeky wink sent III back into convulsions..
“Alright, alright,” III groaned, clutching his stomach. “But—I can’t keep reading this. Someone else. Please. For my sanity.”
“Gimme,” Vessel said, making grabby hands at Ivy’s phone. A shit-eating grin was plastered across his face.
Ivy hummed teasingly from deep in his chest. “Hmmm, our orgiastic reliquary wants a go,” he purred, hardly keeping his laughter under control.
Vessel snatched the phone from III with a smirk. “I’ll make it good,” he said with a dangerous spark in his voice. “Promise.”
He began in his best Globe Theater baritone—no small feat all things considered.
“Jesus, Vess,” II groaned, barely looking up. “You’re reading this like it’s bloody Shakespeare.”
“It IS Shakespeare,” III interrupted. “If Shakespeare had a thing for cock and religious trauma. Which, actually—yeah.”
“Oh my God…” II said under his breath, head dropping back into his hands.
It wasn’t the fic that was killing him. Not really.
It was Vessel.
More specifically, Vessel sitting at the edge of the bed, poised like a posh Etonian in chapel (II absolutely did not think of his first wristy in a stuffy Eton dorm—which he’d snuck into wearing one of those stupid caps—from a violently repressed boy who swore he was straight and then came on II’s stomach). He was flushed a too-perfect pink. The point of his canine caught on his lip when he smiled. And each word was practically a moan.
II was dying inside.
Ivy had flopped backwards in a pile of limbs and overstimulation, feet dangling off the bed.
“God, that line,” he sighed dreamily. “‘They weren’t just fucking him. They were canonizing him.’” He shook his head with a radiant smile.
“Canonize me next.” The words slipped through his lips with a tiny moan. Shit—he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.
II looked up and shot him a glare with raised brows.
“Oh, shut up,” Ivy muttered in his direction, unabashedly unrepentant. “At least I can admit that this is fucking hot.”
“I never said it wasn’t,” II said quietly, almost as if he had to will his voice above anything but a whisper.
Three pairs of eyes slid over to him, glinting with satisfaction. Or perhaps something else, something II was not prepared to think about in any amount of detail.
He made a wounded noise, then hissed, “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” Vessel blinked. He tilted his head in just that way. His cheeks were still flushed pink and the top of his lip glistened with a small bead of sweat. It sent a shiver through II.
“That look.” II forced his voice into a semblance of control and held Vessel’s gaze even though he could feel his own face heating. “All of you. Stop looking at me like that.”
III cackled. “He’s spiraling!” he howled gleefully. “They’ve done it! They’ve broken II!”
“I am NOT spiraling,” II snapped, ears a shocking shade of pink. “I’m just… processing. Through the exact right amount of… outrage. Like a normal person.”
“You’re hands are shaking,” Ivy pointed out lazily.
“They’re not.”
“They kind of are, Twosie,” Vessel murmured.
II glared. This was betrayal on so many levels.
“Well,” Ivy began with delight, “if you aren’t spiraling, you can finish reading the chapter.”
II opened his mouth, then closed it again stupidly. Ivy snatched the phone from Vessel’s hands and tossed it toward II with a gleeful “Think fast!”
II caught it mid-air on reflex. “Fine,” he growled, eyes piercing daggers through Ivy who was smirking, far too satisfied with himself.
He read through gritted teeth, white-knuckling the device in his hand. It was only a few paragraphs but each word was torture.
And Vessel sat there watching him read, mouth tugging into a wiked half-smile. He kept his eyes fixed on his fingers tapping out the rhythm of the twenty-third bar of Like That.
But then II read the final line—“Come back to me.”—something in him cracked.
The ache of arousal vanished, a sickening sense of static taking its place. A whisper, memories not yet faded.
He schooled his face into stillness and thought it worked.
The others caught the shift in the air around Vessel, but only barely. It was just a flicker at the edge of the moment and they were too wrapped up in their own spirals to see it clearly.
A tense moment lingered—quiet and a little too long.
And then—bless him—III flopped back and declared, “Right. I need to have a lie down and rethink my entire existence.”
“You’re already lying down,” Ivy pointed out.
“Exactly,” III replied flatly, face to the ceiling. “Step one: complete.”
Vessel let out a soft, breathy laugh. It cracked something open in the room, just enough for the tension to settle into something a little less sharp.
They didn’t rush to leave.
They stayed a little longer, sprawled across Ivy’s bed and floor and furniture in the kind of lazy, companionable mess that only came after something vaguely traumatizing, vaguely horny (ok, very), and wholly hilarious. A few more jokes were made. III insisted he was going to write his own fic, “from the perspective of the amp that witnessed the whole orgy.” Ivy screamed into a pillow. II somehow ended up lying facedown on the carpet and refused to move.
Eventually, though, the hour grew late. One by one, they peeled themselves off the furniture—and, in II’s case, the floor— and shuffled toward the door, all of them a little slower now, their bodies loose with exhaustion.
They exchanged soft goodnights—no grand fanfare, just murmured words and sleepy smiles—and headed toward the lift. II and III slipped out with soft touches on Vessel’s arm and muttered love yous.
But just as the door was sliding closed, Vessel shot out a hand and caught it, pushing it back open with a light shove.
III was already down the hall, turning the corner with his long arms dangling by his side.
“II—“ Vessel called out hesitantly.
II stopped and spun on his heel. He hummed an inquisitive little noise with a smile.
Vessel tugged hia hoodie sleeves low over his hands, mouth parted like he’d meant to speak and then forgot how.
“I…” He rubbed at his wrist, eyes flicking briefly to the floor. “I know it’s dumb. But—can I stay with you? Just to sleep. I don’t—” He swallowed, voice tighter now. “I just don’t really want to be on my own tonight.”
II didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said softly, smiling affectionately. He understood. “C’mon.”
Vessel sighed in relief. They walked down the hall together, side by side, shoulders brushing, untouched by words.
For tonight, at least, they didn’t have to sleep alone.