Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Finley awakens to the sound of a blaring alarm.

It's the same routine as the day before. Roll over in his mess of sheets, wipe his wild hair from his tired eyes, and slam the snooze button. He doesn't feel like moving. His head is pounding, the bed beneath him still feels like it's spinning from the drinks the night before, but he's absolutely parched. His throat feels raw as he groans, stretching out his limbs until his feet dangle off the end of his mattress. For a few minutes, he lies there, blinking himself half-awake.

The alarm blares again in his skull like it’s trying to tear him from existence. Finley groans into the sheets, hair plastered to his sweat-soaked forehead, wondering if the world has always been this fucking loud. The smell of stale beer clung to the sheets, mixed with the faint trace of last night’s smoke. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry like the desert and rough like sandpaper.

It's five thirty in the afternoon.

The sun has already reached its peak and begun to set, sending streaks of bright, warm light towards his bedroom window, but they're unable to pierce the thick fabric of his blackout curtain. He really should get up, take a shower, and attend to his plans for the evening. There's a lot of things he should do, but each and every day always ends the same.

Finley shifts atop the bed, his skin sticks to the sheets in small patches where sweat cools too slowly, prickling his nerves. He grabs for his phone, silencing the alarm for good, before he checks his texts from the night before. A few check-ins from his mates, a few well wishes from new acquaintances, and a new invitation to another party happening in less than four hours. He's keen on it, of course. He always is. His fingers fly over his screen as he squints, confirming his imminent arrival.

There’s only one small issue. The single text message he isn’t sure how to respond to.

Lucas (V): Hey, mate. We never heard back from you about the upcoming NA tour. Did you and your lawyer get a chance to look everything over?

Finley sighs, forcing himself to sit upright in spite of the ache in his back and the dizziness that threatens to turn into nausea the longer that he goes without water. Dehydration was always a pain in the ass, but after three straight nights of partying, his body is practically begging for relief. He eyes the text once again, re-reading it over and over until the full weight of the words sink in. Every text he ever receives from Lucas feels like a tether around his chest, and he can’t decide whether to pull free or suffocate quietly in compliance with his wishes. It reels him in closer to a self-image that he doesn’t want to recognize.

The point is, Finley doesn’t want to go.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it, because he does, but he’s beyond tired of the pressure and the responsibility. He’s addicted to the high of chaos when touring, but the crash is coming faster each time. Lucas and Toby are painfully wonderful to him, beyond patient and completely understanding. That’s never been the issue, not for the entire nine years that he’s known them. The issue is everything else around them, the mounting pressure and the abrupt rise in popularity. It was already impacting his ability to book gigs, or play local venues with his mates during the downtime, without risking being made.

It isn’t like his silhouette is a forgettable one. Quite the opposite, really. He stood out a little too easily thanks to his height and mannerisms. There is no hiding who he is. Not even black body paint and a mask could keep him hidden away from the observant gaze of others. He isn’t ready for it, the changes in lifestyle that he’d have to make. The pressure and weight on his shoulders that would only continue to grow. The slow-burning resentment for something he loves and hates equally.

Still, Lucas and Toby are relying on him to be there. He’s been a staple in their live performances since the beginning, and even if the fans would move on if he was to be replaced, he doesn’t know if their fragile friendship would survive the toll it would take on their relationship. They don’t speak off tour. At least, not that often. It's bizarre, really, being attached at the hip with three other blokes for months on end, living beneath the same roof and sharing the same common spaces, only to go back to strangers when they arrived back in London. He’s practically been a ghost to them for months, wondering if they would even notice if he disappeared.

But Finley has his own life, and they have theirs. Some things really are just that simple to explain away.

Another tour, a full arena run.

Which meant this time, there would be more eyes on them. It meant less time for what he truly wanted; to let loose and have a good time. He lives to make music, yes, but he’s a social creature at heart. He wants to attend afterparties, mingle with the crowd without them whispering about his identity behind his back. He won’t get the opportunity to, not without heavy supervision, or being let loose in label approved spaces, occupied only by those who knew how to keep a secret. And when to keep their fucking mouths shut.

He backs out of the message, leaving it on read, before he stumbles his way out of his mess of sheets and onto the cluttered hardwood floor of his flat. There’s clutter everywhere, a real mess, but it doesn’t bother Finley in the slightest. He smiles, kicking the heap of clothes across the narrow walkway made in the rubbish before he rolls his shoulders, heading towards the kitchen. His bones groan and pop, joints cracking like tiny firecrackers, eating away at the tension.

A single glass of water. A quick morning spliff. A shot or two of vodka to pre-game.

It’s going to be a solid evening. One spent with friends, jamming at a local dive, before they head across the city to a club where the waiters know him by name. His bass is still packed and ready to go from the night before, waiting for him beside the door as if beckoning him to depart with it in hand.

Finley doesn’t think about the unanswered text message as he slips into his familiar routine, burying his bittersweet emotions down deep until all that thrums through his veins is the comforting feeling of weightlessness brought to him only by the familiar burning of green.

-

He’s seven shots and two joints in when his phone rings, vibrating aggressively against his thigh.

Finley snickers as he swats at his mate’s arse, slipping past the gathered crowd around them as he approaches the bar’s propped open door. Cool night air washes over him, forcing him to shiver, as he slinks out of the doorway and into the halo of a nearby streetlight. Its glow catches his glassy eyes and makes the world look both infinite and claustrophobic all at once. He leans against the pole, pressing the frigid metal to his back as his reddened eyes drift to the few passing cars that pitter down the road. Neon club lights flicker across his gaze, painting the night around him in colors he can’t quite name.

He looks down at the caller ID, frowning before he answers it, placing the device against his ear.

“‘Ello, Toby, mate.” Finley greets, keeping his voice as steady as he can given his current state of mind. His eyes water from the slight breeze, or perhaps because he hasn’t blinked for too long. He giggles, not knowing which is the truth, as he waits for a response from the other end of the line.

“You never responded to Lucas’s text,” Toby says by way of greeting. Finley supposes that he should have known better, really. Toby always was all work, no play. “What’s going on?”

“Nuffin really,” Finley replies, voice slurring, still giggling. “It's all good, mate. It's all good.”

A passing car's lights catches his attention as the silence stretches. He watches it disappear down the road, realizing that the loudest sound, save for the passing vehicles, is his own ragged breathing.

“You don't seem all that keen,” Toby assesses. Rather accurately, Finley might add. “You sound rather sloshed. Is everything all right?”

“Absolutely hammered, to be quite honest,” he snorts, leaning further against the light pole. “About the tour, mate… I'm not bailing on it. Just haven't gotten ‘round to signing stuff. That's all.”

It's a lie, of course. It sounds like one even to Finley's own ears. He can hardly imagine how it must sound to Toby. To be perfectly honest, he doesn't quite feel like dissecting that right now. He's in too good of a mood, blood pumping and alcohol flowing. There's a man at the bar he's been exchanging glances with all night. He's got other things going on, more pressing matters to attend to, like his aching cock and the euphoric bliss.

“You know how disappointed Lucas will be if you want out, mate.”

Finley lets out a hissed breath at that, watching the vapor of his breath disperse in the cold night air. Finley’s stomach twists, a small, silent accusation hanging between them thanks to Toby’s poignant words. He twirls his lighter nervously, the metal edge cutting slightly into his palm as he laughs too loudly to cover the tension.

“It's a fuckin’ lot to think ‘bout,” Finley confesses, saying the words more harshly than he intends them to be. “Pressure’s gettin’ to be a lot, Toby. Startin’ to affect my other prospects and the like.”

He shouldn't have said it, he knows it the moment the words leave his lips, but Toby doesn't give him time to apologize for it. He doesn't give him much time for anything at all other than the crushing, sobering feeling of guilt.

“Finley, you've been with us from the jump. We might not have expected this, but you… knew what could happen,” Toby reminds him. “There's no point in having this conversation right now, is there? You're clearly… out of sorts tonight. We can talk tomorrow. Good night.”

The line clicks dead. Finley sets his jaw, grips his phone tighter, before he shoves the device back in his pocket and groans. The last thing he wanted is to disappoint them, or upset them, but his emotions have been festering for a while now. They should have had this talk months ago, before things got out of hand and away from them.

He's angry at himself, and selfishly angry at the success. He should be grateful, beyond grateful, really. He has everything he's always wanted, just not in the way he wants it. He wants to make a living from it, not be consumed by it. Constrained by it. Suffocated. Stifled. Silenced.

“Fin! Come back inside, mate!” Alec calls out the club's door, loud music pumping into the quiet street the wider that the door creaks open.

Finley knows nothing will be solved tonight, at least, nothing that truly matters. The only thing that he can fix in the moment is the annoying sense of sobriety ruining his night and his chances of getting laid. He kicks off the lamp post, stumbling back towards the open door before going back inside.

Vibrant lights dance in his vision, a sea of bodies and faces surrounds him, but he navigates after his mate with ease. The faint tang of spilled spirits and sweat rises from the crowd, sharp and clinging to his clothes. He can feel the bass reverberate under his boots, pulsing through the floorboards like the club’s very own heartbeat. He joins his mates at the L-shaped bar for the next round of shots before slinking away, moving towards the bar stool where his object of desire for the night sits pretty.

Pale blue eyes warm beneath the simmering heat in his gaze as he approaches him. Brown hair, piercing gaze, tattoos line the sharp curve of his jaw, creeping down his neck. Finley wonders how far down the colorful art goes. He's eager to find out.

“Seen you play at the bar down the way,” the pretty stranger says through a coy smile. “Loved your energy.”

“Thought I'd seen you ‘round before,” Finley responds through his most charming smile as he shifts his stance, the soles of his boots squeaking against the sticky bar floor. “Let me buy ya’ a round?”

“Sure,” the man responds, chewing on his bottom lip. Finley wants to catch it between his own, run his tongue alongside it, dive between those gorgeous white teeth. “What's your name?”

Finley cocks a lopsided grin.

“I don't do names, doll.”

It works like a charm. It always does. It has to.

His name is all he has left to hide behind, even if that secret is no longer sacred.

-

Alarm. Snooze. Water. A joint. A round of the latest shooter with his mates. The pleasant ache and sting in his shoulders from the scratches left by sharp nails against his skin from the night before.

Everything is going perfectly, until it doesn't.

Finley's phone vibrates on his computer desk, rattling his mouse and keyboard. The name on the display screen gives him pause as he takes another hit off of his first joint of the day. He sets it down in the nearby ash tray, pushing his mouse aside while his character respawns on screen.

“Mates, gotta mute up for a second,” Finley mumbles through his headset before switching off his microphone. He plucks his phone up from the desk, sliding his finger across the screen and holding it up to his ear. “Thomas, ‘ello.”

“Good afternoon, Finley. I was just giving you a call to go over the NDA and enclosed documents attached to the contract sent over by your employer,” Thomas says, professional as always. Hiring his current lawyer was one of the few good things he's ever done for himself, saved himself a lot of trouble.

“Right, right. How we lookin'?” Finley grumbles, pinching his brow. His character revives on screen, only to be swarmed by zombies and taken out once more, tick of health by tick of health.

“This variation is more strict than the previous ones,” Thomas explains, clearing his throat. “There's been some added restrictions about public appearances, limiting what you're capable of doing while you're overseas substantially. You would also be agreeing to exclusivity with Sleep Token for the duration, barring you from all other projects you're working on in any capacity until you return home to London.”

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” Finley huffs, rolling his shoulders.

“The NDA is the same as it's always been. You know what you can and cannot say. As for the pay, the offered sum is rather fair for industry standards. However, I must say, it's rather selfish of them to maintain this rate when we're at this point in the game, so to speak.”

“So, they're lowballing me now?” Finley inquires, half-listening as he reaches for his joint and lighter. “Is that what you're sayin’?”

“Not at all. It's just disproportionate to the work you're expected to do in addition to the tight lip clamp expectations. I've taken the liberty of forwarding over a counter offer on your behalf.”

“Fuckin’ love ya’, Thomas. You're a proper shark,” Finley snorts, sparking up the end of his joint, inhaling deeply. His words are muffled by the cloud of smoke he exhales, a reminder of every night spent chasing moments that slip through his fingers. He frowns at the thought. Watches the trail of smoke dissipate around him. “Got the boys blowin’ my phone up askin’ questions ‘bout it. Don't quite know what to say to ‘em at this point.”

“You've every right to feel stressed over the expectations placed on you in addition to the rather… unfortunate prying that has been rife as of late. I'm sure that our counter offer will be accepted due to these… circumstances.”

“What if I like…” Finley trails off, ashing his smoke, pressing his phone down to his shoulder with his ear. “What if I'm tired of the bullshite all together?”

“The option is always there to decline,” Thomas reminds him, his voice as serious as the grave. “However, it is important to bear in mind that this new record company is unlikely to extend another offer in the future should you decline now.”

“Oh, come off it,” Finley giggles. “The boys would riot if they refused to offer me something down the way. They're good lads, even if a bit… quiet and the like.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas concurs with a brief hum. “Are you considering declining the offer?”

“Can’t fuckin’ afford to be doin’ all that now,” Finley laments, waving his half-smoked spliff around in the air languidly. “Not that I'm jumpin’ at the bit to sell my soul away again, but the options, mate… fuckin’ limited prospects at the moment.”

“The con of anonymous showmanship. Even if your portfolio is a poorly kept industry secret,” Thomas agrees with a sigh. “All right, let's see if they respond in the morning and go from there. How does that sound?”

“Fine with me,” Finley hums around his smoke. “Thanks, mate.”

“That's my job,” Thomas laughs. “Enjoy your evening, Finley.”

“Right, you as well,” he says with a slight smirk, coughing the second that the line clicks dead. He sets his phone aside, ignoring the unread text messages.

Three from Lucas. One from Toby.

Still nothing from Ives, not that he expects much from the latter, busy as he is going through a rather nasty divorce. His chest tightens, the weight of unread texts and unmade decisions pressing like a vise. He imagines Lucas’ disappointed face, Toby’s silent disapproval, even if they never say it out loud. Imagines their poor guitarist, the tribulations he’s undergoing and the heartbreak he must be facing. It’s none of his business, not his place to get involved, but it weighs on him all the same.

Finley reaches for his headset, silencing his looming responsibilities and wayward thoughts.

“I'm back,” he tells his mates as he slides the device atop his head once more. “Ready for another round?”

It can wait until tomorrow, it has to. There's only so much one man can deal with without some form of escapism.

-

The counter offer gets declined come morning light, replaced by another offer only slightly above the standard fare.

It's a fucking insult, that's what it is. Finley thinks he should decline on principle alone, but Thomas reminds him better of it. His bank account could use the funds, and it wasn't as if other bands were gnawing at the bit for a touring member. Even if they were, they were nowhere near capable of matching the same rate of pay.

Begrudgingly, he signs his soul away, drowns his sorrow in a bottle of gin and a hundred quid of England's finest greenery.

His phone rings halfway through his late night bender, he's almost surprised when he sees the caller ID.

“I signed the paperwork this mornin’,” Finley grumbles as he presses the device to his ear, shoving his headset aside.

“Mute up, mate!” Alec reminds him. Finley clicks the mute button with a huff, sulking.

“I know you did,” Lucas’s deep voice fills his ears. He sounds exhausted, like he hasn't had a proper night's sleep in weeks.

“What's goin’ on, mate? Ya’ sound proper fed up,” Finley asks, concerned beyond the minor annoyance from negotiations.

“Eve and I split last week,” Lucas confesses with a sigh. Finley's eyes widen as he reaches for his drink.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate. Sorry to hear that,” Finley tells him, sipping his drink, wincing from the taste. “Will you all be callin’ it quits this time, or just in need of a wee break from the other?”

“I'm done,” Lucas laughs bitterly, the sound twists Finley's stomach. “I caught her out with her ex when she was supposed to be with her mum. I've excused a lot of things, but seeing her kissing him… that's a deal breaker for me. Two years of my life down the drain and all.”

“Heavy shit, mate. Ya’ deserve better than that nonsense,” Finley exhales deeply, setting his empty drink aside. “That's why I don't bother with datin’ people any more. Too much bullshite. It's easier to get a quick fuck and move on.”

“Wasn't about the sex, Finley.”

Of course it wasn't, Lucas wore his heart on his sleeve, a true romantic. Hopeless as he is, and his love by proxy.

“Didn't mean nuffin by it,” Finley kicks himself, shoving his headset down his neck as he runs a hand through his dry hair. “I am sorry, mate.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lucas hums, deep voice droning. “Ives signed his contract this morning. I was… worried that both of you would decline.”

“Look,” Finley begins, licking his dry lips. He looks away from his computer screens, the chatroom his friends type in on one, and the game that they all play displayed on the other. His eyes scan his flat, its state of disarray, the mounting amount of work that it would take to get it even remotely clean and presentable. Not that it matters, no one visits him anyway. “I’m not happy ‘bout a lot of things that have happened, and I’m not sure how much longer I’m keen on keepin’ up this whole… charade. But for the next eighteen dates, ya’ have me there to fill the role ya’ boys need.”

“We never expected this either, you know?” Lucas asks, and it’s impossible to miss the other man’s slight degree of exasperation, palpable in his tone. “Believe me, mate, we’re not thrilled about what’s gone on as of late either. You’re not the only one struggling with all of this… attention, okay?”

“Course not,” Finley concurs, looking at the time, a full twenty four hours past by in a blur since his first phone call with Thomas. The days blend together at times when he’s at home, relaxing, doing as he pleases. He’s going to miss the calm, mundanity of it when he’s on the road, shackled by the iron grip of responsibility and expectation. One wrong move, one wrong glance, and what little shred of normalcy he knows could go up in smoke. Absolutely no fucking pressure.

“I really should be happy about this, shouldn’t I?” Lucas half-laughs, his frustration with himself, and their situation, is beyond palpable. It’s overwhelming, draining, Finley pours himself another drink from the nearby bottle of gin. His ice is long since melted, but the burn is gone when the liquor slides down his throat. He’s beyond the point of caring about the slight sting it leaves in its wake. “Sometimes, I miss the days of us playing side stages, sleeping in vans and the like.”

“‘Member that corner pizza joint we stopped at in Brighton? The one we went to after we played our first big gig for fifty fuckin’ people?” Finley giggles, reaching for his rolling papers. “What proper morons we were, huh? I miss bein’ a nobody, can’t imagine how much ya’ and Tobes must miss it.”

“None of us were ready for this,” Lucas all but whispers. Finley frowns as he shakes loose green free from its plastic confines. “Do you think we’ll still… have fun, like we did before?”

“We always manage, don’t we?” Finley asks, his tone gravely and low in a manner he hopes is more reassuring than it is nostalgic. Lucas hums once more, whether it be from agreement or longing for the days long since past, Finley cannot say.

“Well, everything is in order then. I just wanted to touch base with you,” Lucas clarifies, clearing his throat. He sounds off, displeased, stressed, exhausted. Finley feels like a proper arsehole for complaining about his own woes, the preemptive mourning of his lifestyle, and the ego death associated with his narrowing work offers. He can’t imagine how Lucas must feel, how Toby must feel. He isn’t sure he wants to.

“Right on,” Finley mumbles, losing focus on his current task as he drops the half-rolled joint on his desk and tilts his head back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. “Haven’t heard much from ya’ since I saw ya’ last at Heathrow, guess I know why now.”

“That’s my fault, entirely my fault,” Lucas sighs once more. It’s easy to imagine how he must look on the other end of the line. Dark, short bangs lying across the skin of his forehead, hair tapered at the sides. His brows creased above the piercing hue of his moss green eyes, the whites around the deep green dyed a shade of red that only sleepless nights, tears, and stress could give away so freely.

Sometimes, Finley tells himself that they aren’t proper friends any longer, only work-friends. Colleagues, partners in the business, anything but what they used to be back when they crammed their belongings in shitty stripped business vans and hit the road with only fifty quid in their pocketbooks. Sometimes he blames himself for it, the loss of closeness between them, and all the other lost moments in-between.

“Not all your fault, bruv.” Finley assures him, closing his tired eyes. “Life gets in the way. A proper bitch that one.”

“A real headache,” Lucas chuckles, but this time the sound is genuine. Finley cracks a smile, adjusting his hold on his phone and his slouched position, not keen on dumping himself on the mess that lies on his bedroom floor. “I’m looking forward to seeing you, Fin. I’m sorry that things have… turned out this way. Believe me when I say that I… I never expected all of this, and I know that it’s a lot. It means the world to Toby and I both that you’ve stuck with us in spite of it all.”

“Yeah, well…” Finley trails off, chewing on his chapped lower lip. “Can’t promise you lads nuffin ‘bout the long term, but ya’ have me for America.”

“That’s… already more than we could ever ask for,” Lucas doesn’t sound half as sincere as usual, but Finley can’t bring himself to mention it. “I’ll let you go, mate. I just wanted to check in and say thank you for agreeing to come back in spite of everything that’s happened.”

“You’ll be eager to be rid of me by the time that this circuit is over,” Finley laughs, flopping his head forward and scooting his chair back underneath his desk. He picks up his rolling paper once more, giving it his attention as Lucas snorts on the other end of the line. “Am sorry ‘bout you and your girl, mate. Can’t be fuckin’ easy. I know Ives was a proper mess when his wife… ex-wife? Called him and told him she was moving back home.”

“Have you talked to him lately?” Lucas questions as Finley raises the spliff, licking it until it seals shut.

“Not a fuckin’ word,” Finley admits with a shrug he knows the other man can’t see. “Life’s a real bitch like that, like we said, but I figured he’d want all the space he could get right now.”

“It was finalized last Tuesday,” Lucas informs him, clicking his tongue. “The divorce, that is. He, uh… is moving back home to be closer to his dad. Of course, I only know because he told Toby about it, but… I’m in the process of doing the same thing. I’m trying to get that done before we leave.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Finley murmurs, cracking his sore neck. The buzz of his computer fans is beginning to give him a headache, another unwanted distraction. “Well, there isn’t much else to say ‘bout that, is there? Proper fuckin’ mess for you lot, but at least you’re both free of it.”

“I suppose so, yeah,” Lucas concurs before silence stretches, a lull in the conversation that lasts a beat too long. “Won’t keep you any longer, man. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you at Heathrow.”

“Likewise,” Finley agrees before mumbling his goodbyes. He sets his phone aside, staring at the joint in his hand, before he sighs and sets it aside. He doesn’t bother to get back on his headset, only sends a quick excuse in their group chat before he logs off for the night.

His thoughts swirl and race as he turns his bedroom lights down, climbing over the mounds of clothes left on the floor, before he slides into the familiar comfort of his bed. He expects sleep to find him easily, it usually does after a night spent relaxing with his mates, but instead, rest continues to allude him.

He spends more time than he cares to admit staring at the blackness of his ceiling, his thoughts drifting from his own mounting dread about the tour, to his sympathy for Lucas and Ives’ situations. He thinks of Toby and the apology he owes him for snapping at him two nights ago, but he decides to save that for another time. The drummer wasn’t one to hold a grudge in either case, and it's far from the worst thing that Finley’s ever done or said to him.

He’s a fuck up, a proper mess, every shade in between. He always has been. It’s why his life is best represented by the chaos he lives in and creates for himself, and it’s why his folks want nothing to do with him any longer. Well, that and their more than apparent distaste for his proclivities, his love for the party life, the road, and men. It’s not the white picket fence, nine to five, wife and three kids lifestyle his parents want for him.

It never fucking will be, and by proxy, he will never be their son.

It makes no difference to him, not any longer. He enjoys his life like this, the freedom that comes with it, the good times, even if the bad are really fucking bad.

He doesn’t want to make sacrifices. He doesn’t want to change or hide away who he is at his core, pretend to be someone he’s not.

But he’s already signed his soul away to the devil in the form of a record label who expects him to be the walking image of professionalism and discretion. There’s no time for fun and games when his livelihood is at stake, even if he wishes he wasn’t so reliant on it.

The tour looms just around the corner. The contract is signed, but the tour isn’t just dates on a calendar to him; it’s a countdown to becoming a man that he no longer recognizes.

Finley looks to where he knows his bass guitar lies, propped up against the nearby wall. He traces its outline in his mind’s eye instead of counting sheep before the weed does what it does best and ushers him into the waiting arms of sleep.

-

The following day is more of the same.

His usual routine, but not for much longer.

Finley dresses with haste, stuffing his pack of cigarettes in his back pocket alongside his lighter, before he begins rummaging around for his apartment keys. He finds them beneath his shirt from three nights before, the one in desperate need of a wash. A problem for later.

He looks himself over in the mirror, the long length of his legs accentuated by the tight cling of his black skinny jeans, and the band t-shirt he pulled over his hair in haste. The tour is coming, the contract is signed, but the man staring back in the mirror is already halfway gone. He hates that realization. He hates what he knows is to come.

Finley tuts as he reaches for a nearby hairbrush atop his computer desk before traipsing over clutter to his bathroom. The sink has toothpaste dried and caked to the porcelain as he turns on the faucet, washing away the taste of last night's gin. He throws his toothbrush down on the crammed countertop before pulling his still damp hair into a pair of matching space buns. He's in desperate need of a root touch up, but that's not on the agenda for tonight.

Finley spritzes himself with the best cologne he has, touches up his application of deodorant, before shutting the bathroom light off. He grabs his phone, wallet, keys, and guitar case before giving his flat a once over.

The empty bottles of alcohol lining his computer desk need to go, as does the overflowing garbage in the nearby trashcan. A problem to solve another time. He shuts the light off and pulls the door closed, locking it behind him.

His phone rings the second his feet hit the stairwell. He answers with a beaming smile and a laugh.

“On my way down, mate. Ready to fuckin’ get this night started.”

For now, he has a show to play. A life to live before he gives it all away for tight lips and sober nights.

He doesn’t want the tour, doesn’t want the contracts, doesn’t want to lose himself, but the ink is already dry, and there’s no undoing it now. He’s trading freedom for applause. Each note is yet another inch closer to someone whom he no longer recognizes. All he can do is wait for the inevitable weight of responsibility to suffocate him. Drown him. Drag him under through pressure, song, and sound, until he either learns to go with the tide of fame’s flow, or finds himself another hapless victim of it.

Finley wants to disappear into the crowd, to move unseen, but the spotlights always find him first.

Chapter Text

Heathrow is a fucking nightmare.

It always is. Brimming with far too many people and ridiculous walks between terminals. The overhead voice drones boarding numbers, unintelligible beneath the chorus of crying babies and trolley wheels screeching across the tiles. Finley's glad his morning spliff is holding him over, taking the edge off of what is already a miserable scenario. He sighs, rubbing at his tired eyes, before he heads to the bag check in. His thoughts are elsewhere as he obliges the security agent's requests, complying without fuss, even if he stumbles once or twice sliding his shoes off.

He thinks about his home, the flat he never got around to properly cleaning. He threw away the perishable bits, discarded the takeaway bags and empty bottles, and managed to at least do a load of laundry. It barely made a dent in the chaos, but it was all he felt capable of handling. The remaining mess will still be there when he gets back, still a problem for another time.

Finley checks his bags in with the agent, and walks away from the security terminal with only his carry-on in hand. The mask of professionalism and discretion he slips into is a heavy one, but not something he can hide himself away behind perpetually. He schools his expression into neutrality as he heads for the designated meet up point, the VIP lounge meant for first class passengers and people of varying degrees of import. He expects Lucas and Toby to already be there, waiting for him. Ives is another matter entirely, chronically late to everything as he is. It's a miracle on the road when the guitarist returns in time for the bus call. He can hardly remember an instance where they actually left a venue on time.

He enters the lounge after being scanned in by the area's added security. Spotting the others is an easy enough task, even if he gets briefly distracted by the smell of freshly prepared food wafting out of one the room's open doors. The munchies were something Finley always gave into, snacking on chips, diet soda, and whatever else he fancied. It's a luxury he doesn’t allow himself in front of his employers.

Lucas and Toby are surrounded by crew and execs from their new label, going over itinerary plans and double checking that everything is in proper order. Finley can’t help but think they look older than the last time he saw them. Lucas’s eyes look faraway, shadowed by bags beneath them. There's wrinkles in his faded black Alpha Wolf sweatshirt, a bleach stain on his faded charcoal jeans. He looks exhausted, worn out before the trip has even begun.

Toby's tattooed fingers dance across the fabric of the couch as the drummer inclines his head, listening to whatever Sam is telling him. The form fitting black jacket he wears bunches up as he folds one left over the other, dangling a combat boot over the side of his thigh. Toby’s brow is scrunched up, his nose turned up in distaste, seemingly dissatisfied over whatever he's hearing. Finley doesn’t even bother asking why, he only offers them a half wave to garner their attention.

“Hey, mate.” Lucas smiles then, standing from the couch in order to take Finley’s outstretched hand. Finley pulls him into a half-hug, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, as always.”

“Good to see ya’ lads, too.” Finley muses, trying not to think about the solid muscle beneath his fingertips as he squeezes Lucas’s shoulder before slowly letting him go.

Greeting Toby requires a little more thought, and a whole lot less carelessness. A handshake to start, an adjusted half-hug so as to not pull the drummer into his chest fully. Toby grunts by way of greeting, clearly a few energy drinks behind on the day. Finley doesn't blame him. His high is already fading, his fingers itching for a cigarette between them, but he's empty handed.

He wants to go home, not America.

He doesn't have a fucking choice.

“Ivy should be here in a few minutes,” Toby informs him with a shrug, dark blond hair falling from its place behind his ear. His voice cuts through the noise like it always has. Sharp. Brutal. Weirdly comforting. III's eyes fall to the tattoos creeping up the drummer’s collar before he looks away, studying the vacuum lines on the carpet.

“How's he holdin’ up after the split?” Finley finds himself asking, raising his gaze as he drops his carry on beside the nearby armchair.

“Sounded like shit when we talked,” Toby sighs, pushing his hair back. “I wouldn't bring it up.”

“Wasn't gonna,” Finley retorts, nodding as his gaze drifts from Toby's piercing blue eyes to the moss green shade of Lucas’s. “Suppose we should be excited ‘bout all this.”

Lucas sets his jaw, as if he has something to say, but Finley sees the singer's eyes dart to the side. The sound of rustling chains and fabric fills his ears, a familiar footfall. He turns on his heel, greeted by the sight of Ives entering the VIP lounge.

Ives looks like shit.

His brown hair is slicked back, tucked behind a baseball cap and the hood of his sweatshirt. His eyes are bloodshot, dark bags hanging lowly on his cheeks. Finley's surprised to see the guitarist at least managed to shave his face clean. The chains on Ives’ cargo pants chime as he slings his bag onto a nearby chair, greeting them all with a solemn nod.

Toby is the first off of the couch, bringing the guitarist in for a firm clap on the back as Ives sighs and leans into the offered contact. Finley chews his bottom lip, unsure of what to do or say at that moment. He's too sober for deep conversations, hard feelings and losses. He settles on more of the same, offering Ives a quick hug and a mumbled greeting before they all take a seat in the lounge.

Ives collapses next to Toby, fiddling with his sweatshirt’s drawstrings as the drummer spins his phone through his fingers. Lucas plops down on the arm of the chair Finley perches on, startling him. The glare he gives the singer rewards him with a heartfelt giggle, eating away at the tension.

Lucas has a nice smile. Straight, white teeth. A focal point of their advertisements for a reason. His laugh is even nicer, bright and bubbly, crystalline and clear. It’s the kind of sound that makes Finley’s chest feel lighter, even when it shouldn’t. Then again, he supposes he has Lucas to thank for his rather late sexual awakening, not that he'd ever tell the singer that. Things had already been awkward enough the last time that Lucas straddled him on stage during Sugar and ground down on his very noticeably hard cock.

Finley fucked a random bloke from a bar the night after, hasn't considered himself straight since. It’s a secret that he'll take to the grave, but a world of pleasure that he owes to Lucas all the same. He shifts his gaze to the man in question. Gives him a brief once over before averting his gaze. He hates the pit that opens up in his stomach when he looks away.

“Flight 1029 now boarding First Class VIP passengers.”

They stand up on instinct, following the same old song and dance. Finley sighs as he grabs his things, trailing after the crew as he fumbles to get his boarding pass pulled up on his phone screen. Lucas nudges his hip against his as they shuffle forward in line, a wordless little tether that keeps Finley from floating off into the noise. It doesn’t make as big of an impact as it should. Not when every boarding pass feels less like permission to fly and more like a summons. He wonders if anyone else notices their chains displayed digitally in crisp black font. No one else looks shackled. But maybe they’re better at pretending.

III doesn’t even spare a glance at the attendant that greets them, only makes his way through row after row of comfortable seats before arriving at his seat. He tosses his bag in the overhead compartment, fingers twitching for a smoke as he takes the bag that Ives carries and chucks it beside his own.

He gets the aisle seat, Ives takes the window. Routine. Familiar, comfortable, uncomfortable routine.

Finley closes the shade on the window, and III takes his seat on the plane beside IV.

Business as usual. Obligation. A mixed bag of emotions. Dread. Anticipation. Expectation.

III doesn’t allow himself to think of his life as Finley. It’s not healthy. It never fucking has been.

His bloodshot eyes drift to IV’s bouncing knees, his shaking hands that rest atop them. He notices IV’s ringer finger, barren for the first time since before the guitarist wed. III raises his gaze, clearing his throat. IV’s eyes flit to the side, grey-blue and stormy, swimming with a depth of emotion that III doesn’t know how to place. In the aisle beside them, II and Vessel take their seats.

III doesn’t pay them any mind. His lips twitch into a sad, small smile as he leans back in his seat. When his left arm slides across IV’s shoulders and pulls the guitarist into his side, IV goes down without a fight, the brim of his hat digs into III's shoulder, but the guitarist sighs softly against him. III can feel the moment that IV relaxes, closing his eyes against him. Lets out the breath he’s clearly been holding since he arrived. III sets his jaw. Digs his fingers into IV’s shoulder just a little bit tighter.

III holds him there long after the wheels leave the scorching heat of Heathrow’s tarmac.

-

III’s bags are slung into a bunk he’s never quite managed to fit inside comfortably before he collapses at the rigid table in the tour bus’s kitchenette, eyeing the itinerary laid out before him.

He wants to talk to whoever sets their schedule.

Three shows in a row, back to back, is cruel and unusual punishment. If America wasn’t so fucking massive, they’d be playing a different arena every night if the label had it their way. It hardly gives them any time to decompress, hardly any time to get settled in. Time changes be damned. Sleep, an afterthought. Illness? Irrelevant. III just wants to talk to them. And maybe tell them to perform like a puppet on a string if they think it’s that fucking easy.

It’s an impossible task for Finley. Only III can bleed himself dry enough to make it work.

“Before we hit the road,” Sam proclaims as he spins about the kitchenette, pointing a finger directly at III. “Check your pillowcase, mate. Left you a little something something.”

“If ya’ left me another fuckin’ dildo, I'll have your arse.” III grumbles as he shoves the itinerary away from him, languidly rising to his feet. Sam giggles, following after him.

“No sex toys this time,” Sam laughs, nodding towards III’s bunk. “Go on then.”

III shoves his travel bags aside, knocking aside his laptop, before he grabs the innocuous pillow. The smell hits him first. Brings a smile to his chapped lips.

“You fuckin’ legend, you.” III exhales in delight, letting the weed and rolling papers stashed in the pillowcase tumble out on the paper thin mattress.

“You didn't get that from me,” Sam says with a wink. “Just remember, no green before the greenroom, or in it.”

“Don't need to tell me twice,” III tuts, stashing away the goods inside the outer pocket of his luggage. He has restraint. He has to. He isn't home. He's someone else now. Here. He needs to be. He always has.

“See you boys in the morning,” Sam claps him on the shoulder. Makes a show of the beer and vodka stashed in one of the cabinets in the kitchenette before stepping off the bus.

Finley would’ve grabbed a drink without thinking. III waits. Always waits. III knows better than to go for a drink first. He can't. Not until they do. Vessel or II. Either one, it doesn't matter. They act first. He follows. It's what he's agreed to. Weed is the exception. They can take that shit from his cold, dead hands.

Neither one of them makes a move for it. Neither does III. II is too busy staking claim to the bedroom behind him. At least, for the time being. They trade off, Vessel and II. They work the hardest, it's only fair.

Vessel hasn't looked up from his phone since he sat down, clearly engrossed in whatever it is he's looking at. III knows what it is. It's always the same thing. Anonymous accounts in frequented places. Socials. The dregs of the internet. It comes from a place of paranoia. Of fear. Anxiety. Some people get lost in their screens. Vessel gets trapped. Every scroll is another nail in the coffin.

Does anyone even care that they're here?

The sold out venues say yes. Vessel still takes the criticism the hardest. Sulks about it, then plays it up even more on stage. III doesn't get it. Vessel is an image. A dream they sell. A story they play into. It works for them. It always fucking has. But III doesn't think Vessel blurs the lines like he does. Doesn't always separate himself from the mask. Takes things too seriously. Makes it harder on himself in the end.

If there's one thing III can say about people in general, it's this; they're always going to disappoint you, or be disappointed by you, to some degree.

He wishes Vessel knew that. Lucas, too.

IV is the quietest. Bags tossed in his bunk. Sitting on the couch, watching the darkly lit world around them through the bus's window. IV's finger traces the line where his wedding band used to be. He looks absentminded. III reckons that he is. He would be, too.

“So, Duluth?” III asks, just to break the silence. Alleviate the tension. Vessel doesn't look up from his phone. IV doesn't look away from the window. II clears his throat, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

“Duluth,” II confirms with a grunt, brushing past him.

III hopes II goes for the beer.

He doesn't. No one does. No one moves.

III climbs into his bunk. Folds his knees so he can fucking fit. Pushes his bags aside and grabs his laptop and earphones.

He needs a distraction. To retrace the line that divides Finley and III. Finley would go for a round of games with his mates back at home. III opens up his laptop and puts on a film, drowning out his misery to The Sound of Music.

None of them mention how much they don’t want to be here. No one speaks at all.

-

The new masks are a mixed bag. Have been since the get go. Fucking gorgeous to look at. Mesh well with the set. Vessel’s attire. The cohesion. The general vibe.

III’s glasses fit beneath the mask, but it makes no difference.

He still can’t fucking see. All he gets are fractured blurs of color bleeding into one another. Stages aren’t built for the half-blind. Especially not ones with stairs. Too much verticality. Too many obstacles underfoot. It’s a miracle they haven’t gotten more hurt than a bruised tailbone or a goose egg from smacking their heads on the roof of II’s cave.

At least the music isn’t complicated.

Not much his style or taste either, not that he’d ever tell Vessel or II that. Not that he needs to. He’s all too happy to play something heavy. Something filled with bass. Something where he’s given the proper time and space to shine. But he’s not a fan of meandering. Standing there with his bass in hand and miming out to the crowd. It’s fun at first, but it gets boring. Tiring. A wind up toy let loose on stage. Robotic and mindless. If he’s going to be a toy, at least the crowd still claps when the gears grind.

The fans eat it up, that’s the only consolation. He’s contributing to the band making a fortune. One that he only sees a fraction of. They can get another car. Buy themselves a fancy mansion. He can pay rent. Order takeout. Smoke England’s finest. It isn’t equal. It doesn’t matter. Vessel and II deserve every dime. He owes them his current way of life. All the good parts, and all the bad parts, too. All the parts of himself that he can never get back.

III sighs as he takes a glance at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t see himself there. Only the man that he pretends to be. The role he’s expected to play. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like a role at all. Here, he is someone. Someone revered. Someone lusted after. Someone people enjoy watching. Recording. Snapping photos of. Drawing art for. Writing about. Someone held up on a pedestal, even if it is levitating over a precipice that he cannot see the bottom of.

“Looking good,” IV comments, pulling III out of his maladaptive reverie. III cocks his head downward, eyeing the guitarist as IV comes to a halt beside him. Their overcoats aren’t identical, but they may as well be. Their individuality peers through beneath. Patterned shirts for III. Cargo pants for IV. Some things never change.

“Always,” III shoots back with a smile before pulling his mask up, letting the hood flutter downward. It snags on his glasses, forcing them askew across his face. IV snickers as he reaches up, adjusting them before they can fall as III fumbles with his hood.

“Dork,” IV snorts, dropping his hand to peel his own hood back. III huffs as IV removes his mask, offering him a cocksure grin.

“Gonna ask Ves to fuck with ya’ on stage extra for that one,” III snickers, cradling his mask in hand. He feels the same with it on or off. All III. Finley nowhere in sight. He wonders if IV feels the same. He doesn’t look as sad as the night before. The look in his steely blue eyes isn’t as far away. Glassy. Out of place. Out of sorts.

IV looks confident. Stands with his head held high. Poised. Collected. Clean shaven and painted black across his arms, covering the myriad tattoos that sprawl down his biceps to his fingertips. He looks pretty like that. All gravitational energy, forcing them to orbit his pull. III stops that line of thought before it goes any further. They fuck around on stage. Touch. Grope. Kiss. Laugh beneath their masks.

III still loves how quickly IV goes down to his knees for him. How his stomach flutters when their covered mouths brush. How IV's hands feel sliding against his mask-covered cheeks. How IV’s back feels pressed against his when they decide to put on a show. III didn't mind the sweat clinging to him, washing away the paint. That is a bonus as far as he's concerned.

It wasn’t a healthy line of thought, especially not when the man was married. But there’s no ring on his finger anymore. Not like it matters. Ives is straight. Has always said as much. IV has to be by proxy. There is separation, layers to put on. Walls to put up. But there is no rewiring the core circuitry. III doesn’t bother trying, even if he’s thought about it before. Even if he’s walked off stage in the past with his cock hard and leaking in his pants, fisting it with hasty motions inside different venues’ bathrooms.

The performance was always to blame. His bandmates, blameless. They weren’t responsible for his wayward thoughts. The reactions his body had to their faux advances.

It’s his own problem. He’s not keen on making it theirs.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” IV jokingly responds, elbowing him playfully. It doesn't fucking help that he winks. Looks all smug about it. Playful. “Looking forward to getting out there?”

“Lookin’ forward to…” III trails off. He doesn’t want to lie. This is his job. A thing he has to do to survive. He used to enjoy it. A part of him still does. It’s not what he thought it would be. He knows it isn’t what any of them thought it would be. “I am lookin’ forward to gettin’ the first one done with.”

Not a lie. Not the entire truth either. III knows that IV is aware of that, that IV gets it. That he feels the same beneath it all.

“You two done?” II calls, pushing open the greenroom door and entering.

III watches the drummer in the full length mirror. The loose fitting tank top that hangs down around his neck, showing off bursts of sprawling, vivid tattoos. The black paint that covers his arms and fingers, obscuring the remainder of his tattoos from sight. II’s hair is pushed back, dark blond locks swept out of his face. He looks worn out already. Like he could use another can of his favorite energy drink. Or a fucking litre of it.

“How we lookin’ out there, II?” III questions, turning on his heel until he can look over his shoulder without straining his neck.

“Almost good to go,” II informs them, cracking his knuckles. Black paint flakes to the greenroom’s carpet. It makes no difference. The room is already destroyed. Stained. They always did leave a mess behind them, no matter where they went.

“Where’s Vessel?” IV asks, turning his mask in hand.

“Watching the boys on stage,” II answers with a half-shrug. “He’s worried something’s going to go wrong.”

“Of course he is,” IV says with a frown. III purses his lips. Sticks his fingers through the eye holes in his mask. He doesn’t know what to say. II’s brow furrows. He breathes in deep. Exhales slowly.

“He needs the distraction,” II states the obvious. Speaks the truth. The thing they’re all thinking but unsure of how to say. “Something tells me we could all use one.”

Vessel needs one, of course he does. Vessel. Lucas. One doesn’t endure two years of love, watch it fracture and splinter into betrayal, and come out unscathed. A damn shame, too. III may have hated Eve’s guts, maybe been a bit jealous of her, but he never wanted this outcome. The last thing Vessel, Lucas, needed was more heartbreak.

Ives deserved better. Divorced for a stupid reason. A cruel one. III remembers the night he got the call. The sobs, quiet and broken. His wife said she was done. That wasn’t love. It was anger. Bitter, misplaced. III can still feel how Ives folded in on himself, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. Hands shaking. Silent fury, grief, and disbelief. He never deserved that. Ives is kind. Stupidly sweet. Worthy of the world even if he can’t see it for himself.

III doesn’t think about his mess of a life as Finley. He doesn’t think of his rundown flat back in London. Doesn’t think about the trash he left behind. The unwashed clothes. The clutter on his floor. Empty alcohol bottles dotting his desk. Bed unmade. He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t. He can’t. He doesn’t want to be Finley. Not here. Maybe not ever again. He doesn’t know what he wants. Who he wants to be.

He used to be good at separating them. Finley at home, III on stage. Now he can’t tell who he hates more.

II needing an outlet? A distraction? Fucking news to him.

II has it made. Perfect life on the surface. A bit lonely, maybe. II never entertained the notion of friends. All work. No play. All dedication to his craft. Visits with his parents. His younger siblings.

III doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like watching them fall apart. He doesn’t like watching them lose sight of themselves. He doesn’t want to lose sight of himself either. The person he is at his core. The person he pretends to be. He wants them to be different people. He wants to be someone different.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants anymore.

He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to tour. He wants to go home.

But the chains aren’t printed on paper anymore. They’re carved into him. Too deep to cut free.

There is no separating the two. This will follow him, haunt him, for the rest of his life. It’s a blessing, and a curse.

III keeps his mouth shut. A rare feat. Thoughts spiraling. Lets IV do the talking.

“What’s going on, II?”

It doesn’t matter. There’s a knock at the door. A head poking in.

Showtime.

Who they are doesn’t matter. Their struggles don’t either. Together, they exit the greenroom.

Masks in place, hidden in plain sight, pain folded beneath shimmering gold and veridian green.

-

III’s bones are still vibrating from the bass as they exit the venue in Duluth.

Good show, all things considered. They fucked around. Stumbled blind. Danced between lazerbeams. Became wreathed in fluttering, pink petals. Played new songs. Old favorites. Vessel got himself worked up in a tear filled frenzy. Danced his heart out. II stayed out of the chaos like he preferred, too caught up in his craft to take place in their distractions. IV’s voice is raw, III knows it is, but he knows it must have been cathartic. Screaming away the pain.

III feels wound tight. Coiled up. A spring ready to explode. Too much residual energy. The crowd had been electric, feasting on the meal meticulously cooked up for them. Intelligent, Vessel was a businessman at his core. II, the music junkie. Together? Marketing geniuses. It was genuine. The tears. The performativeness of it all. People laughed. Moshed. Danced. Cheered. Cried. Screamed obscenities.

Nevermind the fading, peeling paint. Nevermind the fucking agony. Maybe that’s why III doesn’t care for the newer music. Maybe it hurts too fucking much to hear it.

It doesn’t matter. He already knows every word. Every tab. Every beat. Every breath hitch.

Maybe Vessel really is a genius puppeteer. Maybe he’s the most well-loved, overused puppet of them all. Regardless, III’s strings feel liable to snap his limbs. Too much tension. No outlet. No relief. He’s too fucking sober for this shit. Too feeling. Too everything.

“I know Sam hooked you up,” IV all but pants out, jogging to catch up with him post shower. There’s black paint beneath his fingernails. III looks down. His are the same. “Gonna share with me?”

“Since when did ya’ get in the habit?” III cocks an eyebrow. Sees a camera flash. Recoils on instinct. He walks a bit faster. IV huffs, practically has to run to match his strides.

“Since my wife fucking left me, mate.” IV says it as a joke. Maybe to IV it is one. To Ives it’s something different. To III, it’s still a fucking gutpunch.

“Gonna give ya’ a good one then,” III promises him. Drapes an arm over his shoulders. Reels him in, slowing his pace. They’re in no rush.

III can’t say the same for Vessel. Or for II, for that matter.

Vessel is a blur of dark fabric. Black sweats. Hood pulled over his head. Storming towards the tour bus, somehow even more wired than he is. II is jogging. It would be comical if the drummer didn’t look so fed up. Concerned. Worried. Fatigued. Elated. It was hard to tell who felt what anymore.

Vessel is the first in. III the one to shut the door behind them. Lock it. Always fucking lock it. People are crazy. Ravenous. Didn’t know where the lines were and when to stop crossing them. They take no chances. They can’t afford to anymore. No liberties. No crew telling them of somewhere safe to go tonight. Only the bus. Only to safe haven. Their only retreat.

Vessel goes for the mini-fridge and III’s heart fucking sings.

“I… could use a drink after that,” Vessel explains. It’s better than what III knows the singer wants to do. Open the bottle. Down it until the liquor stops burning. Until it eats away the stress. The memories. The pain. None of them are addicts. None would ever go that far. But there’s a reason there’s no such thing as a straightedge rockstar. At least, not any popular ones.

“Pour us a round?” III inquires with a hopeful lilt in his voice. Nodding his head towards his bunk, towards the promised spliff he owes their guitarist. IV grins as he follows after him, lounging in the bunk alley as III finds the best one he made in the hours prior. Perfect for what he has in mind. Perfect to help alleviate the pain.

“Ya’ boys gonna indulge me for once?” III asks, peeking back into the kitchenette where II and Vessel talk quietly, hovering over four glasses of mixed drinks. There’s a lot of vodka in them. Poorly mixed. Strong. Just the way III likes it. Just the way they all do.

This isn’t like them. It’s not how they used to be. It’s how they were before, once. Back when everything was raw and new. When there was white fabric covering their faces and fifty people in the crowd with not a single soul in sight that could recite the words back at them. Back when they were nobodies.

They figured it out once. Had fun. Enjoyed the open road. Black masks, white dripping down their faces. Drinking through fabric and soaking in sweat. III misses those days. He knows that they do, too. It was impossible not to. Everything was simpler then. Cleaner. Less messy. Less need for blurriness. More room for fun and freedom.

“Fucking hell,” II grumbles, reaching for one of the drinks. His arms shake. Of course they do. Not even II can walk away unscathed after a night behind the kit. III watches the drummer take a sip. Pull a face. It’s strong then. Good. “Might as well. We can’t be doing this every night, but it’s our first stop. We should… celebrate.”

III blinks. He meant it as a joke. II enjoys a drink as much as any guy. Weed? Unheard of.

Something is wrong.

None of them want to talk about it. None of them are ready. None of them have the energy to.

“If that’s what you all want, I’m… down.” Vessel answers with a small smile. It’s pretty. It always is. Even when it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Even when it makes III’s stomach drop. Twist. Churn.

“Let’s do somethin’ fun at least,” III suggests, handing off the joint to IV. The guitarist takes it with a delighted groan, something that makes III’s lips twitch upward into a smile all his own. “Play a game or somethin’. We need to let loose a little. At least once.”

He can say that as III. II is keen. So is Vessel.

He follows their lead. IV does, too.

It doesn’t matter if the lines blur when they aren’t the ones who blur them.

“What kind of game?” Vessel muses, reaching for a drink before passing it off to III. Condensation licks his fingertips, slides down his skin. III licks his chapped lips. Shrugs his shoulders. This is the part that comes easy, naturally. Unwinding with friends. Bandmates. Whatever they are.

What he wants doesn’t matter. He doesn’t think about it. This is enough. III is enough. That’s the way it is. The way it’s meant to be.

“Never have I ever is a classic,” III suggests, sipping his drink. It burns like hell going down. Brings a genuine grin to his lips, spreading them further apart until they crack. “Ya’ boys keen?”

Of course they are.

After all, III isn’t the only one who needs a distraction.

-

III is flying.

High off his arse. Three mixed drinks down. IV leaning against his arm, giggling. II and Vessel sit across from them. Vessel with his knees scrunched up, back against the sofa. II sprawled out on the couch, dangling halfway off the side.

III almost hits his head on the table for the fourth time. Laughs like a maniac when IV preemptively grabs his head, pulling him down to avoid it. Vessel snorts, head lulling back until he crushes II's fingers against the couch cushions. When the drummer playfully shoves him off, III can't help but smile.

“Where were we?” IV snickers. Ruffles III's hair. It feels nice, even if it leaves his bleach blond locks wild and out of place.

“I forgot,” III answers, making a show of holding up all ten fingers again. “II, ya’ can start.”

“Never have I ever…” II trails off, chewing on his bottom lip. It's not like him to be lost for words. Then again, III can hardly remember the last time the drummer let loose a little. “Gone commando.”

“Targeted harassment,” Vessel bemoans, curling down a finger. III puts one down. So does IV. “Never have I ever had a threesome.”

“Oh, you're just missin’ out, Ves.” III cackles, putting down a finger. The only one to do so. They're all missing out. III doesn't need to reiterate. “Never have I ever sent a dirty text to the wrong person.”

“Proper cunt,” IV grunts, playfully elbowing him. Vessel laughs, putting down a finger when IV does. “Never have I ever… sucked dick.”

“Fuck you,” III snorts. Down to seven. His stomach flutters. Vessel puts a finger down, blushing. III cocks a brow. News to him. He all but sputters when II hesitantly lowers a finger. That one surprises him the most. “II? Explain.”

“Explain what?” II shoots back, half-shrugging. Tattoos shifting with the movement of his skin. Dark blond hair splaying out across cheap black leather. “I'm single, not a fucking prude, III.”

“Didn’t know ya’ liked cock,” III says, blinking. His eyes shift to Vessel, who ducks his face. His gaze shifts back to II. A light bulb moment. III opens his mouth out of sheer disbelief. “Nah… the two of you….”

“What, no?” II sputters. It's unlike him. Out of sorts. II blushes. III's never seen him blush before. Never seen color on his cheeks that didn't come from exertion. This is different. The way II's pale blue eyes flit to the ceiling, avoiding eye contact, is different.

“Who then?” IV asks, clearly just as intrigued as III feels.

“Old guitarist,” II admits, clicking his tongue. III balks. Tries to imagine it. II on his knees for Fore. Not a bad guy by any means, but a bit bossy. A little bit of an ego. III can't imagine what it took for that to happen. How many drinks. How many bottles of vodka. How much begging on Fore’s part, if anything.

“Ya’ sucked off Fore?” III reiterates, needing clarification. “When?”

“After he left,” II answers, throwing a dramatic arm over his eyes. “Met him at his place to pick up some gear. Shit happens.”

“Ya’ sound disappointed,” III prods, smirking. “Make your jaw hurt?”

Vessel’s face is hidden in his hands. IV's is buried against III's shoulder as the guitarist giggles. II opens his mouth. Promptly shuts it. Flips III off instead. III barks out a hearty laugh. Guess he was right. For all of Fore's bark, at least he could back it up with bite. Big dick energy. Big cock. Alone with II in Fore’s studio. Sliding himself into II's small mouth.

Lucky bastard. Maybe III should leave. See what it gets him in exchange.

No. Not happening. He stops his mind before it wanders too far. II cuts the silence. Distracts him from the distraction that was borne from their mutual need for distraction. Everything is so fucking distracting. It's probably for the best.

“You lot sure seem embarrassed for something that happened in private. Meanwhile, you and Vessel hump each other on stage in front of thousands of people.” II observes, playfully flicking Vessel on the shoulder. When the singer looks up, his face is blood red. Flushed. A pretty shade of pink.

“Oh, and off stage,” III jokes, nudging Vessel's foot. His heart races when their eyes meet. Glassy eyes on glassy eyes. Vessel's beautiful laugh echoes in his ears. “Right, Ves? Come ‘ere, Sugar. Wanna put on a show for ‘em?”

III doesn't know why he says it. Buried pining, maybe. He sure as fuck doesn't understand why Vessel actually listens, giggling. IV whistles, pushing III’s shoulder playfully as the guitarist sits up. Vessel is all smiles and laughs as he nods his head towards the bus's floor. III goes down, hard. Easily. Always has for him. Always fucking will.

They don't do this anymore. Never have off stage. Never without an enraptured audience. Although III supposes that they do have an audience now, too. Vessel smirks as he hovers over him before throwing a leg across his hips. III tries not to shudder from anticipation. He tries not to think about the memories associated with this pose. How it changed him. Rewired his brain chemistry.

He isn't high enough for this anymore. Isn't drunk enough. Vessel is chuckling, lowering himself down. Singing beneath his breath. Making a real show of torturing him. III reaches for him. He always has. Knows where he can touch and how long Vessel will allow it.

Vessel feels more sturdy beneath his fingertips. More muscular. More defined. Heavier. III stifles a groan when the singer's ass slides against the curve of his already hard cock. His mind forgets. His body remembers.

He has Vessel to thank for this, too.

“How many views did me doing this to you get?” Vessel asks. His voice is almost husky. III knows he can feel his cock pressing against him. He doesn't understand why Vessel allows it to continue. The bit should be over. II already laughed. IV already whistled. Goal accomplished. Fun had.

“No fuckin’ clue,” III says, breathless. “A lot.”

He was at least 300 of them.

Wank material. Self-discovery. Vessel made him realize that he liked men in front of thousands of people. That he liked feeling more muscle than softness against his body. He thinks he felt Vessel's cock against him once. He thinks it was hard.

It feels hard now too, brushing against him.

III laughs to stifle a moan.

Vessel snickers, leaning down more.

“Should we bring the antics back a little?” Vessel inquires, smiling down at him. Too close. III can smell the scent of his shampoo beyond the haze of weed and vodka cranberries. “The fans eat it up.”

“Can't kiss with the new masks on,” III breathes out. He almost forgets they have an audience. Enraptured. Ensnared. He forgot how good it felt to have this, Vessel on top of him. He loses himself to the feeling. Trails his lithe fingers down Vessel's side. Digs into his hips. Elicits a smile.

Blinding white. Pretty. Always so fucking pretty.

III wants. Craves. Forgets that he's not allowed to want for himself as III. He isn't allowed to want for more at all.

He surges upward, closes distance. Brushes his lips against Vessel's without thinking. They’re soft. Warm. Slightly parted. A little dry. He tastes like weed and Grey Goose. Finley's favorite things. III’s new favorites, too. Lines blur. He doesn't know the difference.

Time stops. IV stops laughing. Maybe he never was. The room is quiet. II is as silent as the grave. Vessel’s eyes brighten, burst with splotches of color. Or maybe it's the alcohol talking.

III knows he fucked up. He's good at that. Being a fuck up. Ruining things. Taking it too far. He can't blame other people for blurring lines. Not knowing when to stop crossing them. He's never been any good at it either.

“Guess we can't with the veils in the way,” Vessel says, and for a moment, III forgets what they're talking about. Masks. Kissing on stage. Vessel doesn't say anything about the feeling of their lips meeting. He doesn't acknowledge it at all.

III's heart races. His palms are sweaty against the bus's tacky floor. Vessel chuckles, slowly climbing off of him. For a split second, Vessel’s eyes linger on his, softer than his words. It vanishes before III can be sure it was real.

“Never have I ever been properly kissed by our bassist,” IV laughs. It isn't his turn. It doesn't matter.

III’s cheeks flush red. Heat rises in his skin. Sinks into his gut, simmering low.

Vessel puts down a finger when he sinks back down to the ground in front of the sofa, bumping into II's hand once again. III lies on the floor. Blinks upward at the ceiling.

The bus carries them towards their destination all the same, uncaring of the war raging inside of him. The flurry of emotions. The ache of his cock. The laughter around him. The booze in his veins.

“Never have I ever wanted to partake in on stage bullshit,” II says triumphantly, changing the subject. Putting them back on track. Back on target.

Three fingers go down without hesitation.

III thinks about Orlando, wondering if what happens tomorrow night on stage will be good for his heart or bad for his head.

Chapter Text

Orlando is miserably hot.

III doesn’t know what else he expected. He’s been here before. Knows how awful it feels to step outside into the blaring sun. It doesn’t help that he’s a bit out of sorts, last night’s events replaying in his mind’s eye. A film reel stuck on repeat.

He kissed Vessel.

III sighs, still tasting vodka cranberries on his lips in spite of the more prominent taste of mint and morning spliff. He knows Vessel isn’t going to bring up the night before. II won’t either. It’ll be written off, a one off occurrence. Things are easier that way. No lingering awkwardness. No unpleasant conversations. Just act like it didn’t happen and move on.

IV is a different story.

“You want to tell me what all that was about last night?”

And there it is. Just on time. Right on cue. III spins on his heel. Feels his boots stick to the boiling hot asphalt as he turns to face IV. The guitarist doesn’t miss a beat, striding forward only to come to a halt beside III.

“Nothin’ to talk ‘bout, really,” III insists. He knows IV won’t bite. Take the bait. The cop out.

“You kissed Vessel,” IV deadpans, unimpressed. III groans, shaking his head as he walks forward. Long legs. Long strides. It doesn’t matter. IV power walks to keep pace with him.

“Sharp as ever,” III grunts, beelining it towards the towering hotel in the distance. He’s looking forward to lying down in an actual bed. His back screams with every step he takes. A side effect from being crammed into a bunk he can never hope to fit comfortably in. His cheeks burn. He wants to blame it on the Florida heat. It’s easier than admitting that it’s because of embarrassment. Blurred lines.

IV won’t let him live it down. Won’t let it go. Not that easily.

“Don't be that way now,” IV bemoans, shaking his head. III snorts when the guitarist's hood falls down, snagging on the back of his ball cap. IV readjusts it with a frown. “There's not… something going on between the two of you, is there?”

“Nope,” III answers honestly. There is nothing. Even if he ever wanted there to be something, there wouldn't be. He tries not to think about that. He's long since accepted it. “Spur of the moment, IV.”

“If you say so,” IV hums as they approach the hotel entrance. It's nice enough. The accommodations usually are. One of the few perks of their gilded prison. “Going up to your room?”

“Nah, I told one of the boys to grab my key. I was goin’ to grab some food.” III explains as they follow the signs towards the hotel's breakfast buffet. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” IV confirms with a playful jab into III’s side. III smiles in spite of himself, ushering the guitarist through the propped open door.

III's heart sinks.

No one watches them. Too engrossed in eating. They don't see them. But III can see them. The merch they wear. The bracelets on their wrists. The phone cases in their hands, lined with stickers and familiar logos.

Sometimes he hates them for loving what’s killing him.

Worse, he hates himself for needing their love to survive.

“We should probably…” IV sighs, turning on his heel. He looks uncomfortable. Worried. III knows that look. Knows those emotions. He feels them himself as he guides IV out of the room by the elbow, continuously checking behind them. No one follows. No one shouts after them. IV looks up at him. His stormy blue eyes are a little less vacant once they're out of sight. “You want to grab a bite somewhere else?”

III swallows the lump in his throat. Drops his hand from IV's arm. Stalks towards the lobby, where he saw a complimentary coffee bar. His stomach is in knots. His high is fading too soon. He licks his chapped lips before he speaks, his deep voice rumbling. Distant. As far away as he feels.

“I'm not hungry anymore.”

“We're getting food.”

III's feet grind to a halt. He cocks his head to the side. Looks back. Sees the determination in IV's eyes. The no-nonsense approach. It looks alien on him. III wonders when things changed. When IV stopped being sweet enough to rot his teeth out. The divorce. Of course it had to be the divorce. He hates it, seeing steel in once familiar grey-blue.

“What did ya’ have in mind?” III questions, resuming his walk. IV follows hot on his heels. III makes them both a cup of coffee. His dark roast with fragrant notes, one sugar. No milk. No cream. IV takes his light and sweet.

“Where are the boys?” IV questions, pursing his lips.

“Hell if I know,” III grumbles, sipping his drink. It scorches his tongue. He drinks it anyway. Rolls the flavor around in his mouth. He can still taste Vessel. Weed. Vodka cranberry. Mint. He pulls a face.

“I'll call them, then we can all go grab something together.” IV says as he frees his phone from his pocket. Someone wearing merch walks by them. Looks once. Does a double take. Keeps walking. III doesn't realize he's holding his breath until IV speaks once more, startling him.

II and Vessel are down the street. II in a clothing store. Vessel in a souvenir shop. Never together. Always apart. It's easier that way. Draws less attention. Makes them blend in more. III hates it more than anything, not being able to go and do as they once did.

He doesn't say anything as he follows after IV, making their way towards where the others agree to join them. They'll stand out like sore thumbs. Too familiar silhouettes. Two talls. Two smalls. It would be hilarious if it weren't for the paranoia buried beneath it all.

III hasn't seen Vessel all morning. Wonders how the singer will react. Fare. If he'll avoid eye contact. Avoid him altogether. He knows they won't talk about it. Vessel isn't one to tease off stage. III knows in the past Vessel could feel how hard III was, lying down on stage for him. Vessel never mentioned it. Never. Not once. III's grateful for that, if nothing else.

“Morning,” Vessel is the first to greet them. There’s a bag on his arm. It jingles when he moves. Filled with trinkets, III assumes. Vessel always was the touristy type. He doesn’t blame him. III used to be the same way. Used to.

“Mornin’,” III returns with a nod. Downs the rest of his coffee in one swig. Tosses the empty paper cup in the nearby bin.

“Hotel is… swarmed,” IV explains with a drawn out exhale as II exits the nearby clothing store. Empty handed. III isn’t surprised. II has always been so picky. He doesn’t blame II for that either. If he had the drummer’s frame, he’d be picky, too.

“I tried to warn you,” II says with a shrug as a way of greeting. “Did you not see my text, III?”

III curses. Checks his phone. A new unread message from Toby. A dozen others from mates back at home. A few from casual hookups. Flings. Bartenders reminding him of his open tab. Bill reminders. He tilts his head back. Groans dramatically. II clicks his tongue.

“Figures,” II tuts.

It stings. It has no reason to. II is right. III leaves him on read all of the time. Unread more often than not. He doesn’t explain why. He can’t. Not when it would crush II. Crush Vessel. There is no polite way of saying he doesn’t want to be here. That he misses the way things used to be. Back when crowds moved when they demanded it. Back before the constant stream of camera flashes and recording devices. Back when he looked like someone different beneath the stagelights. Unique. Individual. Now he just feels like a carbon copy. A clone of the others. A prop. A music box spun for entertainment.

III really does hate the new music. It reminds him too much of the pain in his chest. The loss of self. The loss of Finley. The gradual erasure of III.

III averts his gaze. Lingering embarrassment from the night before an afterthought.

“So… food,” Vessel changes the subject. Takes mercy on him. III looks up just to see if the singer meets his gaze. Moss green eyes meet his own. Hold his attention. Don’t shy away. Nothing’s changed. III is grateful for as much. Always so fucking grateful. “There’s a local bar down the way. I hear they have good food.”

“Lead the way then,” III suggests, falling into step with Vessel. IV lingers back. Falls into line with II. There’s distance between them. Not much, but enough that the drummer and guitarist can’t hear them because of the sound of passing cars and wind. III clears his throat. He wasn’t going to bring it up. He doesn’t know why he thinks of mentioning it in the first place. Guilt, maybe. He was an idiot sometimes. He crossed a line. He owes Vessel an apology.

He doesn’t get the chance to make one.

“Why do I feel like we’re losing you?”

The question takes III by surprise. Steals the air from his heaving lungs. The worst part is, Vessel isn’t wrong. III wants to tell him that part of him is already gone. That Finley left their lives years ago, and III is all that is left.

He needs a cigarette. Reaches for his pack, tucked away in his back pocket. Sparks his lighter. Takes a long drag off of it to buy himself some time. The question rattles around in his mind. His palms feel sweaty from a combination of the heat and sudden intensity in Vessel’s voice. The far off look in his eyes as the singer stares blankly ahead.

“You’re not going to give me an answer,” Vessel sighs. The wind brushes his dark hair back, off his forehead. He looks so fucking tired. III understands. He understands it better than anyone.

“I don’t have an answer to give ya’,” he tells him honestly. It’s not what Vessel wants to hear. It’s not what III should be saying. It doesn’t feel like III saying it. It feels like Finley, the person he’s not supposed to be right now. Not in this capacity. Lately, he wonders if Finley’s the only one left inside of him. If III is only the mask he can’t take off.

“So, this is the… last time we see the world together, isn’t it?” Vessel all but whispers as they come to a halt at a crosswalk. The world seems eerily silent. III’s worldview narrows. His vision is pinpoints, fixated on nothing. He blinks slowly. His mouth is dry. A car horn blares. It startles him enough to remember to breathe. Ashes his smoke. Brings it back to his lips. Inhales around the filter. Exhale a thick cloud of smoke. The wind carries freshly burned tobacco on the breeze, coating Vessel’s sleeve in ash.

“I never said that,” III settles on saying. The pedestrian sign signals for them to walk. IV and II do. III doesn’t move. Neither does Vessel.

“You didn’t need to,” Vessel mumbles under his breath. Finally leaves his side. Points in the direction of their intended destination.

III doesn’t move from his place at the crosswalk. Misses his light. His signal. He feels gutted. Terrible. Chewed up by the teeth of God and spat out. He hates himself for thinking like a lyric sheet, but that’s how it feels. Too fucking dramatic, but still. The pit in his stomach churns. Circles. He feels nauseous. Takes another drag off his cigarette and turns on his heel. He doesn’t move, not for a few seconds.

A part of him wants to go home.

III wants to go back to his hotel room.

A horn blares. He doesn’t flinch. Puts one foot in front of the other in the opposite direction from where he’s supposed to be going. Something stops him, snags his arm, and forces him to an abrupt halt. Ash flutters downward, landing on his combat boots. It’s too hot out here to wear them. He doesn’t know why he didn’t wear something lighter. Long sleeves. Layers. Sunglasses and a hat. Hiding behind his clothes maybe. As if that would be enough to stop the looks of recognition.

“You’re too tall to vanish like that,” Vessel comments. Fingers coil around his arm, gripping him tightly.

Too tall and recognizable to disappear into the crowd. Be unseen. Blend in. That’s sort of the crux of the issue, really.

“Ya’ underestimate me,” III says instead of the bitter truth. It’s his own issue. Not Vessel’s.

Vessel tightens his grip on his arm, firmly holding him in place.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Vessel says sincerely.

Color returns to III’s vision. Expands it. Blossoms in various hues of pearlescent car colors and flashing signage clinging to the sides of the nearby buildings. There’s a sea of people around them. No one pays them any mind. Tourists. Businessmen and women. Moms with their children. Teenagers laughing, dipping in and out of local shops. III can blend in here. They all can. The world isn’t a small place. Even in the open, he can remain out of the spotlight.

Vessel’s hand feels warm through the fabric of III’s shirt. Fingers splayed out. Digging in. Holding onto him as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, III will vanish for good. It’s a completely rational fear. III wishes that it wasn’t.

“Come eat, please?” Vessel all but begs him. III can hear the strain in his voice. How upset he is. He never wanted to be the reason for that. Hitched breaths. Uneven exhales. A stutter in his words. Deep voice pitched an octave lower.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” III confesses. Tilts his head back. Drops his smoke to the cracked sidewalk beneath them.

“Burnout,” Vessel answers, stepping closer. III doesn’t move, only lowers his gaze and watches the cars around them come to a halt at the nearby light. “At least, I hope that’s all this is.”

“Ya’ haven’t done anythin’ wrong, it’s just…” III sighs, turns on his heel. Halfway faces the singer. Vessel doesn’t drop his hold on his arm. Doesn’t let him go. III doesn’t want him to, he realizes. He doesn’t want to walk away. “I get lost in my head sometimes. Don’t know how to turn it off.”

“You and me both,” Vessel laughs. There is no humor in it. Only melancholic understanding. Sympathy borne from the same, horrible feeling. “I don’t want you to go, III.”

III sucks in a hissed breath. Chews on his bottom lip until it splits, chapped as it is. He peels a piece of loose skin off of it, spits it on the cracked concrete.

“We can still have fun,” Vessel smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Almost like he’s trying to convince himself more than convince III. It breaks his fucking heart, watching the light in those beautiful green eyes grow duller over time. They had been hollow when they met. Dead fish eyes. Lifeless. They had been spectacular for a while. Lively. Soft. Kind.

The years have changed them all. III hates every moment of it.

“I need ya’ to do me a favor then,” III grumbles, his voice a low rasp. Deep. Strained with emotions he can’t name. Emotions he normally buries. Hides away. Keeps down beneath the surface. “Can ya’... prove that to me?”

“I’ll do my best,” Vessel promises. Pretty smile. Meets his eyes. III’s gaze falls to his lips. Remembers the way they felt against his. A long awaited moment. A deep-seated desire. Buried low. Forgotten. Eaten away by the cruel hands of time. It gives him hope. It shouldn’t. III isn’t supposed to want for more. III is here to do a job. Nothing more.

“And you’re… fine with some shenanigans, right? On stage, I mean.” Vessel clarifies. III’s heart shouldn’t break, but it does. A line drawn. A boundary set. They’ll never talk about it. He’ll never feel those lips on his again. Only the cold press of metal against his skin, covering his face. Shielding him away from the world.

“Yeah,” III says simply, walking around Vessel. Pulling his arm free. He heads back towards the crosswalk, moving away from the hotel once again.

On stage.

As III.

That’s all he gets.

It was good enough for him once.

He’ll dance as the music box again, wound tight and wound down, and hope that it’s still enough.

-

IV calls them antics.

Vessel, shenanigans.

II? Annoying distractions.

III doesn’t think he can agree with any of them. Not after what happened on stage. He knew this would happen. Something big. Something hilarious to the audience. Got the whistles going. The crowd screaming. Cameras flashing. Screens recording. He knew it would do things to him, whatever Vessel had in mind. It’s theatre for them. Vessel. III. For who he is at his core, it’s a confession he’s never given permission to leak out.

He wasn’t expecting for the singer to press against him like that. Rock his hips. Drag himself alongside the curve of III’s ass. Grind into him. It was unbearably hot. Intense. He never thought exhibitionism was his thing. Turns out, maybe it is. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He knows it was just for show. Something fun as Vessel calls it. It was more than simple fun to him. It was devastating. Hot. The exact thing he had fantasized about years ago. Back when Vessel first made him realize men could ruin him.

III doesn’t care that he’s burning up. Half-blind beneath his mask. He practically sprints to the greenroom to grab his things. Brushes past their techs and venue staff. Doesn’t say a fucking word to anyone. He bolts to the nearest bathroom with a shower, slamming the door and locking it shut. He double checks that it works. He doesn’t need anyone walking in. Friend. Staff. Fan. Bandmate. Especially not the latter.

He’s out of his clothes and mask before he can properly think. The water from the shower is freezing cold as he steps beneath it. III doesn’t care. He can’t think about anything else but his aching, leaking cock. His head slams back against the tile as he takes it in hand. One hand to start. Two to finish. Every slick pull of his hand feels less like relief of built up pressure and more like betrayal. He can’t tell if he’s jerking off or carving pieces off himself. Still, it doesn’t take long. It doesn’t take much. It would be embarrassing if he wasn’t alone. Instead, it’s only hot. Envisioning Vessel’s body rocking, dragging against his own.

It’s wrong, but wrong has always been the easiest thing for him to want. The shame comes easy, but the wanting comes easier. Always so fucking easier.

III bites his bottom lip. Sees stars. Spills white in his palm. Lets it swirl down the drain, washing away the evidence.

The water is scalding. He yelps, reaching for the cold water handle and sidestepping it before it has a chance to scald him. He curses under his breath. Not thinking about what he’s just done. Why he’s done it. He washes away the evidence. Black body paint, sweat, and the tacky cum between his fingertips. It’s not the first time he’s done this. Not as Finley. Definitely not as III.

He feels like shit about it. Guilty. He always does every time he thinks of Vessel. Of IV. Hell, even II.

III likes them. He likes them far more than he should.

Bad for his heart. Terrible for his head. Incredible for chasing a moment of pleasure, fleeting as it is.

There’s a knock at the door. Sharp. Crisp. III recognizes that pattern anywhere. II is going to be furious. He always gets first dibs. III scrubs himself clean in record timing. Doesn’t miss the paint between his fingers or the specks of black that have found a way to his cheek. He throws a towel around his waist, hair sopping wet and dripping, as he creaks open the bathroom door.

No one’s there. At least, not where he expects them to be. Crew flitter about, packing up, wheeling cases off. IV stands with his mask in hand, head bowed, leaning against the venue’s hallway. Beside him, II kneels on the ground. Mask askew. Hood thrown down. Sweat soaked blond hair pushed off his forehead. His hands are on Vessel’s cheeks. Wiping away tears III doesn’t need to see to know are there. He’d seen enough of them on stage. Heard the tremor in his voice.

III emptied himself in secret backstage while Vessel emptied himself in front of thousands.

He ducks back inside the bathroom. Chews on the inside of his cheek. He feels terrible. Awful. Like a fucking monster. A dickhead. Terrible friend. He jerked off to the thought of Vessel. Meanwhile, Vessel sat in the hallway. Crying. Bawling his eyes out. Leaving his soul on the stage that III resented being on. Sure, he didn’t fucking like the new music. Sure, it struck a fucking chord. Hit a little too close to home. Not his style. That doesn’t fucking matter.

He’s a bad friend. He did a fucked up thing. He’s always been good at that.

He was getting off on Vessel while Vessel was breaking down. He came while Vessel cried. That’s the kind of friend he is. No wonder they didn’t talk to Finley off tour. He’s a shit friend as Finley. An equally shitty friend as III, if not worse.

He dresses in a hurry. Chucks his sweat soaked stagewear in the same bag, secures his mask to it, then flies out of the bathroom door. IV jumps. II stiffens. Vessel doesn’t look up. Despondent, maybe. III takes a knee beside him. His legs creak. Sometimes he forgets that the years are passing him by. Sometimes his body reminds him of it.

“Ya’ doin’ okay, Ves?” III asks, frowning as he sets his bag down beside him.

“I’m… overwhelmed,” Vessel admits through a shaky smile. Moss green eyes bloodshot. Glassy. II claps Vessel on the shoulders. Nods his head towards the bathroom.

“Our conversation from earlier didn’t have anythin’ to do with that, did it?” III questions, brimming with guilt.

“What conversation?” II shoots back. III’s gaze flits upward to where II stands. Brow furrowed. Face red from exertion. Not blushing. Not like he was the night before. Giggling on the couch. A new look for him. Not a bad one either. III curses inwardly. Knows he can’t afford to be thinking this way. Especially not when II looks as concerned as he does.

“Talked ‘bout me bein’... out of sorts this go ‘round,” III confesses. There’s no point in denying it or hiding it from them. II purses his lips. III can hear IV’s shaky exhale. “I’m tryin’, boys. I’m here and all. Don’t be gettin’ yourselves worked up over me.”

“You’re not the only one struggling,” II says with a sigh. Grabs Vessel by the underarms, hoisting him up as far as he can given their stature differences. III isn’t surprised. Not by his words. Not by his strength. “Go take a shower, Ve. I can wait.”

It’s a big deal, getting offered the shower first by II. Vessel doesn’t look happy about it. Still, it’s easier to talk about showers than the way that all of them are crumbling. Splitting apart at the seams.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute to myself,” Vessel brushes him off. Slips from II’s hold. Walks past them. Deep breaths. Even bigger sighs. The bathroom door slams shut behind him. III winces.

“What’s going on with you, II?” IV speaks up as III rises to his feet, plucking his bag off the ground beside him. III stays silent. He wants to know as much as IV does.

“This isn’t the time or place for this conversation,” II huffs, shaking his head. Stalling for time. Putting off the inevitable. But he’s right. Too many prying eyes. Listening ears. They’ve already said too much. Shown too much. Even if it’s safe here, it never feels that way.

“Room 903,” III offers, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “We can talk in mine.”

“We have to be up in the morning,” II argues. III glares at him. Unimpressed. II rolls his eyes. Throws his hands up in annoyance. Golden mask tilting down the side of his face further. His expression exasperated. “Tomorrow, III. Not tonight.”

“I’ll join you,” IV comments, motioning to his attire. “Just let me get changed?”

“Meet you there,” III nods. Eyes II one more time. One final offer, silent as it is.

“See you tomorrow then,” II dismisses. Spins on his heel, heading towards the green room. Vessel doesn’t have his clothes with him. III doesn’t worry about it. He knows II well enough to know that the drummer is going to get his things. Vessel’s, too.

What he doesn’t know is why II’s shoulders slump the second he turns away from him. Why he shuffles his feet. Why he thinks that they don’t notice. Why he seemingly doesn’t care if they do.

III isn’t the only one struggling. IV is. Vessel, too.

II’s problem? III doesn’t have a clue.

He wants to know. Wonders if he ever truly will or if the drummer will continue to dance around it. Toeing a line of his own design, unwilling to cross it. Even with them.

“Can we… diminish that stash of yours a little?” IV asks with a hopeful lilt.

III licks his lips, cracks a wary smile.

“We sure fuckin’ can.”

He needs it. Clearly they both do.

-

III doesn’t know how he manages to sweet-talk the hotel manager into giving him keys to the roof, but he does.

It’s with a triumphant smile that he pushes the door open, holding it there for IV, as the guitarist slinks out of the stairwell and into the night air. Florida isn’t so miserable once the sun goes down, settles over the horizon. III breathes it in as he lets the door slam shut behind them, sliding the keyring into his pocket. IV stretches, his shirt riding up in the process. The barest hint of hip. Tiniest peak at his stomach. III still feels like shit about what happened earlier with Vessel. That doesn’t stop him from committing the sight before him to memory. Storing it away for later reference.

He’s a shit person. He always has been.

“So, talk to me,” IV urges him, grabbing the spliff III gave him out of his pocket. III tosses him the lighter. Watches IV catch it with ease. “What’s been going on in that head of yours, mate?”

“A whole lot of fuck all,” III answers with a shrug. He slides into place beside IV. leans against the airconditioning vents. Tilts his head back to look at the brightly lit night sky, basked in a halo from all of the signage and streetlights below them. Too much light pollution. No way to see the stars.

“Can you be honest with me for once?” IV bemoans, sparking up the joint. He takes a long hit before passing it over. III doesn’t hesitate to perch it between his lips. Inhale deep. Cough around far too much smoke. He’ll need it for this conversation, he can already tell.

“I’ve been… havin’ issues adjusting to things,” III confesses, passing the joint back over. “This is all… a bit much for me, ya’ know? Not sure it's… all that it's cracked up to be.”

“Trust me when I say, I get it.” IV exhales. Hands the spliff back. “A lot of things feel… different. I guess it comes with the territory.”

“I miss the way things used to be,” III admits. Inhales smoke. Feels his vision swim as he nudges it back into IV's hand. “To be honest with ya’, since ya’ asked, I… feel like I'm losing myself to all this.”

“It's a character we play, but…” IV drones, languidly moving the joint in the air. III watches it. Fascinated by the curling smoke. Entranced by IV's words. “I feel like we've lost even that as of late.”

“So do I,” III confesses, slumping further against cold steel. “And if III is… gone, then what's left of me?”

“A really fucking good person,” IV says with a smile. Leans into his upper arm. Hits the smoke. Holds it up to III's lips. III leans in, taking a drag. IV's fingers are warm against his skin. His heartbeat flutters as the guitarist hums. “You're still you underneath all that paint, III. Don't lose sight of that.”

“What if that's what I'm afraid of? Who I am without… all of this?” III asks. A stupidly profound question. He'd never ask it without the weed clouding his thoughts.

“You're not the only one who prefers the image over themselves,” IV whispers softly. III’s eyes widen in disbelief. IV chuckles, taking another long drag and blowing out smoke. “I lost everything that mattered to me as Ives. Even if being IV isn't as… fun as it used to be, I still like it better.”

III blinks. Processes. Feels his stomach twist itself into knots. He spares the guitarist a sympathetic glance. Sees the war in his eyes. Feels it mirrored in his own. III's voice shakes as he nods his head.

“I… feel the same way, just so ya’ know.”

“I know you do,” IV confirms, lifting the joint to III's lips once again. “Between you and me, I think we all like who we pretend to be more than who we actually are. How could we not, you know? It's… easy to fall in love with this kind of self-image, even when it isn't what we thought it would be.”

“Since when did ya’ get so profound?” III laughs, inhaling the last of the joint. He's soaring. Elated. He feels seen for the first time in months. Heard for the first time in even longer. IV chuckles as he tosses the burnt out end onto the gravel rooftop beneath them.

“It's the weed talking,” IV says through a smile. Sighs. Leans further into his arm. It feels nice, having him so close. Guilt twists its knife further in, digging deep. Cutting even deeper. “III?”

“Hm?” He hums. Spacey. Zoning out. Eyes adrift towards the false heavens, the illumination of a city's skyline piercing the sky.

“I need to tell you something, but… I don't know how to say it.” IV mutters out softly. III can't help but smirk.

“Usually, ya’ just open your mouth and make sounds. That's how I do it,” he snorts. IV giggles into his shoulder. He feels too close and too far at the same time. III wants him closer. Always closer. Knows how fucking wrong it is. Wants it anyway.

“Fuck off,” IV chastises him. The movement of his laughter forces them both to sway. The night breeze kisses their skin. Tousles their hair. It's oddly comforting. Still, curiosity beats out the sense of calm.

“Just tell me,” III urges him. IV sucks in a deep breath. Silence falls over them save for the blaring of a car alarm in the distance. The sound of a city not quite asleep echoes beneath them.

“I… felt some type of way last night,” IV confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. “Seeing you and Vessel like that.”

III blinks, hard. Stunned. His breath catches. His mouth goes dry. IV sputters against him, shaking his arm.

“Not like… a jealous thing, you know? It's just that I…” IV curses under his breath, trailing off. “Fuck, I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, no,” III corrects him. His voice cracks. He shakes his head. Clears his throat. Licks his painfully dry lips. Nevermind the twitching of his cock. The heat that starts to simmer lowly in his gut. IV sucks in a deep breath. “Talk to me.”

“Well, with… Amelia, I never thought about anyone else. I'd been with her for five years, and she was… all that I could ever think about.” IV continues, and III can tell that he's choosing his words carefully. Beyond carefully. “Before that, it's only ever been women in my life, but I, uh….”

“Do you…” III starts, pauses. Feels the words catch in the back of his throat. Forces himself to say them anyway. “Do you think ya’ might… not be as straight as you thought ya’ were?”

The pause speaks volumes. The silence. The way IV stiffens against him before slowly, ever so slowly, nodding. III's mind races. His heartbeat quickens. He forces himself to breathe in deep. Not say another word. Let IV do the talking. Be the one to say it.

“I… guess I'm curious, at the very least.”

III looks down at him. Sees IV's face buried against his arm. Hiding himself away. Embarrassed, undoubtedly. III doesn't understand why.

“I just,” IV grits out, clearly frustrated with himself. “I don't know… what happened for me to feel like this. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about it either.”

“But you're curious,” III reiterates. Waits for IV to nod. His heart flutters in his chest. His voice pitches itself an octave lower. The heat in his stomach, curling down into his groin, intensifies. “Do you… trust me?”

IV's next intake of breath is nearly a hiss, but he nods. III feels it. Sees it. Swallows thickly as he leans away from the guitarist, raising his hands. IV's face is flushed. Blood red. Eyes bloodshot from the weed they've smoked. Brow furrowed. III chuckles as he reaches for IV's cheeks. IV's head lulls back on instinct.

III steps forward. Drags his head further back. Runs his thumbs downward until they graze IV's neck. The guitarist shivers violently. Curses under his breath. III chuckles. His cock kicks in his joggers. He can deal with that later. He'll have plenty of fuel. Plenty of ammo that didn't come to him with the price of tears weighing it down. IV is putty in his hands. Malleable. Leaning into his touch.

Lips parted. Skin flush. Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous. III knows it’s going to ruin him. IV could ruin him. He doesn't think he minds it. He doesn’t think he cares. Nevermind the guilt over wanking it to the idea of a then married IV on his knees for him. IV is single. Curious. Questioning his sexuality. Questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.

Vessel gave III a crash course in self-discovery. III intends to give IV a hands-on experience all his own.

“What are ya’ thinking ‘bout right now?” III asks huskily. Elicits a shiver from IV in response.

“That… this feels… weird, but…” IV breathes out shakily. “Kind of… good.”

“Good, huh?” III smirks, dragging his thumbs across IV's jawline. Enjoying the feeling. He's never felt this before. Not like this. Always the cold plastic of a mask. Cold metal. Chipped paint. Never actual skin on skin. Nothing between them. Nothing in the way.

IV's breathing is ragged. His skin is warm to the touch, flushed a vibrant shade of pink. The heat bleeding off IV is enough to make his own pulse stutter. The lower III's callused fingers drag, the more trouble inhaling IV seems to have. Caught up in a daze. Grey-blue eyes gazing upward into his own. Intoxicating. Ensnaring. Beautiful. Always so fucking beautiful. III has never wanted to memorize someone so badly.

“You can tell me to fuck off for suggestin’ this,” III forewarns, gripping IV's cheeks tighter in hand. His soft skin. High cheekbones. The stubble that's starting to grow back into its usual place. “But if you trust me, and you're curious… we could always… experiment.”

Experiment. That's all that this is for IV. A learning moment. A new discovery. A curiosity that needs sating. For III… he doesn't want to think about what it means. The years of buried pining. Longing made tangible. A crush that sits like a leaden weight on his ribs. A brutal squeeze to the heart.

“You and me?” IV speaks softly. Swallows thickly. III's fingers feel the muscles of IV's neck flex. Feels his cock dribble precum in his boxers. Hard. He's so painfully hard. His own problem to solve for later. He almost regrets there not being a new sex toy left jokingly beneath his pillow on the tour bus. His hands will have to do.

“You and me,” III confirms, leaning down further. Tilting IV's head up more. He hovers over him. Towers. IV isn't small by any means. Above average height. Solid build. Muscle. But he feels small in III's hands. Looks far shorter than he is. III's cock expresses renewed interest. He doesn't blame it or himself for it openly weeping against the cotton of his underwear. He's always had a thing for size differences. Always had a specific taste.

Vessel is an exception. One he can never blame himself for. Not when Vessel inadvertently gave him this. A love for women and men. Not when Vessel unintentionally gave him IV, trembling in his hands.

“I'm… keen, if you are,” IV all but gasps.

The breath in III's lungs is punched out. Gone. Rapidly deflated. IV's pretty eyes look up at him. High. Soaring. Curious. Hot. Heated. Lust.

“You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?” III chuckles lowly. He means it as a compliment. Needs IV to take it as one. “You'll tell me if you want me to stop.”

It isn't a question. It's a demand.

“I'll… let you know,” IV exhales shakily. “Promise.”

III sucks in air through gritted teeth. Laughs. Peels back, dropping his hold. He misses IV's warmth almost immediately, but when the guitarist all but whines from the loss of contact, III can't help but grin. Devious. Wicked. Eyes dark with lust and promise.

Finley. Burnout. Fatigue. Mundanity. It's the furthest thing from his mind as he steps back, looking at the mess he's made of IV with so little effort. He doesn't want to hurt him. It's the last thing he wants. He doesn’t want IV jerking off to the thought of this moment.

At least, not beyond tonight.

III wants IV beneath him. Writhing. Moaning. Sucking. Nipping. Begging. Being good for him. Good to him.

He thinks he can have that. That it might not be intangible. So far away. He needs only to keep himself in line. In check. Going at the pace IV directs him, hoping that he never tells him to stop. Hoping that he never wants III to.

“We're goin’ out in the mornin’ before we hit the road,” III says through a smile, fishing the rooftop keys out of his pocket. Twirling them around. “Should probably get some rest. We’ll get an earful if we don’t.”

Rest is the furthest thing on his mind. He has other matters to address. The rapid beating of his heart. The thoughts racing in his head. The aching and throbbing of his cock.

IV's voice is shaky when they bid each other good night. Go their separate ways. IV to room 904. III to the hotel lobby to return the keys to the manager, alongside a fifty dollar bill that he slides their way. III is all smiles as he exits the lobby, making for the elevator.

When the elevator doors close, he realizes it’s not the weed, not the crowd from earlier in the night, not the antics on stage with Vessel, not even the music he played that has him smiling like this.

It’s IV.

III feels something that he hasn’t felt in far too long.

He feels happy.

He wonders how long he can hold on to it before it slips away.

Chapter Text

III wakes up before the sun, which is something Finley would never do.

Wake up at dawn. Make his bed. Pick his clothes up from the hotel laundry service. Eat breakfast before the hotel's guests, their fans, swarm the place. Take a shower. Shave. He looks… good, he thinks, as he looks himself over in the bathroom mirror. His hair could use a trim, but his roots aren't peeking through yet. His ends only the slightest bit frayed.

The bags under his eyes look less noticeable. His eyes themselves look brighter. Livelier, somehow. He brushes his teeth with a smile. Packs his things as orderly as he can in his suitcase before checking his phone.

A half a dozen texts from friends back at home. A message from his landlady, informing him that she's been keeping an eye on his flat for him. An unread message from II. He doesn't make the mistake of ignoring it this time.

Toby (II): V and I are going out with the girls in a few. I think IV is sleeping. I guess so are you. BTW I don't want to talk about shit from yesterday. Let's just try to have fun. Bus call is 8 pm. Don’t be late. We have a long drive tonight.

III doesn’t bother to respond. It sours his mood enough as is, even when he expected this. II’s never been exactly forthcoming about things. All bark. Even more bite. All work. No play.

Except, that wasn’t true anymore.

II smoked his weed. Laughed on the sofa. Blushed and shielded his pretty eyes from them. Admitted to something III never would have suspected, the drummer on his knees, sucking off their former guitarist. Something isn’t right with II, he knows that for a fact. Something has happened. Something has changed. But there’s little he can do to pry the information out of him. II would never spill his guts, especially not on someone else’s terms.

A problem for a later time.

III checks out of the hotel early, leaves his bags on the bus parked behind the parking garage before heading back to the lobby. IV’s spare keycard rests heavy in his pocket. He grins the entire way up. Anticipation writhing in his chest. Nervousness. Memories of the night before dance back and forth between his thoughts. It’s the first time in too long that he’s felt this way. Excited. Eager. Just as curious as IV seemingly was.

He walks past room 903. Rasps his knuckles against the door on room 904, directly beside his. It’s a shame the walls aren’t paper thin. A shame he didn’t hear a single fucking sound last night. He wonders if IV jacked off after returning to his room. If he was hard and worked up. III was. Came so hard he saw stars. Head tilted back on his pillow. Shamelessly moaning IV’s name under his breath.

A real fucking shame the guitarist couldn’t hear him.

The door swings open. III’s breath hitches in his throat. IV’s tank top hangs low on his chest. Shows off the definition of his collarbones and the slight swell of his pecs. His dark hair is tousled, clearly mused from sleep. Stormy blue eyes half-hooded and sleepy. Dark circles standing out against the pale skin of his cheeks. He looks gorgeous. Beautiful. Like something out of a wet dream.

There’s only one problem.

“My… fucking voice,” IV grits out, clearing his throat. III frowns, shoulders deflating. IV points to his throat. “Don’t… feel bad or nothing, but this? This is shot to hell.”

He sounds like shit. Raspy. Hoarse. III remembers how those reddened cheeks felt in his palms the night before. Nothing between them. Nothing in the way. He reaches outward. His hands tremble, though he hopes IV can’t feel it. III feels the moment that IV tenses out of initial surprise before relaxing, allowing his head to be tilted backward. III’s frown deepens. His skin is beyond warm, bordering on hot. Even if IV doesn’t feel sick, he looks it. Sounds it.

“Can I come in?” III asks, brushing his thumbs over the flushed skin of the guitarist’s cheeks.

“Yeah,” IV all but whispers. Breathless. III doesn’t think it has anything to do with the loss of his voice. Smiles a little as IV steps backward. He moves forward. Walks with him. Kicks the door to the hotel shut behind him, grateful for the automatic lock. He doesn’t once let go.

“Ya’ should get some rest,” III suggests, nodding towards the bed. “Bus call is 8, don’t have to be out of here until 4. Ya’ have plenty of time to nap.”

“I don't particularly want to, but I don’t have much choice now, do I?” IV groans, rolling his head forward. III’s heart skips a beat. His palms feel sweaty against IV’s cheeks. Neither of them says a word for a moment. Standing there silently. The air racing through the room’s standalone air conditioning unit is the only sound to fill the remote quiet.

“I’ll hang out with ya’,” III offers with a slight shrug. IV raises his head. Offers him a small smile. Thankful, maybe. Grateful, even. “Can find somethin’ to watch, get some food brought up on the label’s dime, and ya’ can get some proper rest.”

“You don’t have to stay with me,” IV reminds him.

“Course I don’t,” III responds with a cheeky grin. “Doin’ it ‘cause it’s you.”

It’s only meant to be experimental. A way to test a theory for IV. Nothing more. III knows better than this. To let emotions get in the way. Let them bud. Flourish. Blossom just in time for the cold grasp of rejection to wilt the petals of affection.

He thinks he fucked up. IV surprises him with a small smile. Eyes softening. Crinkling in the corners.

“You’re taking this seriously,” IV snorts, slipping gently from his hold. III’s hands hover in the air for a moment as the guitarist steps back, coughing into the crook of his elbow. “You don’t owe me anything, you know? You’re already… helping me sort things out. You don’t have to do more than that.”

“We’re friends,” III huffs, mock-offended. IV chuckles as he approaches the unmade bed, plopping down on it not a moment later.

“Come cuddle me then, big guy.” IV teases, making grabby hands towards him. III’s heart flutters. His blood races. Cock twitches. He curses under his breath as he rounds the bed, kicking his shoes off at the edge of the mattress before he sinks down onto the pillowtop.

IV’s always been clingy when he didn’t feel well. All of them were, save for II. The drummer prefers solitude and a bowl of soup left at the bus’ bedroom door. This isn’t anything new. Not really. Only, nothing is the same either. III wraps an arm around IV’s shoulders, bringing him to his chest as the guitarist offers him the remote to the television. The heat of IV’s breath bleeds through cotton, searing against III’s ribs, leaving warmth behind.

“Gonna get mad at me if I drool on your chest?” IV questions. Voice cracking. Scratchy. Raspy and deep.

“Not at all,” III answers with a smile. Turns the television on. Lets it play. IV sighs softly against him, relaxing in his hold. “Drool on me, or over me, as much as ya’d like.”

IV’s laughter isn’t as beautiful as it usually is. Harsh. Breathy. Ending in a prolonged coughing spell.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters.

IV is still beautiful. That hasn’t changed. Everything else has.

III knows he’ll ache for this later, when IV pulls away. He wonders if IV will ache for him, too.

-

Checkout arrives sooner than the bus call.

III doesn’t think to leave IV’s side, even if it means he has four hours to kill. He falls into a familiar routine. Lets the mask slip a little. IV lies curled up beside him, fast asleep. Headset on. Laptop out, chatting with his friends. He doesn’t tell them about IV. Not even when they comment on how he sounds… happier. Like his old self. The person he was so desperate to become once more. The person he mourns more than anything.

It’s seven in the evening when he hangs it up for the day. Laptop pushed halfway across the cramped dining table. Headset tossed atop it carelessly. III doesn’t care, even if it had cost him a fortune. His attention is drawn elsewhere. Fixated, he brushes a lock of hair out of IV’s eyes. The guitarist twitches. Brow furrowed. Nose crinkling. It’s cute. Painfully fucking cute. But III can’t bring himself to smile.

IV’s skin is too warm to the touch, flushed. His breathing is ragged and uneven.

The bottle to the cold medicine and pain relievers IV took earlier set on the kitchenette's counterspace. III sighs as he looks at them before returning his attention back to IV. Steely blue eyes blink upward at him. Groggy. Red-rimmed. III offers him a shaky smile as IV slowly sits upright, mindful not to his head on the table.

“How are you feelin’?” III asks, raising a brow.

“Like dogshit,” IV bemoans before collapsing against him once again. III catches him on instinct. Drags him in closer. One hand splayed out on IV’s back. The other rises to brush the sweat-damp hair out of IV’s eyes.

“Didn’t get too excited about what we talked about last night, did ya’? Get yourself all worked up?” III teases, trying to make him feel better. Trying to gauge him. See if anything has changed beyond the haze of illness. IV’s smile says otherwise. III’s heart skips a beat. He wonders if IV can hear it. Feel it.

He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He can’t help it. It’s a dangling carrot right before his eyes. Something he never thought was tangible but longed for all the same. Reached for it on blind faith, even when he knew it was pointless. He never expected IV to reach back.

“Say that I do…” IV starts, stops. Coughs into his elbow before burying his face in III’s chest. “Discover that this is something that I’m… completely comfortable with. What then?”

III blinks dumbly, eyes fixated directly ahead.

“What do ya’ mean what then?” III questions. Lips cracking. Throat dry. Vision swimming. He’s too sober for this. Deep conversations. Temptation itself, Eden’s fruit, pressing warm lips against his Adam’s apple. There’s nothing holy about this. Just hunger wearing god’s mask, gilded in dripping gold. III’s lived for years off scraps of affection, and now IV is dangling the whole feast in front of him.

“Do you… want more from me?” IV mumbles softly, whispering the words into his skin.

III doesn’t get the chance to answer. Fate is cruel like that. The door to the bus swings open.

II is the first in, smile on his lips dying the second that IV jumps, startled by the sound. It makes it look worse than it is, III knows. They’re still sitting too close. Arms tangled up. Awkward. Complicated. A real mess to explain, although he doesn’t intend to. II doesn’t say anything as he finishes climbing the stairs, Vessel in tow. IV all but scrambles off the couch, pointing wildly at the medicine laid out on the countertop.

“Dunno if I’m sick or not,” IV says, voice cracking. Obviously unwell. III carefully slides out from the booth, frowning. II cocks a brow. Scoffs.

“You clearly are. You sound like shit.” II tuts, nodding his head towards the bunk alley. “If you’ve eaten, go to bed. Vocal rest, too.”

“I know the drill,” IV expresses through a sheepish smile. “I may need you to do the heavy lifting tomorrow night, Ves.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vessel frowns, shrugging his shoulders. “I hope you feel better. Don’t push yourself for my sake.”

“Sort of the name of the game, mate.” IV laughs, coughing afterward. III shifts his weight. Feels II’s eyes on him. Assessing. Oddly cold. Calculating. He thinks he knows why. Boundaries crossed, twice over. Kissing Vessel on the bus’s floor. Getting caught with IV, even if it was something mundane.

III wasn’t paid to flirt off-stage. He was paid to perform on and off of it.

“Get some rest, yeah?” III clears his throat. Inclines his head. He wants to say more. Answer IV’s question. He knows better than that.

IV flushes. Not helping anything. Not at all.

“Yeah,” IV confirms with a lilt, scratchy as it is. “Good night, lads.”

That’s the end of that. III watches IV pad down the hall, dragging his feet, before he disappears into his bunk. The atmosphere shifts. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Worse than it’s ever been. III spares a glance at Vessel. Feels his heartbeat make a cruel little stutter. Vessel always did have that effect on him, deny it as he may. IV did other things to his heart. Good things. Exciting things. But neither one of his bodily reactions overwrites the other. They co-exist. Mingle. Too many emotions for too many people.

He shouldn’t have any, not like this. He knows better, but he doesn’t remember how to turn it off. The divide narrows. The lines have blurred together now. There is no uncrossing their paths. No fixing this. No taking things back.

“Glad you're taking this seriously,” II grunts. Storms past him. III stands in stunned silence. Whips his head aside just in time to watch II slam the bedroom door.

“Don't mind him,” Vessel exhales, breaking the tense silence. “II is… stressed right now.”

“Stressed out?” III parrots, setting his jaw. “So the fuck am I. Doesn't mean I'm gonna take that out on the lot of you.”

“Cut him some slack,” Vessel pleads, stepping into his field of view, green eyes shimmering like moss kissed by morning dew. Pretty. Always far too fucking pretty. A shame he hides them away so often. “Please.”

Begging. III could get used to that particular tone. A dangerous thought. Dangerous beyond belief.

“Since ya’ asked so nicely,” III laughs through a half-cocked grin. Vessel quirks an eyebrow. Smiles. Devastatingly distracting. III clears his throat. Nods his head. Doesn't know what to do with himself. Vessel steps in closer.

III’s eyes snap to the singer's lips. Greedy. He wants to feel them against his own. Taste him. Dive between them. Selfish, stupid desire.

“Are you…” Vessel trails off. Licks his lips. He knows what he's doing. III doesn't believe for a second that he doesn't. “Having more fun now?”

III’s smile comes easy. Too easy. A reflex he's almost forgotten, lost to time.

Vessel looks up at him. Lips upturned. Eyes brimming with hopefulness. His expression entirely fond. III's heartbeat accelerates. His mouth is painfully dry. Vessel steps in closer. III's mind blanks.

“Did we… interrupt something?” Vessel asks, voice a hushed whisper.

“Maybe,” III says, unsure of the answer himself. Definitely sure of the answer he wants to give IV. Buried desire climbs its way to the surface. It never crosses his mind that it shouldn't. That it might be wrong of him, feeling the way he does.

IV makes his skin hot. His mind races. His palms sweat. Vessel has always been his first taste of raw desire. Want. Enough to make his heart ache. His stomach tie itself into knots. He wants more than anything to taste them. To know them. Well and truly know them.

“See something ya’ like?”

A bold approach, III knows. He doesn't know why the words come to him so easily. Why he says them with all of the confidence and bravado that he does. It's a stupid mistake. A miscalculation. His job is on the line, his livelihood. He's playing with fire and trusting Vessel not to burn him.

He has nothing to lose. Everything to gain. He's already been at his wit's end, going through the motions. Dull. Lifeless. Exhausted. Tired of everything, but nothing more than himself. The mask he wears on the road is a second skin as much as it is a death sentence. Something to haunt and defile him and his self image. Total erasure.

He'd let their gravity snuff out his light anytime if it meant that he could have them like this, dancing on the lines they've drawn between them. What separates them from who they are in their daily lives. The people they used to be. The people they've become. The people that they wish that they were.

Finley would never be good enough for someone like Lucas. Someone like Ives.

III could be.

As III, he can be whatever it is that they want. Everything. Anything. Nothing at all. It's his only gamble. The hand he's kept close to his chest for far too long, afraid of showing his cards. He has no reason to fear it any longer. His other name is etched in black ink across a contract. His presence is set in stone. If III's last life is spent trying to find something worthwhile through the crushing weight and pain, then it is a life well spent.

Hell is his life as Finley. Heaven used to be stained black with streaks of paint.

III wants more than anything to carve out a place for himself within it once again. No boundaries. No heartfelt emotions left behind on the stage. He's tired of call, needs a little more response. Substance to the longing. Fuel to the pyre. A hand reaching back for his own that doesn't slip away when the final curtain falls.

Vessel's blush is gorgeous. Blood red. Ears stained pink. III feels euphoric. Sober. Happy. He can't recall the last time he felt that way without the aid of smoke in his lungs, or burning alcohol sliding down the back of his throat.

“What I saw was… a blur. But I… you… kissed me,” Vessel says slowly, stammering out the words.

“I'd do it again if ya’ let me,” III breathes out huskily. He doesn’t know where it comes from. It doesn't matter. A shot in the dark. One final chance at something good before the open road crushes the remainder of who he is at his core.

“Careful, Fin. Don’t start saying things you’re going to regret.”

Cold water. A rush of frigid air. Ice cubes in his veins.

III scoffs, reeling from the sting. The use of a name he doesn’t want to think about. The reminder of who he is beneath black body and glimmering, golden metal. Vessel bites his lip. Shifts his weight. Eyes darting towards the back of the bus where the curtains to IV’s bunk are drawn closed, to where II’s bedroom door is shut. III doesn’t need to respond. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to.

III doesn’t do what he should do. He does what Vessel expects of him. Sits down. Opens up his laptop, shoving his headphones on, tuning out the world. So much for more fun. So much for not mentioning it, bringing it up. Back to toeing the line. Back to being too afraid to cross it. Back to hating the road beneath their tires. The journey. The prying eyes. The limelight.

III can still feel IV’s warm breath on his throat. His question rings in his ears.

III thinks that he’ll give him a proper answer. Avoid Vessel. Avoid II’s ire. Do his job. Complete his contract. Do the one thing that’s been racing through his mind since the file wound up in his lawyer’s hands, all those months ago.

Leave.

This time, for good.

Vessel disappears behind his bunk curtain.

What then?

The words circle back. Play in III’s mind on repeat. The keys clack beneath his fingers, but all he hears is IV’s question. All he sees is Vessel’s blush. All he remembers is II’s clipped words. He’s surrounded, and still entirely alone

III? Finley? Returns his attention to the comforting distraction of his laptop's screen.

He can’t even tell which name he hates more.

Neither of them feel like his.

-

Louisville is just as hot as Orlando, and equally humid.

The only benefit is the massive crowd. Easy to get lost in. Easy to blend in. Harder to stand out. There’s a few subtle glances. Some less subtle. III ignores them as he stalks about the festival grounds. There’s a plethora of things to do. Plenty of bands and artists to see. Stalls to visit. Food to try. Things to keep him occupied and out of his own head.

Vessel is nowhere to be found, of course. III doesn’t have the slightest clue where he is. Phone going straight to voicemail. Crew shrugging their shoulders when asked. Vessel always was good at disappearing. Staying hidden. Unseen and undetected. It was a blessing. It was infuriating.

IV is laid up in the bed. II’s bed. Resting. The bunk was no place to be when sick. Too claustrophobic. Too suffocating. II hadn’t hesitated to offer up the bedroom. IV hadn’t hesitated in taking it. III only wishes they had had time to talk. There’s too much left unsaid. IV’s burning question. III’s definitive answer.

III knows now isn’t the time.

“First time at Louder than Life?” A cheery barmaid asks with a smile. Mixes him a drink. Good quality bourbon. Strong and robust. It burns like liquid fire as III tilts his head back, breaking his own rules. Blurring the lines further than Vessel’s words ever could. II’s cold distance.

“Not quite,” III answers with a dramatic finger wag. “Always a good time though, mate.”

“It’s a real shame I’m crammed behind the counter all day!” She laughs, smile reaching her eyes. She’s pretty. Tall. Dark blond hair tied back. Short black dress. Ink dances from her collarbones to the tips of her black painted fingernails. In another life, he’d hit her with all of the charm he has to offer. Back off if she showed no interest. Double down if she blushed or smiled wider.

III looks in her eyes.

They’re blue. Pale, vibrant blue.

He looks at her. He thinks of II.

“Can I get another, love?” III asks before downing the remainder of his drink. Liquid courage. He knows what he needs to do. Who he needs to find. Who he needs to speak to.

“Of course!” She calls, spinning on her heel. III watches her mix the drink. He doesn’t catch sight of a single thing he witnesses. Something lost in translation between the image his eyes perceive and what his brain perceives. He isn’t listening when she tells him his total. He taps his phone against the reader, ignores the text message from his bank warning him about potential fraud charges. Tips her well. Well enough that she offers him a giggle and a wink.

She’s cute. Finley would like her. Maybe even enjoy her company beyond the span of a single night spent together in ecstasy. III polishes off his second drink and leaves without so much as a wave. Weaves in and out of the crowd. Blends in. Melds into the masses.

He stands out too much in a normal setting. Here, he might as well be a background character. Unnoticed. Unperceived. People look. No one really looks. If they do, it isn’t for long. If they do, they don’t bother him. Don’t mention it. III is thankful. Always so fucking thankful. It doesn’t make it any easier.

He takes out his phone, double checking the setlists. Shouldn’t be hard to find II. III doesn’t even bother giving him a call. He heads to the sidestage nearest him, the one with the hammering bassline and the shrieking fans. He’ll find II lingering on the periphery, tapping his Vans along to the beat. Head nodding to the rhythm. III finds him there, exactly like that. Smiles to himself as he slips past a few members of the gathered crowd and comes to a halt directly beside him.

“Enjoyin’ the show?” III questions, leaning down. The sun beats down on him, hot. Sweat inducing. II’s dark blond hair is partially slicked back, his pale skin so obviously doused in sunscreen. III can see streaks of it across his prominent tattoos, sprawling bands of color and linework that would make any artist green in the face from envy.

Pale blue eyes dart up, meet his own.

“Trying to,” II grunts. His accent stands out just as prominently as III’s own. So obviously and painfully British. Heads turn. No one notices. If anyone notices, no one cares.

“Want some company?” III inquires with a raised brow. Offers II a small smile. It’s meant to be friendly. Placating. A silent apology for his perceived wrongdoing from the night before. An I’m sorry for his lack of professionalism. His apology for kissing Vessel. Smoking too much weed. Wanting to party a little too frequently. Having too much fun as III, something he was allowed to do as Finley. Never III.

“Sure,” II answers with a nod. Eyes flitting back towards the stage. A silent reminder to shut up. Enjoy the music. Appreciate the artist. The work put into the performance. Be respectful. III hums to himself, tapping his foot along to the music. He’s never offbeat. The bassline is his heartbeat. The constant, steady rhythm. He’d never be capable of taking II’s mantle on for himself, but he’s perfectly capable of keeping time. Always has been. Learned to do it by ear alone.

They spend the remainder of the set like that, blending into the crowd. Far enough back to see the stage fully. Close enough to have people shoulder to shoulder with them. It’s not enough. Not for them. The crowd disperses when the first act ends. They push in closer. Wait in the blearing sun. III watches the security guards pass by, offering water bottles. Telling people not to smoke weed in the open. It’s all in good fun. Everything he loves about the downtime between sets. Everything he reveled in back when he was Finley, not III. Back when he was on the other side of the stage. The other side of the barricade.

Three rows back. Center stage. III knows the people behind him can’t see shit. He doesn’t move. It’s only when a familiar act takes to the stage does his body move. Nod along to the sound. Offer a grin towards the vocalist. A shared moment of silent understanding. The industry’s best kept secrets. Good lads. Incredible tunes.

III expects the pit to open. Smiles like a maniac when he feels the press of the crowd. Spread first, then disperse. He’s keen. Always is. This is where he got his roots, being a listener. A fan. A member of the crowd. He’s well aware of his size. His stature. Tall. Lean. Strong from natural strength, not strong enough to bench press an abhorrent number. Average strength for his build in spite of his lithe limbs.

II is a different story.

A titan on stage, perched high on his riser. One of the best. Raw fury. Raw emotion. Raw strength. Muscular thighs and calves. Defined arms. A fraction of III’s size, bordering on the smaller side all around. II’s always taken the comments in stride. Eye rolls and middle fingers. III never teases him much. He knows what it’s like being talked down to for things you can’t change. II’s stature never truly crosses his mind. It never registers.

The crowd surges.

III’s arms shoot out on instinct. Reel II in. Cage him. Push people back. Linger on the edge of the pit rather than dive into the depths of it. Keep the moshing fans away. No wide swings. No falling over. No getting dragged in. III is an unmovable wall. Hyper fixated. Hyper focused. The music is an afterthought. II’s desire to not be included is his primary concern, his sole area of concern.

II never looks back. Never looks up. Trusts him implicitly.

It does something to III’s heart seeing II never look his way. It’s not the sun that warms his skin or stains his cheeks. It’s not the adrenaline of keeping the pit at bay that gets his blood traveling south. It’s absurdly fucking hot out. It’s absurdly fucking hot that II never looks back. Enjoys the show. Claps his hands. Nods his head. Taps his feet. Shows hands when asked. Gives the familiar performers exactly what they’re asking for all without a worry in the world. Without being hassled. Perceived. Hurt. Or worse.

Not that III would let that happen. Nevermind the fact that II has such complete and utter faith in him and his ability to keep him safe amidst the chaos and haze.

“Heads up!”

III’s head turns on a swivel. Big guy coasting over a sea of heads. Pit closing in, people scrambling to grab hold of him. Sweaty limbs. II steps backward. Leans into III’s chest, pressing completely against him. II’s arms aren’t as long as III’s, barely graze the guy's sweat-damp shirt as they pass him over to the security guard who all but hangs over the barricade to grab him. II’s back is flush with III’s chest.

Neither one of them pull away. Move with the crowd. Stay close. The pit doesn’t open directly behind them. Only one other person passes over their heads. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything about their position. III’s dehydrated. The drinks saw to that. The sun makes it worse. That’s not the reason his throat is dry and parched. II moves against him. Calculated movements made in time with the hammering beat and the deafening vocals. Familiar words, words they both sing along to beneath their breath.

III swallows thickly. Wipes the sweat on his palms off on the side of his black skinny jeans. II doesn’t notice. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t look at him. III wonders if he cares. If he feels him, half-hard and breathing heavy. II doesn’t move, only sways with the rhythm, brushing against him. II is so small against him. So unbelievably warm. Clothes heated up from the sun’s rays. Back soaked with sweat. III doesn’t care.

He’s not playing with fire, he’s throwing himself into the open flames.

Some part of him, not exactly Finley, not exactly III, wishes he could make the distinction between his wants. IV’s sweetness and pliability, his curious longing. Vessel’s raw presence, the things he did so effortlessly to III’s heart and mind. II’s calculating cunning, his charisma and the talent that he possesses that draws III in like a moth to burning cinders. But the truth is an ugly thing. Undefined by rigid, hard drawn lines.

III wants them. He wants all of them in some way. There is no unfeeling it now. There’s no point in knowing it either. Only IV is keen. Vessel and II are… unreachable. Too good for him. Far too good for him. There is nothing that would ever change that. He is what he is. Who he is. Whether it be Finley or III. Neither of them were good enough. Neither of them ever would be.

The set ends. The crowd erupts in cheers. Thunderous applause and screaming. It's the perfect time to make an exit. II seemingly feels the same. III misses the feeling of II's warmth the moment that the drummer slips away, but III can't afford to think about it for long. II walks fast. Purposefully. Long strides, short legs. Struts with his head held high like a model down a catwalk. He has every reason to. He is far more confident than anyone III's ever seen and for good reason.

Talented. Gorgeous. A figure anyone would kill for. II wears confidence like a second skin. Heads turn, not knowing, but appreciating. III doesn't blame them.

It brings a smile to his lips as he catches up to him, falling into step with II. His lips are dry. He's still parched, baking under the blearing sun. II inclines his head towards a nearby tent, a familiar, shaded bar. It's packed full of people now, but no one pays them any mind. Not truly. People look. Look away. Business as usual. A few winks from some drunken bar patrons. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Back again so soon?” The bartender from before laughs, her blond hair swaying as she faces them. III’s blood runs cold as II stiffly turns his head. Another mark against him. Another thing he wasn't supposed to do but did anyway. Another blurred line. Boundaries crossed. Personalities muddled.

“Give me two of… whatever he had,” II says, turning to face her. III licks his lips. Needs water, not more bourbon. That doesn't stop him from taking the cup when II offers it to him. It doesn't stop him from chugging it all in one go.

II doesn't say a word. Slowly sips his drink. III sets his empty cup down at the crowded bar only for it to get whisked away, tossed in the garbage.

“Love your tattoos,” a girl at the bar compliments, motioning towards II's arms. “Not often you see so much color in ink.”

“Black ink is overrated,” II says with a snort. III knows the irony in those words. The girl at the bar is none the wiser as she laughs, raising her drink in agreement.

“Almost empty there,” she notes, batting false lashes, motioning languidly towards II's drink. “Buy you another?”

III knows pick-up lines when he hears them. Knows body language enough to see how smitten she is. She's nice to look at. Distinct American accent. Tiny crop top. Shorts that barely cover her thighs. Long brown hair. Finley would take her offer up in a heartbeat. III would find an excuse not to.

II merely shakes his head, sipping his drink.

It shouldn’t make III smile triumphantly. He has no claim over him. Still, he can’t help but smirk.

The woman frowns in response. Her eyes fall back to the bar. Her lips jut out in a pout. Rejection stings. III knows the feeling. Sympathizes with her. But II has his reasons, reasons she can't be privy to. Not that it matters. No is no. Full stop. No explanation needed. She seems to get that, too.

They don't linger for much longer. II finishes his drink and pays the bill, doesn't so much as give III a chance to offer. They leave as quickly as they arrived. No fanfare. No trouble or hassle, slipping back into the swelling crowd. Too many people. Too much sun. III's tolerance feels muted. His body all but vibrates from the buzz. His fingers itch for a smoke. He reaches for his pack and lighter, lighting one as they disappear into a sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Ya’ hear anythin’ from… ya’ know?” III alludes, taking a long drag off his smoke. II inclines his head with a puzzled expression. III waits for the recognition. Vessel.

“Not a word,” II tuts, shrugging. “You know how he is, disappears when he gets upset about something.”

“Upset?” III parrots with a raised brow. “Over what?”

II comes to a dead halt. The crowd behind them nearly topples into him before parting to walk around him. III comes to a stop, pivoting on his heel to eye the drummer’s expression. His palpable distaste. The upturn of his lip. The scrunching of his nose. It screams of disappointment. III’s heart sinks.

“Mate, what is going on?” III all but pleads. He's sobering up way too fast. Needs another joint. Another drink. Anything to eat away at the tension.

Six hours until showtime. He has time. No green before the greenroom, III knows the drill. He'll be sober before his feet ever cross the threshold. If he isn't, maybe they'll fire him. Leave him here. Then he wouldn't have to leave on his own accord. No hard decision making. No more longing for home or loathing the open road.

No more Vessel.

No more II.

No more IV.

No more III.

Only Finley and his mess of a life. Only drunken bar gigs and one night stands that lead him nowhere. No more flights and boarding passes. No more pressure. Only silence. Only crushing, bitter fucking silence.

Business texts and calls. No check ins. No one bothered with Finley. They only ever showed up for III. Without III he was…

Nothing.

Nobody.

No one important. No one worth remembering. No one capable of anything. Only making more messes he couldn't clean up. Only wasting away all alone in his cluttered flat. Alone. Tired. Running. Hiding. What was he even running from?

It was this. The cold look in II's eyes. The venom in his words.

“You're fucking with his head.”

That was… never III's intention. The pieces come together, slotting into place. Vessel. Eve. The break up. Cheating. Infidelity. Vessel moving away then immediately hopping on a plane. III's lips on Vessel’s. III's hands all over IV.

Another mess. A big, complicated mess.

“Fucking with his head?” III laughs. Bitter. Angry. Tired. How hypocritical of Vessel. Hypocritical of II. Couldn’t they see what they’ve done to him? Couldn’t they see how much pain he was in? Did that ever cross their minds? Did it even matter? He goes to hit his smoke. It's already burned out. “And what ‘bout you, huh? What are ya’ running from, II? You’re just the same as he is, always runnin’ from your problems, too.”

He shouldn't have said it aloud. His name. His moniker. No heads turn but they could have. III is angry. So fucking angry. Hurt. Always so fucking hurt. Bad for his heart. Bad for his head. Bad for his mind. Body. Soul. He runs just as hard and fast as they do.

II looks him dead in the eye. Pain blossoms and spreads, seeping into beautiful, icy blue. III doesn't know why II looks at him that way. He doesn't know what he can do to make him stop.

“If you have to ask, then it's clearly not that important.”

II is gone before III can reach for him. Swept away in the crowd. The sea of unfamiliar faces. The brilliant sun beams down on him, hot and unforgiving. If III wasn’t so dehydrated, he thinks that his eyes wouldn’t be as dry as they are.

Alone.

Just like that, III is alone. The chatter of strangers is a dull roar, but all he hears is the echo of IV’s question, circling back to him. He thinks of II’s ice cold stare, how it leaves him feeling bare. He thinks of Vessel’s disappearance, the insinuation that he had been the one to reopen a wound that hadn’t even begun to heal. He thinks of IV laid up from sickness and stress, confused and trusting, wanting for something that he wasn’t sure he’d even like in the end.

III’s head spins from the drinks, from the blistering heat, and from the raw range of emotion that pounds painfully in his chest. It hurts. Everything has been hurting for a while now. Drowned out. Ignored. Muted by everything else. Pushed off to the side for later. It’s all becoming too much. It’s going to catch up to him, in the end.

What then?

II goes one way. III goes another, back towards the bus. Away from conflict.

Avoid Vessel. Avoid II.

That only leaves one place and one place alone for him to find some solace, some sanctuary. Someone who might just need and want him around.

He owes IV an answer.

III already has one.

He intends to give it to him.

Chapter Text

IV is half conscious when III finds him, slumped over in the tour bus's sole queen sized mattress, sweating against the sheets.

He isn't alone.

Vessel sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipped low as he cards his fingers through IV's damp locks. III grits his teeth. So much for avoidance. So much for an easy conversation. He takes a tentative step forward. Rasps his knuckles against the already open door to signal his arrival. His apparent intrusion. Two heads whip towards him in response, seemingly startled by his presence.

“How are ya’ feeling?” III asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Like shit,” IV bemoans, his voice hardly a whisper. Vocal rest. Low frequency. III can hear the hoarseness in his tone regardless of his volume. “Not as bad as earlier, though.”

“Probably should see a doctor when we have the time,” III suggests, folding his arms. Vessel breathes in deep. Exhales slowly.

III clears his throat, shifting his gaze. Moss green. Vessel always did have the prettiest eyes.

“I'm sorry if I upset ya’, Ves. That was never my intention,” III concedes. Bites the bullet. Better to get it over with now then let it fester. “I think that… the three of us need to have a chat ‘bout all this.”

“Whatever you saw, Ves, I… it's on me.” IV says through a rough sigh. “III is… someone I trust. So, I went to him for… a problem I needed some help solving. I know it isn't professional of me, and I'm sorry if that upset you.”

III can't help but smile. Trust. It wasn't all broken, it seemed. IV trusts him even if the others don't anymore. IV hasn't given up on him. It helps alleviate the sting. The fresh wounds. The low blows. III does it to himself, he knows. But it's hard not to. He needs time. He needs to reconcile with the way that things are. The way they used to be. How desperately he misses it.

“What's going on between the two of you?” Vessel speaks up, halting his fingers in IV's hair. Lips pursed. His expression contemplative. His eyes filled with tentative curiosity.

“I think I… like guys a little more than I let myself admit,” IV confesses. Cheeks flushed. Face half buried in the pillow beneath his head. Vessel’s lips part, clearly surprised. III doesn’t blame him. He had felt the same thing, if not a little more eager. A little more hopeful.

“Oh,” Vessel grunts, blinking.

III bites the inside of his cheek.

“Look, I'm gonna be honest with ya’ here,” III begins, pauses. Mulls over his words. Chews on them. “Ya’ both are… people I care a lot ‘bout. Probably more than I should. I didn't do anythin’ I didn't want to do, or agree to anythin’ I wasn't keen on.”

“I know it’s not my place or right but…” Vessel starts, shoulders rising as he speaks before falling. “It was… a bit upsetting for me, seeing the two of you together like that.”

“Entirely my fault,” III confesses. Shifts so he’s more in the bedroom than out of it. His back hurts as he presses it against the doorframe further, shoulder blades popping on either side of the beam. “Ves, I mean this sincerely when I say I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you. It never even crossed my mind because I… thought that what happened the other night was somethin’ you’d never bring up again.”

Vessel sucks in air through gritted teeth. Produces a rough hiss. A pained expression. III doesn’t feel bad over saying it. He knows it’s the truth. As does IV, and more importantly, as does Vessel.

“Do ya’ both want the honest to God’s truth?” III continues, kicking off the doorframe. He approaches the edge of the mattress. Doesn’t stop until his knees brush against the thick duvet that covers it. Two pairs of eyes look up at him. One as green as rolling fields of forestry. The other as blue and steely as stormclouds themselves.

He knows this is stupid. Risky. A bold decision. A conversation he’s far too sober to be having. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. Everything is weighing on him. The indecisiveness. The awkwardness. The tension. Everything is compounded by his own internal struggles. His fight against external forces beyond his control. He knows he’s already losing himself. He reasons he might have already lost himself and he just hasn’t realized it yet. They’re dancing around the conversation, dancing around each other. Stumbling blindly in the dark.

The spotlight always finds him. This time, he chooses to point it at himself.

“Ves, you’re the reason I am the way that I am now. I know ya’ didn’t mean nothin’ by it back then, climbin’ on top of me like that for show,” III admits. The words taste like ash on his tongue. Nauseating. Anxiety inducing. He forces himself through the discomfort. The coppery tang that tickles the back of his throat, making his stomach churn. “Ya’ made me realize something ‘bout myself, and I… was too fuckin’ afraid to talk to you about it when it happened.”

“III, I…” Vessel breathes out slowly, chewing on his bottom lip. It looks soft. III knows that it is. Hates that he knows. Hates how he’ll never feel it against his own again. “It’s not like I… haven’t thought about it, you know?”

III’s mind blanks. His breath catches. Palms sweaty. Throat painfully dry. He’s still so fucking dehydrated. It doesn’t matter. Vessel looks up at him. Looks away. Vermillion dusts his cheeks. Embarrassment. Nervousness. It doesn’t matter.

“You… thought ‘bout it?” III reiterates. Needs clarification. A sign that he hasn’t lost his mind. That he heard Vessel correctly, his seemingly heartfelt admission.

“Well, yeah…” Vessel confirms with a shrug. Stutters on his words. At a loss. He’s gorgeous like that. Flushed and flustered. Painfully pretty. III’s heart skips a beat, then another. Vessel sheepishly looks up at him. III stares down, enamored. “You’re… someone I trust, like IV said. It’s just that I… never wanted it to be another thing that could tear us apart.”

III frowns. A gut punch. A terrible, bitter truth. It could have been wonderful, something between them. It could have been the final nail in the coffin long before this moment. No Eden. Definitely no Arcadia. It could have torn them asunder. It could have been the best thing to ever happen to him. It could have been a lot of things. III understands the trepidation. He feels it, too. He always has. Too afraid of crossing lines in the past. Too tired and bitter to care about crossing them now.

The end was drawing nearer on its volition. What harm could either of them do to each other now that they haven’t done or endured a thousand times worse prior? They’re both already exhausted. Fed up. Tired of the demands. The expectations. The long road beneath their feet. Fun was hard to come by, even harder to hold on to. What risk did they face now that they weren’t already enduring? What harm could come from trying to salvage something that was already dragging them under?

“I don’t know where I fit into all of this, or if I don’t fit in at all, but…” IV interjects. His voice sounds terrible. Miserable. He struggles for every word. Fights tooth and nail for every intake of breath. III walks to the edge of the bed, opposite of Vessel. Takes a seat on the edge, rubbing small, soothing circles in IV’s heaving shoulders. “It’s not like I’d be against… exploring things with either one of you, or… both, maybe?”

III’s cock kicks. It shouldn’t. Treacherous. Stupid. It never fucking listens to him, has a mind all its own. His body never has learned the difference between desire and ruination.

III has never thought about it. Never considered it an option, having both of them. Having any of them. Not needing to make a decision. Not needing to make an impossible choice. IV’s face is blood red. His breathing ragged. The curse IV mutters drips with self-directed venom. Teeters on the cusp of a full on groan.

“God, that sounded better in my head,” IV laments before burying his face entirely in the pillow.

Silence hums in the bus’s low light. Vessel’s fingers twitch in IV’s hair, then still again. His eyes flicker up to III, unreadable. III holds his gaze. Keeps rubbing circles in IV’s back as Vessel threads his deft fingers through the guitarist’s dark hair.

“Sounds like we’ve all been…” Vessel sighs softly, “dancing around the same issue then.”

“We don’t need to rush it. But… if we’re all thinkin’ ‘bout it, maybe we should stop pretendin’ we’re not.” III suggests, his heart does wild acrobatics in his chest. Slamming into his ribs. Punching the air out of his lungs. His hands shake. Tremble. Scared. The lines are gone. The distinctions. There is no guide rope for the path they walk.

There is only a precipice on either side of the crumbling trail ahead of them. He's come so close to falling off of it more times than he can count.

“So, the three of us… exploring this together? Am I getting that right?” IV asks, turning his cheek on the pillow. His skin is flushed. His brow soaked in sweat. Unwell. Beautiful. Nervous. Too many emotions for III to parse, let alone name.

“I don't think that I… can handle something half-hearted,” Vessel confesses, bowing his head. “I want it to… mean something. I'm terrified of losing you both, and I….” Vessel closes his eyes. Huffs out of flaring nostrils.”Well, I almost lost you both already, didn't I? What harm could it do if we-”

“I'm checked out, Ves.” III interjects, frowns when Vessel's head snaps up. Eyes wide. Whites showing. Teary before the singer even has time to blink. “Maybe it's the road, or the pressure. Or maybe it's all the fuckin’.... tension and the things I've never told ya’ before. Maybe it's the nail in the coffin. Maybe it's what we all need to stop feelin’ so… lost in all this.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Vessel reiterates. Familiar words whispered back at him once again. III shifts on the mattress. One hand is still rubbing circles through IV’s sweat-dampened shirt. The other reaches for Vessel’s. The singer’s hand is clammy. Trembling. Hot against his own. III gives it a squeeze. Vessel holds onto him as if he’s afraid to let go.

“I don’t want to upset ya’ or hurt ya’, just so ya’ know.” III reassures him with a small smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s genuine. “Comin’ from me, Ves… I’ve had thoughts about ya’... in that capacity for damn near five years. Believe me when I say there isn’t a damn thing ‘bout it that’s half-hearted.”

“I… believe you,” Vessel mumbles. Sniffles once. Then twice. Ducks his head. His hand never leaves III’s. His other hand never stops threading through IV’s hair. “Feels rather… obvious now, doesn’t it?”

“I’m… still figuring that bit out,” IV laughs softly. Coughs violently. III clicks his tongue, patting the guitarist firmly in the back until the sound stops. “I think I’ve… got it sorted, though. Felt nice, you know? Being held by you.”

IV’s eyes meet III’s. The words sink in. Make his heartbeat flutter. His lips twitch upward into a genuine smile.

“Got an answer for ya’, if you want to hear it.” III offers, squeezing Vessel’s hand as he shifts downward. He leans in close to IV. Balances himself on the hand that he removes from the guitarist’s back. Hovers over him. Shifts until his face and the side of IV’s are mere millimeters apart. IV shudders violently. Teeth chattering. Sickness. Anticipation. It’s all the same to III when IV nods his approval.

“I want anythin’ that you’re willing to give,” III tells him at last. Smiles when IV lets out a small, shuddered breath. Grins wider when Vessel squeezes his hand, as if reminding him that he’s still there. “You’re a fuckin’ sweetheart, ya’ know that? Always been that way since the day I met ya’. Fucked with my head real good, seein’ you act the way ya’ do for me. I knew you were someone else’s, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Doesn’t mean I didn’t think ‘bout you all the time.”

“You could have told me,” IV grunts, carefully shaking his head against the pillow. III snorts. Knows his breath tickles past IV’s hair as he leans in closer, his lips grazing against the flushed skin of his cheek.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” III mumbles, his words muffled by IV’s smooth skin. It feels good. Right, even when the temperature is wrong. It feels natural. Almost like he was always meant to wind up like this. Vessel’s hand against his, squeezing. IV’s skin beneath his lips. “I could have told ya’, and you would have listened. Not get angry, even if you were married. Even when you thought ya’ didn’t have any sort of… inclination towards men. You’re too fuckin’ sweet, IV. I didn’t want to take advantage of that.”

“If I wasn’t sick, I’d tell you to shut up and kiss me already.” IV huffs out a quiet laugh. III shifts further, catching the corner of his lips.

He swallows the sound that IV makes. The surprise. The hum of contentment. Leans in a little further. Fully covers his mouth, hovering over him. Fingers laced with Vessel’s, holding him there. Reminding him that it’s not some half-hearted thing. It doesn’t feel half-hearted with IV either. His lips are soft. Warm, too warm from illness, but pleasant against his own. He tastes like cough medicine and chapstick. III normally can’t stand the taste. For now, he can’t get enough.

IV’s lips push back against his. Gentle pressure. Hot breath. Warm tongue. Germs be damned, III wants to devour him whole. He slots his tongue against IV’s. Can’t prevent the slight groan that tears out of him as IV softly gasps against his lips. The drag between them is electric. It feels heavenly. Perfect. Soft and tender in a way that III usually isn’t. IV isn’t fragile, but this is new territory for him. Uncharted waters. Unmapped terrain. He’s sick. Trusting. Open. Pliant. III wants it to feel good for him. He wants it to be memorable for all of the right reasons.

He wants to kiss him again, and again, but eventually they part for air.

IV’s face is vibrant red. Vessel’s hand is warm in his. III smiles as he looks down at the guitarist, the panting, blood red expression on his face. He doesn’t deserve this. IV is too good for him. Vessel is too afraid of losing someone who’s already halfway gone. III doesn’t want to hurt them.

He never wants to hurt them at all.

“If you get sick, I don’t want to hear it.” Vessel chuckles as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. III stiffens as the mattress dips. Warm lips ghost against his cheek. A deep voice echoes in his ear. Vessel’s timbre shakes his spine. “Promise me we won’t let this be the end of us.”

Them as people. Them as loose friends. Bandmates. Traveling partners. Experimentation partners. Actual partners. Whatever they are. Whatever they might become. Whatever they may be.

“Promise,” III says with conviction.

It’s the first time he’s felt this light in months.

There’s only one problem. One factor not accounted for. One outside force that leaves a sour taste in III’s mouth.

“What’re we gonna tell II?” III forces himself to ask, rising. One hand on IV’s cheek, the other clamping on Vessel’s arm. “He and I aren’t… exactly on the best of terms right now. I asked him what was wrong, and he… stormed away from me. Had himself all worked up in a tizzy, like he does.”

“I… don’t know what’s going on with him either,” Vessel sighs, shaking his head. Dark hair swaying, falling just above his browline. “He’s been a bit… standoffish as of late. Won’t talk to me either.”

“If he’s not talkin’ to you, then there’s no chance he’ll tell me what’s been goin’ on,” III concedes. Another mess. Not one of his own making for once, but a mess all the same. It’s not enough to dampen his mood. Not enough to completely alleviate it either. He doesn’t know if this is enough to assuage the lingering tension. Make him want to stay. Have continued permanence. Feel like he was someone worth having around and not a problem to be dealt with through transactional exchanges alone.

He doesn’t know who he is any longer. The person he’s running from, or the man he pretends to be. He knows that Vessel and IV hunger for the latter. No one bothers with Finley.

Not even III.

“Maybe we just… try to keep this to ourselves for now?” IV suggests, clearing his throat. III can hear the strain in his voice. He’s already said too much. Needs all the rest he can manage. They have a set to perform in mere hours. IV should be saving his strength for the stage, not forcing himself to speak. Especially not for someone who was perfectly capable of speaking for themselves but refused to.

II is infuriating. Never has a problem telling everyone else what to do. What is expected of them. What he expects of them. But he never gives any ounce of himself back in exchange. He’s the first to bark orders, and the first to fall silent. III’s always admired his professionalism and decorum. The hushed lips and no-nonsense attitude towards himself and crew. What he doesn’t appreciate is how it bleeds into their downtime. Their private lives, those spent on the road as someone other than themselves.

III knows he has no room to criticize, he blurs the lines between his lives enough to know that it isn’t healthy. But II doesn’t have an off switch. He doesn’t think II is any different from Toby at all.

“I don’t think we should keep secrets from him,” Vessel disagrees, shoulders slackening. Deflated. Exhausted. It’s hard to tell. III gives his arm a brief squeeze.

“Not a secret then, just… maybe we don’t outright say anythin’,” III chews on his words, rolling his neck until it cracks. “He’s gonna be proper pissed off. Accuse us of messin’ ‘bout too much, but… if we’re not hurtin’ anything then it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Especially not if you’re involved in… this, Ves.”

Vessel sucks in a hissed breath once again. Nods. Leans down on the mattress and out of III’s grasp, brushing the hair out of IV’s eyes.

“We’ll… talk everything over later,” Vessel tells them both. Hovers over IV. III doesn’t get jealous. Not like he thought he would. Not like Vessel allegedly did. He doesn’t feel any negative emotions at all. Rather, he feels nothing but low simmering heat. Desire. It’s absurdly hot seeing Vessel hover over IV like this. Pinning him to the bed unintentionally. Sinking down further until his lips meet the edge of IV’s brow. “Get some rest. We have a show to do tonight.”

“I’ll do my best,” IV promises. Eyes closed. Sickeningly sweet. Sick in general. III swears that illness has a certain odour. A foul scent that lingers in the room. Sweet in its origin, but not the kind of sugar that one craves. Certainly not the one that he does. “Can one of you… stay with me?”

“I’ll stay with ya’,” III assures him. His need for a smoke be damned. His hopes of getting high pushed to the back of his mind. This takes priority, whatever it is. IV takes priority. It’s not something Finley would do. It’s hardly even something he would typically do as III.

He doesn’t know where it comes from. He doesn’t question it either. He all but crawls up the length of the bed before collapsing at IV’s side. The sheets are damp with sweat. It reminds him of the press of IV’s back against his own, playing their instruments beside one another before an enraptured audience. They always did play off of one another well. Who’s to say that this will be any different?

“Can we convince ya’ to stay, Ves?” III questions, offering the singer a raised brow as IV turns on the bed, head flopping onto III’s chest. It reminds him of the hotel room in Orlando. The proximity he missed. The way he wondered if IV would miss him back. Judging by the way the guitarist clings to him, he thinks he has his answer.

IV already has his.

“Don’t get me sick,” Vessel muses through a smile. Lopsided. Pretty. III’s mouth goes dry as Vessel crams himself on the opposite end of the bed, lying down flat on his back.

They lie there for a moment before Vessel opens his lips to speak. Shuts them again. Foregoes asking his question altogether in the end. IV makes a startled sound as Vessel lies on his side, spooning him from behind. III can’t help but chuckle. Feels heat rise in his cheeks then sink lower. His body will never listen. It craves what it wants without distinction. His mind, on the other hand, feels at peace for the first time in months. Years. Possibly even longer.

Three hours until showtime.

III doesn’t want to move, but he doesn’t loathe the idea of taking to the stage alongside them.

-

Too many fucking people.

Far too many. III couldn't see the end of the crowd. It was nauseating. It was exhilarating. It was overwhelming. It was so much easier without the lingering weight of tension between them. That is, with the exception of II. The drummer showed up at the last possible second. Skin painted. Covered head to toe in shimmering hues of gold and green. Didn't say a fucking word to any of them.

II put on one hell of a show. Left his anger behind the kit. Let it shine. Every note delivered was perfection. No hiccups. A flawless showing by all accounts. The crowd went wild. Ate it up. They always did. Their struggles didn't matter, and even if they did, it wasn't as if anyone was capable of perceiving them.

Vessel's voice hit every note it was meant to. IV’s voice triumphed over the strain. III spared them looks. Gave them his attention. Played his part as best he could and didn't disappoint them. Nevermind the eyes he could feel crawling up his back from the other side of the stage. Nevermind the awkwardness in the air whenever they departed the stage.

II was nowhere to be found. It would have bothered III more if he wasn't in desperate need of a wash and a joint to take the edge off. Everything else was routine. Hand gear off. Scrub away body paint. Check his texts but leave a vast majority of them on read.

It's only when Vessel and IV rejoin him on the bus that III lifts his gaze.

“Sam said there's an afterparty for artists tonight,” Vessel explains with a small smile. His hair is still damp, but rapidly drying from the lingering heat outdoors. III's eyes trail down the wet spots around Vessel's shirt collars, a low plunging V-neckline, before his gaze flits to IV.

“Whiskey and honey for me,” IV croaks out, frowning. There's a hood thrown over his head in spite of the temperature. III rises to his feet, stretching as he approaches them. He doesn't hesitate to lean in, press his lips against IV's temple.

“You're warm,” III muses, words muffled by IV’s brow. He kisses his flushed skin. Drawing him into his arms. IV goes willingly. Fits against him he was always meant to be there. Buries his face in III's chest and wraps his arms around him, squeezing.

“He's not going to listen,” Vessel half-huffs, half-laughs. III hums, swaying on his feet as he slowly releases IV. “May as well swing by. Have you seen II?”

“Not a peep out of him since he walked off stage,” III sighs, shaking his head. IV slowly unpeels himself from his chest. Takes a half step back. All but collapses against Vessel's upper arm. III watches color stain Vessel's cheeks. It looks good on him.

Happiness looks good on him.

“We really need to talk to him,” Vessel emphasizes. He's right. He usually is. III doesn’t have the energy to argue with him. Doesn’t have an argument worth making either.

“Gonna need a drink or two before that,” III admits, cracking his neck. He steps forward once more. Leans down. Moss green eyes latch onto his own. He smiles, leaning in. Vessel doesn't pull away, so III does what he's always wanted to do sober but never had the courage to do, he places a kiss on Vessel’s slightly parted lips.

It's intoxicating, the soft velveteen pressure that Vessel exerts back against him. He doesn't taste like weed or vodka cranberry. Only the mint from his toothpaste. Only warm, wet heat. III unabashedly groans, cupping the singer's cheeks in his hands, tilting his head back. Vessel gasps softly, nearly moans.

The sound goes straight to his cock. Makes it harden in an instant. Twitch against his thigh. Vessel's tongue is beyond deft. Skilled. Meets his with equal vigor and intensity until they have to part for air. III closes the distance again. Quick. Chaste. Far sweeter than he intends it to be.

“You're still sure about this, right?” III asks softly, speaking into the minute space between them.

“Yeah,” Vessel mumbles back. III watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly. “So, afterparty?”

III's smile splits his cracking lips.

-

III is having a fucking ball.

Strobe lights. Live music. Weed smoke saturating the air. Alcohol coursing through his veins. No one gives a shit if he lets loose here. No one judges him for it, all too sloshed themselves. It's exhilarating being able to let loose a little. Not worry about who sees him. Not worry about the shuttering of cameras. Not worry about being recognized. Everyone here knows who he is. Not a single one of them gives a shit. Not worth risking letting it slip outside of closed circles. Tight lips in the industry. Respect and understanding.

Vessel laughs as III seizes his arm, swaying the singer on his unsteady feet. IV is a giggling mess, plastered to III's side. He's lost his voice. Long since given up on talking. All hand motions and grabbing. Groping. Clinging to their bodies and dancing. Fuck mandated vocal rest. IV's body does it for him.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty right now,” III huskily exhales, fixated on Vessel's bloodshot eyes. IV buries his face in III's arm. Earns himself a squeeze from the singer as III corrals them both closer to his chest. Wraps his arms around them. “Both of ya, so fuckin’ gorgeous. You have no idea how happy I am right now.”

“I'm glad you're happy,” Vessel says through a blinding smile. “I was… so scared of… wanting this all those years ago. How many years have we wasted, III?”

III's already flushed skin darkens. Twinges itself red. His heart does a somersault in his chest. He can't believe his ears. The sincerity in Vessel's beautiful smile. Eve fumbled hard. Everyone who ever came before him fumbled hard. Vessel didn't look heartbroken for the first time since III had known him. As the singer looks at him, looks at IV, he looks elated. Lightened. Like the world was taken off of his sagging shoulders.

“All it took was the two of you giving me a bit of a panic,” IV all but mouths the words, scooting in-between them. III's arms slot around IV's torso. He presses into the guitarist's back. Vessel moves in closer. Sandwiches him between them. The feeling is electric. Intoxicating. Addictive. He shouldn’t be talking. He barely can. IV doesn’t seem to mind. More importantly, neither does Vessel. No disapproval. No sharp reminders. Only hoarse words whispered so softly that they might as well have been unspoken. “Dance with me?”

“Ya’ sure seem keen,” III assesses, leaning down to whisper the words directly into IV’s ear. He shivers hard. The vibration sends a wave of pleasure down III’s spine. IV’s back presses up against III’s cock, unintentionally dragging against it. III bites back the urge to moan. “Don’t get yourself all worked up now, sweetheart. Ya’ need to be able to sleep tonight.”

“Is he the one getting all worked up?” Vessel snickers, gnawing on his bottom lip.

III chuckles, not disagreeing. Moves in closer. Scans the crowd. No one notices them. No one cares if they do. III’s head whips around, giving him one good look at their surroundings. His eyes fall on something familiar. Something distinct. Something that stands out from the crowd.

Pale, icy blue.

III freezes. IV doesn’t notice, still swaying against him. Vessel doesn’t notice, too busy pressing his forehead against IV’s, whispering something beneath the thumping bassline that III can’t hear. It doesn’t matter. The bass seems to drop out of the song. All III hears is his pulse. His ears are already ringing. II’s eyes are wide in shock. Disbelief. He looks exhausted, even from a distance. Worn down. He looks… betrayed. Hurt. Confused. Sad. Myriad emotions that look wrong on II. Don’t belong anywhere near his features. III’s never seen the drummer look like this before. It sucks the air from his lungs like a swift kick to the chest. A leaden weight dropped on his ribs.

“Fuck,” III curses, letting IV and Vessel slip from his arms. II’s already turned on his heel. Hands clenched into fists. Shoulders shaking with what III knows to be fury. “II!”

Vessel’s head snaps up. IV stops moving, eyes as wide as dinner plates. III doesn’t hesitate to push through the crowd, cursing under his breath as he slinks through the dancing masses. II is quick on his feet, his stature easily hidden by the taller bodies that move around them, but III is tall enough to see over them. He keeps track of him as he navigates out of the crowd, away from the thumping bassline of the nearby performance.

II continues walking. Doesn’t look back once, no matter how many times III calls his name. III grits his teeth. Picks up the speed, chases after him. For such short legs, II is absurdly fast. III’s lucky that he’s even faster.

He clamps his hand down on II’s shoulder, forcing the drummer to a halt. It isn’t without a fight. II growls at him. Attempts to pull his arm free. III doesn’t allow it. Long fingers dig into the musculature of II’s arm, rooting him firmly in place. II gives up the fight. Spins on his heel. Eyes narrowed. Lip curled up in an enraged snarl. III kisses his job goodbye, kisses III goodbye, before II even opens his mouth to speak.

“Whatever happened to being a consummate professional, III?” II hisses upward at him. III swallows the lump in his throat. Bites back the discomfort. II has every right to be angry. Even if IV wants this. Even if Vessel wants it and has given his blessing. Vessel’s blessing was only half of the equation. II’s expectations outweighed everyone else’s. III knew what he was doing. The lines he was crossing, subconsciously, and consciously, too. The alcohol in his veins fades far too quickly. Sobriety smacks him square in the face. Takes the wind out of his sails.

He knows he fucked up. II doesn’t have to tell him that. The spotlight has found him again. He doesn’t like what it shows.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” II demands, shaking his head. “You’ve completely switched up. I know you’ve got bad habits, but I also know you’re perfectly capable of reeling them in and not letting it affect things when we tour. We’ve already talked about this once, haven’t we? No partying every single night, III. We agreed it was only a one time thing to celebrate the start of the tour.”

II is rambling. Stammering on his words. Face growing redder. Angrier. His shoulders tremble beneath III’s hand. III doesn’t know where the anger comes from. He doesn’t understand why II’s eyes look so unfocused. Panicked. Shaky.

“You do this shit every time to some extent or another,” II continues. Prattles on. III doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t dare interrupt him. He fucked up in II’s eyes. III gets it. It’s not what he’s paid for. “How fucking hard is it for you to come here, do your job, and go home, III? I don’t fucking get it. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve vouched for you over the years? Even back when you were a bumbling mess?’

III does know. It’s only the first time he’s heard II say it. It hurts. A gut punch. A knife twisting in his gut. He’s disappointed him, II. One of the only people he’s never wanted to disappoint. One of the only people who’s ever believed in him. Put faith in him. Trusted him time and time again to get the job done and be professional about it.

Nothing professional about what III’s doing. Partying. Sticking his tongue in IV’s pliant mouth. Kissing Vessel’s lips like he owns the rights to them. Drinking before Vessel or II reaches for a glass. Being a proper dick. Cocky. Arrogant. Greedy.

III is already spiraling. II keeps the momentum going.

“I do my fucking best to make sure you’re doing the things you need to be doing,” II’s unfocused eyes dart from the ground to III’s gaze. “I try to… keep all of you on track, and…” II trails off. Laughs. Bitter. Angry. Hurt. So fucking hurt. III doesn’t know where it comes from, II’s pain. “Do you seriously think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to fucking be here?”

III’s lips part, mouth falling open. II doubles down, barking out a humorless laugh.

“You have… no fucking idea the amount of weight on my shoulders. You have no idea what it’s like to sit back and watch you… all of you… just…” II cuts himself off. Shakes his head before tilting it back, gazing upwards at the nightsky. “I’m glad you don’t get it, III. Really, I am. You get to go home and do whatever the fuck it is that you want. You get to come here and be… someone you’re not. I’m glad you have that. Really, I am.”

“Why the fuck are you talkin’ in circles with me, II? You’re proper pissed off, I get it. Doesn’t mean ya’ can keep acting like this, then go stormin’ off when things don’t go the way that you want them to.” III bites back. Flares with anger. Regrets it immediately afterward. II falls silent. Eerily silent. Doesn’t drop his gaze. Eyes trained on the heavens. Hard enough that it’s a miracle they’re still up there somewhere, not cast down to earth with the rest of them.

II swallows thickly. His arms shake. His shoulders tremble. III thinks he’s hit a nerve.

II spits vitriol back at him like he’s severed it.

“You constantly ignore me, no matter how often I try to reach out to you. What’s the point in talking to you now? You do everything in your power to ignore reality, III. I might run from my fucking problems, but at least I don’t hurt everyone else around me to drown out the noise.” II lowers his gaze. III can’t bring himself to look at him. II. Gorgeous, infuriated II. Disappointed in him. Hurt because of him. Because of… something. Something bigger than this. The pressure, maybe. The expectations, definitely.

III always was good at making things worse. Making problems for himself. For those that he cares about the most.

Every unread text message he's ever got from Toby stings in the back of his mind. In Finley’s. II is always looking out for him. Reaching out to him. Even if he didn’t check in on him in the way that III wanted him to, he was still checking in. Asking questions. Giving him information on the road. Trying to warn him. Trying to help.

III is a cunt for that, ignoring him. Writing it off as pestering.

II might be a titan in the scene, but he is still a man behind the mask. Still a human being. Still a person with feelings, guarded though they may be. III feels like a hypocrite for expecting others to understand that when even he forgets it. It’s easy to. He hates how easy it is.

“Vessel and IV are hurting, III.” II tells him pointedly before turning on his heel. Sharp movements. Sharp words. An utterance poised in warning. III doesn’t understand why II’s voice shakes. Why his hands do. Why his entire body rattles like he’s coming down from adrenaline. He doesn’t understand why II won’t fucking look at him. Be honest. Speak the truth. Talk to him.

“I’m not… tryin’ to hurt them,” III grits out. It’s the only thing he can say with definitive certainty anymore. It’s not enough. It’s definitely not enough for II.

“You’ll find a way,” II grunts. III feels sick to his stomach. Nauseous. He tastes bile in the back of his throat. Alcohol on his tongue. Weed smoke stuck in his nostrils. It’s suddenly all too much. “You’ve always been good at hurting the people who care about you the most.”

II’s voice cracks. III’s never heard the drummer sound like that before. It does something to him, something awful.

Still, he tries. Of course he tries. What else can he do but try?

“I hurt you,” III says each word clearly for emphasis. Slow. Precise. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t quite ask either. He just needs clarification. To make sense of it. To understand how. Why. To make sure he doesn’t do it again.

II sounds distant, faraway, and fading as the drummer lets out a shaky exhale.

“Maybe I did this to myself. Guess I just don’t… get it, III. Why I… never do enough,” II takes a step forward. III watches his back. Every minute movement. Every labored breath. Every tremble in his fingertips. He watches it all with a lump in his throat, preventing him from saying the words he wants to say. “Never fucking understood it, really. Nothing I do is ever good enough for you.”

By the time III remembers how to speak, there’s no one left for him to speak to.

The spotlight is still on him, but no one is watching.