Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Vessel is losing his mind.

Or at least, it certainly feels like he is.

As he lingers at the front of the cafe with II—both men having gotten caught in conversation when they made to leave at the same time—it takes every ounce of Vessel’s willpower not to scream. Everything hurts. It feels like his brain is trying to slip out the back of his skull with the caffeine failing to keep him alert, and he’s struggling to stay present. His limbs are leaden, his body held upright only by pure spite and the wall he’s leaning against.

To make matters worse, his breath catches every time the shorter man looks up at him.

Without the barrier of the bar, and no apron or counter to hide behind, II is no longer restricted to being the barista. He’s just II.

And he’s so close.

As Vessel remains leaned against the wall, II is in the middle of recounting his weekend, standing close enough to Vessel that he doesn’t obstruct the flow of customers. He’s as close to Vessel as he possibly can be without touching. Almost close enough to kiss—

Stop.

Vessel rips himself away from that train of thought. He should be focusing on II’s story. They’re friends. Vessel isn’t looking to push any boundaries and risk losing the friendship altogether. Between the long phone calls to talk about nothing in particular while II works in the studio, unremarkable yet irreplaceable conversations at the cafe about each of their days, and simple companionship when one of them is in a sour mood, the sculptor has become a fixed presence in Vessel’s life. Vessel is just fine with staying friends.

Even though his ribs are about to crack at any moment.

II suddenly shifts closer, angling himself to allow a larger group of customers to pass, and his forearm and shoulder press against the painter’s chest.

Vessel stops breathing.

His lungs strain, but he would gladly learn to live without air if it means II could stay this close to him. He wants II to keep touching him—more than when their fingers brush while exchanging coffee mugs, and longer than the occasional fleeting embrace goodbye. Vessel wants to reach out to touch in return. He’s never been good at sculpture, but he imagines letting his fingertips wander, mapping the planes of his friend’s face, exploring his shoulders, his back—

Stop it.

Vessel chokes back another urge to scream. He keeps his hands to himself and tightens the grip on the strap of his bag. II steps back to his previous spot, now muttering about oblivious tourists.

Vessel knows II has a class to get to. He really should remind him to get going. Instead, he stares at II’s hand as it unconsciously mirrors Vessel’s movement, adjusting the weight of his own backpack on his shoulder. The tendons shift, making the ink under the skin dance. Vessel wonders what it would look like on his—

STOP IT.

Guilt drops into Vessel’s stomach like a stone.

He hardly knows what they’ve been talking about this entire time. II had been talking about his weekend, about going out to the pub with Sam. Vessel forces himself to refocus on listening.

—“haven’t gone out together in ages, so maybe the rules of common decency have changed recently,” II says, “but from what I remember, it’s bloody rude to lose track of your lit cigarette, let alone nearly light someone else’s sleeve on fire.”

“I don’t know,” Vessel replies, “I think you might be expecting too much of the average pub-goer.”

II rolls his eyes. “But I liked that shirt, and now it’s got a hole burned through it.”

Vessel’s brow furrows. “It didn’t get your skin, did it?

“Thankfully, no. If any of my ink got messed up by some legless idiot, I’d be fucking livid.” II scowls and rubs his shoulder. “Especially one of my favorite pieces.”

“Your favorite, hm?” Vessel echoes. “I haven’t seen anything past your elbows, your sleeves are always covering it. What’s it of?”

Vessel immediately regrets the question when II tugs at the neck of his jumper, attempting to stretch it enough to show his shoulder. The painter struggles to tear his eyes away from the angle of II’s neck and exposed collarbone, and looks at the peek of swirling art wrapping around the ball of his shoulder.

It’s beautiful. The colors resemble the dawn kissing ocean waves, or a sunset fighting to be witnessed from behind a cloud’s feathered edges.

II looks up at him with eyes wide and mouth open.

…Did he say that out loud?

Vessel’s stomach drops to the floor as his panicked eyes meet II’s. God, his eyes. They’re huge as they stare up at the painter, reflecting cobalt and cerulean in the evening light through the window. It feels like Vessel is looking down into a vast sea.

And then he is.

Irises become portals, wide enough to swallow him completely, while he beholds the sea.

He stares downwards into the swirling expanse of blue, transfixed. His surroundings dissolve. The cafe is gone. His shoes, once touching tile, now rest on the grassy cusp of a sharp drop.

A cliff.

The same cliff.

Vessel looks down at the same ocean—the same shore, the same exposed rocks—as he had years ago. Was it years ago? As his eyes follow the current churning far below him, it looks the same. He had gone to the cliff believing that the solution to his pain would be found at the bottom. Then he had waited, staring at nothing, for hours. He doesn’t know why he was waiting.

Maybe he’s still waiting.

His toes kiss the ledge.

The water is captivating as the fading light dances on the surface. He wonders what its depths hold.

And he’s so tired…

In a wave of vertigo, the horizon tilts. He tips. And then he’s falling. The wind steals the breath from his lungs as he plummets.

The ocean rises up to claim him.

“Vessel?”

He blinks.

He stands in the cafe. His feet are planted on chipped tile, a brick wall firmly pressing at his back.

II’s hand is touching his arm. There’s a tiny crease between his eyebrows.

Vessel clears his throat. “Sorry, what?”

“You were staring at nothing.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Vessel’s voice sounds unsure, even to himself. “Lost my train of thought, I suppose.” He looks around, his eyes struggling to focus, and notices the clock above the bar. He quickly pushes off the wall when he sees the time.

II gives him room, turning to follow him towards the door.

Vessel holds the door open. “You’ve got a class tonight, right? I don’t want to make you late.”

II looks at the painter quizzically, but nods and follows him out. “Thanks.”

They pause in front of the cafe, and try to talk at the same time.

“Look, Vessel, I—”

“Did something— Sorry, you go.”

II shakes his head, grinning apologetically, and says, “Get home safe, alright?” He gives Vessel’s shoulder a squeeze before starting off down the pavement.

Vessel frowns as he watches the sculptor leave. Something isn’t adding up, and it’s more than just the brain fog and drowsiness. Had he said something wrong? They were just talking, and then… nothing. II had talked about his weekend, and then they were outside. He can’t remember what had made II so concerned.

II glances back at Vessel after a few paces, offering a small smile and a wave.

Vessel returns the smile, but only until II looks away again. He stares at the sculptor’s receding back. He’s missing something. He’s sure of it.

On the walk home, his memory provides neither answers nor relief to his confusion. After replaying the scene in his head during a quiet dinner, it gives him nothing. Even as he settles down in bed and lies awake for hours… Nothing.

Why can’t he remember?

The incident conversation with II is completely forgotten within a matter of days.

The front door slams shut as Vessel tosses off the hood of his rain jacket and carefully sets his shopping to one side of his foyer. He hopes that nothing got too soggy from the wretched drizzle outside. The weather has been fucking miserable all day, but he’s really looking forward to unpacking the new brushes he bought. Vessel only has one arm out of his jacket when his phone pings, and the loose sleeve dangles, forgotten, when he sees who the text is from.

III
i’m bored.

III
got plans??

Vessel looks from the bleak weather out the window, to the bag of new supplies on the floor, and back to the message. He types a response and feels himself fighting a grin.

Vessel
No, but something tells me that I do now.

III
correct!

III
i want kebab.

Fifteen minutes later, Vessel stands in front of III’s building. He’s only given a few seconds to admire the vintage brick facade before the front door opens.

III tugs his hoodie up and shoves his hands in the front pocket as he descends the front steps, saying, “I would invite you up, but the place is a right mess. And you’d have to buy me dinner first.” He winks.

“Oh, I see.” Vessel rolls his eyes. “Did you make me come out in the rain just to pay for your food then?”

“First of all, it’s not raining. It’s just misting, which is nothing to complain about. And no, actually, since I invited you, I’m the one paying.” III spins on his heel and starts walking towards the corner, giving Vessel no chance to respond.

Vessel stumbles and hurries to follow him. “Three, wait, you don’t have to—”

“There’s a kebab shop on the other side of the park, and I got a mad craving,” III says over his shoulder, “but I also wanted some company.”

Vessel catches up to him.

III continues, “And I know you’re usually cooped up at home working”—he shoots Vessel a teasing look—“or planted at the cafe watching the world go by. Especially on days like this. So I thought you might need a change of scenery.”

“That’s actually quite… considerate. Thank you.”

“…Also, my flat is full of fumes. Forgot to open a window while dying my hair earlier,” III mutters, tucking a few vibrant red strands back into his hood. “Figured I should clear out for a while, try to spare my remaining brain cells.”

“What, all two of them?” Vessel quips before thinking.

“Oi!” III elbows the painter, equal parts shock and delight splashed across his features.

Vessel snickers. But he catches the implication. The seamster is lonely—and thinking about him.

Vessel lets it go as they begin to skirt the edge of the park, their path hugging the iron fence just outside the perimeter of trees. Instead, he tries to focus on answering the intermittent questions from III, and taking every opportunity to ask questions himself in return. He’s desperate to learn something—anything—about the seamster beyond coffee tastes and fashion choices.

“So,” III starts, “your advice has already given me my favorite coffee shop. Any other hidden gems I should know about?”

“Depends,” Vessel hedges. “What do you like to do?”

III hums thoughtfully. “Well, all sorts of the usual things, really. Reading, listening to music, working on my designs of course. Oh, but—”

Vessel’s ears perk up.

“I’ve just come up with a challenge for myself to visit every pub in the neighborhood before the end of the summer.”

That’s… not exactly an answer.

“Sounds quite ambitious,” Vessel counters. “What’s your hurry?”

“I reckon life’s too short. Want to try as much as possible while I’ve got the time…” III trails off.

Vessel stays quiet, holding his breath for any further explanation.

“But it’s not important.” III shrugs. “Anyway, how’d your week go?”

Again, not an answer.

Vessel responds through gritted teeth, “Honestly, a bit of a blur. I’ve had my head down working on— Oh don’t look at me like that!” Vessel laughs at the seamster’s teasing expression. “I enjoy my work. How was yours, then? What did you get up to?”

When III answers, he only talks about his time at the Center. He somehow provides more details on Mattie’s new crochet workshop than on his own life.

The pattern repeats.

III changes topics of conversation even faster than he walks, never staying on a single topic long enough to let Vessel in. Vessel doesn’t even think he does it on purpose half the time; the man is just so easily distracted. But as III continues down the pavement, diverting the conversation as often as he dodges dripping tree limbs, Vessel grows frustrated. He fights the impulse to grab the back of the seamster’s hoodie and make him slow down.

Vessel wonders what it would take to actually hold him still. He imagines gripping III’s chin, forcing his attention to stay put, or even grabbing his wrists, pinning them—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Vessel keeps his hands tucked into his jacket. They’ve reached the restaurant anyway—just a little walk up window facing the park, with small picnic tables lining the pavement. He turns his attention to the menu and the mouth watering smells coming from the window, trying to focus on physical hunger instead of his other appetite.

When it’s time to pay, Vessel’s attempt to reach for his wallet is blocked by the taller man putting an arm around his shoulder and steering him away from the terminal. The arm stays there the entire time they wait for their food. Vessel can feel III’s body heat where their sides press together and where a large hand—large enough to rival his own—lazily rests on his shoulder. He’s tempted to lean his aching head back to rest it on III’s shoulder. Instead, he moves away to claim a recently vacated table under the building’s awning, leaving III to grab their orders.

When III sits down across from him, the seamster wastes no time in tearing into the food—and in tormenting Vessel. At the first bite of his food, the seamster closes his eyes and tips his head back with a comically exaggerated and satisfied moan. Vessel stares openly at the column of his neck.

This settles it. He’s in hell.

Vessel must have died from exhaustion at his desk, and is now in hell. He’s reminded of nearly breaking his phone when III had sent him a partial selfie in a red ruffled shirt. He hated that bloody shirt for being so ridiculous, for hiding more skin, for simply existing. All he wanted to look at was the angle of III’s jaw and the muscle of his neck—which are now conveniently back on display.

Vessel’s mouth waters. He settles for the kebab in his hand.

Then III opens his mouth again.

“So,” the seamster says around the straw of his drink, “you and Two.”

Vessel freezes halfway through taking a bite.

III goes on, “Judging by the way you two were talking at Birdsong the other day, it seems like you worked out whatever the problem was between you.”

Vessel slowly unfreezes, but stays silent.

III leans forward with a conspiratorial smirk. “What’s your secret? All I ever get from him is grump and sass.”

Vessel chews slowly to buy himself time. Eventually he responds, “You ever tried not annoying him?”

“Oh, wha— He’s too cute not to annoy!”

Vessel snorts. But he doesn’t disagree.

“Anyway,” III says, “you look good together.”

“N-no, we’re not— I—” Vessel stammers, “We’re just friends.”

III quirks an eyebrow.

“…It’s complicated,” Vessel concedes. “But I don’t know if I’m looking to be in a relationship, to be honest.”

“Alright, fair.” III looks almost impressed, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “But… Listen, don’t take this wrong way. I’m not one to slut shame, but I didn’t think you would be—”

“No!” Vessel cuts him off, dropping his food in horror when he realizes what III had assumed. He can feel his composure slipping as he tries to explain. “Oh my god, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m not just looking to get into someone’s pants, either. I’m not… erm…”

“Not one for casual sex?” III offers.

Vessel’s cheeks warm, but he nods.

“Oh my god. Then just bloody say that! Whatever the fuck is going on, or not going on, between you two… You have got to get more comfortable talking about it.”

Vessel’s fist clenches on the tabletop.

III raises his hands, placating. “Doesn’t have to be with me, but—”

“Why do you care?” Vessel snaps.

III squints. He crosses his arms and looks away. “Sorry,” he mutters, “call it a curse of the inquisitive mind.”

“Three, I didn’t…” Vessel takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

III just shrugs. “S’fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Vessel leans his elbows on the table and hangs his head. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just say things like you do. I mean how the fuck do you always just—”

“It’s fine, Vessel.”

“No, it’s not. I can’t—” A nervous laugh escapes Vessel as he runs a hand through his hair. He should shut up. He continues, “I can’t fucking keep up. I’ve never met someone who asks so many questions, who gives less of a shit about what other people think, but won’t tell me a single genuine thing about themselves in return. I don’t know a bloody thing about you, Three. And meanwhile, mentally, I keep feeling like everything’s about to go to shit, and you’re not helping in the slightest, and I’m so tired…”

III fixates on a tree across the road, but he listens dutifully as the words continue to pour out of Vessel.

“I feel like a bug under a lens sometimes. Everyone’s always bloody worrying after me, always asking questions. Why did you even invite me out here—to interrogate me? Because I genuinely can’t figure out why you’re so interested, why you want to know things, what you’re getting out of it, whether you’re gonna turn around and—” Vessel has to stop to breathe. His voice cracks as he finishes, softer, “I just want to understand.”

III looks at him then.

“Fuck,” Vessel groans, “I’m sorry. I know I’m overthinking it. I just… I feel fucking pathetic.”

III stares at him narrowed eyes, searching for something. “Okay,” III declares, “Fine. I dragged you out here cause I’m fucking worried about your pathetic ass. You…” III looks him up and down, then shakes his head. “You just seem off, lately.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Save it, Vess,” III sighs. “I want to be your friend. That means I like it when you talk to me, even when I’m pissing you off or when you’re having a shit time. Especially when you’re having a shit time.”

Vessel tries to ignore how his nickname sounds on III’s lips. He picks up his food again, huffing a laugh. “You’re starting to sound like Lyns. She’s always getting onto me, always saying it’s because she cares.”

“Maybe we should start a group chat,” III muses, “so she and I can gang up on you.”

Vessel groans. “God, please don’t. The last thing I need is both of you scolding me at once.”

“Well, I’m going to make you open up one way or another.” III smirks and holds out cupped hands from across the table. “I’m not above begging. Is that preferable?”

Vessel rolls his eyes and finishes his last bite. When he finally glances at the seamster, he nearly chokes.

The man’s palms are drenched in red.

The red is dark in the bleak light, nearly black, where it coats his skin and pools in his palms. It shines, then spills, trickling through gaps of slender fingers. As crimson begins to creep across pale flesh, Vessel recognizes it.

It’s blood.

Whose blood is that?

Then Vessel smells it—the metallic scent cutting through the damp air like a knife. The taste of iron coats the back of his tongue on each sharp inhale. It doesn’t make sense. Even from across the table, the scent is strong. Too strong.

He looks down.

The hands are his own.

They tremble, drenched and sticky with warmth.

Whose blood is this?

He tries to speak. As soon as his lips part, blood bubbles up and spills where words should be. His mouth is filled with it. It drips past his chin, trailing down his neck to pool in the hollow of his throat. He shudders and tries again to make a noise, but the sound drowns and dies as more blood continues to flow.

He’s gagging.

Gasping.

“You alright?”

Vessel blinks.

III is looking at him in concern, standing beside him with a hand patting Vessel’s back. “You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

“Yeah. No, I, er…” Vessel shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

III hesitantly removes his hand, now using it brace himself as he turns to lean backwards on the table next to the painter. His fingertips are stained faintly red with hair dye.

Had he been choking?

Vessel clears his throat, looking away as he makes up an excuse. “Sorry. Just swallowed wrong.”

III hums in acknowledgement, skepticism dripping from his voice.

Vessel doesn’t have to look to know that the seamster is still staring at him. He can feel the sharp gaze like a razor on the side of his face as the silence stretches on. He takes a deep breath, the damp spring air and the smell of spices from the restaurant filling his nose, as he braces for another interrogation. But it doesn’t come.

“Listen…” III sighs, “I didn’t mean to upset you, with all the questions. If it makes any difference, I don’t have an ulterior motive. Whatever kind of asshole you think I am, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

Vessel stays quiet, eyes mapping the surface of the table, still trying to regain his bearings.

When III doesn’t get a response, he scoffs. “Alright. Fine. You want to know something ‘genuine’ about me?”

Vessel looks up. He nods apprehensively.

“I’m fucking hacked off,” III states. “I’m sick of people assuming the worst of me.”

Vessel’s heart sinks.

“I like learning things. I like asking questions. And I don’t like lying or wasting time. But everyone else, they just—” III takes a deep breath and looks away. “People are always quick to judge, y’know? And then no one ever says what they actually mean. So you can’t fucking please anyone. If you act like them, they think you’re fake like them. If you try to be sincere, they write you off as a joke. No one ever takes you seriously. No one ever bothers to try to understand you.”

Vessel’s throat is tight as he rushes to fix his mistake. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” His voice strains. He blinks hard. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— I don’t think you’re an asshole. I’m sorry for overthinking, I know it’s selfish, I just—”

“Bruv.” III stops him. He scans the painter’s face. III suddenly pushes off of the table, snatching both of their trash to throw away. “Honestly, forget it. We’ve both got our own shit.”

Vessel struggles to breath past the tightness in his chest.

“Now come on. You look like a sad wet cat,” III mutters. He hauls Vessel to his feet before giving him an exaggerated once-over. “You sure you’re not gonna be sick?”

What is he talking about?

Other than the lump in Vessel’s throat, he feels fine.

Vessel replies automatically, “I’m sure.”

“Alright.” III slings his arm back around Vessel’s shoulders as they start to leave. “But if you start gagging again, I’m shoving your face in the nearest shrub.”

Vessel tries to laugh it off. But as they walk back, once again following the edge of the park, III hardly speaks at all. A growing unease sinks heavily into Vessel’s stomach. Real nausea begins to bloom. Confusion descends upon him as if suspended in the mist surrounding him, clinging to him, condensating in glistening beads of frustration.

Why can’t he remember?

Vessel’s frustration refuses to dissipate.

Exhaustion makes his composure grow more brittle by the day.

Small mistakes begin to feel catastrophic. A spilled cup of tea is the equivalent of an ocean of waste. A bumped shoulder on the doorframe is an embarrassment, worthy of tear-stained cheeks and knuckles bruised on wood. A smear of color on the floor from a dropped paintbrush becomes a monument to his ineptitude.

While hastily undressing one evening after a rough day—futilely hoping to strip the aggravation away with his clothing—his hand snags the chain of his necklace. The clasp gives, or maybe a link snaps. He can’t tell. He just knows that the small golden charm now sits in his palm, along with the broken chain, for the first time in years.

Absolutely unbelievable, careless—

A text notification pings from his phone where it sits on the dresser.

Vessel clenches his eyes shut for a moment. He sets the chain down on the dresser and picks up the phone.

Unsaved Number
Hey. Is this Vessel? Hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from III. I never got a chance to thank you properly for connecting me with him and II. -Ivy

Something flutters in Vessel’s stomach, surprise quickly taking the place of his anger. He doesn’t mind, but he’s certainly unprepared—he hadn’t expected to ever hear from the jeweler again. Ivy hadn’t asked for his number, so he hadn’t thought to enter it.

Vessel quickly saves Ivy as a contact before responding.

Vessel
I don’t mind. And it’s really no problem, I’m glad it worked out :)

The typing bubble appears almost instantly, and he watches it for a long minute. Then it disappears. Vessel’s finger is on the lock button when the text finally arrives.

Ivy
I’d really like to thank you somehow.

The nervous flutter in his stomach returns at the thought of seeing the jeweler again. Vessel chews his lip. He sets his phone down and decides to finish getting undressed while he thinks. He’s glad that he could be helpful, but he really doesn’t want anything in return.

He could just… leave it.

He should leave it.

By the time he’s finished picking up his clothes and dressing for bed, his mind is all but made up. He’s just going to let it go. But when he returns to the dresser, ready to send some vague noncommittal response, Vessel stops. He finds his answer lying next to his phone on the dresser. As soon as his eyes land on the broken necklace chain, he’s typing.

A second text from the jeweler arrives at the same exact moment that his thumb presses send.

Ivy
Got any ideas? ;)

Vessel
Actually, I just might.

Vessel nearly drops his phone.

Oh fuck—

His heart races as his fingers fly across the screen to type another message, asking if Ivy could help with a broken necklace. He sends it.

Oh god…

His chest is still filled with icy panic. He types another message, this time trying to explain the funny timing about his necklace breaking. He sends it.

The typing bubble never appears.

Vessel forces himself not to send another text, instead resorting to pacing around his room. He isn’t sure what to do with the interest from the other man. He doesn’t know if he wants to do anything with it. The attraction is certainly mutual, but the painter feels out of his depth. He had only flirted with Ivy because he didn’t think it would ever lead to anything.

He sinks onto the edge of his bed and presses his palms into his eyes. He had been telling the truth when he lost his composure in front of III; he’s not trying to date, and he doesn’t do casual arrangements. He doesn’t exactly hook up.

Vessel has always preferred long-term commitments.

That’s worked out splendidly for him in the past.

A muffled ping comes from the pillow where Vessel had thrown his phone.

Ivy
Stop by Cathedral tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.

—

Vessel decides to go first thing in the morning on his way to work.

His entire day already feels off balance. In addition to straying from his normal commute to the museum, there’s a pit in his stomach when he checks his phone during the walk. He hasn’t received a morning selfie from III since their argument. Vessel isn’t even sure if it was an argument—it feels like he’s still missing something. He gets a headache every time he tries to think about it too hard.

But he remembers both of them snapping. And he remembers that his apology wasn’t enough.

A flash of color pulls Vessel’s attention away from his empty notifications. He looks up, and stops in front of a tea shop. The lights are dark, and a security gate shields the half-renovated interior. There’s a sign hung in the front window: “New Management - Reopening Soon!”

There’s also a giant dick spray-painted on the building.

It looks similar to the one he had seen last summer with II, but not quite identical. Where the other one had looked new—the paint still fresh and vibrant—this one seems older. The colors are slightly faded, almost weathered. Vessel recalls the other one being more detailed as well, although it’s been months since he saw it.

Vessel has an idea. He quickly pulls his phone back out. He takes a picture of the storefront—colossal neon cock and all—and sends it to III.

He gets a response right before he reaches Burning Cathedral.

III
well good morning to u too.

The seamster attaches a picture of his coffee—Vessel’s pretty sure it’s coffee—but the photo doesn’t show any of his outfit. The only visible part of III is a hand, holding the drink out in front of a blurry background of pavement and tidy shrubs.

Vessel takes a steadying breath. He pockets his phone, and opens the door to find Ivy and Paige in the middle of a conversation.

Ivy leans against the counter. His arms are crossed and his back is to the door. From the tone of his voice, the conversation sounds more like an argument. “—just don’t understand! I thought for sure that he—”

“Good morning, Vessel,” Paige calls over Ivy’s shoulder, stopping him short.

Vessel cautiously returns the greeting. He doesn’t know what he walked in on, but he really has to keep his shit together. He needs to be more focused than the last time he was here.

Ivy turns and flashes a half-hearted smile. Vessel’s stomach still flutters.

Damn it.

“Alright?” Ivy greets.

“Yeah, you?” Vessel looks between the two. “If I’m, er, if I’m interrupting something, I can come back—”

“No. We’re good.” Ivy’s words are directed at Vessel, but his eyes are on Paige.

“Don’t mind him.” Paige lightly smacks Ivy’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Someone stayed out too late last night, and then decided to start an argument first thing in the morning.”

Ivy opens his mouth.

Paige holds up a finger, cutting him off. “Drink your tea. Stop being an anxious twat. I have other things to deal with.” She gives Vessel a smile and a nod, then pushes through the door to the back.

Ivy huffs, but obediently takes a sip from a nearby travel mug. He looks thoughtfully at Vessel over the rim.

Vessel braces himself for whatever charming line is undoubtedly brewing.

“Let’s see the necklace, then.”

“Oh.” Vessel hurriedly reaches into his bag. “Sure, right.”

Ivy leans over to see the simple chain and broken clasp. “Pff, easy work. If you wanna just stick around—”

“I can’t,” Vessel interrupts. He winces internally and quickly clarifies, “I’ve got to get to the museum, I mean. Will you be here this afternoon? I can stop by right after work, say five-ish?”

“Yeah,” Ivy nods. He carefully takes the necklace from Vessel’s hand. “I’ll still be here. We’re open ‘til six.”

Vessel thanks him before quickly setting off towards the museum. His thoughts spin the entire way. He had expected to be tortured by Ivy’s flirting, but this is far worse. The jeweler’s voice had sounded almost hollow. His smile hadn’t reached his eyes. Paige said it was just a sour mood from a long night, but Vessel’s instincts still scream at him to fix it. He has to find something he can do to make it better, to make Ivy smile, or laugh.

Or blush.

Even when Ivy’s in a bad mood, Vessel still feels like he’s about to cough up butterfly wings.

He’s fucking hopeless.

—

Vessel’s workday passes unremarkably, other than a brief visit from George to check on him—and force him to submit requests to spend some of his overflowing time off. Vessel even manages to stay reasonably focused.

Perhaps too focused.

When he looks up to check the time after finishing a mountain of backlogged paperwork, his stomach drops. It’s half past five.

Vessel scrambles to shut everything down and pack his things, cursing under his breath the whole time, before hauling ass to Cathedral. It feels like it takes a year just to get out of the labyrinthine basement of the museum.

Fifteen minutes later and out of breath, he rushes through the door of the jewelry shop.

Ivy is walking around shutting down display lights. “Hey,” he greets over one shoulder, “Sorry, you mind if I finish some things first? It’s just me closing. Figured I’d shut a few things down early.”

“Sure, of course,” Vessel says. “My fault for being late, I’m so sorry.”

“All good.” Ivy waves him off. His mood certainly seems better, his voice a little lighter, but something about his posture is still off as he begins double-checking the locks on display cases and drawers. His shoulders are tensed.

Vessel looks around. “Paige has already gone?”

“Yeah, left for drinks with George not too long ago.”

“George, my boss George?” Vessel confirms.

Ivy nods.

“Wait,” an odd thought strikes Vessel, “are they..?”

“No, no,” Ivy corrects him with a faint laugh, “They’re just old friends.”

“Oh. Good.”

“‘Good?’” Ivy tilts his head and raises one eyebrow accusingly. “Are you interested in my boss?”

“Wh— No! I didn’t mean—” Vessel sputters, “I meant good, as in I don’t want anything to muck up your arrangement with the museum shop, like if admin thinks there’s a conflict of interest or some rubbish.”

“Oh. That’s… thoughtful of you,” Ivy says softly, eyeing Vessel. “But George is the curator right? Different department and all, it would be fine.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Vessel concedes, “that was just the first thing I thought of.” He continues nervously as an afterthought, “But Paige seems lovely.”

“She is.” Ivy agrees. “She’s also not interested in men. So don’t get any ideas.”

Vessel snorts. “Noted.”

Ivy continues around the shop. After a pause, he speaks up again. “Are you, though …interested in men?”

Vessel fumbles his words. “Oh. I-I’m, uh—”

“Actually, you don’t have to answer that.” Ivy shakes his head. “I wanted to apologize. I think I may have gotten the wrong idea, and if my text made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. There’s no hard feelings if you—”

“I am.”

Ivy whips his head around to stare him.

“Interested in men,” Vessel clarifies. “I’m also just… not very good at it.”

Ivy scoffs. “That’s a load of bollocks. You were smooth as shit the first time you were in here.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t, er…” Vessel grapples for the right words. When he finds them, he struggles to force them out of his throat. “I’m also not looking to date right now.”

Ivy considers him for a moment, then nods slightly. “Okay. Fair enough.” He finishes locking the last cabinet and smirks. “Although, my habits aren’t quite considered dating, so… you could still ring me any time.”

“N-no, I—”

“Relax, mate.” Ivy puts a hand on his shoulder. “Only joking.”

“Right.” Vessel laughs weakly. He tries not to feel childish as he asks, “Friends?”

Ivy huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Alright.” He claps Vessel on the shoulder. “Now come on, let’s get you that necklace so I can get out of here.”

Vessel waits, feeling awkward but a tad lighter, while Ivy goes behind the counter. The jeweler turns off most of the rest of the shop lights, leaving a single one lit above the counter, before ducking down to retrieve the jewelry.

The jeweler straightens holding two small boxes. “Here you go, good as new.” He opens the first and sets it in front of Vessel to display the necklace. “Better, actually. I swapped out the chain completely.”

“Ivy, you didn't have to—”

“Hush. I’m not gonna hand you back something that’s gonna fall apart again in a week. Although if I were a smarter man, I would’ve. It’d give you another reason to stop by.”

Vessel removes the necklace from the box to admire it. The fine metal chain pools in his hand, the gold gleaming under the single spotlight in the otherwise dark shop.

“Anyway,” Ivy says, “I didn’t peg you as a libra.”

Vessel pauses. “Sorry?”

Ivy shrugs. “Just didn’t expect you to be an air sign.”

“…What?”

“The charm,” Ivy sounds like he’s trying not laugh as a smile slowly spreads across his face. “It has the zodiac symbol for libra.”

“That—” Vessel squints at the charm. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

Ivy tilts his head, bemused.

“I had always wondered why the alchemical symbol for sublimation was on jewelry at Primark.”

Ivy fails to contain his roaring laughter. “Primark? Guess that explains why the chain was so fucked. Is there a sentimental reason that you choose to wear such shit quality jewelry?”

“No, not really. Not everything has a deep meaning. I was just excited to see something chemistry-related at the shops.” Vessel shrugs and begins to put the necklace back on. “I had just come out of a relationship, so I bought it to cheer myself up.”

Ivy’s smile falls.

“It’s silly. At this point, it’s more of a familiar comfort than anything. Feels weird to not wear it.” Vessel starts to flush in embarrassment as he struggles to fasten the necklace. “Sorry, not used to the new clasp…”

“Here, let me.” Ivy moves behind Vessel to secure the clasp.

Vessel’s skin burns where Ivy’s fingers gently graze his neck. Heat spreads across Vessel’s face.

“By the way,” Ivy murmurs, fingertips still at Vessel’s nape, “if you ever change your mind, all you gotta do is ask.”

Vessel isn’t sure he could form a sentence if he tried—let alone ask a question.

Ivy stands in front of him and slaps his cheek lightly, smirking. “You look a treat.”

In an effort to look anywhere besides the shorter man, Vessel notices the second box on the counter. “What’s in that one?”

“Ah, that’s for you as well. I got bored and…” Ivy hands him the box.

Vessel’s curiosity overpowers his apprehension at the unexpected gift. He lifts the lid, revealing a flat brass charm—a keychain, he realizes—engraved with tiny stars and constellations.

Ivy rubs an arm, shoulders raising slightly, as he continues, “Although, I was under the assumption you were into astrology. Feels a bit stupid now—”

“I love it.” Vessel realizes he’s smiling. His face feels like it’s going to split in two. “Thank you.”

Ivy returns the smile, his posture relaxing.

Vessel rubs a thumb over the smooth metal, feeling the texture of the etched stars, before he attaches it to his key ring and pulling out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Ivy shakes his head. “It’s a gift.”

“Let me pay you for the chain, at least.”

Ivy sighs, but goes behind the counter to type up the sale.

Vessel frowns at the criminally low number displayed on the machine. He touches the new chain of his necklace and looks at Ivy. “Is this real gold?”

“Yes of course, why wouldn’t— Oh.” Having been caught, Ivy rolls his eyes and adjusts the sale, muttering under his breath, “I swear, you and Three…”

Satisfied with the new number, Vessel pays.

Ivy comes back around the counter and puts a hand on the painter’s back. “Let me walk you out so I can lock up.”

Vessel startles at Ivy’s touch, and drops his wallet.

“Sorry. You okay?”

Kneeling down to grab his wallet, Vessel looks up to respond. His words dissolve in his mouth at what he sees. Ivy stands above him, over him, head cocked at an angle. The jeweler’s body is backlit by the spotlight above the counter, his features completely obscured in shadow.

Vessel stares up into a body made of darkness.

The dark figure looms above him, a vacuous silhouette. Rays of light flare around the edge of its head in a barbed halo. Its features are eclipsed, indecipherable—if it has features at all. Although, there… a small glimmer is visible, closer to its chest. As Vessel’s eyes strain to adjust, tiny specs of light begin to emerge.

Stars.

Vessel loves the stars.

Clusters of light are dusted throughout the personified void, twinkling faintly. The figure shifts closer—or maybe it expands. Vessel only knows that his vision is now filled with a sea of constellations that ripples gently, as though rising and falling with the silent breathes of some giant.

Vessel continues to stare upwards.

The stars move.

At first, he thinks they’re growing. The painter realizes his error when he can no longer feel the ground beneath him. The stars aren’t growing—he’s moving closer. Vessel no longer knows is he’s looking up or down as the darkness closes around him, drawing him in towards the flickering lights of the abyss.

Gravity falters, and then wholly abandons him. His body lurches skyward.

The night descends to meet him.

“Vessel?”

He blinks.

He’s crouched on the floor of the jewelry shop, his wallet held in his hand. Ivy leans over him with an outstretched hand to help him up. The jewelry around his neck dangles, the chains catching the weak evening light through the window.

Vessel accepts the offered hand.

“You good, mate?”

“Yeah,” Vessel lies, dazed, “Sorry.”

Ivy’s hand comes up to support his back when he sways.

“Just got a bit dizzy.” Vessel tries to ignore how nice the touch feels. “Worked through lunch.”

“Do you need help getting home?”

Vessel shakes his head, and walks assuredly to the front door to prove it.

“Alright…” Ivy sounds reluctant. “Get home and get some food, yeah?”

They part ways, and Ivy locks the door behind him. The cool air is a relief on Vessel’s burning cheeks. He starts to walk home, and tries to shake the numb tingling out of his legs. He frowns in confusion.

That’s odd. He hadn’t knelt down for longer than a second—had he? He had dropped his wallet, and then…

Why can’t he remember?

Vessel’s patience with himself continues to thin.

Time passes without his permission, slipping down the gutters with the spring rains, blurring together in a fog of sleepless nights and maddening days. The real world begins to fade, reduced to a backdrop for the cyclical war in his head.

He wants.

He resists.

It aches.

The painter goes through the motions of his own life, taking great pains to maintain a semblance of normality—out of habit or a sense of obligation, he isn’t sure—while his thoughts become more and more incomprehensible. The turmoil threatens to become paralytic. The sights and sounds of the neighborhood fail to capture his attention. He freezes at simple decisions. He sits motionless for long stretches of time when his mind is too busy fighting itself to convince his body to move.

A well-crafted mask at work and quick thinking during conversations are enough to get him through most days.

But not every day.

One evening, he remains in the armchair at Birdsong late, even after II has left for the studio. He tells himself it’s because he’s enjoying his current book. It’s not because he’s avoiding going home or being left alone with his thoughts, the gnawing anxiety, and the empty bed that holds no reprieve.

His head is still bent over the pages of his novel when Lyns begins the closing duties with the remaining barista.

“You’re here awfully late,” she says to Vessel. “Usually you’re out of here around the same time as Two.”

“Couldn’t put the book down,” Vessel replies. He’s been rereading the same paragraph for the last five minutes.

Lyns turns her focus back to balancing the till, leaving Vessel to pack up. He isn’t sure if the creaking is coming from the armchair or his bones when he slowly starts to move, his body leaden. The idea of getting up feels daunting.

He blinks.

Lyns stands beside him, and he jumps. Most of the shop lights are off. The other barista is nowhere to be seen, and Lyns’s bag is on her shoulder.

“We’re getting a drink.” Her tone leaves no room for an argument.

Vessel tries anyway. “I need to go home, find dinner—”

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “You’re coming to the pub with me. We’re getting snacks and a pint. Come on.”

Vessel wants to be annoyed, but that does actually sound excellent. He stands from the armchair. The world spins. He stares down at the tile floor and grips the back of the seat, waiting for his balance to return.

He blinks.

He stares down at a dark wooden bartop and grips the pint glass in his hand. The shiny surface of the bar is covered in dings and scratches, reflecting the glow of shitty thrifted chandeliers above. He recognizes the pub: a local favorite that borders the park, called The Rose & Sword.

Lyns sits on a stool beside him. Watching him.

Vessel reaches for the half-eaten tray of chips in front of him. “Sorry, what were you—”

“Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Lyns cuts him off.

Vessel grimaces. “I’m just tired, Lynsey.”

“Cut the shit, Vessel.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He should’ve just gone straight home. He can’t deal with this right now. “Why is it that every time we’re alone together it feels like I’m standing trial?”

“Maybe because otherwise you won’t talk to me.”

“I talk to you all the time—”

“Yeah, technically, but you don’t tell me anything. You talk about your work, and you send me funny things on socials. Then you keep showing up to the cafe looking half-dead and you nearly fall asleep standing up. You barely responded to me the whole walk over here, even when I tried to gossip about Two. Something is wrong, and you’re freaking me the fuck out.”

Vessel eats his chips, hoping that maybe if he waits long enough, she’ll let it go.

Lyns just stares at him.

“I’m not sleeping,” he begins.

“Okay.” Lyns nods. She keeps staring.

“When I do sleep,” he continues, “I get nightmares. Horrible, relentless fucking things. It’s been like this for… I don’t even know. A while.”

“Alright.” She nods again, still watching him. “There’s something else, though.”

Vessel laughs bitterly to himself. How is he supposed to tell his best friend he’s going completely mental? He doesn’t feel real. The contradiction between his mental state and corporeal existence is maddening. There’s no polite way to tell the truth: that he fantasizes about taking matters into his own hands, about forcibly realigning reality with his perception, about disappearing.

“I can’t keep my thoughts straight,” Vessel starts. “I don’t know how to—” His voice wobbles.

Lyns’s expression softens. She steals a chip and waits patiently as he simply tries to breathe. His eyes roam around the room, as if his answers hang on the walls amidst the decor.

At least Lyns picked a decent pub.

The painter doesn’t drink much, but The Rose & Sword is one of his favorite places in the neighborhood. String lights drape from every available ledge, with walls covered in art and trinkets left as offerings from long-gone regulars. There’s a pride flag in the front window. He never got into the habit of frequenting the pub, but he really should.

Vessel’s heart squeezes when he realizes that III would love it here. Then he pictures Ivy tucked into the corner booth, lit in the blues and pinks of the decorative neon signs. And II… Vessel wants nothing more than to turn around to find him on the neighboring stool, chattering away about the eclectic trinkets covering the walls.

Fuck.

Vessel continues to stare at the wall over his friend’s shoulder as he laments, “You’re going to judge me.”

“Vessel.” Lyns frowns and spins in her seat to face him completely. “I may yell at you sometimes, and I may call you out when you’re being a prat. But I’m not going to judge you.”

“I know, but—”

“Spit it out.”

“Fuck,” Vessel takes a breath and looks to the ceiling while he tries to find the right words. “I have feelings for Two.”

“Yeah. We’ve covered that.”

“And Three.”

Lyns raises a brow slightly. “Alright, I mean—”

“And Ivy.” Vessel finally shifts his eyes to his friend’s face.

Lyns holds the eye contact for a moment, searching his gaze, before looking away to finish her drink. She motions the barman for another one and sets down the empty glass. “Well,” she sighs, “I’m mildly surprised. And I don’t quite understand why you’re making it sound so dire, but… I’m certainly not judging you.”

Vessel looses a breath.

The barman slides over the new pint, and Lyns smiles at him. “Thanks, Thom.” She takes a sip before turning back to Vessel. “So. What do you want to do about it?”

The question shouldn’t surprise Vessel—he knows how practical Lyns can be—but it does. He has no fucking clue what to do.

When he doesn’t respond, Lyns continues, “Most people really enjoy having crushes, y’know.”

Vessel’s face twists. “‘Crush’ seems too trivial a word.”

She winces in sympathy. “That bad, huh?”

He nods. “Devastatingly.”

“Well… Why don’t you ask any of them out? I’ve never met Ivy, but Two has mentioned him. Judging by your other tastes in men, I bet he’s nice.”

“I can’t,” Vessel whines. “I would just feel guilty. I don’t want to get into a relationship if I’m just going to keep pining away for someone else behind their back. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What if—”

Vessel presses at his eyes. Oily doubt trickles into him, clinging to the inside of skull as his brain cycles through what-ifs. What if he makes an advance, but they don’t like him back? What if they all reject him? What if they think he’s selfish for wanting all of them, and abandon him entirely? What if they judge him for being..?

Being what?

Vessel’s not clueless. He knows what polyamory is. He did go to uni for art, after all, where polyamorous relationships were as common as dyed hair and caffeine abuse. But his own experience is… limited. He’s never had time to think about his own identity. He couldn’t afford to, especially not while trying to survive his last relationship.

Now he’s just trying to survive his own head.

Vessel scrubs his palms down his face and continues, volume growing in frustration, “I know I could do nothing. I should do nothing. But it feels like I’m burning from the inside out. I hate it. I don’t want to feel like this.” He finishes, softer, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Lyns steals another chip. “What do you want, then?”

“What?”

“All you’ve done is tell me what you don’t want,” she continues calmly, “so what do you want?”

Vessel chews on the question. He wants…

He wants II. And III. And Ivy.

All of them.

He wants all of them.

Vessel’s heart sinks. He had let himself be torn apart—torn himself apart—the last time he had given himself to someone. That was for one person. What would he do for multiple?

“I want to stop feeling like this.” Vessel’s voice is hollow.

“You’re still a shit liar. And I don’t appreciate it. But…” Lyns hesitates. “Whatever else you’re not telling me, I’m just glad you’re talking about this at all.”

“Not like you gave me much of a choice,” he mutters, lifting his drink.

“Is this what you’ve been losing sleep over?”

“No, it’s—” Vessel stops himself. “Err, yes, maybe? I don’t know…” He looks away, mumbling around the rim of his glass, “I think I’m just being dramatic.”

“Vess…” Lyns reaches for his arm.

“No, fuck off actually”—Vessel bats her away, but there’s no anger behind his words—“I make one little deal with you to try talking to people, and now I’m ready to serve my heart up on a silver platter to not one, but three different men? I fucking hate you.”

Lyns smiles. “Love you too.”

Vessel finishes the last of his pint before asking, “How’s your end of the deal going, anyway?”

“Bad.”

Vessel raises an eyebrow.

She shrugs. “I’m thinking about taking up knitting.”

Vessel sputters a laugh. “What?”

“Don’t fucking laugh at me! I didn’t judge you, now did I? I’m just…” Lyns rubs her temples and groans, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar. “God, I’m having the worst time making myself get out. Maybe I could literally schedule a time on my calendar to be social? Or attend a workshop or two at the Center..?”

“You should try crochet.”

Lyns looks up at him in disbelief. They stare at each other until the corner of her mouth twitches.

Vessel goes back to his chips. “We’re both completely fucked, aren’t we.”

Lyns drops her head onto her forearms, barely muffling her giggles.

—

Vessel walks home slowly, trying to buy more time before being alone with himself enjoying the spring evening.

After leaving the bar, and surviving a bone crushing hug from Lyns, he feels slightly better. He still has no idea what to do, but at least she hadn’t judged him. He hopes foolishly that maybe talking about it is all he needed.

Maybe the feelings will simply fade if he waits long enough.

But how long does it take for the idea of someone to leave your bone marrow? He’d carve it out with his own hands if he could.

The house is dark when he arrives. He flicks on a lamp and leans back against the front door in exhaustion. He doesn’t understand why this is so fucking hard. It would be so easy to just let go—to lean into the feelings, into them, into the black hole he’s circling. He knows it would be so easy to just fall.

Even worse, he wants to.

It scares the shit out of him.

Ice grows in his veins. He can’t do this. He can’t do this again. The painter has kept himself on a leash for years—avoiding people, avoiding the ledge—but he can’t avoid someone who’s in his fucking head. They won’t leave his thoughts. Every glimpse of one of them sends a shock of recognition along his synapses. They’ve never met before, but something in him—his soul if it exists—knows them. He feels it at the back of his mind, the base of his skull, even in his chest. It pulls against the leash, tangling itself between his ribs and around his vertebrae like a dog on a lamppost.

And god, it aches.

Vessel’s head falls back against the door with a thunk. He should go to bed.

He tosses his keys towards the bowl on the table. He misses. They slide and then clatter to the floor.

He glares at them in resignation, trying to will his body to stoop down to collect them. An unfamiliar piece of brass shines brightly, warm as the sun against the cold tile, before Vessel recognizes that it’s the keychain Ivy had given him. The star-etched side is lying face down. He hadn’t actually checked to see if there was anything on the back.

Vessel looks closer, and freezes. The smooth surface is engraved with a single tiny heart.

His vision blurs.

The leash snaps.

An anguished scream rips itself from his throat, and the heels of shaking palms press into his eyes, trying and failing to contain the hot flow of tears.

The ache is overwhelming. The fear is overwhelming. Terror washes over him and his thoughts fragment, spiraling past scenarios, each one more bleak than the last. He can’t afford to make any mistakes. He can’t remain idle, either. He feels like an animal—trapped, caged—provoked by his own desires.

He can’t hold himself together.

The sound of shattering porcelain joins the ragged sobs and ringing in his ears. He’s thrown a vase.

His back hits a wall before sliding downwards to crumple on the floor. He can’t see much past the tears, but he can make out white knuckles of shaking hands. They clutch his elbows, hugging his knees to his chest. Maybe if he presses them tight enough against his ribs, he can stop his chest from fracturing. His lungs are collapsing, his diaphragm is seizing, his skull is cracking.

Someone is screaming.

He can’t breathe.

Vessel blinks.

His head is pounding. His eyes ache. Vessel uncurls from his position on the tile floor and looks around the foyer. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there for, but the roaring in his ears has gone. Now the only sound is slow breathing, rasping in and out of a raw throat. A hand—no, his hand—reaches up to touch the dried tears on his cheeks. His ass is numb.

He feels hollow.

He can manage hollow.

Vessel rises slowly to his feet, wincing at a sharp twinge in his spine from where it had pressed against the wall, and puppets his body to the kitchen. He feels no relief from the glass of water he drinks. While sweeping up the broken vase, he feels no pain from the errant shard that nicks his hand. He goes about the rest of his evening routine in silence. After everything is clean, he returns the entryway, picks the keys up from the floor, and places them delicately in the bowl before clicking the lamp off.

The brass keychain gleams under the moonlit window.

Vessel turns away. He climbs the stairs in darkness.

Vessel has been losing time.

He's not sure when it started, but he knows it’s happening—and that it's becoming more and more frequent.

At first, he writes it off as sleepwalking. He wakes in the middle of the night—even when he doesn’t remember falling asleep—standing in the downstairs hallway or the landing. Then it starts happening during the day. Vessel is able to ignore it, and it doesn’t happen very often, but there are little gaps in his day. Little missing pieces of time.

He walks out of the museum after work and begins towards Birdsong. He blinks. He stands in his front hallway, coffee lingering on his breath, the sky dark through the windows.

He puts on his favorite record to clean the kitchen. He blinks. He stands in the foyer, the house quiet, the record finished.

His memory skips like a stone on a pond.

The days run together, their outlines resembling freshly scrawled ink in the rain. Vessel usually loves the spring, but he barely notices the seasons shift. A misty chill still clings to the early mornings and late nights while the days begin to warm. The English gardens come to life. Their flowers burst with colors so rich and aromas so cloying that their temptation puts any forbidden fruit to shame. Each blanket of morning dew glistens, as if the stars had fallen to earth in the night to enjoy the simple pleasure of sitting on soft grass. The breeze caresses his cheek like a lover, ruffles his hair, and whispers sweet nothings and promises of new beginnings.

Vessel tries to focus on work.

George pressures him into taking more time off from the museum, “out of concern for his health,” which is utter nonsense. The painter is functioning well enough. He’s only fallen asleep in the lab once in the last month, and no one had been around. Nevertheless, George is insistent.

Vessel soon finds himself with a clear schedule, pleasant weather, and a long weekend.

He decides to spend it on his newest restoration commission.

As he readies his home studio, setting up his camera for a time-lapse video and propping the old canvas up on an easel, he pauses to admire the painting. Despite the deterioration, it’s quite a lovely piece. The varnish is dull and discolored, but the scene depicts a wide expanse of sky and a hillscape of richly textured plants, viewed through an stone archway.

It reminds him of Rome.

Vessel presses record on his camera and begins to carefully remove the old varnish. The paint underneath has cracked in places, either from a past owner’s rough handling or the original creator’s carelessness. It doesn’t matter—Vessel takes pleasure in repairing the damage either way. He cleans and smooths the edges where the paint has flaked off, savoring the now vibrant colors.

His mind wanders, drifting through memories of his fellowship in Italy. His year had been spent living and working at the late art collector’s villa—a maze-like environment of marble columns, wooden beams, and stucco that gave way to courtyards overgrown with lush greenery. The sprawling home was big enough to house everyone on the conservation team, with larger areas of the building cleaned and converted into makeshift workspaces. Outside, the cypress trees would whisper and sway in the breeze, while the sun bathed the conservation team and terracotta tiles in warmth beneath the cloudless sky.

Vessel mixes fresh paint on his palette, preparing to retouch the missing spots of color. He smiles to himself. Someone had loved this view enough to capture it. It had been left at the mercy of time, neglected, and changed hands, but it still made it to him. Someone cared enough now to commission him, entrusting him to give it new life.

His experience at the fellowship was much the same. The villa had been left to decay alongside the artwork that filled it. Rooms upon rooms of art had to be assessed, documented, and treated. The collection was extensive, and some days felt just as long as the countless winding hallways. But the work was immensely rewarding.

Vessel diligently continues the inpainting. When he finishes the background, he shifts his focus to the shadowed foreground around the edges of the scene. He fills tiny gaps in the paint—the missing spots of Prussian blue in the decorative tiles, of burnt sienna in the seams between the stones. Bit by bit, the repair work nears completion.

Around the halfway mark of the fellowship, just before the new year, the rooms full of treated artwork began to outnumber those that still needed attention. The rest of the conservation team decided to go the city centre, taking advantage of the holiday revelry to celebrate their own progress. Vessel stayed behind—not wanting to deal with the large crowds of partiers—and spent his evening exploring the villa on his own. He wandered through hallways lined with wooden crates, ready to be packed with art and shipped to their respective museums, until he found himself in an older wing of the building. The corridor was dark, emptied of art months ago and evidently not touched since. Vessel’s only company was the sound of his slow footsteps on the tile floor and the whispering cypress outside.

The hallway ended in a solitary door. Judging by the open lock, the team must have already been through to remove things. But Vessel was been curious. Something in him pulled him forward, needing to see what was at the end.

So he opened the door.

And the next.

And the next, until he stood in a dead-end room. It was dusty, and empty, save for a single painting: a full moon suspended in a dark sky.

Vessel’s memory of Rome became a bit fuzzy after that. The workload began to weigh on him, or maybe it was the stress of being away from home so long, but he began to have trouble sleeping. His mind was unwilling to settle, and he lay awake for hours before sinking into fitful dreams. Something about the villa after sundown unnerved him. More than once, he thought he heard the trees whispering, even on a still night. He started to avoid being alone. He went out with his colleagues for drinks in the evenings more often. Six months of grueling workdays and wine-filled nights will make anyone’s memory a little hazy.

It’s late evening by the time Vessel puts the final touch on the commission. He jots down a note of the date to track the drying time, stops the video recording, and tidies his studio before getting ready for bed.

Even though he never quite got back to normal after Rome and the coinciding onset of his sleep problems, he doesn’t regret it one bit. Applying for the the fellowship had been a no-brainer. He’s always felt drawn to things larger than himself, something greater, not unlike the terrific awe of nature that the Romantics tried to capture. He loves the night sky in particular—the stars, the moon, the vast incomprehensibility of the universe. He even remembers going to an eclipse watch party when he young, out near the coast where the stars shone like diamonds spilled across black velvet.

Vessel frowns. He remembers going to the coast, and his excitement about the eclipse, but… He can’t remember actually seeing it.

His head hits the pillow. He tries not to think about it.

Vessel is walking. He isn’t sure of much else.

There is a night sky. There are trees, and there is stone, and there is moss. He’s climbing. He might be laughing.

He’s falling.

And then there is pain.

All Vessel knows is pain.

His palms sting, as well as his knees. His eyes are streaming. Are they even open? He can’t see anything. And his head—

Oh god his head.

It feels like the back of his skull has been cracked open. His brain throbs with a tremendous pressure, as if something is trying to get out.

No—something is forcing its way in.

It’s pressing, scraping, squeezing through the seams of bone. It curls up at the base of his skull, around the top of his spine, and burrows into the marrow.

It’s writhing.

Whispering.

Vessel’s eyes fly open. They’re filled with tears as they stare upwards at his darkened bedroom ceiling. He fights the tangled sheets to sit up. The tears spill over to carve tracks down his cheeks, before catching at the corner of his mouth. They taste… wrong.

They taste like seawater.

Vessel blinks.

He sits in his studio. He looks at his phone. It tells him that it’s Sunday morning.

A clean brush lies on the desk beside him, along with the palette from his last commission. The leftover paint is still wet, full of glowing blues and rich earth tones. It would be a shame to waste them; it’s his favorite palette in a long time. He stands to retrieve an empty container, but his eyes land on a blank canvas leaning in the corner of the room.

He watches his hands pick it up, and put it on the empty easel. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t paint anymore.

The brush stares at him.

Vessel sits, and stares back. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, an incomprehensible knot of tangled feelings, half-forgotten nightmares, and wispy memories. The trees outside whisper in the spring breeze.

Vessel picks up the brush.

Downstairs, the house is still. The entryway closet is dark, quiet, and forgotten—but not empty.

The painting of the moon sits propped against the wall.

A cushion has been neatly placed in front of it.

Half-burnt tea lights dot the floor.

As the painter works upstairs—becoming consumed by the sole outlet allowed to him, chasing memories with color—he remains unaware of the faint glow in the windowless closet. He doesn’t hear the wooden frame as it strains. He doesn’t see the weathered canvas flexing.

Vessel paints.

The varnish on the moon shifts. And cracks.