Chapter Text
The last thing he wants is to be here, surrounded by crying, grieving people he barely knows and hasn't talked to in almost five years since he graduated school and moved to Bristol.
He barely knows the guy he's here for—some bloke that he knew in school that he can barely remember. He almost feels bad for not remembering him, but not as bad as he does for being here, surrounded by people who truly care about him.
He's moving between groups of people, murmuring his condolences if they greet him or catch his gaze.
He'd rather be anywhere else—even if that means cleaning the toilets in the back of the pub, because that would mean he wouldn't be invited to some funeral for someone he can't remember no matter how hard he wracks his brain. The memories he once had of this now-stranger are distant, and he can't bring himself to grieve even if he wanted to.
He comes to stand by the casket, looking over the pictures that had been placed on top of the case.
He sighs, a pit settling into his stomach when it finally becomes clear to him that he truly does not know this bloke, and he turns to make his way back through the groups of people. He had to hand it to him, though, because this bloke must have been popular among the people. He has a massive family, and a large group of friends. Too bad II just isn't one of them.
He slips past a small crowd and out of the church, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it effortlessly.
He heart nearly drops when he looks out at the steps that lead out of the church, and he nearly drops his freshly lit fag.
"Holy shit," he gasps despite himself.
The stranger standing at the bottom of the steps isn't really a stranger at all. Their lithe figure and their absurd height is something II's sure he could recognize anywhere. And that mousy brown hair—he's run his fingers through it far too many times to forget it.
"Vessel?" He calls, tentative despite the gut feeling that this is him. They perk up, whipping around to face him, and II feels his heart skip a beat. Vessel's eyes widen when they meet his own gaze, and something foreign crosses over his features, but it's gone just as fast as it appears.
"Two?" He asks, cocking his head to the side. Despite the obvious surprise in his voice, there's something else. Something more akin to forbearance than anything else.
"What are you doing here?" II asks, moving closer, but Vessel takes a step back.
"I was invited. What are you doing here?" He asks in a rather accusing tone. II is a little taken aback by this. For as long as he's known Vessel, since university, he's never once been so defensive. He blinks, confused.
"I was invited too," he says. He moves closer and, thankfully, Vessel doesn't move away this time. "God, I haven't seen you in forever. How are you?"
Vessel's face fell, his shoulders hunched forward, and he appeared more like a shell of his truer self. "I'm fine," he said, his tone sounding final.
"Okay, that's good. How's your girlfriend? Or are you two finally engaged now?" He tries to joke to lighten the increasingly heavy tone that's settling over the both of them now, but his attempts seem futile. It's like something changed in Vessel, like he doesn't want to be here. Like he doesn't want to see II.
Vessel shifts his weight between his feet, almost nervously so, and he clears his throat awkwardly. "We broke up."
II's heart dropped. "Oh, I'm sorry. When?"
"A few months ago," he supplies. "It was a whole thing."
"Shit, sorry mate." He shuffles his feet, patting his thighs rhythmically as he tries to conjure up something else to say to fill the silence. "Uh, do you want to hit up a few pints after this? I'd like to know you again."
Vessel met his eyes again, and II felt his breath hitch in his throat. He remembers Vessel's eyes being so blue, so full of life. But now… now they seem almost muted, almost gray. And completely lifeless. Like they were clouded over by depression, and suddenly the sadness in the rest of his features became far more evident than before.
He had dark bags under his eyes, his features almost sunken in. II's eyes trailed lower, down to Vessel's once lithe and healthy figure, but now he looks almost sickly. He looks too-skinny, as if he hasn't eaten properly in a while.
II opens his mouth to speak but Vessel beats him to it.
"No, thanks," he says. "I don't drink anymore.'
"Oh, yeah, that's okay then. We can go out for dinner, maybe?"
Vessel breaks his eyes away from II's, sighing softly. "No, thanks. I'm… not really in the mood for niceties, Two."
The words escaped from between his lips before he could stop them. "Are you okay?"
Vessel's eyes widened, ever so slightly, but to II it was noticeable. II could see just how much Vessel wanted to get out of here.
"I'm fine," he bit out, almost defensively. "I came out here to be alone. Why can't you respect that?"
"I came out here to be alone, too," II bit back. "Why are you being such an asshole, Ves? You cut contact with everyone and suddenly you think you can act brand new?"
"I'm not acting like anything. You're trying to get to know me when I cut contact with everyone for a reason," he snapped. II took a step back, eyes wide, his mind trying to figure out where the aggression came from.
"This is so unlike you, Ves," II pointed out.
"Well, it's been years. People can change," Vessel said harshly. "Bye, Two."
He turned on his heels and stalked off, towards the parking lot of the church. II sighed heavily, watching him go, his fag still lit and burning in his hand, but he's forgotten about it by now. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to collect his composure, before stomping out his cigarette and returning back to funeral inside.
For as long as he's known Vessel, since the first moment they met in the studio at university, Vessel has never once acted that way. He's never once snapped at II, never once shut him down so adamantly. He's always been so kind and shy, always a people-pleaser at heart.
But II supposes Vessel is right—that people can change, especially after a few years. But he didn't expect Vessel to become so… unlike himself.
Maybe the beginning of this change was when Vessel began to slowly distance himself from II. He stopped responding to his messages, stopped hanging out with him. But where did this aggression come from? Where was this side of Vessel hiding for so long?
II decides not to drive himself up the walls with endless questions he knows he's not going to get the answer to anytime soon, or maybe ever. He hadn't spoken to Vessel in years—he's not even sure he still has his number—and now he's gone again, and it didn't seem like he wanted to talk anyway.
He shouldn't let himself worry over someone who's so obviously done with him. He should focus on himself, on his own business.
After the funeral service ended, II left as soon as possible. He meant it when he said he'd rather be anywhere but there, a guest at someone's funeral whom he can't even force himself to remember a single moment he spent with them.
He kicked off his shoes at the front door, shrugged off his suit jacket, and collapsed onto the sofa. He dug into his pockets, pulling out another cigarette and allowing himself to smoke the one he never got to this morning.
He took a long, slow drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke fill and burn his lungs. He lulled his head back against the armrest, closing his eyes and letting the burn of the smoke in his lungs consume him, before he slowly exhaled it out.
He would only allow himself to rest for a few minutes before he has to get up and start getting to work on a new song for his band.
The band is small, the success is little, but he loves it regardless. He puts his all into the songs, and performs them with as much heart as he wrote them with, even if the crowd is the small pub they booked that night, or the small crowd that decided to check them out between headliners at the few musical festivals they've played at.
He loves his band, and he loves his band mates just as much.
The light filtering through his blinds told him the sun was beginning to set, so he forced himself off the sofa. He grabbed his laptop and his journal, and began getting to work on writing music.
He's been working on a song for what feels like forever now—but really, it's only been a few weeks. It's stubborn, it's refusing to work with him. He has the lyrics down, he has a vague idea of what he wants the instrumentals to sound like, but something is missing. It didn't sound right when he asked his band's vocalist to sing it, and it didn't sound right when he asked them to help him with the instrumentals.
It just… hasn't been working for him.
He's been trying anything and everything, but it's difficult. It's stubborn. And he's near ready to just give up on it.
But not tonight. Tonight, he's going to persevere, and he's going to force himself to get work done.
A few hours into trying to write, his phone lights up with his best mate's contact. Thankful for a break, II picks it up almost immediately.
"Hello?" he answers.
"Two! Glad you answered, mate. Are you busy?" His friend, IV, asked almost immediately. II looks down at the laptop in his lap, at the page in his journal filled with scribbles and half-thoughts, and sighs.
"Not anymore, what's up?"
"Are you up for some drinks tonight? I'm bored and no one else is up to hang."
II chuckles. "Oh, so I'm just a last resort for you?"
"You know it. So, yes or no?"
He shrugs, even if IV can't see it. "Why not? Just tell me where to go and I'll meet you there."
"I'll text ya," IV chirped, "thanks, mate. I owe ya one."
"Sure," II snorts, and promptly hangs up. He looks back down at his laptop and sighs softly—something he seems to be doing a lot lately.
So much for persevering and finishing this headache of a song. He shuts his laptop and journal and set them on the coffee table, making a silent promise to himself that he would visit this task another time. When he's not busy chatting IV's ear off over a few pints. And maybe when he's not hungover with a killer head throb.
He quickly changes out of his suit into something much more comfortable—a t-shirt and jeans—and calls a cab in the direction of the address IV texted him.
It's busy when he arrives, but it's not crowded, and he prefers that over weaving through a crowd of sweaty, reeking bodies. He finds IV sitting at the bar already, and joins him in a bar stool.
"Thought you might've bailed on me," IV jokes when II climbs into the seat next to him. "Took you forever to get here."
II rolls his eyes. It was only a 10 minute ride. "Maybe I should've bailed."
IV takes a swing of his beer, his expression suddenly serious, and it takes II a minute to catch up. "So, how was the funeral? I remember you mentioning it."
The memories of today's events come rushing back to him, and he feels that similar pit in his stomach again. He just sighs, suddenly feeling the inexplicable urge to drown his feelings out with alcohol.
"That bad?" IV jokes.
"Just about," he mutters. "I ran into an old friend there. We haven't talked in years."
"How did that go?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "It was something, for sure. It was like he didn't want to see me, but I don't know what I did. Last time I checked, he's the one who cut me off."
"He sounds like a right prick."
"He's not though, that's the thing," II went on. "He's the kindest person I know. I just… wonder why he's become so defensive all of a sudden."
"Well, you did say it's been a few years since you've seen him. People can change a lot in that time frame."
II contorts his features into a frown. "But it's so unlike him."
IV quirks a brow, purses his lips. "Have you ever thought that it might be unlikely for your version of him? And not who he is now?"
II chews on his lip. "Well, no…"
"Did you guys talk?"
II shrugs. "Yeah, I asked him out to dinner, but he snapped at me and stormed off. He broke up with his girlfriend, too."
"Maybe that's why he's such a pain."
"He said it'd been a few months since then. But he did look kind of… I don't know, different."
IV gave him a look, like he was silently urging him to go on.
"He looked skinny. Like, the skinniest person I've ever seen. He looked unhealthy, if I'm being honest."
IV paused. "Maybe he's going through a rough time."
II just sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know. I don't care anymore. It's not like I'm going to see him again anyway, so I should just forget it."
He waves down the bartender and orders a beer for himself, because while he agreed to go out for drinks, he's not sure he has it in him to try anything more pretentious than a Guinness.
A few drinks into the night, he starts to lose himself. His usual collected composure starts to loosen up, his critical thinking begins to dwindle. His words start to slur, his mind becomes hazy from the side effects, and he starts growing more handsy.
IV, ever the patient saint, gently corrects him every time his hands begin to drift, every time his voice begins to grow louder. And soon enough, IV cuts him off from the alcohol completely.
"You need to eat something," IV tells him, and orders a small basket of chips. The bartender slides it in front of II and IV forces him to eat at least a few, saying it'll help him in the morning.
II complies, begrudgingly. He swallows down a few chips, claims he's full, and IV graciously calls him a cab to drop him off back at his flat.
Once inside, IV helps II onto the sofa, hands him a cup of water, and instructs him not to throw up on anything.
II doesn't even remember passing out, only that he did. And the next morning, he awoke on his sofa with a headache so bad it made him nauseous.
But he swallowed back the rising bile and instead chose to stumble back to his bedroom. He swung the door open, only to find IV lying awake in his bed.
"Are you fuckin' serious?" II grumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut, the throbbing in his head too much to bear.
"There was no getting you off the sofa," IV supplied. "You look hungover. Need a coffee?"
"I'm just gonna go buy it," he decided. "Can't be arsed to make anything this morning."
He moved to grab some fresh clothes from his dresser, the throbbing pressing against the inside of his skull making his pulse thrum in his ears and his stomach churn with nausea. Once dressed, he joined IV in the bed, groaning low.
"You're such a pussy," IV joked, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "Some toast would help a lot."
II shot him a sidelong glance. "Where'd you learn that?"
"Why haven't you learnt that yet? I got drunk off my ass at a mate's a few years ago, and he told me toast is the best hangover food."
II groaned again, pulling a pillow over his face to hide himself from the light. "Do you think they'll give me toast with my coffee?"
IV chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Maybe. They'll probably run out by the time you get your ass out of bed."
The walk to the cafe was short, but it was cold this early in the morning, and it was hell when paired with a headache. But the inside of the cafe was warm and cozy, and II reveled in the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee.
II told IV his order—black coffee with two shots of espresso—and quickly excused himself to use the restroom. The cafe had seats by the entrance and the massive window at the front of the shop, as well as seats near the back, accompanied by a couple sofas and a coffee table between them.
He's been going here for years, since he moved to Bristol. Since he went to university here. He's picked up a few coffee habits since he's started coming here, like drinking straight black coffee when he initially never really liked coffee before. He prefers energy drinks, like Red Bulls and Monsters, but occasionally, he'll allow himself to enjoy a coffee here and there.
This place is comfortable, though. It's familiar. He likes it.
But… some of the memories that come with it, he isn't so fond of. Like getting blazing hot coffee thrown on him by an angry customer that just happened to be storming out just at the same time he was walking in. Or that time he dropped his coffee right in the middle of the floor, completely embarrassing himself. Or the endless hours he's spent here, studying until his head ached and his eyes burned from the little blinking he did.
Regardless of the memories, he still enjoys this place.
He quickly washes up and slips out of the bathroom, too busy focusing on where he's placing his feet to notice where he's headed. He hears names being called as finished orders are slid onto the counter, he hears too many conversations happening all at once—
"Vessel!" he hears the barista call out. He freezes his place, his head snapping up so fast his skull throbs.
He sees him, sees that stranger that isn't quite so strange. He's walking up to the counter, grabbing his drink, murmuring his thanks as he grabs his coffee. He still looks so sickly pale, his body so skinny that II's starting to believe that he hasn't been eating properly.
Vessel turns in his direction and II feels his heart drop into his stomach. His breathing has stopped too, and he's not sure why he's suddenly so shocked.
Maybe it has to do with the fact that he hasn't seen Vessel in years. Or the fact that they got into a disagreement yesterday, after a while of not talking. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that II has been going here for years since he moved here, and for years after Vessel cut him off, and not once has he run into him here.
Their gazes meet.
He opens his mouth to speak, but IV is already taking up his side, shoving a coffee cup into his hand.
"Here's your sludge," IV teased. He handed him a paper bag with what looked like a breakfast sandwich in it. "And some food to help with the hangover."
II looks at IV, jaw agape, and looks back at Vessel—but he's gone, and for a split second he thinks he imagined it.
But his cologne, that same cologne he's smelt on him before, still lingers in the air. The same sweet, musky scent of him fills his senses, lingers on his tongue.
He didn't imagine it.
"Are you okay?" IV asks him, a smile still on his features. "You look like you've seen a ghost, love."
II nods slowly. "Yeah, uh, you know that bloke I told you about yesterday?"
IV nods.
"I just saw him again. He was here."
IV looks around the place, perhaps looking for Vessel, but he quickly turns back to face II with a confused expression. "I mean, yeah, I would expect that to happen. This place is pretty well-known."
II shook his head fervently. "No, like, I've never seen him here before. Not in years, Ives."
"That's… strange. I think you need to sit down, mate. Have some coffee."
II lets IV lead him to one of the empty sofas near the back, lets him sit him down and set his things on the coffee table. They made great conversation once he was able to shove down the inexplicable feelings bubbling up inside of him, but the swirling thoughts never once left his head. Not even when they got up to leave, not when they made their way to the studio they'd booked to get to work on rehearsing some songs for an upcoming gig.
The thoughts certainly didn't leave his head when he'd been asked about those new songs he's been working on.
"I… I don't know," was all he managed to say. "I just need a little more time on them."
"Fine," IV said.
Their bassist, some tall and lanky bloke II through a mutual friend in university, grabbed a box of fags and lit one. He held the box out to II, offering some, but he denied them politely.
"You're going to set the smoke alarms off," IV sighed, shaking his head disappointingly.
"They've never gone off before, Ives," III pointed out. He pocketed the box of cigarettes and leaned back against an amp, crossing his legs out in front of himself and tilting his head back against the wall, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible in such an uncomfortable position.
"These songs are just giving me a hard time," II went on, ignoring their banter. "It's just not working."
"What do you mean?" III urged him on.
He shrugged. "Like something is missing. Like I'm not inspired enough or something. It's some bullshit."
"Maybe you just need to get laid and write a song about pussy or something," III suggested, although unhelpfully so. II shot him a sharp look before rolling his eyes and sighing.
"I am not doing that. I don't even know why I include you in the creative process when this is the shit you suggest."
III took a long, slow drag of his cig, ignoring II's crude comment. "Are you two doing anything tonight? I got a new game and I was hoping you'd want to come check it out with me."
II looks at IV, then III, then shrugs casually. "Sure," he says. IV idly strums a few strings on his guitar, then hums in agreement.
"Cheers, then," III says with a wicked grin.
They continued toying around with their instruments, improvising and creating new grooves that II quickly took note of for later. They would stop here and there so he could jot some things down, but their rehearsal came to an abrupt end. II sat back in his seat, breathing heavy.
The exertion he puts into his drums pumps adrenaline through his veins. His hands tremble and his heart pounds in his chest as he comes down from his high—like a fucking orgasm. The thought makes him chuckle.
"So, we headed to my place?" III prompts as he sets his guitar onto the wrack. IV nods, setting his own guitar down next.
"Fine," IV says. "Are we riding with you?"
"No you're going to walk there," III deadpans. II rolls his eyes, setting his drumsticks down against the snare, tapping the shell with his finger, humming contentedly.
"What're we ordering for tonight?" he asks instead, ignoring III's witty remark. "I'm thinking kebabs, but it's up to you lads."
"Yes, perfect," IV agrees. "III, you don't have a choice."
II follows them out to III's car, climbing into the backseat. The drive to III's flat was quiet, filled with occasional small talk and the quiet sound of the road beneath his tires, and the hum of the radio.
They pulled into the lot and, on their way in, II paused at the sound of music filling the complex.
"What is that?" He asked. III shrugged, swearing beneath his breath as he tried to shove his key into the lock.
"Some neighbor," he offers. "They play music here and there, really talented. But they've also gotten hella noise complaints."
"Really?" II asked, suddenly perplexed. "What for? The music isn't that loud."
"For screaming and throwing stuff around, I guess," he says. "They're a handful of crackheads, anyway, so I pay no mind to it."
II just hummed, letting the conversation go dead in an attempt to hear the music better, but the song stopped. Only silence filled his ears. He sighed softly, mostly to himself, and followed his band mates inside.
III handed him a controller and II took it wordlessly, taking a seat on the tail end of the sofa to leave room for III and IV. III picked up his own controller, and booted up his new game—Diablo IV.
They played for hours, until II's eyes began to hurt from how little he'd been blinking, and he eventually passed his controller to IV, who took it without argument.
"You tired?" IV asked, teasing, but the concern lacing his tone was evident. II nodded.
"Yeah, I've been up for a while," he said. "Three, you mind if I take your bed?"
He shook his head, his eyes never once leaving the screen in front of him. "Go ahead, lad," III said idly. II excused himself and made his way back to III's bedroom.
They've been friends for a while. Therefore, they've become far more comfortable with each other than he usually allows himself to get with other people—so much so to the point he spends the night at III's flat, uses his shower oftentimes, and they share the bed whenever he stays over. And vice versa, of course.
If III ever needs to get out of his own place, just to crash at someone else's house, II gladly offers his own flat, his own food, his own bed.
He strips his clothes and neatly fold them into a pile on the floor, and changes into some old shorts of his that he often forgets here, and crawls into III's bed. He doesn't bother with brushing his teeth or washing his face. He's too tired for that, so he just bundles up beneath the covers and hopes sleep will be gracious enough to take him quickly.
But she's not. He lies awake for a while, staring into the backs of his eyelids, thinking over everything that's happened to him in the last 48 hours.
He can't believe he ran into Vessel after so many years… and he just brushed him off like he means nothing to him anymore. He tried not to think about it in the moment, but thinking about it now, it hurts. He's been by his side through so much, he's supported him through everything. Hell, he would even give him the shirt off his back if he decides to find him and asks him now. It doesn't matter the circumstances; he would do it.
So why did he act like he doesn't know him anymore? Like he doesn't want to know him anymore.
II squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight back the emotions suddenly brewing to life inside of him. It's not like Vessel to do something like this—not like him to snap at II like he did yesterday.
He's the kindest person II knows, always a people-pleaser, always too shy to speak up.
II sighs, opening his eyes and staring at the dark wall beside III's bed. Sleep isn't as gracious as he'd been hoping, and he lies awake for what feels like hours before exhaustion finally overtakes his system. He doesn't really remember falling asleep, but he feels the way his body relaxes, and his eyes finally shut.