Chapter Text
2nd November 20XX
The door shuts behind Three, and the apartment is plunged into silence, broken only by the repeated clacking sound of Bilbo exercising his claws on his scratching post.
Two looks around the living room. Now that he knows what happened the night before, evidence of Vessel and Three’s evening of illicit carnal pleasure is everywhere. There’s an almost empty bottle of cheap Tesco vodka on the side, with a bottle of Schweppes beside it. The lid has been left off; no doubt it’s gone flat. On the table are abandoned cans of beer, and sugary drinks mixed with a no doubt unholy amount of spirits and left to go sticky overnight. He wrinkles his nose in disgust.
Bilbo mewls at him from across the room, pawing sadly at his metal cat food bowl, so Two goes and gets him a packet of wet food from the top cabinet in the kitchen. He has to climb onto the counter to be able to reach it, careful not to get any on his fingers, and he gives Bilbo a little scratch on the head when the ginger tabby pads over to begin licking at the congealed cat food that he squeezes from the pouch into the basin.
While Bilbo eats, Two tidies the kitchen, washing up the cups from the previous night and pouring the lemonade and the vodka down the sink. Then he opens the cupboard and does the same thing with the bottles of spirits in there too.
The fridge makes his chest ache at the sight of how much alcohol is in there; cans of cider and bottles of beer join the spirits down the plughole, till the kitchen is devoid of any and all boozes.
It’s a ritual that he is all too familiar with at this point.
There is no sign of stirring from the direction of Vessel’s room, so Two uses the time to rearrange the contents in the fridge by the days in which they expire. It calms his racing heart a little.
Then he fills the kettle again and sets about making a cup of tea.
Tea bag in first; half a cup of boiling water, stewed for exactly three minutes. A spoonful and a half of brown sugar, and a quarter of semi skimmed milk, stirred exactly four times.
Putting the teabag on a dish to dry out before he chucks it in the food waste bin, he makes his way down the hall to where Vessel’s bedroom door is closed tight. Taking a deep breath, he lets himself in.
The room is dark; the curtains are still drawn, and it’s cold. Three must have had a cigarette in here a few hours previously; Two can smell his tobacco. The window has been left open and a chill permeates the room as a result. Two puts the mug down on Vessel’s bedside table and clambers over the lump that is the taller man, who is still bundled up beneath the covers.
He closes the window, and feels Vessel wriggling around next to him as he joins him in the land of the living. “Oh, fuck…” His voice is rough, sleepy and fucked out. It’s a tone that Two is quite familiar with, and he shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, putting his hand over what would be Vessel’s knee beneath the blanket.
“Hey, big guy,” he murmurs gently, “How are you feeling?”
“My head is killing me…” Vessel mumbles. A tuft of ashy brown hair appears, and one big brown eye. Two squeezes his knee.
“Had a fun night?” he asks, without any humour.
“Jesus, I don’t even know what happened.” Vessel struggles to sit up and rubs at his face. “God, I feel awful.”
“That’s what happens when you drink nearly a whole bottle of vodka by yourself,” Two reminds him unhelpfully.
“Wasn’t by myself…” Vessel grumbles. Suddenly his eyes go wide. His skin looks clammy. “Oh fuck, Three!” He tries to get out from under the duvet, but his legs are tangled. “Where is he, I need to find him-”
“Easy, easy,” Two says, trying to soothe him with another hand on his knee. “He’s ok, he went home.”
“Oh god.” Vessel sinks miserably back into the bed. “You saw him?”
“I saw him,” Two confirms.
“And did you… see anything else?” Vessel asks nervously. He looks guilty as hell; a tiny, weeny part of Two is maliciously enjoying watching him squirm.
“I mean, his boxers are over there.” He nods his head towards a piece of crumpled fabric lying next to Vessel’s guitar. Vessel groans loudly and rolls himself back under the covers. “Oh no you don’t,” Two says, leaning over and pulling the blanket back. Vessel glares up at him petulantly and Two scowls back at him. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“You know what.” Something hot and sickly tweaks deep in Two’s gut. “Come on, I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” Vessel snaps.
“Say you had sex with Three! I know he was in here last night, I know he stayed over, and I know that you fucked him.”
Vessel glares at the ceiling. “…Actually, he fucked me,” he mutters, pointedly refusing to make eye contact.
Something pinching and tight flutters in Two’s chest, and he swallows. “Ok,” he says quietly. “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
“Two,” Vessel snaps, lifting his head to glare at him and Two sniffs. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you have any right to be jealous.”
Two scoffs, cheeks reddening. “I am not jealous.”
“Ok, then you’re acting like my mum or something. I am adult, y’know, I can look after myself.”
“And look what a wonderful job you’re doing of it.”
“Just fuck off!”
“Did you even clean yourself up last night?” Two asks. “I don’t see any condoms.” Vessel turns his face into the pillow stubbornly and doesn’t answer. A horrible realisation comes over Two. “You used protection, right?” When Vessel stays silent, he throws his arms up in the air in despair. “Jesus Christ, I can’t fucking believe you.”
“Get out!” Vessel roars, “No one asked you to come here so why don’t you just fuck off!”
“Fine!” Two yells, getting to his feet and marching out of the room.
“Fine!” Vessel shouts, and the door slams behind him resoundingly. Two pauses, puts his hands up on the wall with its garish mustard yellow wallpaper, and breathes.
There’s a long jagged scratch running down the wall, where he and Vessel had accidentally scraped it with a dresser they’d been trying to get into Vessel’s bedroom when he first moved into the apartment with Jerry. Two stares at it intently, till he feels like he can swallow around the lump in his throat and his lashes have stopped prickling.
It always goes the same way.
As is the routine, he returns to his space on the couch. Bilbo patters around, chasing a ball of wool from Jerry’s knitting bag. Down the hallway, he hears the door to a bedroom open, footsteps, and then the bathroom lock clicks shut. The shower kicks up a second later.
It’s always the same. There’s comfort in the routine. It’s always the same.
Two looks up at the sound of the front door opening. Jerry walks in, kicking off their shoes. They pause when they see Two sitting on the couch, who gives them a little wave. They don’t look shocked to see him. After a moment, they pick up their heels and arrange them neatly on the shoe rack, and Two’s breathing eases a little.
“Hey.”
Jerry smiles. ‘Hey. Where’s Vessel?’
“Shower.” Two’s knowledge of BSL is abysmal. Luckily, Jerry is a very good lip reader.
‘Everything ok?’
“Not really, Jez.” Jerry just looks at him sadly.
‘Give you space?’ They sign, and Two nods.
It’s always the same.
Jerry gives his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze on their way past him. They root around for Bilbo, and with the cat tucked under one arm and their bag in the other, they retreat to the sanctity of their bedroom. Two blows out a heavy breath.
He picks up his phone and opens WhatsApp, firing off a text to the guitarist and the keyboardist that practice will be cancelled today on account of Vessel not feeling very well. The guitarist responds with little more than a thumbs up reaction. Their keyboardist is more sympathetic, asks him to pass on her wishes to Vessel for a speedy recovery. He knows she knows that the sickness Vessel is feeling is entirely self-inflicted, but she’s too polite to say.
Two pauses and then opens his chat with Three. He looks at the messages he’d sent last night, all of them marked as unread.
Did you get back ok?
Sent 22:30
Three. Is everything alright?
Sent 22:48
You’re online, so I presume you are fine. Is Vessel ok?
Sent 23:11
Just want to check he’s ok.
Sent 00:56
Now, he types No practice today. Will text you the days for next week later. He chews his lower lip anxiously for a moment and then adds, You might want to get an STI check, just to be safe.
Instantly, two blue ticks appear next to his messages. Text bubbles appear, as Three seems to type a response. Then he thinks better of it, and they disappear again. No more messages come through.
The boiler in the kitchen stops whirring, which means that Vessel has finished in the shower. Two slouches further in the chair, closing his eyes.
He hears the sound of bare feet on the floor boards, and then a moment later, the sofa dips beside him, and a wet head rests on his lap. He opens his eyes and looks down to see Vessel lying next to him on the couch. He’s curled up tight to fit his stupidly long body onto the cushions, his face pressed against Two’s thigh. Two reaches down and runs his fingers through Vessel’s hair, dried loosely with a towel after his shower. Vessel hums softly, eyes fluttering as Two combs out the knots with his fingertips.
“‘M sorry,” Vessel mumbles into the meat of his thigh, and Two sighs.
“You were a dick.”
“I know.”
“Last night, and today.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
It’s always the same.
Before, Vessel would have pressed a small kiss into Two’s knee. Before, Vessel would have arched into Two’s touch in his hair. Before, Vessel would not have slept with their bandmate, because he had everything he needed in Two.
Now it’s not so the same.
“Thanks for the tea,” Vessel says quietly, and Two rubs a finger lightly over the narrow bow in his lip. He knows it’s not just tea that Vessel is thanking him for.
“You’re welcome.” And now for the tricky bit. Two takes a deep breath. “Vess.” Vessel grunts and rolls onto his back, looking up at him with bleary eyes. He’s so gorgeous, even like this when the whites of his eyes are bloodshot red. It accentuates the burgundy in them, he thinks. Two’s heart aches a little and he hates himself that he looks at Vessel and still feels like this. “You need to get tested.”
Instantly, Vessel’s eyes widen. “No.”
“You don’t know who he’s been sleeping with.”
“He said there was only one girl other than me.”
Two doesn’t believe that for a single second. “You still need to check.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Vessel.” Two fixes him with a stern look.
“But-”
“Please,” Two says. He sounds like he’s pleading with him now. He is, really. “Just… do it for me? Just encase.”
Vessel groans, sitting up slowly. He still looks quite ill. “They’ll need a blood sample.”
“I’ll come with you,” Two offers, and Vessel shakes his head.
“No.”
“It’s not like I had anything else planned today, other than checking up on you.”
Vessel looks pained. “You don’t need to do that.”
“It’s fine,” Two says quickly. He doesn’t say that he’s worried that if he doesn’t go with him, Vessel simply won’t go. They’re on a biological time crunch, after all. Vessel stares at him. Two stares back, waiting for Vessel blink first. Two apex predators face off, battling for dominance, and Two is determined to win.
Finally, Vessel looks away. “Ok, fine,” he says with a relenting sigh. “Let me get changed, and then we’ll go.”
“Thank you,” Two says, the relief evident in his voice. Vessel gets to his feet and limps down the hallway whilst Two gets out his phone to check his calendar.
It’s his day off from the studio, but the work never stops for a self employed tattoo artist. He’s got messages via his business account that he needs to respond to, appointments to book in, quotes to give and-
His phone starts ringing.
Two looks down the hallway almost anxiously when Vic’s name lights up his screen. The door to Vessel’s room is shut tight, so, after only a moments hesitation, he answers it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, baby,” she chirps. She’s got a lovely voice, deep and smoky from too many cigarettes. “Are you free?”
“For, like…” Two glances at the bedroom door again. “Two minutes. You alright?”
“Oh, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know, I know we were talking about seeing a movie tonight, but I need to get the Year 13 sketchbooks marked before parents evening next week. Would you be ok if we just hung out at yours and ordered a takeaway?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Two checks his watch. “What time are you coming?”
“Ugh, there’s a staff meeting tonight, I won’t be done till around five.” She groans. “I’ll text you when I’m on the overground?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“Ok, baby, I’ll see you soon.”
Two bids her goodbye and is tucking his phone into his pocket when the bedroom door opens and Vessel walks out. He’s back in his usual garb; all black, skin almost entirely covered. “Ready?” he asks, reaching for his Waterstones tote bag.
“Yeah.”
“Who were you talking to?” Vessel asks as he unlocks the front door.
“When?”
“Just a second ago, I heard you on the phone.”
“Oh, it was…” Two pauses, ensure whether to mention Vic’s name. His silence is enough of an answer though, as Vessel scoffs. “Vess.”
“It’s fine. Come on, let’s just get this over with.”
Two follows him, fists clenched in the pockets of his hoodie. He’s hates this. There’s a barrier between he and Vessel - one that had never existed until now, and he can’t find a way to fix it. He’d always been the one person who could penetrate through Vessel’s tough protective exterior, and yet now he’s on the outside, trying to peep through the windows into the recesses of Vessel’s mind when Vessel has put up black out curtains.
He knows Vessel is pissed at him. Two would be too, he thinks. But his mum tried to contact him a few weeks ago; it drummed up all those nasty, unpleasant feelings of guilt and shame and dirt that he’d buried outside the door of Vessel’s bedroom. And like, Two doesn’t believe in God or fate but then Vic messaged him on instagram and they got chatting about his work. And he and Vessel had sat down and had a long talk about what this actually was and Vessel had been the one to say, you won’t know unless you try so-
Outside in the street, Vessel turns in the opposite direction of the train station. “Vess, it’s this way?”
“Can we walk?” Vessel asks him. “I need to go to the shops, and, honestly, the thought of getting on a train right now makes me want to vomit.”
Two shrugs, concedes because at least Vessel has agreed to go. He won’t push his luck right now. “I’d offer to buy you a coffee but it’s probably better to wait till after the appointment when you need the sugar.”
The clinic they need to get to is in Wandsworth, and it will take them just under an hour to walk there. The day is cold, but bright, and Two’s breath puffs out of his mouth and nose. They decide to go via Wandsworth Common; Vessel has always been preachy about the sanctity and healing powers of a good green space.
He strides next to Two, his walk stiff, hands buried deep into the depths of his pocket. “So, how is Vic?” he asks as they walk.
Two is proud of the way he doesn’t take a misstep in surprise. “Do you actually want to know?” he asks, suspicious.
“Contrary to what you might think, she was my friend too,” Vessel reminds him. They’d all run in the same crowd at uni; Emily, Vessel’s ex, had been completing a degree in Early Childhood Development, Two and Vic had firsts in Fine Arts, and Vessel had studied music theory, though he had dropped out a couple of months before finishing.
That’s when everything had really fallen apart.
“Yeah, she’s fine.” Two shrugs. “Work is stressing her at the moment, I think…but she’s cool.”
“You like her,” Vessel observes and Two squirms.
“Vess.”
“What? I’m only asking.” Vessel stops walking and reaches out to catch Two by the wrist. “It’s not like I’m going to walk around pretending that she doesn’t exist. If you like her, then I’m happy for you.” He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as they start walking again. “She was always cool when I knew her before.” He sighs heavily.
“You ok?” Two asks.
“Just nervous. I think I have hangxiety.” He pauses and shakes out his hands. “God, ok, let’s go.”
The rest of their walk is peaceful, if their chatter not still slightly stunted. Vessel’s dalliance is still a point of contention - for Two at least. He’s still angry at both he and Three for their carelessness, and there’s another feeling there; one that’s green and encompassing and possessive, and he isn’t quite ready to label what it is, so he figures it’s better not to say anything at all.
Their impending arrival at their destination looms over both of them, and Vessel grows quieter and quieter the closer they get to the clinic, till Two spots the familiar white and blue sign coming down the road. He turns to Vessel, who looks pale. “You’re ok,” he says, a promise, and Vessel nods, though he doesn’t look like he believes it.
They enter through the automatic doors, and Two gives Vessel’s wrist a supportive squeeze; he’s always been good at being able to un-attach himself when needed to be strong for others. Luckily, it’s not too busy in the waiting room, so Two is hoping they can get this done quickly and forget it ever happened.
There’s a young man sitting behind the reception desk. He gives the two of them a friendly smile as they approach, Two keeping a light hold on Vessel’s wrist to stop him from bolting like a spooked horse. “Afternoon, fellas,” he greets cheerily, in that same chipper carefree tone that all medical nurses seem to have. Positive and bouncy, like they recognise how awkward this is and want to assure you that they don’t care and they’ve seen it all before without actually telling you that. “What can I do for you today?”
“Go on,” Two nudges Vessel gently, and Vessel stumbles forwards, clearing his throat.
“Hi, um, I need to get some tests done?” He’s flushing all the way down his neck. “Just the standard screening would be fine.”
“That would include a blood test, right?” Two interjects. Vessel is white knuckling the edge of the desk, so Two touches his back apologetically.
The receptionist nods. “Our standard screening checks for chlamydia, gonorrhoea, syphilis and HIV,” he explains calmly.
“Jesus,” Vessel mutters. Two’s touch becomes comforting rub.
“Are you both looking to get screened today?” The receptionist asks.
Two glances at Vessel, who shrugs. “Sure, if there’s space,” he says.
“Awesome, if I can just get some details from you both.” Two waits while Vessel reels of his information. He’s shrunk in on himself even more than usual; his shoulders are stooped, his chin tucked to his chest. Once he’s done, the receptionist sends him to his seat with a smile. Vessel reluctantly returns it.
“Sorry, then, it’ll be the same questions for you,” the receptionist says to Two. Two patiently answers, drumming his fingers against the counter.
“Can I ask…” he says in a low voice, “Will he be able to get access to PeP?”
The receptionist nods. “We have that here. If the doctor thinks he’s at risk of exposure to HIV, that’s something we can do.”
Two nods. He sits beside Vessel and puts his hand on his knee. Vessel slouches down in his chair, resting his head on Two’s shoulder. He looks exhausted. After a moment, Two reaches over and twines their fingers together, and Vessel sighs heavily, closing his eyes.
That’s how the nurse comes to find them. She greets Vessel by his full name. “Do you want your partner to come with you?” She asks cheerfully. She’s young, no doubt fresh out of uni, and maybe isn’t too familiar with tact yet.
“Oh, he’s not my-”
“I’m not his-” They pause and stare at each other. Two swallows. “You want me to come with you?” Vessel chews his lower lip, and then he nods.
“Please,” he says quietly. Two squares his shoulders. He is aware he’s probably going to hear some things that make him sad, and angry, but he can handle it. He has too.
He follows Vessel and the nurse into the doctor’s office. Instantly, Two feels more at ease. Everything is clinically white, clean and neatly arranged. Vessel, by contrast, looks ready to make a break for it.
A male doctor is sitting behind a desk. He smiles at them, the same easy going, relaxed grin that everyone who works here seems to have. Two takes a seat next to Vessel, puts his hand on his back.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” the doctor says, and introduces himself. “So, who’s Vessel?”
“That’s me.” Vessel’s voice is croaky.
“Ok, and it’s a standard STI check you’re looking for today?”
“Um…” Vessel glances at Two. “Yeah.”
“That’s fine, we can do that.” The doctor nods. “There’s just a couple of questions I need to ask you, before we start. Do you have any current symptoms of an STI? For example; a burning sensation when urinating, or any unusual discharge?”
Vessel’s nose wrinkles. “No.”
“Have you had an STI before?”
“No.”
“And are you currently sexually active?”
“Um. Yeah.”
“Can I ask how many sexual partners you’ve had in the last twelve months?”
Vessel blows out a sharp breath. Two’s hand tightens on his shoulder. With another nervous glance towards Two, Vessel says, “Just two.”
They’d had sex less than six weeks ago. Two can still remember the way Vessel tasted on his tongue.
“And when was the last time that you had sex?”
Vessel can’t look at him. Two stares at the peppercorn blue laminated floor. “Last night.”
“Was that with a male or a female.”
“A man.”
“And did you engage in anal or oral sex at all?”
Vessel is quiet. His hands are shaking. He turns to Two. “You don’t have to hear this,” he says quietly.
“Do you want me to go?” Two murmurs.
“I just don’t want you to be upset.”
“It’s fine,” Two tells him. He touches Vessel’s hand, squeezes. The doctor is looking at his computer, politely giving them space. Vessel nods.
It still takes him a moment to say, “Sorry. Yeah, anal and oral sex.”
“Was that protected sex?”
“…No. We, um… we were both pretty drunk.”
“Any drugs?”
“Uh…” Two looks at Vessel sharply, who is very pointedly making eye contact with the doctor’s stripy tie. “He mentioned drugs. We didn’t take anything,” he adds quickly, looking nervously at Two’s frowning face.
“Have you ever used drugs?” The doctor is typing away.
“No!” Vessel says defensively. Then he thinks. “I’ve been on again, off again with anti depressants, if that counts?”
“It’s more for recreational purposes. I don’t suppose your previous partner mentioned which drugs he might have taken, or takes regularly? We’re mainly talking anything injectable.”
“I hope not,” Vessel looks unsurely at Two. “Heroin?” he mouths and Two shrugs. He’s wearing a hole in his molars from how hard he’s grinding his teeth together.
The doctor goes through the rest of his questions; Vessel’s cheeks get progressively redder with each answer. So do Two’s, though his is for a very different reason. He’s already planning all the things he needs to say to the bassist, when the doctor says, “From what you’ve said, a standard screening should be fine. That’ll just be a urine and blood sample.” Vessel gulps. “We can also give you a course of PeP to take as well - that should help prevent any chances of you contracting HIV.”
“Oh Jesus…” Vessel rolls his shoulders. “Ok, let’s do this.” The doctor hands him a vial and directs him towards the bathroom.
Two digs his phone out of his pocket, opening his chat log with Three. He’s halfway through a paragraph telling him that he’s fucking fired from the band and to never contact him or Vessel again, when he pauses, deletes and instead types four words.
We need to talk.
He hears the toilet flushing, and quickly puts his phone away, when Vessel comes back with a cup of pee in his hands. He puts it on the side table where the doctor has indicated, and takes a seat on the medical bed.
The doctor is preparing for the blood test, applying a pair of surgical gloves. “You ok?” he asks.
Vessel has gone a rather funny colour. “Yeah, I, uh, I don’t like needles.” He looks over at Two. “Would you…?”
Two is on his feet instantly, moving to Vessel’s side. He watches as Vessel begrudgingly rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie. The doctor glances at his arm, and doesn’t comment. Two looks down at Vessel’s forearm; the creamy pale skin that’s marked with small white snicks. The scars are long since healed; painful mementos etched into Vessel’s skin from a darker time in his youth. Vessel hasn’t resorted to that sort of outlet for a long time, though Two still worries about him. What’s worse - he feels he lost access to that part of Vessel’s mind when he decided to break off their coupling to reconnect with his ex-girlfriend.
The doctor puts the tourniquet around Vessel’s arm, finds a vein. It’s big and juicy, light green beneath Vessel’s skin. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, his eyes wide as he looks at the needle in the doctor’s hand. His own hand grapples, fingers shaking, and Two doesn’t even think; he reaches for Vessel’s hand and clutches it tight.
“Look at me,” he murmurs gently, “Just look at me.” And Vessel does. His eyes are big and brown and perhaps a little wet and he frantically sucks air in, trying to regulate his breathing. “With me,” Two soothes, “With me, Vess. In, two, three, out, two, three. In, two, three, out, two, three.” Vessel breathes with him, his teeth clenching tight as the doctor slips the needle into his vein, and the vial starts to fill with red liquid. “Good job, eyes on me,” Two says. Vessel is trembling, but he stays still for long enough that the doctor can remove the needle.
“Just press here for me, keep the pressure,” he instructs, putting a swab of cotton wool on the tiny hole made by the needle. Vessel blows out a shaky breath.
“You did so well, you’re so good,” Two murmurs. Vessel thunks his head against Two’s collarbone, sagging weakly.
“Thank you,” he says softly, and Two strokes the back of his neck.
“Gentlemen?” The doctor calls them back to the desk. “We’ll send off the samples, and let you know the results. Are you happy to be contacted via text or would you prefer a phone call?”
“Yeah, a text is fine,” Vessel says. He sounds exhausted. The doctor then explains Vessel’s course of medicine; twenty-eight days, to be administered orally, side effects may include some nausea. Two makes notes of all of this on his phone.
“Were you looking to get tested also?” The doctor asks Two.
“Uh, yeah,” Two rubs his hands on his jeans. He turns to Vessel. “Do you want to wait outside? Maybe you don’t want to hear about…”
Vessel shrugs. “Yeah, not really. I’ll be in the waiting room.” He gets to his feet, a little wobbly, but overall he’s fine.
Two faces the doctor. He’s anticipating the questions, having heard them be asked to Vessel. He’s never had an STI; he’s currently sexually active; he’s also had two sexual partners in the last year; a man and a woman. He and Vessel had got screens done when they first started sleeping together; Two would not allow them to have unprotected sex without it. Since then, he knows that neither of them had had any other partners.
He’d engaged in unprotected oral and anal sex with a man in the past year, and has been having protected sex with Vic using condoms and dental dams. It’s easy for him to provide a urine sample, and, unlike Vessel, Two has no problem with needles. He tattoos skin for a living, after all, and his entire upper body from the neck down is smattered with ink. He’s been getting piercings in his ears, nose and tongue since he was twelve. What’s a little blood?
He finds Vessel in the lobby. He’s brought himself a packet of fruit pastels from the vending machine; needles make him woozy, and the sugar helps. He looks up when Two wonders over to him, and holds out the packet; “I saved you some green ones.”
Two pops one in his mouth. The taste of artificial lime explodes across his tongue. “Come on,” he says, “I owe you a coffee.” Vessel gets to his feet, hands going back to the sanctity of his pockets. Two falls into step beside him out on the street. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Pretty shitty,” Vessel replies quietly after a beat.
“Hangover getting to you?”
“It’s not just that.” Vessel stops for a moment. “Look, back there, in the clinic… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Two swallows. “I’m not mad,” he says and Vessel gives him a deadpan look.
“You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
“I’m not mad at you,” Two corrects. Vessel shakes his head.
“You should be. I’m as responsible for what happened as he is. Hey, try not to be too angry with him?”
Two grinds his teeth. “I want to speak to him,” he insists.
“Please,” Vessel says, “Don’t. He didn’t do anything I didn’t ask him to do. And he’s a good guy, I can feel it.” Two closed his eyes. “Look,” Vessel continues. “I can handle myself, yeah? You don’t need to worry about me.”
Except, it just isn’t true. Two will always worry about Vessel. Even before they’d started regularly having sex, Two felt a degree of responsibility over his friend. He’d felt it in school, when people used to pick on Vessel for being weird. He’d felt it when he’d moved to Lowestoft at the age of twelve when his parents divorced, worrying about how Vessel was going to cope without him there. He’d felt it when they’d reconnected, years later at uni. Vessel was taller then, and Two felt like he hadn’t grown at all, and Vessel had all these scars that he hadn’t had when they were younger. Each one carried a memory and a story that it pained Two to hear, to feel like he hadn’t been there for his friend. He’d felt it on the nights where they’d gone out clubbing with their friends from their respective courses to the local alternative bar, arms slung drunkenly around each other, hollering along to System of a Down and My Chemical Romance before staggering at home at five a.m., faces smeared with mayonnaise from the dodgy kebabs they always brought from the shop near the club, laughing at stupid unfunny jokes so hard that Two’s sides hurt.
He’d felt it when things started to get bad again; when Vessel’s nonna got cancer, a late stage 3 diagnosis; a lump in her breast that had started the size of a pea and rapidly grown within a couple of months. When Vessel started to drink more outside of what was socially acceptable even for a uni student; when the scars started appearing on his hips, when he started rapidly loosing weight. When things had begun to go south with Emily, because Vessel cried all the time and when he wasn’t crying, he was drinking, and she didn’t know how to handle it; when she told him she needed space and they knew that what she actually meant was that things were over.
He’d felt it when he’d basically moved in with Vessel; started to neglect his school work in order to remind Vessel to eat, remind him to shower, remind him to brush his teeth. He looked around the student house they were renting and removed any objects sharp enough to act as a blade. He spent a couple of nights sleeping on the couch outside Vessel’s bedroom to hear if he moved at all.
He’d felt it when Vic broke up with him, because, she said, he was spending too much time around Vessel. “He can look after himself, you know.” Two hadn’t cared, and she’d scoffed. “You’re just proving my point,” she’d snapped, “Why don’t you ask him to suck your dick, as you seem to love him so much?”
He’d felt it when it got really bad. One of their old housemates studied costume design; she’d left her scissors for cutting fabric on the kitchen counter by accident. That night, the one night Two was out pulling an all-nighter at the uni library, because he was gonna fucking fail if he didn’t actually submit some work, and he got a call from their housemate - frantic - that Vessel was in hospital.
Vessel’s parents came to get him, and Vessel dropped out of uni not long after.
When Two next saw him, around six weeks later, Vessel looked the healthiest he’d seen him in a long time. He’d lost some of the sallowness in his skin; was now lean instead of skeletal. His parents let Two stay in Vessel’s childhood bedroom, like they’d done when they were kids. Two was meant to have the bed, Vessel would sleep on the floor on the blow up mattress, but they’d spent their nights curled up on the double bed of Vessel’s teenage years watching reruns of The Inbetweeners. And then one night, through one of the multitudes of ad breaks that funded Channel 4, Vessel had leaned over and kissed Two with no warning, right on the mouth.
They’d parted, stared at each other for a second, and then Two had lunged for him, sealing their mouths in a hot, frantic kiss. They’d torn each other’s clothes off, and Two had suppressed an anguished moan at the sight of Vessel’s skin dotted with scars. Instead, he’d clasped him tighter, so mindful of the places where he was healing, and tried to push all of the longing and desire and tenderness that he felt Vessel deserved into their kisses.
They’d had sex that night, right there in Vessel’s childhood bed, mouths never parting to quiet their groans of pleasure while Vessel’s parents slept down the hall. Vessel had rode Two like he owed him money, and Two had locked his arms around his shoulders, mouth against his throat as he murmured, “Don’t leave, you can’t leave me like that again,” into the skin of his neck.
Not long after that, Two had graduated with a first in fine art. The first thing he did was put together a portfolio of his work to present to different tattoo studios. He was able to secure an apprenticeship at a studio in Wimbledon, and he’s been tattooing ever since. Vessel had started to write music freelance; had written a few jingles for radio commercials and had even sold some songs to smaller, upcoming local artists.
Then one night, after they’d had sex and were laying in Two’s bed, Vessel had lifted his head from his chest and said, “I’ve been thinking. We should start a band.”
The rest, they say, is history.
Two worries.
Two has always worried.
Two says, “Ok, Vess. I’ll try.”
They stop for coffee in a Pret A Manger on the walk back to Vessel’s house. Two buys them an almond croissant to share. He gets himself a cappuccino with two shots of espresso, like he isn’t anxious enough, and sips it, scalding the roof of his mouth. Vessel has a green tea, decaf, on account of not wanting it to exacerbate his hangover.
“I’ve cancelled band practice for this evening,” Two informs him. Vessel just nods; he doesn’t look surprised.
“I suppose I should speak to everyone,” he says and Two shrugs.
“That might be good,” he says quietly. “…What about Three?”
“What about Three?”
“Are you gonna…” Sleep with him again? Invite him into your bed? Give yourself over to him entirely? Break it off with him? “Speak to him?”
Vessel blows out a heavy breath. “Yeah, yeah, I think I will. I have to.” His phone lights up with a notification, and Vessel picks it up before Two can see who it is. “Jerry is making tacos this evening. You want in?”
“Ah,” Two says, looking at his half drunk coffee. He’s a bit horrified with himself how relieved he feels to know it’s not Three texting him. “I can’t tonight, mate, Vic is coming over.”
Vessel’s left eyelid twitches. “Right, yeah, of course,” he says. He sinks into his chair, slouched, long legs draped beneath the table. Two wonders if he realises that his ankle is pressing against Two’s shin. He doesn’t say anything else, but he’s sulking. Two’s known him long enough to know when Vessel’s in a bad mood.
He grinds his teeth in frustration. “What’s the matter?”
Vessel looks at him, expression vacant. “Nothing,” he says tiredly. Two feels hot beneath his skin, confusion and frustration building up all at once.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Shut me out like that. I know you’re upset with me-“
“I’m not shutting you out, and I’m not upset. I just don’t see the point in having this conversation with you. You made your feelings about us quite clear when you decided to start seeing Vic again, and I’m too fucking hungover to have this chat with you again. Neither of us will leave it being satisfied so there’s no point in discussing it any further.” Sitting up, Vessel gets to his feet and shoulders his bag.
“Where are you going?” Two asks.
“I’m feeling pretty lousy, Two. I think I’m just gonna go home and get into bed.”
“Let me come with you,” Two puts his drink down, but Vessel shakes his head.
“No, thank you. I want to be alone for a bit.” He must see how panicky this makes Two feel, because he adds, “Jerry is there. I’ll text you when I’m home, and again when I’ve had some sleep.”
“…Fine,” Two mumbles sullenly. Vessel picks at his sleeve listlessly.
“I’ll see you at band practice?” he asks and Two nods.
“Yeah…take care of yourself, Vess.”
He left his half of the croissant. Two picks at it, but it’s so crumbly and it makes a mess. Everything is a mess. He gives up on the food, downs his coffee and then rises to his feet.
He sends a text to Jerry, Vessel is coming home. He’s not in a great place still, let me know if he’s alright?
Jerry sends him a response instantly promising to check in regularly as soon as Vessel gets back. They also ask again if everything is ok, but it isn’t and Two doesn’t want to handle it right now.
Instead, he goes home. He has too much restless energy, so he cleans the bathroom. He uses bleach to scrub the bath; the discourse in his brain makes his mind foggy, and he forgets to wear gloves. By the time he remembers, the skin of his tattooed hands in red beneath the ink, his knuckles dry and cracking. It stings, and he washes his hands three times before they stop aching.
Jerry texts him to let him know that Vessel got home safely, that they’ve been shopping to replace all of Vessel’s booze with healthy smoothies and green juice, and that the man has gone and got into bed, like he promised Two that he would. Two breathes a heavy sigh of relief.
Vessel sends him a selfie of him in his bed with Bilbo curled up on his chest. Two saves the photo to his gallery without even thinking about it.
Then he goes down into the basement and practices on his drum kit until sweat is dripping from his temple and his shoulders ache from the strain.
He’s wearing headphones, so he sees Vic coming down the stairs, rather than hearing her. She gives him a little wave, plump heart shaped lips ticking up at the corners as she waits for him to finish the song he’s practicing. It’s something new he’s been working on to share with Vessel.
He sets his drum sticks aside, wipes the sweat from his brow with a tissue. “Hey.”
“I’ve not heard that before. Working on something new?”
“Just fucking around with some stuff. You look nice.”
Vic glances down at herself. She’s in a long tartan skirt and docs, a turtle neck brown jumper that covers most of the patchwork tattoos on her arms. It’s the closest she’ll get to a teacher look. “Thanks,” she grins. “You’re not too shabby yourself. How’s your day been.”
Pretty shit, Two thinks. “Fine,” Two says.
“I could do with a glass of wine or three,” she admits. “You want?”
Two is grimly reminded of Vessel’s sickly complexion, Three’s green tinged skin earlier. “I think I’m alright, actually,” he says.
“Ok, I’m going to make a start on my marking. You wanna order some food in a bit?”
“Chinese or Indian?”
“Indian, duh,” she teases and then she leans over the drum kit to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Hi again, gorgeous. Mm, sweaty.”
“I’m gonna shower.”
“There’s no rush,” she says. “I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”
Two finishes up what he’s doing in the basement. He also texts the band group chat with the rehearsal schedule for the following week. The guitarist needs to arrive later to Wednesday’s practice because he needs to drop his two year old off with the child minder. The keyboardist reacts with a heart emoji.
There is nothing from Vessel.
Three sends a gif of Will Ferrel saluting. Two rolls his eyes.
He takes a shower, meticulously sorts his washing into darks and whites. There’s a comfort in the routine; grooming himself, completing his skincare, massaging cream into his body to keep his tattoos looking vibrant and fresh. They cover his chest and throat; when he has time, he wants to expand them down his torso, his legs, till every inch of his body is covered in ink.
He likes the cleanliness of the lines, the clinical process of getting tattooed. His bench at work is meticulously organised, and the other artists in the parlour he works in all follow a similar mentality to keep everything clean and tidy. Two would never trust his body to someone who couldn’t keep an organised working station.
Freshly showered and towelling of his hair, he goes down to the living room where he knows Vic is.
She’s on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, an A-Level student’s sketch book spread out on her lap. She’s got a glass of red wine on the coffee table in front of her. “Is that on a coaster?” Two asks.
Without looking up from her work, she holds up the glass and Two slides an Alan Partridge themed coaster beneath it. He knows she doesn’t mind; Two’s need for cleanliness and order had been prevalent long before they’d started dating the first time.
Sinking onto the sofa next to her, Two lets her kick her socked feet up into his lap. Without asking, he takes off her white socks and starts to massage the balls of her feet with his thumbs. Vic lets put a little hum of pleasure as Two smooths dexterous fingers across her soles. “That’s nice,” she murmurs, circling something in the sketchbook. “So, how was your day?”
“Quiet,” Two says, without thinking too much about it. “I was with Vessel for most of it.”
Vic’s pen scratching pauses for barely a second. “And how is Vessel?” she asks, “He darted off pretty sharpish last night, right?”
Two glances at her. “Um…yeah,” he says, and Vic hums again but it’s shorter, sharper. “He’s fine.”
“Yeah?” Finally, her pen is set aside. “You’re being quiet.”
“Am I?”
“Is everything ok?”
“Yeah.” Two can’t explain it to her. He’s not told Vic that he and Vessel were sleeping together until very recently; not told anyone, except for Three. Jesus, he told Three.
A lump of anxiety sits in his chest. The tissue box on the table is misaligned. Two’s fingers twitch, itching to straighten it.
He can’t tell her. Vic already broke up with him once because she was convinced he was so far up Vessel’s arse; to tell her he actually had been would be the end of their relationship for good. And he likes her, had and has always liked her; she’s nice, she’s normal, she’s predictable and fits well into his routine.
Vessel is chaotic and stormy and bold; the greyscale to Two’s vibrancy. He’s emotion and feeling and unapologetically wedges himself into the mundanity of Two’s life like he’s always belonged there, consistently fucking up his consistency.
Two is fucking obsessed with him.
That fucking tissue box. “I think I left a dirty dish in the kitchen,” he says suddenly, stands so abruptly that it dislodges Vic’s sketchbook. He mumbles an apology as he fiddles with the tissues, aligns them correctly with the pile of books in the centre of the coffee table and stumbles into the kitchen.
There isn’t anything to clean, but he picks up a mug anyway and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.
After a few minutes of mindlessly scouring an already perfectly clean cup, he feels a pair of small hands on his back.
“Hey,” Vic says in a soft, gentle voice, “I think it’s clean.”
Water has soaked into his rolled up shirt sleeves. “Just a bit more.”
“Ok,” she says gently. “Can I help you? I can dry up, if you like?”
Two doesn’t want anyone to touch it. He wants to hold on to the cup, the control, and to make it perfect, make it clean.
“Baby,” Vic calls to him softly. It’s wrong. Her voice is deep, but not deep enough. He closes his eyes as a shiver runs down his spine. “Baby, come back to me, yeah?”
Two opens his eyes and turns, looking down at Vic’s open, honest face. It’s too round, lacks the sharp angles he’s used to seeing. Her lips are too plump, her eyes are too green. There’s freckles across her nose where he’s used to seeing none.
She reaches up and touches his face, strokes his cheek with her thumb. “Hey,” she says.
Fuck. “Hey,” Two croaks.
“You ok?”
“Yeah.” No. “Yeah, ‘m ok.”
Slowly, she reaches out and takes the cup. Two tries to old on, but eventually his fingers slacken. “Indian?” she asks and Two nods. “And Bake Off?”
It’s a perfect evening. It should feel like one. “Indian and Bake Off.”
With a hand gently guiding him, Vic leads him back to the sofa. Her work books are all packed away; 4od is keyed up and ready with the latest episode of The Great British Bake Off. Vic climbs into his lap, puts his arms around her and loads up Deliveroo on her phone; finds their favourite Indian restaurant. Vessel could never hack super spicy food but Vic loves it. Two likes his curries so hot they numb his mouth.
They spend the rest of the evening on the sofa, eating fiery vindaloo with pilau rice and popadoms.
Vic manages another glass of wine before she starts getting sleepy, yawning big and wide behind her hand. At this point, they’ve switched over to watch reruns of Family Guy. Two, himself, is drifting, not really paying attention to anything as he strokes the bare skin of Vic’s arm.
He used to do the same to Vessel.
“I might head up soon,” Vic murmurs around another yawn. “Are you going to come?”
Two looks at the ceiling. “I should probably do some work,” he says.
“Baby, it’s nearly eleven.”
“Yeah, I know.” Two frowns. “I didn’t do any sketches earlier; I’ve got clients that need quotes.”
“Ok,” she sighs, gets to her feet and bends to give him a kiss. “Just don’t be too late to bed, yeah? Even drumming tattoo artists have to sleep sometime.”
“I’ll come up soon,” he promises. He gets settled in the guest bedroom while Vic showers and prepares for bed herself. He sits himself down at the desk to get to work on some sketches, playing the soundtrack from The Lord of the Rings to help him focus.
He doesn’t look at the bed, currently stripped of its sheets.
Three nights ago, he’d been jerked out of sleep by the sound of his front door slamming open. Two had not been expecting anyone, so the shock of it had him nearly falling out of bed. Disoriented from sleep, he’d stumbled down the stairs, his heart racing with fear at the thought of someone breaking in. The light in his kitchen had been hastily smacked on, and, as Two got closer, his phone already out with the intention of calling the police, an entirely new kind of panic had set in.
Vessel had been slumped over at the dining room table, head in his arms. He wasn’t moving, and appeared to be asleep.
“Jesus Christ,” Two had breathed a heavy sigh of relief, but then he had to work quickly. “Vess. Vessel.” At first, nothing. Two was worried for a moment that Vessel had actually passed out. He shook his shoulder, then shook it harder, and was rewarded with a small, pathetic grunt. “Ok,” Two had sighed, and then he picked up Vessel’s arm and heaved it over his shoulder. “Bed, let’s go.”
They’d made their way slowly up the stairs. Vessel was basically dead weight against his back; Two managed to get him up and into the guest bedroom where he dropped Vessel onto the bed. Vessel had spluttered weakly, rolling onto his side and curling his hands over his stomach.
“Shoes, shoes!” Two had shrieked, because Vessel had been about to wipe his dirty Docs on the linen. He undid Vessel’s laces, eased his shoes off, grumbling under his breath as he did it. He sat down on the bed, and put a hand on Vessel’s limp flank. “Jesus, Vess.”
“M sorry,” Vessel slurred. “Work drinks. Gotta bit drunk.”
“A bit?” Two had sighed. Unthinkingly, he rubbed Vessel’s leg. “Why’d you come here?”
“Can’t go home right now. Jerry will be mad.”
“And I wouldn’t be?” Two crawled up the bed and helped him roll onto his back, reaching for the hem of Vessel’s shirt to help him undress. “Arms up.”
Vessel had obediently sat up, though he looked dazed. “You love me, though,” he’d slurred. “It’s different.” Two paused for a second. He realised how it looked; Vessel, flat on his back and looking at his with big, earnest, drunken eyes - him, propped up over him. “I want to kiss you,” Vessel had breathed, and Two had swallowed, heavy, heavy, heavy.
Slowly, he leaned down, and pressed a gentle kiss to the crease between Vessel’s brows, watched how his face crumpled in defeat. “We can’t do that anymore,” he’d explained softly. “I’m sorry.”
The noise Vessel let out was like a sob, and he’d rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow.
“Vessel.” Two’s chest ached. “Vessel, please don’t cry.” He touched between Vessel’s trembling shoulder blades. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Vessel had passed out not long after that. Two had rolled him onto his side encase he got sick, then set up the blow up mattress on the floor. He spent the night there, staring at the ceiling, always on call. Vessel didn’t stir the entire night and Two had left him in the morning to go to work with a pack of headache tablets and a glass of water on the bedside cabinet.
He’d arrived home later that evening to the sheets stripped and washed and a hand written note that simply said, Sorry.
He hadn’t had the heart to throw it away, and it’s currently sitting in his bedside drawer like another dirty little secret.
Vic comes in to wish him a final good night, deposits a mug of peppermint tea on his desk because she’s trying to discourage him from downing Red Bull at half eleven at night and then wondering why he can’t seem to fall asleep. She glances at the bed, but doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t be too late,” she reminds him. He grunts in acknowledgment.
Two locks in and sinks into his sketching. He loses track of time as he begins shading and stippling, cleaning up lines and clearing out negative space.
It’s one-thirty-two exactly in the morning when his phone lights up. He sets down his stylus and picks it up, reaches for his now cold peppermint tea and takes a sip.
You up?
Working, he writes back to Vessel. Are you feeling better?
Still a bit headachy. Jerry threw out my booze.
That was me.
Did you fill my fridge with green juice as well?
No, that was Jerry.
Boo, boring
Two swallows thickly. It wouldn’t hurt you to cut back a little, you know.
Minutes pass and there’s no response. Two drains the mug. His eyes are getting heavy. He puts his iPad on to charge and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Vessel texts back when he’s midway through flossing. Yeah, he says, Think I’ve been drinking a bit too much lately. Been feeling a bit low, I guess.
You could go to therapy again?
Yeah maybe
You can talk to me, he types, swilling Listerine. Always.
I know. Both been busy though.
With your girlfriend, is the implication. Two’s thumbs can’t type quick enough to respond to that before Vessel messages again.
Anyway, I’ve been messing around with some things, I’ll send you what I’ve been working on?
Two sends him a thumbs up. He’s getting into bed when a video comes through. Careful not to disturb Vic where she’s sleeping beside him, Two sticks his headphones on and turns down the brightness on his phone. Then he selects play on the video.
It’s dark for a moment, there’s a muffled noise which Two realises it Vessel holding his camera to position it correctly. Then the phone is set down and Vessel slides into shot.
“Ok,” he says, his voice tinny in Two’s ears. “Ok, so I had this melody rolling around in my brain for a while… It might be shit, see what you think? Let me know?”
He shakes out his wrists; from this angle, Two can’t see his face but he can see all of Vessel’s neck and throat. He sees when Vessel swallows, how his Adam’s apple contracts and expands, hear how he counts himself in, and then he starts to play.
It’s… indescribable. Melodic and haunting and achingly beautiful, combination of crescendoing lifts and devastating jumps in a minor key. Two’s eyes fall closed as he listens; his pupils are dilated, his heart beat loud in his neck and ears. When Vessel starts to hum, no words, just sounds; tales of poetry not yet written, Two feels his eyes begin to prickle.
He listens to the whole video, five, six times. Each time it finishes with Vessel letting out a sheepish, bashful chuckle. “It’s probably shit. Let me know what you think?”
Two rewinds the video with fingers clumsy with drowsiness; Ok, ok, so I had this melody rolling around in my brain for a while… It might be shit, see what you think? Let me know?
As the piano starts again, Two closes his eyes and sinks into the embrace of Vessel’s ravaging melody. As sleep finally tugs at his consciousness, he puts his finger on what the song reminds him of.
This is what falling in love sounds like.