This is where I post my writing, music, and occasional doodle to make it easier to find. Same rules as my main blog apply, but generally:
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All works save for fanart (i.e. fanfic of fanfic, translated fanfic, podfic, etc.) is to be shared on AO3. I am to be linked and/or tagged for such.
Fanart and Fanfic of Fic: Go ahead! Please utilize the gift/"inspired by" feature on AO3 and/or tag me on Tumblr so I may see. Additionally, for fanfic of my fic, if you'd like to ramble about it to me before hand, please contact me in the comments of AO3, here on Tumblr, or on Discord.
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Sleep keeps the first vessel alive through his doubts. He must stay alive.
Or: A short story about being enough.
Word Count: 1.4k words
TW:
Dashes of suicidal ideation
Author’s Note: Songs, and music in general, are wonderful pieces of inspiration. Sometimes the demos are personally preferred over the actual releases. The demo for "And The Hound Reprise" by Yaelokre is one of them. It's also where the title is from.
Full notes in the AO3 link, but I feel like it's important to say that this is part of the series …But The Universe Won’t Let You (link leads to Tumblr masterlist, but there's also the AO3 series link if that suits you fancy). This is the 3rd part of the series, so keep that mind.
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Sometimes, you find yourself drowning in metaphorical waters, choking on your spit and air as you struggle to regulate your breathing. You do not know which one is worse when you find yourself struggling to catch your breath: when it appears suddenly like a flash flood, or when the water level rises slowly akin to the tides reaching for the moon.
You curse them both when you retreat within yourself, but you also curse yourself when you fail to spot the dangers. You retreat within yourself despite the safety the manor offers to you. You grab all of yourself in the bond — all air, all water, all mist — but leave it open the barest amount.
You are trying, you tell yourself as you wade through the waters. You are trying, you tell yourself as you swallow thick spit and shrink away from soft touches. You are trying, you tell yourself as you listen to hushed whispers you know are good for you, but you cannot always make yourself believe it.
Their physicalities feel like too much when you start to drown.
The bond is easier to bear.
When you drown, your throat is heavy. Your vocal cords refuse to work properly. Your mind is quiet at first. Then, it roars awake and bombards you with everything in disjointed harmony. The words demand an exit. You cannot make an exit.
When you drown, you offer your voice, like in the old times. If you cannot make an exit for your loud mind, you might listen to your own voice rouse chagrins as it sings your lyrics back to you in splices and irregular phrases.
(I dislike old times when they involve misplaced gifts. What am I, the garbage bin?)
(I am your god. I am not so desperate nowadays that I will accept anything from you, my first vessel.)
Sometimes, mercy occurs, and it is accepted. Your voice is powerful and lovely. It sings praises and wordless runs. It croons lyrics in audible cursive at times; other times, it spits knives of pain. To yourself or others, it does not know, nor does it discriminate. It splices and bastardizes your words back to you in approximate phrases to carry a conversation.
Today, you drown. You offer your voice.
Your tongue remains heavy, thick with the weight of words unsaid. You taste blood in the back of your throat, mixing with the dense scent of seawater in your nose. You feel the faint sensation of something resting above your trachea. The weight is not there. The weight does not appear yet. The weight could become real, but it holds your voice — your offering — close to you. It is not there to take.
You swallow.
The words scream to be freed.
You open your mouth, then close it like a fish.
Your gifted eyes slowly blink.
“Is it not enough?” you whisper. “Is it not enough for you?”
Water whispers in your ears. The fluid in the cochlea and the vestibular organs mix and meld. You roll over onto your side and bury your face into your pillow. There is the scent of someone else mixed into the pillowcase, and it cuts through the saltwater. Your hands cup over your exposed ear, and the gesture amplifies the waves. They crash and cry. Your stomach churns from the artificial motion, and your mouth fills with saliva.
I sharply flick your throat, and you cough.
Upon catching your breath, you ask again: “Is my voice not enough for you?”
The bed creaks as if someone sat on it, though no divot appears. The window is open a crack, and the cool night air filters in along with the moonlight. It is the twenty-fifth hour of a long day, and you cannot trust your own mind to not play tricks on yourself.
You roll back onto your spine. A light pressure rests on your sternum. Stay. Stay supine. Give me access. Something dainty yet calloused strokes your throat before it taps your vocal folds, playing with your heartstrings.
A momentary, artificial flash of thunder and lighting sparks in your private bond.
Your heartstrings. Your heart.
He sleeps.
They all sleep.
You do not, tonight.
“Is it—?”
“Always.”
“But you—”
“I do not wish for it tonight.”
“Why?”
And though you are at my mercy, I am at yours as well. I do not exist in this physical world without you tethering me to it, my first vessel. You would not be alive and here without me.
Humans are a fragile yet resilient species. I do not know if I fully like them.
But for you, I will make exceptions. You make it difficult to hate them. Yet, you make it difficult to overlook their faults with you seeming so desperate to carry them all.
You are but one human to me.
Yet you are my vessel.
You place a hand over your chest, grabbing at nothing but bare skin. Your breath stutters.
“I don’t know—”
The pressure on your sternum increases. Your next exhale is fluttery, akin to a quiet realization or gentle hands tracing invisible lines on your skin.
“Why do you doubt me?”
“When will I ever not?”
“Is it like you to doubt me?”
“I…”
You look away, despite there not being anything to look at in the first place. Your fingers tremble as if you were dreaming or nervous. Your six eyes, my golden gifts to you, move minutely with those twitches that I have understood as natural.
In the darkness of the night, the whites of your eyes are black. Without the bright sclera in the way, the same way that the sun shies away from the Earth during certain beloved hours, I can see you try to look for any visual signs of my presence in your room.
You do not see.
But I do.
A small flicker of a candle’s flame reflected in the eyes of the beholder. You will always hear me. You may sometimes feel or smell or taste me. But you will not be privy to see me.
There are things that are best left unknown.
“I want you to dance forever.”
Your voice orders you with uncanny cadence. You shake your head, the faintest movement causing the fabric of your pillowcase to shift against the pillow itself.
“Why?”
And when you do not respond:
“You asked. I answered. I ask in return, so answer me: Why?”
“Is that all you want?”
Your greatest gift is your music. You and I and everyone else know. Your fingers that coax chords and melodies from the strings of the mind, your voice that croons and cries and screams and shouts.
You will not offer me your fingers.
You will not offer me your voice again.
It is a heavy thing, your voice. It thrums of regret and hums tunes that you will never share. It is precious to you. It is not mine to take lightly, no matter how many times you offer it.
It is a gift conditioned by your absence, and a gift like that is not a gift at all, but a tumor that spreads in silence.
“As long as you dance, it means you live. As long as you live, it means you sing.”
I do not tell you that I will take your voice when you breathe your last, final breath. You would try to make it arrive sooner if I shared that.
“Is it enough for you?” you ask.
“Always.”
The presence leaves your room, raising the pressure from your sternum and returning control of your vocal folds back. You immediately wrap your arms around Jerry, burying your face in the black plush of the flamingo’s body.
Time goes on, and your breathing slowly evens out close to the twenty-sixth hour of the long day. Time resets and zero begins. You are carried back to shore, and when you wake, you are safe. You are warm and dry.
You let yourself speak, albeit quietly, to the others as you pour a cup of coffee. You do not drown when you enter the bigger bond again.
A talk about airports and relatives.
Featuring “The Little Prince”.
Word Count: 1k words
TW: None
Author’s Note: I'm back, again! Done with school for a little bit, which left me burnt-out and writer's blocked. Nevertheless, we found enough motivation to give you this.
Also, AdP now has a canonical tag on AO3! Congrats, sardines!
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band, as per their terms and conditions.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
Embedding Down, Link Here For Now!
Time travel, contrary to what most beings think, is a highly mathematical concept. It’s prone to error, each micro-mistake causing a shift in timing and reality. Each decimal — the beloved dot — and the numbers surrounding it an opportunity, akin to the beat of a butterfly’s wings on planet Earth.
Of course, time travel can’t be simplified to the concept of the butterfly effect. But it’s a good analogy when any of them need to explain a dumbed down version of their method of intergalactic travel to the beings on this planet. Really, they only had to explain it to Sebastian and Fabien, and even then they both knew that the concept went over the humans’ heads. Music is easier to explain: a common language of wordless notes made through particle vibration.
Then again, their music is more on the complex side: combining mathematically-complex rhythms with notes outside the western scale, falling in between the halves of sharps and flats with quarters, then inserting rests and quick notes to cause a playful stumble.
It’s a fun experiment for them, but it’s not just an experiment. If it was, then that wouldn’t be as fun. Music is an art meant to be shared as well. Music is art to the beings of planet Earth, one that causes infectious toe-tapping and head-banging. It’s a wonder that it was even brought it up when their planet had obtained the Golden Records.
So, music must be important for the beings of planet Earth.
Unfortunately, music can’t unite everything on this planet. Time zones seem to be something that remains elusive, messing with the aliens’ sense of time and balance. It’s foolish to imagine that they would even experience bad “jet lag”, as the humans described it. Even then, they’re used to it, being interdimensional time travelers.
Still, just because they’re used to it doesn’t mean that they’re above the disorientation that it gives them.
They arrive to the hotel room during a hot evening, a delay in their initial flight throwing off the transfer, forcing the alien musicians and their crew to rush to the closing gate just as they were announcing the final boarding.
“I think we should utilize our ships when we return to our earthen residence,” Klek says after the brothers all but collapse onto the small hotel beds. Someone’s joints pop as they stretch. “It would save us time through security and delays.”
“I know what you are referring to,” Khn replies, back arched backward over the edge of the bed. With how the top of his hat touches the carpet of the hotel room, it might be supporting him so he doesn’t end up falling onto the floor itself. It has happened before, in the earlier days when they were particularity homesick for their polka-dotted planet with shifting gravity. “But,” Khn continues, “I find airplanes to be an interesting form of travel.”
“While I agree, I have to wonder.” Klek reaches forward and wiggles his fingers before he turns from his back to his stomach on the hotel bed. He sits up and taps the mattress as he asks, “When security asks what you are carrying in the sleeping bag, at what point does it change from funny to something else?”
Khn bursts into laughter as he waves his hands around and accidentally bumps his nose. “I think it is always funny. My instrument in a sleeping bag being mistaken for a dead body will never not be funny.”
Klek shrugs. “I would like to not be late though.”
“We are intergalactic time travelers. I do not think we have the capacity to be late. We can always shift the strings of time and hit the right beats to propel ourselves forwards and backwards.”
“The jet lag is tiring however.”
“That is true. But humans have dealt with it for much longer during their shorter lifespans. We will be alright.”
Klek lets out a few clicks before he reaches over and nudges Khn’s hat with his bare foot. “Humans do not have to disguise themselves to not be questioned by airport security.”
“That is also tiring, yet. But airports are fun to explore. They are endless in things to see. And today, the airport was very quiet and empty.”
“Because it was late at night. I believe humans call that a liminal space.”
“A space of transition between one place and another. Would that be like time travel?”
“Perhaps if it was not so instantaneous.”
A flicker of movement draws the brothers’ attention to a small insect that lands on the lamp in between the beds. It scuttles around before it takes off and lands on the tip of Khn’s nose. “What is it? I cannot see.”
Klek slides off the bed and crouches to better look at the insect. It’s a small one with six legs and a red outer shell speckled with black dots. The drummer holds out a finger and lets the insect crawl onto it before bringing it down to Khn’s field of vision, who makes a noise of content upon satisfying his curiosity. “Coccinellidae.”
“Ladybug. Or ladybird.”
“They remind me of insects back home. We had a relative raise them in a terrarium, remember that?”
“I remember that someone accidentally spilled it open and we had to hunt down each insect because she got distressed.”
“I think she has forgiven us for that.”
The insect eventually flies off, disappearing elsewhere in the hotel room. Or maybe it left completely through a crack in the door or window. There isn’t a point in chasing it down. Exploring the hotel room (just in case, for curiosity’s sake) reveals an abandoned children’s book. The yellowing, well-loved cover features a child on a little planet, the title in looping script while the author’s name is in clear lettering.
“What is this doing here?”
“We could read it. I am curious about this little prince.”
“It looks familiar, for some reason.”
“Despite it, we should read it. Familiarity can’t hurt.”
A talk about rain and silly sibling shenanigans.
Featuring "Africa" by Toto.
Word Count: 1k words
TW: None
Author’s Note: I'm back. Community is great. I bought their albums on Bandcamp Friday.
This was somewhat inspired by this worldbuilding idea by @lost-on-the-highway. Rain. Rain sounds so nice and brings up wonderful smells.
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band, as per their terms and conditions.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
Embedding Down, Link Here For Now!
Rain isn’t a common thing on their home planet millions of light years away. The atmosphere has a similar buildup in elements so to not instantly harm them, but there are smaller differences that they have yet to fully understand.
The radio crackles and hums as the station is switched from AM to FM and back again, jumping between numbers as the dial twists in intervals. News, music, talk shows. Humans discover low, slow waves of electromagnetic energy, and the one of the first things they do is infuse it with music and the sound of their voice, broadcast for thousands to hear.
“…a seventy percent chance of rain, so be sure to bring your umbrella if you plan to go out. Looking ahead…”
On Earth, rain has a certain smell. Humans call it “petrichor”, and it’s strongest when rain hits dry soil and causes aerosols in small bubbles to stimulate their olfactory nerve. It’s a pleasant yet foreign scent. A reminder that they are but visitors.
They are welcome visitors, however. Their time on the planet has been well thus far. Humans like their music, bringing their hands up into triangles and not at all caring that they can’t understand the duo when they speak in their native language.
Of course, there are those who dislike their music. But annoyance is a foreign thing when one is devoid of all ability to feel it.
The radio prattles onto an advertisement, and it’s changed once again. AM to FM. It’s time for music instead.
The sound of tapping on the window alerts the other to roll the glass barrier down.
“Open the trunk.”
“Why?”
“I wish to sit in the trunk.”
“You do not want, as humans call it, shotgun?”
“Not today. I want the trunk of the van this time.”
Granted, they have room in the back for this part of the journey. Most of their equipment is in a different van that their photographer is already driving to their next destination, someone from their home planet that had arrived to Earth separately from them. Their arrival had been a bit earlier, yet they are younger than the duo. They had chalked it up to time dilation and the finicky nature of time travel, but their photographer has been helpful.
Khn pops the trunk open and waits for his brother to get himself settled. He rotates the dial of the radio again, switching from “Hits of today!” to “Best of the 80’s and 90’s!” He twists in his seat to watch Klek move into spacious trunk before his brother reaches out to grab the interior handle and pull the trunk shut.
It clicks closed.
A shuffle to get into a comfortable position.
Then, a muffled laugh, so quiet one can barely hear it.
“Khn.”
“Klek?”
“I am stuck.”
“How?”
“My robe is stuck in the trunk door.”
“How do you get stuck in the trunk door?”
“I do not wear coveralls like you do. I appreciate things that are looser and freer in movement.”
“Do you need my assistance to achieve freedom, then?”
“If you are willing.”
The absurdity of the entire situation causes Khn to burst into little giggles as he exits the van to free his brother. The gravel is dry and slightly rough beneath his bare polka-dotted feet, and the clouds get increasingly dark as time passes. He laughs louder as he finds a piece of Klek’s robe sticking out of the van’s trunk before pulling the trunk’s door up and open.
Klek sits there in a pose akin to a magazine cover: one leg is slightly up and bent at the knee while one hand holds up two fingers. The eyes in his mouth almost seem to shine with mirth while his other pair watches his brother carefully. With his other hand, he points at Khn. “Pew! Pew! Pew! Pew! Pew!”
Khn laughs. “Was this your plan the entire time?”
“No. But I can improvise.” Klek holds up his two fingers again. “Victory.”
“Peace sign.”
“Two.”
“Duo.”
Klek pulls the rest of his robe into the trunk of the van before Khn pushes it shut once again. The engine of the van rumbles to life soon after and they head on their way to their next destination.
“Why do you suppose humans divide their music into ‘80’s’,’90’s’, and ‘today’? What is considered ‘today’ has occurred for two decades now, and it is close to three.”
“Perhaps because there was something about music made in those time periods that humans wish to capture and call special.”
“Does that mean there is little to none of that specialness in music that falls into the category of ‘today’?”
“I doubt it. But humans enjoy their odd classifications.”
“Make the radio louder. I enjoy this song.”
The volume increases by two notches just as Klek pretends to hit the drums. The chorus rings out in the land vehicle: “I bless the rains down in Africa! Gonna take some time to do the things we never had.” As the percussion switches to mallets on a marimba, Klek wiggles his fingers.
“You enjoy that song a lot.”
“I do. It is a good song. It was our opening for one show.”
“Was it our opening because you enjoy it or because you know that humans enjoy it?”
“Can it not be both?”
“It can be both.”
Khn rolls down all the windows of the van to their halfway point as the sound of rain starts to hit the exterior, filling the air with the sound of millions of tiny drums and the smell of petrichor. Klek leans against the front passenger seat and deeply inhales. “Do you think we can bottle this up and send it back home?”
“It would be difficult. But maybe. We could figure it out.”
“It could be in a candle. And it could be burnt when we feel like it.”
A talk about technical difficulties and nicotine.
Featuring homesickness.
Word Count: 1k words
TW: Smoking
Author’s Note: You know something has gripped my braincells when I start churning out fics.
I was inspired by this art and ramble by @jussafish yet again! Community is a wonderful thing. I was also inspired by some tour videos that have popped up recently.
This is my obligatory message as a healthcare worker that smoking is addictive with no benefits to one's health, and it's never too late to quit.
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band, as per their terms and conditions.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
For beings devoid of the capacity to feel all forms of annoyance, it certainly doesn’t help that there seems to be many things occurring that a human would consider “an annoyance”. Of course, categorizing such is a difficult task due to said inability. But it doesn’t deter from the small itch that lingers just beneath the skin. It feels like a minor molt, something that’s easily picked off as the old layer flakes away.
Minor molts are unsubstantial things. The layers beneath are discolored for a few hours at most, and the atmosphere on Earth seems to increase the frequency at which they happen.
It doesn’t take away from the fact that they occur more often though.
Public rooftops are forbidden things in human culture for an odd reason. Their manager is gracious enough to schedule their tour with a few dates further apart to give them time to admire and explore humanity, but hotels making their rooftops prohibited is a step too far.
They manage to find a way. Nothing a little bit of time travel can’t fix if they get caught.
“Are those not bad for you?”
A shrug as some of the ashes are tapped off the burning end onto the rooftop ground. “I can read the warnings on the box.”
“Why do you continue?”
“I can reverse the damage.”
“That does not answer my questions.”
A pause as the lit cigarette is brought to the mouth, then a wordless exhale as the smoke puffs out in nauseating clouds. The scent clings to the older clothes that they wear, almost becoming embedded in the threads themselves. “Humans are fascinating creatures. They discover damaging properties in addictive substances. They market them and sell them. They become sick as a result.”
“Are you addicted to it?”
Another tap of ashes. “A little. It was a novel thing. The closest we have back home are what humans call incense sticks here, and even those do not rewire the brain’s synapses as strongly as nicotine.”
“But you can stop, correct?”
“It would require some help. Selective time travel to reverse the damage to the synapses and lungs. If you would provide assistance —”
“Of course I would.”
The evening air is cool, a hum coming from some hidden machinery somewhere on the roof. A tall fence curves inwards to deter falls to the parking lot below. Their parked van with all their supplies sits in front of the window of their assigned room.
“Hat off. Let me braid your hair.”
There’s no resistance, just a silent shuffle to the ground as the large hat is removed and knees are brought up to the torso.
He joins with crisscrossed legs, all eyes focused on the thick golden strands. There is nothing to tie it up, but he grabs several strands either way and twists them in threes. Over and twist, repeat the motion. When he grows bored, he frees the braid and detangles the strands before restarting.
“There were several technical issues tonight,” Khn finally says, cigarette still emitting smoke from the burning end. It remains trapped between two of his fingers, mimicking the images that the two see on the internet. “It feels like a minor molt.”
“But we did well,” Klek responds. “You managed to improvise. I remember when the change in gravity was still new to us. A drumstick slipped out of my grasp and threw off my rhythm.”
“I can accept one song, but two songs in the same show? The equipment is reliable, but it has shown its faults tonight.”
“And do you think a cigarette will help?”
“I know it will only make things worse, but it feels nice in a way. It reminds me of that candy we had back home, the long one that easily crumbles into powder.”
The fingers running through his hair pause. “I miss home,” Klek murmurs. “The beds here cannot compare to the ones at home. The human mattress is okay, but having divots in the walls to sleep is better.”
Khn twists some of his beard around his free hand, leaning backwards a little to give his brother a bit more hair to braid. “I do not think the gravity on Earth would allow for that.”
“I know. They do not have divots to sleep in, nor do they have the candy we used to consume.”
“Instead, they have mattresses and cigarettes.”
“One of which is better than the other.”
A sharp laugh breaks way into a warble before a vocalized click cuts through. “Will you assist in minor time travel then?”
“Will you stop if I do?”
“You already know the answer.” A drag. Smoke billows forth, the wind carrying it away from the other.
A sharp sound akin to the gnashing of teeth is the response. “As long as you stick around long enough to continue making music.”
“I will.”
Fingers deftly continue to mindlessly braid until he grows bored with the action and smoothens out the strands before Klek announces that he’s done. “Let us not disappoint the Golden Record gifted to us and rest now.”
Khn stands and stretches before dropping the cigarette on the ground and placing his hat back on. Klek swiftly stomps on it with his shoe, extinguishing the human-made thing before Khn picks it up to properly discard it. He taps the ground with his bare, polka-dotted foot before he asks, “Do you think that humans believe us when we say what we are?”
“No.”
“Does that make you feel like a minor molt?”
“Sometimes. But I think that our music is more important.”
“That is true. We are simply visiting and exploring what humanity has to offer.”
“I do enjoy the energy that they bring when they see us. It makes you want to keep doing it. They dance to an odd time signature.”
“What would you classify it as?”
“Humans ideally dance in five-four and seven-eight. As for classification, I am unsure.”
A talk about molting and music while rotting on the couch.
Featuring mild sibling shenanigans.
Word Count: 1k words
TW: None
Author’s Note: Hey, I'm back with yet another niche fic. This one was harder to write out for some reason. I listened to a lot of "Project Hail Mary" OST while writing this (fantastic movie and music, still waiting on the book from my library).
This was inspired by a few posts on Tumblr, specifically this art by @jussafish (which gave me inspirations for poses described here) and this costume evolution by @lost-on-the-highway (which gave me the idea of them molting).
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band, as per their terms and conditions.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It’s clear that no one knows how to sit on the couch properly.
Then again, it’s also clear that no one particularly minds nor cares enough to correct the other. They are beings devoid void of the capacity to feel all forms of annoyance, after all. After spending only a few hours getting groceries and leaving the rest of their day free with no pre-planned activities, they have yet to stumble upon the type of boredom that itches at the body and mind with the need for any type of stimulation.
The shift of fabric on the couch’s exterior is the only indication that they are still awake. For one of them, the toes wiggle and fingers tap on the abdomen. A head adorned with thick yellow hair akin to yarn and a large hat turns towards the other.
“Klek,” a garbled voice says. “Klek. Klek. Klek.” The name of the other repeats until it fills the silence of the living space at a steady interval, akin to a metronome or an analog clock’s second hand.
A long moment passes.
“Khhhhhhhhhn,” the other lowly drones out, shifting a bit in position to stretch. “Khn.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Barely.”
“I apologize.”
“It is accepted.”
A hum of acknowledgment before silence fills the room once again. Then, the quiet noise of movement replaces the silence as Khn pulls himself up from laying upside down on the couch and curls his legs around the cylindrical head of his brother. Humans would call this a ‘piggyback’, yet the origin of the word seems quite unknown. Not to mention, it isn’t a true piggyback; Klek isn’t carrying Khn, merely supporting the other’s weight.
“What are you doing?” Klek asks.
“I am giving you an improvised hug,” Khn replies as he gives the golden pyramid atop Klek’s head a small tap. “I do not wish to join you on the floor with my legs crisscrossed like you, but I wish to engage in acknowledgment of you.”
“How kind.” Klek lets his brother shift a bit to find a comfortable position, most of his weight still on the couch itself. The television is off (the news is less desirable to learn about at the moment), though they could’ve turned on the radio to fill the room with some music. But, seeing as how he is currently trapped by the whims of his brother, the radio will have to wait.
“We should get more vinyls,” Khn says. “Our collection should grow. We could send some back home too, if we wish.”
“Would the players at home suffice for the records?”
“Some adjustments may have to be made, but we could add a message.”
“Then you have to get off me.”
“No.”
They exist there in comfortable stillness for a bit longer. Then, Khn removes his hat and sets it down in front of Klek. “The material these are made of is much better than before.”
“It still looks a bit worn down, but that could be because of the atmosphere and weather on Earth.”
“And our journey.”
“Get down here.”
This time Khn obeys, though he does it though returning to his previous position of laying upside down on the couch. Klek gives an exaggerated “Ahem” before he applies a bit of pressure to Khn’s nose, causing it to wiggle upon release and his brother to laugh at the action. “You look better. The molt you had recently made did you a lot of favors.”
“However, you got a bit shorter. And your upper eyes changed.”
“I do not think humans mind too much. They look at the ones in my mouth instead.”
“Because they look more similar to their own. That is a bit rude of them, but I do not think they know any better.”
“That is because their mouths are the source of their breathing and vocal communication. They cannot wordlessly vocalize like us.”
“A shame, but that would explain why their mouths are less rigid. Coming down,” Khn announces as he slides off the couch and sits up to match Klek’s seating position. Klek, on the other hand, shifts so his arms rest on his knees, which are pulled up and closer to his torso.
“You have arrived,” Klek says. “Welcome.”
Khn gives a nod back.
“Our manager called us recently. He said that we have sold out in several countries.” It doesn’t matter which set of eyes Klek uses to properly gauge Khn’s reaction. It’s clear even with the golden dollar signs that he has floating in front of them.
(“Made to mimic those silly human glasses with weird shapes.”
“It looks weird.“
“Eyes are weird.“)
“Human enjoy our music, even when they do not fully understand it.”
“Some of them understand parts of it. Human musicians seem to understand it more than anyone else.”
“Because they understand the art of it.”
“And the math.”
“The math is integral to the music.”
“Do you believe that humans think that math and art can be entwined?”
“I would like to hope so.”
“Have you seen the pictures from their most recent space exploration?”
“That I have. We have missed them up there.”
“I like it here for now. There are hot dogs. And sardines. And many triangular shapes.”
“We arrive in peace, and bring music with us.”
“And that is our focus. The music.”
“I think that is something that humans cannot fully understand. They frequently focus on appearances.”
“But we cannot do much about that.”
“That is true. We can only continue to make and play music for them.”
“At least that is achievable.”
A pause, then the two stretch. “I feel like having sardines for dinner,” Klek says as he wiggles his fingers and cracks his knuckles.
“There is a place that sells anchovies on pizza.”
“What are anchovies?”
“They are like sardines. I think.”
“You call them.”
“But I called our photographer last time.”
“I look at humans for you, and you talk to humans for me.”
A talk about dice and time signatures.
Featuring a gifted set of custom D&D dice and unsaid culture differences.
Word Count: 1k words
TW: None
Author’s Note: If I had a nickel for every time a (masked/anonymous) band brought me out of writer's block, I would have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird it's happened twice.
Anyways, these microtonal math rock aliens from Quebec have gripped my brain so hard that I decided to write a fic about them. Dialogue-heavy, and what is this but treating their goofiness a bit seriously for the fun of it?
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band, as per their terms and conditions.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“What would a die with infinite sides be?”
“A sphere.”
“Would it ever stop rolling then?”
“Perhaps not.”
A clatter of hard material rolls on the inside of the van. It’s cramped only if one thinks it is. However, the back is open and their instruments aren’t inside the vehicle yet. They aren’t trying to contort their bodies inside the storage area either. That was already done for the short video their manager had told them to film. An explanation of why they had come to Earth. If it was an explanation at all.
“I do not think that such dice would exist here then. But, a human gifted us these,” one of them says. A hand presents a white die with four sides in a pyramidal shape. The numbers carved on the surface are black, if chipped and imperfect. Small dark polka-dots litter the surface of the dice. “They said it was homemade.”
“They seem to think we enjoy them.”
“There are other shapes too.” This time, the die’s design reflect onto itself with a different set: the details are white while the surface is black. “There is the classic one we enjoy and are familiar with. Then, there are these.”
A clatter as the gifts are thrown once again. “The most interesting one is the regular icosahedron.”
“Yes, they had seemed to put a lot of emphasis on it. They had said they had ‘blessed it’, did they not?”
“That they did.”
“Superstition? Or a true blessing?”
“They could be one and the same.”
“Do you suppose it relates to our attempt to form a hypothesis about humans?”
“About how there is no pure free will?”
“Exactly that.”
“It could be. However, when compared to the wider norm, it could be a deviation.”
“Because of how some others reacted?”
“They may have ingested substances. The performance was at a place where such is legally distributed.”
“Do you think it was jealousy, then?”
“Humans are quite confusing.”
A clatter of dice once again. A hum as the dice are moved around, then a few more dice are thrown. “The dice say that we are the same age again.”
“That has occurred twice now.”
“Do you think that is true then?”
“I much prefer the change. Humans are very picky about ages and hierarchy.”
“The older is seen as more responsible, yes.”
“I do not think that either of us would enjoy the constant responsibility of a hierarchy that relies on maturity and chronological biology.”
“That would imply that one of our instruments and roles are more important than the other.”
“I would really not like that. The main reason why this works at all is because we work together. To remove one completely would leave the structure to crumble.”
“Geometry works because of the properties that remain the same even when transformed. There are certain parts of our music that must remain.”
“There is no band without either of us permanently out of the picture. That would be a different shape entirely.”
The two of them nod in approval, turning their attentions to the gifted dice for a moment longer. The country road behind them, where the front of the van is facing, is long and quiet. Not a lot of vehicles pass at this time of day, where the planet’s sun hides behind the clouds and gives the rural space a gray hue. Long green grass sway in a subtle wind. It’s calming, yet different from their home planet.
Things here don’t conform to the geometry or rules that they’re used to. Then again, it’s nice to not spend an average of 33 hours grocery shopping because everyone is a big fan of each other, especially considering the hours of shops on Earth.
But it’s good here too. There are hotdogs and pyramids after all.
The dice hit each other again, a combination of their standard ones and the gifted ones. One of them makes a click from their mouth. “What do you think about seven-four and seven-eight?”
“Sebastian,” the other sings. Though, it’s difficult to the Earthian ear to properly distinguish if that was what was actually being said.
Upon echoing the phrase, the question is asked again.
A pause. The regular icosahedron is rolled. “How about seventeen-four?”
“If I remember correctly, the biggest numerator that we composed was twelve.”
“Yes, twelve-eight. We transformed that into four-four. That was not entirely out of hand.”
“But what of seventeen-four?”
“We will need to compute the amount of energetic stimulation it might generate.”
“But it is possible.”
“It is possible.”
“Question.”
“Answer?”
“How much energetic stimulation would our music produce beyond our time?”
“I would guess —” a die is gently tossed to the other, who makes a small disgruntled noise at the action — “definitely until we are 400.”
“Would you say until we are 500?”
“Yes, but if you say 600, you may be pushing it. Humans evolve on a different timespan than we, after all.”
“Of course. I do not even believe that the humans here take our modest age of 333 seriously.”
“Even translating the age of when we had first started collaborating on this work is an estimate.”
“But humans live short lifespans. Thirteen makes more sense to them.”
“It is inaccurate, but it is all we can do.”
Another long pause. A bird chirps an unknown song from an unknown place. The grass whispers back.
“Our instruments and equipment.”
“We should clean them up.”
“And give our photographer a call.”
“You can do that. Your accent is tolerated better.”
A die is lightly tossed, not meant to harm, but just to jest. A click of disapproval precedes a triangular symbol of the hands as an apology.
The actual loading of instruments and equipment is quick and silent. Monotonous movement interlaced with small hums and clicks, shuffles in syncopated rhythm. When the gear is secured and the back of the van is shut, the engine starts.
We have returned. I don't feel like I can churn out tunes as quickly as I used to. Perhaps it's a recognition of what I can do and what I must improve on. Perhaps it's time and motivation. I still like what I can make though.
This is my 64th creation. It was mostly an experiment to see how I can make something in 12/8 time. It was also an experiment to play around with distortion with the guitars in the program I use.
Before she was Sleep, before she was Pia, and before he was Vessel, they were friends.
Then she drowned, and things slowly change from there.
Word Count: 1.2k words
TW:
Implied character death
Brief talks about dismantling a body
Author’s Note: You know why this is gifted to you @gabe-killed-me-with-ace-cream. Need I say less?
Additionally, check out Mariel's work that inspired this. No, you don't get the Discord chats.
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
They are entwined with each other from the very beginning. Like broken branches swirling in floodwater. Like precious metal necklaces tangled up with each other. Like three matching pendants.
From water rises blood, warm and alive.
She will never feel that again.
But she knows who will, and for that, she’s thankful that they both stay.
He has nowhere else to go, so she welcomes him in her house. What else can she do? He’s her friend, and while she has no reason to be trust him when he stumbles onto her doorstep once changed (blood dripping from the open mouth, canines so sharp that they tear his lower lip when they catch on the flesh, wide eyes with a feverish look), she lets him into her house.
He never really leaves from that point onwards. Not because he can’t, but because he wants to remain with her.
She taught her everything she knows. The correct plants and steps. The proper way to preserve ingredients so they last. Things that can be substituted and things that require only the freshest of the batch. Which mixtures are like cooking and which are like baking. Which easily forgive and which easily forsake. She wouldn’t say anything to her mentor (not even now), but she cherishes the time they spent. In another time, perhaps.
She thought that he would be forced to watch them both age. Watch their hair fade away into grays and whites and their skin wrinkle. He cries when it hits him, voice breaking but his words steady when he sobs that he can’t do that to them.
He cries again when water fills her lungs.
But she screams when she awakens at long last, deathly cold with wrinkly fingertips. She knows she’s dead. She knows she will never properly feel the living again. She knows, but he refuses to let her go. She knows, and she changes herself with old magics to reawaken her.
That’s alright, she whispers to them as lights change from candles to lightning caught in wires, it’s alright if you haunt me.
He breaks her physical body up into pieces, letting her watch over his shoulder as he cracks open the joints, preserving the flesh of her hands. She weaves bits of her hair into intricate braids. They dismantle her and rebuild her until she is an alter of herself. She is not a grave.
She will live on.
He’s foolish like that, and she’s just as stubborn, but she doesn’t mind. Not when he keeps a jar of some of her smallest bones safe underneath the tablecloth of her altar. Not when she meticulously picks her favorite flowers and fruit for her, placing them in her preserved hand and watching her receive it. They’re faded, and she is not. They’re a ghost of her favorites, and she refuses to die.
Her mentor becomes a bit of a vagrant. She doesn’t know if it’s because of the old magics that seeped into her every being, or if it’s because she now has time and freedom to do so. But she wanders away from her house for days, sometimes weeks on end. Sometimes she leaves rare offerings for her to practice. Other times, she only takes her preserved hand and gently uncurls the fingers before placing a kiss on the palm, curling it closed before leaving.
It’s warm.
She tries to continue her brews and medications, seeing how despite her attempts to teach him, he could never grasp her methods. How ironic, it is then, to find out that she can control water. Liquids bend to her will, so as long as she works with damp ingredients, she will be fine. It’s a shame for her dried herbs, but she makes him pluck them out of the jars for her before smearing her tools with water.
He’s a good friend.
Maybe too good. He has a habit of adopting strays.
First, the gorgon. She doesn’t mind him, actually. He has a mean appearance, but his nature is defensive. He looks at her unguarded, and when she doesn’t freeze on him, he relaxes. He’s good for Vessel despite that. She treats him with making oils for his snakes. By then, she forgets their names from before.
Sleep. I am Sleep. My friend is Vessel. My mentor is Pia. And that one is II. Second of my house.
With the werewolf, she tries to convince Vessel to throw him out. Loud and rowdy men often lead to trouble. She looses the long fight, but not without defenestrating him multiple times, wolf or not. How delightful it is to control the living via the water inside them. She doesn’t admit it, and she’s glad that the third living creature of her house doesn’t mind it either, but she has grown comfortable with his presence. She accepts his offerings of leaves from his runs, and in exchange, she ensures the water runs warm when he dyes his hair.
Third of my house. That one is III.
There was a fourth, but he didn't fit the band (and how strange yet fitting it is, for she knows that Vessel always loved music but only after a long time is he able to pursue his dream).
Now, there’s a solid fourth. He’s annoyingly normal save for how nothing can kill him. Sleep knows: he’s been drunk from, stared at, ripped to shreds, and drowned. He’s a hearty thing, and Sleep finds herself digging into his curse (or his blessing, but she’s just a witch).
But then she’s given an offering of rich chocolate cake and she pushes that tangled mess of magic away.
Fourth of my house. IV.
There are others, of course. Fae with enchanting voices, warm fire and playful water and earthy plants. Sleep loves them on first sight, no bias at all.
(She has so much bias. She can only stand letting her house be overtaken by men living in it for so many years before she craves something different.)
Still, she adores them all. Some more than others, some with more tolerance for their shenanigans, but she adores them.
‘Love’ is too strong of a term, something foreign and strange. Something she never really understands when it came to the fragile psyche of someone who could express such thoughts and emotions back to her.
She’s different, in this modern day and age. She feels it when she lets herself drift away into dreaming, the way that her house bends to her will. She feels it when she’s gifted presents — offerings — on her altar (now two of them, thanks to IV). She feels it when Vessel stays by her altar and tells her about his day like they’re scriptures. She feels it when Pia comes home and makes things for her. She feels it when anyone thanks her like they’re prayers.
She says it quietly to herself, as if it’s a fragile thing:
You’re a god.
It makes her giddy, like a little child all over again. How much she misses it.
She never says it aloud, but she makes it clear either way: She is a god, her house is a temple, and the residents are her favorite.
There were others that Sleep had never mentioned. If Vessel and his bandmates were the god's vessels, and the Espera the god's choir, then who were the god's priests?
Or: Piano Token and Fore get introduced, a little late, but better than never.
Word Count: 2.3k words
TW: None.
Author’s Note: Change-Verse, oh how I missed you.
I had to review what I had written for this so far because, if you can believe it, I pantsed and not planned this series. Things have changed (ha ha) to how I've written these characters. I can't agree with everything that my past self (ha ha) has written, but as such, this is but a sandbox with how little solid lore we have. So, I suppose, if you see any discrepancies, then it's okay. Things change.
That, and I had struggled immensely to come back to this. Writer's block and mental health and my own education, bang bang bang. But, we persist. And we thank you for staying just a little bit longer.
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There were others that Vessel had never met before in person, yet he felt like he would recognize them from the dreams Sleep sent. Flits of calloused fingers on a guitar neck, chords from black and white keys, smooth brass fueled by breath.
He had met the third one on their last large ritual tour. Sax had been his Sleep-given name, and he had been dressed in the same green robes as the singer did, but his face had been adorned with a golden mask akin to the Espera. When Vessel had questioned it, Sax had only brought up his titular instrument to his exposed mouth as if it would explain everything.
Clearly, it hadn’t, since Sax had grabbed the first band member unlucky to walk by him at the time and had curled a finger around a golden chain attached to their face. “There’s no way that I’m going to have to fight a veil to play my sax,” he had said before letting the chain free, his wide grin framed by the golden edges of the mask.
(III had grumbled about it the entire time, though the blown kiss towards him on stage had seemed to calm him later.)
“So, remind me again why Sleep never mentioned anyone else?” III asked as he stretched upwards like a plant, face bare of any god-given changes as his glamour stuck to him.
YOU NEVER ASKED.
III startled before he swore up a storm as he leaned on II’s shoulder at the intersection. “Fucking hell, I’ll never get used to that new change.”
“Being jumpy?” II asked, even though Vessel knew that the answer was clear.
“The entire —” III vaguely waved one of his hands around to avoid saying it aloud. Not in public, when they were glamoured up and expected to act normal. Human. Not as if their god had recently gained more worship to speak in their waking minds now. “You know.”
Vessel shrugged at the bassist before the intersection symbol blinked and people started to cross on the white lines. IV’s hand tugged at his own and guided him forward, the sea of people in a different city from their own. Loud in a different way. Unfamiliar corners and hole-in-the-wall places. Accents slightly off kilter even when they speak the same general language.
Some things stayed the same though.
The way that IV’s hand tightened around Vessel’s own when the singer rubbed a thumb over the guitarist’s knuckles. The way that III stepped on all the cracks in the sidewalk except for the ones that had flowers growing out of them. The way that II would tap the toes of his shoes against the concrete when some internal count in his head didn’t add up. The way that Vessel himself mentally documented each and every single one of these things, if only to solidify them in his head for a little while longer.
WE HAVE ARRIVED. GO, MY VESSELS. RING YOURSELF IN.
Dare Vessel say, Sleep sounded excited. Excited not like a god would be, not calm and calculating with water rushing in his ears and insect legs chattering up and down his spine. No, Sleep sounded excited like a child about to show off their favorite toy.
“Sleep told us you would be coming,” a voice said in a sing-song tone when Vessel entered the code to the little security panel. It wove through the air, unhampered by the fuzzy static. “You’re Her Vessels. Her special ones.”
A buzz.
“It’s unlocked.”
When they crossed the threshold of the flat’s main halls, something shifted. Sleep’s presence in the air thickened, almost like a fog descended. The god ushered them up, quickly now. Vessel could feel it in his mind how Sleep was almost pacing. He had felt it in his dreams, the frantic energy rushing and running around. Salty water had crashed onto white sands repeatedly, having frothed up a thick foam that had dissipated the moment he had touched it. Birds had cawed in laughter and the flowers that grew from the shore’s rocky edges had been thick with blooms.
When Vessel knocked on the door, all that energy rushed to the forefront of his consciousness. It stole his breath for a moment and he felt someone’s hands on his shoulders to steady him when his feet wobbled. And when that door opened, all that energy amplified, spreading through the public hallway of the flat.
Vessel managed to barely catch the face of the person who opened the door. Or at least, what he expected was a face. Instead, his six glamoured eyes managed to see a black half mask, similar to his first days when the mask and the face were two separate entities. A red sigil wove its way down the center as two eyeholes revealed dark eyes that widened with excitement. A grin and a small laugh drew attention to the person’s mouth, where a silver piercing shone on the center of the bottom lip, lining up with a nose ring.
Familiarity.
Sleep bounced between each of Her vessels, infecting them with energy before diving into the body of the woman who had greeted them. Her entire body shuddered for a moment, her hand gripping the doorknob tightly as her eyes rapidly blinked and her mouth opened and shut silently.
A breath.
“We are fine, my Vessels.”
“Oh fuck, that’s creepy as hell,” IV muttered.
Sleep’s voice mixed with the woman’s in a reverberating echo, and only then did Vessel feel Sleep’s glamour forcefully disappear from everyone. He was thankful that the god had allowed him to glamour now, something about having earned it with his worship. But IV was right: there was something unnerving about the way that Sleep used the woman’s body to coax them into the flat. It was smoother than when Sleep took over their own bodies when asleep, something like a dance instead of a puppeteer.
“This is —”
“Pia. Piano Token,” the woman said, her voice breaking through in a strangled breath. It was musically bright but a bit weak. She grinned at them, her eyes flitting over the golden skull-like faces of Vessel’s bandmates as splotches of Sleep’s touch shifted around her fingers and face. “You are —”
“My vessels. I adore them so. Where is Fore, Pia?”
At that, another person shuffled into view. He was taller than IV and II, though Vessel would estimate that he was still just a bit shorter than himself. Any facial features save for his eyes were obscured by a black balaclava with Sleep’s sigil on it. Vessel hummed as the two of them met each other’s gaze for a breath. Familiarity once again.
The masked person took one look at Pia before he gave a slight nod of his head. “Sleep.”
“Ah, Fore. I enjoyed your offering of music.” One of Pia’s arms swept in a wide arch as she crooked a finger on her other arm. “My vessels. Do not be a stranger inside my of my priests’ flat.”
“Why you picked them to visit us, I will never understand. Tiny-ass flat we got here,” Fore muttered as he pointed to the table in the kitchen. “Sit. Stand. Whatever. Tea?”
“Please,” Vessel replied as he twisted a fidget ring on one of his fingers. It had been a gift for his birthday, something that the others had picked out. Metal rang as the moving bit spun around, twisting his thoughts into something more organized, like spinning thread. “Sleep never mentioned you two before.”
“My mistake. It was not time to reveal them to you then.”
Pia– no, Sleep… no. Vessel shook his head in confusion as he forced his gaze up from his hands to his god inhabiting the woman’s body. “What made the time right?”
“You would not understand. And if I were to try to explain it to you, your mind would not survive.”
Pia’s body shuddered as she leaned against the countertop, one of her elbows nudging against Fore’s side. “Sleep, too much right now. Down, down.”
Fore placed some cups full of warm tea on the table and immediately placed a hand against her back. Sleep’s energy — an endless thing once the god started up — filled the room and rushed up Fore’s arm, creating vague dark handprints as if someone or something were holding him whilst their hands were covered in paint. The marks stayed though, spreading like ink in warm water.
IV maneuvered his way towards Sleep’s priests and asked, “Anything I can do?”
Fore looked at the guitarist, and it felt like a very long minute to Vessel. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, dreams dredged themselves up: guitar strings underneath calloused fingers, slightly different than the ones that the singer knew through memorization, but a musician’s fingers nonetheless.
It dawned on him as if he were slowly dipping himself into the ocean, one step at a time: In a different reality, Fore would’ve been their IV.
But instead, they had Ivy as their IV.
Finally, Fore told IV to keep Pia steady as he turned away to cut up an apple. The thick scent of saltwater filled Vessel’s nose before the crunch of apples filled the quiet flat.
“Thank you,” Pia said, clearing her throat as she swallowed the red fruit. “I’m not meant to hold Sleep for long. That’s what She has you for.”
“Sleep doesn’t control us in our waking hours though,” II said. “But you let Her —”
“Mutual agreement. I was going to be Her first vessel. But It picked differently.” The switch was slower than what Vessel observed with his bandmates. While Sleep was seamless with them, it was like watching something squirm onto the priest’s body and figure out how to work her muscles and nerves. Vessel considered viewing the scene through his different pairs of eyes, just to sate his curiosity, that familiar wavering mirage visible if he squinted and focused enough. Would he see branches and tentacles wrapped around Pia’s limbs? Would he see feathers and white ribbons tied to Pia? Would he see nothing at all?
He swallowed down his desire to know.
He didn’t know how that would go, or how much it might affect Pia. He’d rather have Sleep harm him than someone else. He was meant to hold the god, after all. He was a vessel.
Pia’s exposed mouth twisted in discomfort for a breath before it relaxed and Pia’s body danced once again.
“You run cold, my Fourth. But you are warm now. Is that why you layer up?” Sleep asked, gently tapping on one side of IV’s golden cheekbones. The god then turned Her attention to the other priest, taking one of his hands and rubbing some of his fingers. “I adore the offering of apples, Fore. You know I enjoy them. They have a certain crunch that only teeth against the flesh of the fruit can achieve.”
“What the ever-loving fuck is going on?” III muttered, twisting a golden chain around one of his fingers. His eyes glowed in the dark of his orbital spaces, flickering from Sleep’s priests and his bandmates. “Just when I thought that Sleep couldn’t get weirder, She pulls this shit on us.”
“Patience, my Third. All would have been reveled in time.” Sleep raised a hand to Her mouth and quietly giggled (Vessel didn’t know that Sleep could giggle). “You were not ready yet to know about them. Nor are you ready to know about the alternative ways this might have gone.”
“Sleep, could you save the alternative universes talk for another day?” II asked, rubbing the surface of his cup of tea with his fingers. The long chains of his golden adornments twisted and tangled, forcing him to place his cup down onto the table to unravel them. “Some of us, namely your own vessels, aren’t ready to be thrown into the loops of ‘what might’ve been’ and ‘what is’ so suddenly.”
There was a long, long pause. The air thickened, smelling of saltwater. The shadows on the wall elongated, twisting and turning. Sleep looked at II, not once blinking. Something hummed beyond human vocal cords and it traveled up Vessel’s spine, latching on to the back of his neck. It settled deep into his lungs, spreading and melting into his bloodstream.
“Is that so?” Sleep asked, Pia’s lips moving ever so slightly out of sync of the god’s voice. “If that is true, then —”
Pia’s body shuddered once more and her eyes cleared.
I WILL LET YOU, AS YOU CALL IT, ‘CATCH UP’ WITH MY PRIESTS. I HAVE ETERNITY, AND I WILL ENSURE YOU WILL HEAR ABOUT IT.
With that, the god disappeared. The room cleared up and Fore let out a heavy sigh. “I thought I had to give another offering. Fuck, okay.” He placed a hand on Pia’s shoulder and let it stay there while she leaned against the countertop.
“I think It’s satisfied,” Pia replied. “She just got excited, that’s all. I could invite the Espera if you really want to do another offering though. Lessen the burden a bit. Plus, you know Sleep adores how they sing.”
Vessel glanced at his bandmates, then Sleep’s priests. The idea of alternative ways of this going… well, he would be lying if it didn’t unsettle him. Would he have know them all in those realities?
The fidget ring spun around and collected his thoughts into simple strings. Focus on now. With that, he placed his cup of tea down and let himself open up. Just a bit, to learn about the others that Sleep never told him about.
Chapters: 1/2
Fandom: Sleep Token (Band)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Fore & Piano Token (Sleep Token), Fore & Piano Token & Sax Token (Sleep Token), II & III & Fore & Vessel (Sleep Token), IV & Fore (Sleep Token)
Characters: Fore (Sleep Token), Piano Token (Sleep Token), Sax Token (Sleep Token), Espera | The Vesselettes (Sleep Token), IV (Sleep Token), III (Sleep Token), II (Sleep Token), Vessel (Sleep Token)
Additional Tags: GIVE IT UP FOR THE UNDERRATED CHARCTERS OF THE BAND!, Pain, Queerplatonic Relationships, Aromantic, aspec, Friendship, Making Up, Fore and Piano Token are in a QPR to me, Crack Treated Seriously, no beta we die like my braincells
Summary:
In the early days of the band, there was a different line-up of musicians.
Fore was one of them. It was... complicated. Maybe he made it more complicated than it actually was.
Featuring: Rejected vessels as an vague analogy for aromanticism, and attempting to make up to your old band. There are also animal crackers.
(Take this idea that ran away from me. Next chapter to release next week.)
First tune of 2026, would you look at that! And right after an exam, too. I needed to get something out audibly after being only writing for a bit.
This is my 63rd creation. It's mostly an experiment about switching between different time signatures in the same song, a la math rock (I think). Here, we switch between 4/4, 5/4, and 3/4! Feel try to try to locate them! I had considered throwing in 6/8, but I put a self-imposed time crunch on myself to get this done quickly, so we didn't. Besides, I didn't feel like experimenting too heavily on the lower numeral.
I've been listening to a bunch of math rock lately, which is arguably not something you should be listening to when trying to do math, but you do you.
Chapters: 1/11
Fandom: Sleep Token (Band)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: II & III & IV (Sleep Token), II & III & IV & Espera | The Vesselettes (Sleep Token), II & III & IV & Sleep (Sleep Token), Sleep & Vessel (Sleep Token), II/III/IV (Sleep Token), II/III/IV/Vessel (Sleep Token), Espera | The Vesselettes/Espera | The Vesselettes (Sleep Token)
Characters: II (Sleep Token), III (Sleep Token), IV (Sleep Token), Espera | The Vesselettes (Sleep Token), Sleep (Sleep Token), Vessel (Sleep Token)
Additional Tags: Polyvessels | Polyamorous II/III/IV/Vessel (Sleep Token), Eventual Polyvessels | Polyamorous II/III/IV/Vessel (Sleep Token), Pre-Polyvessels | Polyamorous II/III/IV/Vessel (Sleep Token), Pre-Poly, Pre-Relationship, aspec, Haunting, Grief/Mourning, Missing Persons, Self-Worth Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Angst, Betaed, POV Second Person, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Dom/sub Undertones, (For two scenes), Mystery
Summary:
What do you want from me?
‘Let the tides carry you back to me,’ It croons. ‘Two. Bear the weight of two.’
It takes several weeks — sleepless nights coupled with the insistent noise of water in his head to bang it out on his drum kit — before he realizes that he’s the second of his title.
Where is the First?
Sleep seeks out the second, the third, the fourth, and the choir. The first is missing. And It doesn't want to reveal why.
Or: A story of grieving someone you've never met (yet), but miss nonetheless.
(First work in 2026! Fully written, new chapters to be released weekly.)
There were two things that Vessel loved: music and the ocean.
One day, when he hid away in his secret grotto, he discovered a third thing he loved.
Well, make it six more things.
Merfolk.
Word Count: 5.5k words
TW:
Implied character death (very mild)
Drowning (very mild)
Implied self-harm
Implied suicidal ideation
Implied abusive relationship & cheating (the latter is a "blink and miss")
Author’s Note: I highly encourage you to read it on AO3 (this is a Tumblr copy for when AO3 does down for maintenance); I ramble a lot more on there in both the beginning and end notes, and they contain a lot more insight into the process. Besides that, this is my ST Creative Guild gift exchange for @shatterthefragments! Thank you to the discord server for hosting this!
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There was always music in his ears: from the very beginning to the present second, there was music. Sometimes, it was through his headphones as they blocked out the noise and flooded his mind with something he’d rather listen to. Other times, it was through live performances as he moved his head along with melodies that rang true from fingertips and vocal cords, coaxing him to prance along.
(He never did that in public, but he imagined it in his head, safe from the judgmental eyes and minds of the world.)
Sometimes, the music radiated not from a speaker or from others, but instead directly from himself. It was a hobby, nothing more. At least, that’s what he told others. That was what he told the person whom he loved, although it was getting harder and harder to convince himself of that lately.
But the music was a hobby that brought him enough joy to allow him to forget the woes of his days. Forget the woes of his lover. Forget the choices that slowly isolated him from people he used to spend time with until he was barely treading water. Until he was swimming endlessly towards a lighthouse that never provided enough respite and would immediately throw him back into that dark, cold ocean once daylight peaked around the corner.
Music was his lifeline, and he clung to it until his fingers bled and his voice was hoarse.
However, despite the waters in his mind threatening to pull him under, the ocean was also a place of comfort. His favorite place was the aquarium, a place he would always suggest for dates if he could convince his lover (the answer had been yes the first time, though it had slowly moved into a “maybe next time” to an immediate “no”). There was something about the creatures that lived there, how they swam and drifted like a dance, that drew him closer to them. On the days where he was flooded and that lighthouse threatened to shut the light off, the ocean’s depths were always there for him, waiting for him to jump in.
Sometimes, he considered it.
So when a haunting tune echoed from the ocean late at night as he nursed injuries in an empty flat (there was still glass on the floor as well as a nasty cut that barely missed his eye; he hoped it wouldn’t need stitches), he followed it. It wordlessly crooned with undertones of saltwater and promises that wouldn’t be broken, coaxing him towards the foamy shores of the beach with whispers of memories he swore weren’t real.
The tune wrapped around his legs and snagged his heart on a hook, tugging him across cold sand and into colder waters. It drew the air out of his lungs and replaced it with water, the open wounds stinging as the saltwater irritated them.
But something akin to a hand caressed his face and somehow he knew. He knew it would be okay as his mind emptied of every thought except to relax and submit. Even when his lungs screamed for gaseous oxygen and something clawed into the cuts on his face with curious, inhuman brutality, it would be okay.
Nothing could hurt more than the way that he was treated before. Nothing could hurt more than the slow realization that a good portion of it was his own fault, that he had personally blindfolded himself with the multitudes of red flags that others had pointed out to him.
But right now, all that pain slowly drifted away into nothingness as darkness overtook his vision and cold water enveloped him like a swaddle. He wondered if this was what death was like: not sudden and sharp and unkind, but instead quiet and soothing. He wondered if death brushed his hair out of his eyes and whispered that he did all he could to survive. He wondered if death would forgive him for what he did.
Vessel. Awaken.
Then, Vessel heard voices. Familiar voices. Hypnotic yet mellow, crashing over each other like waves over pebbles in a chorus. It’s him. He’s here. Grab the others. Tell them to stop yelling at Sleep. Call them over now. Don’t reveal it all just yet. Hey, no giggling!
More voices, all of them tugging on the edges of Vessel’s mind with how close they were. But that feeling shushed him and said not yet, you’re not ready yet.
He’s not ready… for what?
“Oh, thank Sleep —!” Someone collided into Vessel’s chest, forcing some air out of his lungs. He heard clicks that sounded like a giggle and a head pressed against his sternum. “He’s alive! He’s okay!”
“Thank fuck.” Someone else exhaled against his neck, causing him to squirm from the ticklish sensation and eliciting a laugh that he felt against his side. “You’re here.”
A third presence made itself known not by announcing itself, but by softly cupping Vessel’s face in his physical hands. Thumbs, rounded suckers, and a thin membranous skin brushed against his face and coaxed his eyes open. His vision flooded with light, more light than he remembered. He shied away for a moment before slowly bringing his hands up to his face. One, two… there were more eyelids them he remembered having.
Shame was the first emotion that flooded his body, and he tried to wriggle out of the grasps of the other two. His mind told him there were others quietly watching. He had to leave.
“There you are,” said the one who held his face. Hands connected to a dark humanoid torso that shimmered in colors that Vessel wished to tattoo onto his retinas. He might’ve right at that moment if his eyes didn’t drift downwards and catch eight limbs… arms? Whatever, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to leave so soon anymore (the reason he couldn’t parse out, but something buried hummed with familiarity). “You’re lovely.”
“What a shape he was changed into,” a nearby female voice murmured.
“I like his patterns,” a second female voice joined in. “You can tell that Sleep enjoyed the process of changing him.”
“Maybe a little too much. See?” A third, this time appearing upside down just over Vessel’s head and poking at his face with a delicate finger. She glowed with soft bioluminescent as jelly-like appendages waved around her arms. “Six eyes, as the god usually depicts itself as.”
“Egotistic much?” asked the one who had his face buried in his neck. He swam around Vessel now, his long tail lovely shades of red. Merfolk… he was surrounded by merfolk, how could he forget such marvelous creatures?
“Who?” His throat was sore and forming words felt like a chore as his vocal chords tried and failed to vibrate in a way that didn’t irritate themselves. Something in his mind clicked, and a chirp escaped him. “Who are you?”
“You don’t…?” The one who had crashed into him first looked at him with a gaze that made Vessel want to rip his heart out. Anything to make him happy again. “You don’t remember us?”
Vessel wanted to. Deeply. But something wouldn’t let him. Not yet. He couldn’t remember the last time he made a friend without something going horribly wrong in the end, resulting in the two of them never talking in the way that they used to. But something deep in his bones, in his newfound tail that he panicked over before several voices quietly calmed him down, encouraged him to reach out to these merfolk.
“Can– Can I try again?”
He was met with a resounding “yes”.
------
A long time ago, Vessel found a hidden cave away from the main beach. The way to his secret grotto was covered with an overgrowth of thorny plants that scratched at any and all exposed skin, leaving thin red marks in their wake. Additionally, the path was less of a path and more of a gravel-sand mix that occurred at such an angle that he called it a “slide”; it caused him trouble when he tried to enter and exit first few times, so he hoped that skinning his knees and palms back then was enough of a blood sacrifice to appease the luck gods.
Additionally, the grotto was formed in such a way that he could only enter during low tide, as high tide resulted in the narrow path out to be covered in water, and he didn’t want to risk exploring any underwater exits with how violent the ocean can get. He wasn’t a fan of bashing his head open on a rock below the surface.
Not yet, anyways.
Still, what the grotto had that Vessel adored was the way that the ceiling opened up to produce spectacular reverb alongside the private view that he had to the ocean. Waves swelled up the rock’s edge and hit him with just enough salty spray to make him comfortable. It was his little space to get away from the woes of land life. From the woes of his lover, whom he still felt the sharp stings of teeth and claws on his skin. Sometimes, he wondered if he loved the other more than his lover did himself.
Then, the ghost of his lover’s sweet words paired with soft fingertips padding his skin (always avoiding the scars, always joined with a sneer that wasn’t subtle anymore) would shake his thoughts and make him doubt it. He was loved by his partner… right? It was there in the beginning, but now?
Vessel shook his head and swallowed down the thickening spit that was threatening to lure out tears. He was too deep into this. He pulled out his notebook with lyrics, notes, and doodles scribbled in the pages, some of the ink smudged onto the opposite page along with fingerprints. It was a shame that he couldn’t bring any equipment down here to record. He considered hauling along at least an acoustic guitar a few times, but those were paired with a rough time heading into the grotto. He couldn’t afford to bang up an instrument.
As he started to wordlessly hum some tunes from his head, he paused and repeated the phrases every so then so he could transcribe of their intonations and scribble down some musical notes. “I won't break and bend to my basic need to be loved and close to somebody,” he murmured underneath his breath. His hand threatened to roughly scribble that lyric out — it was too personal, too close, too true — but he kept it.
He shut the notebook and looked up at the rocky ceiling of the grotto. Basic need, what even was that anymore? “What a fool,” Vessel muttered. He sharply inhaled and moved his mind away from his lyrics to the lyrics of a different song. The words started to flow out of his mouth, slowly and more melancholic compared to the original recording. He loved the first version, but he didn’t have the energy to follow through with it right now.
It was around halfway through did Vessel realize that something — no, someone — had joined him. He paused and listened. There! Another voice that faltered just after his abrupt pause. But there was no one around him; his patch of dry land was flat and couldn’t hide anyone, and the rocky exit into open waters bore no signs of someone nearby on a boat. “Hello?” he called. “Anyone there?”
Only the ocean’s waves answered him.
Vessel gave another quick look over of his surroundings. His stomach churned at the possibility of his secret hideaway being discovered by someone. The only place where he could be himself away from the prying eyes of others. But… something in his mind begged for him to sing again. Harmonize with the apparition of an echo in the grotto.
So, he opened his mouth and sang once again.
And this time, he could hear the voice — the voices; three of them, all feminine-sounding and higher than his own, all blending together in perfect three-part harmony with his melody — loud and clear. They resonated beautifully in the cave, enticing Vessel to move closer towards the water to figure out who was singing along with him.
Something in the back of his head whispered for him to dive in. Something that didn’t care whether he lived or not begged him to throw all caution to the wind and let the turbulent waves swallow him whole.
Come. Come to me. You know you want to.
It sang in a multitude of sunken voices. Drowned anguished cries. Darkness at the edges of his vision.
Vessel yearned to listen to it.
Something cold, wet, and strong gripped Vessel’s wrist, just over the freshest scars. He hissed and that crooning feeling disappeared. His eyes focused once again and fell on what was holding onto him, breath stuttering to a stop for a moment before he forced his brain to work once again to decipher what he was looking at.
He thought it was a human in a dark wetsuit. But upon further investigation, he realized that dark color was the creature’s skin. The hand that gripped him slowly peeled away, revealing callouses and small suction cups on the fingertips. A dark mask covered the creature’s face, lines of red scratched across and indented gold beneath the eyeholes. Eyes peered at him, intelligent and waiting for his next move.
“You were going to fall in,” said the creature in a masculine voice. He moved deeper into the water until only the top half of his face was showing, his gaze never leaving Vessel’s own.
Vessel forced his voice to work. “What?”
The creature raised his head above the water and replied, “The water. You were hypnotized.”
“I was?”
A loud splash brought Vessel’s attention to a sudden flash of red appearing next to the first creature. This one had bright red hair and a similar dark skin that tapered to red at the hands and eyes. Translucent fins were visible on the back and near the elbows. A gold and black mask covered the newcomer’s face, the metallic sheen reflecting against the sun and highlighting sharp eyes that screamed of mischief. “You were!” he chirped in. “We’ve seen humans get lured into the water before —”
“Not our doing.”
“Not by us, but we have seen humans get lured.”
“Uh-huh.” Vessel felt like his brain was about to melt into nothingness. Maybe there was a gas leak in his secret grotto… yeah, that would explain why he was hearing and seeing things.
Vessel started to back up, maybe stumble back to where he came from, when a third creature revealed himself. He silently reached up towards Vessel and tilted his head, his eyes youthful and filled with some sort of yearning that Vessel knew a little too well. He saw it in himself, after all. Yearning for affection, for understanding. Yearning to be seen yet to hide all the same. This creature had had a similar mask to the creature with red, only the gold and black were reversed. When he reached up towards him, Vessel could see a pair of small indents on the palms of his hands. “Don’t go yet,” he pleaded.
Vessel didn’t force himself to stay. On the contrary, he wanted to stay. Despite alarm bells ringing in his head about this situation — run, it’s not safe, they could pull you under, leave and never come back, retreat inland — he slowly crawled forwards and swallowed down any questions that threatened to escape his mouth.
“Aw,” the red one cooed, causing Vessel’s face to violently heat up. “He’s more shy up close.”
“Don’t patronize him.” The one who first grabbed Vessel hit the red one on the arm, much to his displeasure.
“You act like you hadn’t swam face-first into a school of fish daydreaming about him.”
Vessel coughed to hide a snort of a laugh, only to end up choking on his spit and coughing for real when three more of the creatures emerged from the waters. They seemed to be of a similar species, if the identical masks on their faces were any indicator. Gold filigree swirled over their eyes and left their mouths exposed while they subtly glowed in the dim grotto. Jelly-like appendages on their arms became victim to gravity as one of them approached Vessel and gestured for him to come closer. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to pull you in,” she laughed when he hesitated. “Don’t mind the boys,” she whispered. “They’re a bit smitten by you.”
“Nia!” exclaimed the red one. “I heard that!”
“I’m not lying III! Lover boy here deserves to know.”
“Luv, I thought we agreed to not tell him,” one of the other golden filigree masked beings tutted.
“Patricia, I think we also agreed to not sing along with him, but Estrella fell victim to that.”
“He has a voice fit for a siren,” the one whom Vessel assumed was Estrella argued. “It’s not every day that merfolk are the ones lured by a pretty voice instead of a human.”
Vessel could only sit there and watch in silent revere as what he could only assume were merfolk dissolved from a language he could understand to clicks and whistles. He felt like he was at an aquarium, only he was the exhibit being admired by the onlookers. It was… odd to say the least. He wondered if any of the fauna in the aquariums he loved visiting had judged him like this. He started to shuffle away, only for one of the merfolk to turn their attention towards him and gasp, “Wait!”
He froze.
“I think we’re scaring him.”
“This is why I suggested we approach him one at a time.”
“Listen, our bets never go according to plan. Last time I remember we had a three-way tie.”
“Which is why I was about to recommend that we had another bet. But someone decided to be a siren.”
“Easy there octy-pod. Are you going to blame our god for trying to keep up a myth?”
“I would, Nia. I would.”
“II, if you try to underhandedly insult Sleep like that again, I’ll bet that you’ll wake up a squid instead.”
“Patricia, are we trying to stop the argument, or…?”
“How about we let the ladies do their thing IV? I, on the other hand —!”
Vessel yelped in surprise when the red merfolk pulled himself further onto the elevated patch of dry land. From this angle, he could better visualize the lack of a distinct half; instead, the merfolk was simply one whole creature. Perhaps he was still disillusioned by childhood movies. The translucent fin that he could only see glimpses of in the water was now fully on display. It was small in height and traced the merfolk’s spine starting around the shoulders until the end of his tail.
“I think he likes what he sees,” the merfolk laughed. He sharply tilted his head and let out a series of quick clicks towards the rest who waited in the water. “He’s not running away like– Sleep’s sirens!”
This time, it was Vessel’s turn to laugh, albeit softly. “Sorry, sorry. I, erm, just wanted to– I didn’t mean to startle you.” He started to put some distance between the two of them again, but a hand reached out to grab his shoulder.
“I am asking you to stay here. Look, I’ll dip if it’ll make you comfortable. Everything’s heavier up here anyways.”
“Name!” Vessel recoiled when the red merfolk turned his head and nailed him to the spot with nothing but a sharp gaze. He lowered his voice and repeated, “Your name?”
“It’s not easy for you to pronounce,” he said as he fell back into the water. “Limited vocal chords and understanding and all.”
“But, I heard —?”
“Those aren’t our true names either,” replied one of the other merfolk. “It’s a bit confusing for your kind, seeing how you mostly have one name. We have multiple. Like, I’m IV.”
“IV.”
“Yeah. The dramatic one is III, and the one that shook you out of our god’s trance is II.” IV leaned against III’s shoulder and let out a soft hum. “Then we have the Espera. Estrella, Patricia, and Nia.”
“Huh.” Vessel opened his mouth to share his own name, then paused. “Call me Vessel. It’s from a joke I made with someone a while ago. It was something like ‘My body is not a temple. It’s a vessel. For soup.’” He laughed to himself then scrambled to explain the name further when he saw confused looks. “Uh, soup is a type of food. You take water, and some salt and other seasonings. Add some vegetables, maybe some meat. You boil it and you eat it.”
“The ocean is a soup,” II sagely said.
The laugh that reverberated across the grotto walls was the most joy that Vessel had felt in years.
------
“No no, wait —“ Vessel held up a hand as he tried to catch his breath. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and deeply inhaled, doing his best to avoid looking at the eel and stingray merfolk. “You said that III and IV tried to fight each other and —”
“We ended up having to drag them to Sleep’s temple to ask for extra healing because electric shocks plus venom are unpleasant to deal with. And, I wanted to see if we could pray some sense into them.” II pushed III off of him when he tried to dunk him underwater.
“You said you wouldn’t tell him that!”
“That was before you excessively acted out last night,” II spat back. “Get off me, you brat.”
“Oh, you still love me.”
“You test my patience every day.”
“So,” Vessel turned towards IV, who preened at the attention, “what sort of god is Sleep? You mentioned it being an ocean god, and rather elusive as well, but you act familiar with it.”
IV dipped a little deeper into the water for a moment, eyes averting from Vessel’s own. “Sleep is,” he said as he emerged to speak once again, “an interesting god. It’s not malevolent, but it’s not benevolent either. It just… is.”
“II seems… wary of Sleep.”
“I have my reasons to keep a healthy distance,” II piped up. “I’d rather put my faith in something that’s more physical and reliable than a metaphysical god.”
“Uh-huh, and who was the one that I overheard praying for the pretty human — might I add, who’s spending time with us right now — to one day pay attention to him?” III goaded.
“A moment of weakness.” Nonetheless, II reached for Vessel’s hand and murmured something that sounded like “Warm” when he nuzzled into the palm.
Vessel tried to keep his heart strictly locked inside his ribcage. It’s already gotten him into trouble before. However, the organ refused to listen, instead entering a blood sport with his brain. He internally groaned and tried to turn his attention towards the three merfolk whom he felt more comfortable sharing bits and pieces of his life more than his partner (and that was another thing: when had he started using the term “partner” over “lover”?) ever could bear listening to him nowadays.
“Does Sleep listen to everything you do and say?” Vessel asked, directing the question to no one in particular but the ocean waves. “Is it omnipresent? Omniscient?” He gently tugged his hand out of II’s grasp, trying and failing to ignore the sad chirp that the octopus merfolk gave him, and pulled his jacket sleeves over his hands. “Does it know you visit me?”
“Sleep knows a lot of things. Maybe it knows about our little rendezvous and it just isn’t letting us know,” III replied, his voice still energetic with a dash of disinterest, but all of that seemed carefully controlled as he twisted some hair around the tip of a finger, just above the webbing. “I heard that Sleep grants wishes, but I wouldn’t count on that. I once wished for an easy day hunting for food, and you know what happened? Nothing.”
“That’s because it knows that you enjoy a good hunt,” IV tutted as he leaned against III’s shoulder. “If you just floated around all day, you’d get bored and bother us.”
Vessel let himself choke on his words for a while. It’s almost second nature how he does that. He found himself hating how instinctual it was to doubt his own words, even with those he found himself comfortable around. “Does Sleep listen to humans? Or just, you know, you?”
“Vessel, do not try to talk with Sleep,” II insisted. “It’s a temperamental god that will not hesitate to drag humans into the depths if it thinks it is right. It almost did so with you the first time we officially met.”
That crooning, gentle voice was back in the depths of Vessel’s mind for a breath. Calling for him to leave his land life and fall into the ocean. You know you want to. He tightly squeezed his eyes shut and sharply exhaled. “Sorry. Sorry, I just wish that —”
A harsh ringtone echoed through the grotto, causing everyone to enter a frenzy for a moment. “Fuck, sorry!” Vessel fumbled to see who was calling and bile rose in the back of his throat. “Shit, I have to go. I forgot– I have to go. My partner’s calling me and —” The ringing stopped. Then, the texts appeared.
‘Come home.’
‘Now.’
‘We need to talk.’
“Did I tell you how much I hate that person?” III spat. “You’re going to hear it again: You should leave and never see your so-called ‘lover’ again.”
“Vessel!” IV called out just as he was poised to run out. Run away. Run away from the wrong things. “You can always punch your partner if they swing first.”
Vessel could only nod distractedly as he scrambled to leave his sanctuary and reenter the lion’s den. The only things in his mind was what could be waiting for him at home. What could be so urgent that a phone call was necessary? What did he do wrong this time? As his stomach churned violently and threatened to empty itself, he turned his mind towards the crooning, hypnotic voice from the ocean. “Sleep,” he whispered, “please make my partner happy. When they’re happy, they’re in a good mood. When they’re in a good mood, then I’m happy too. Please.”
Unbeknownst to him, the merfolk placed seashells and a fresh offering on their shrine. “Sleep,” they prayed, “please ensure Vessel’s happiness.”
And unaware to everyone, Sleep listened.
(When Vessel arrived home, his partner — well, his ex now — broke up with him while clinging onto a person Vessel had never seen before. Words were shouted, glass was thrown, and Vessel threw the second or third punch. Self defense, he told himself.)
(At least his ex was happier now. Vessel didn’t remember when was the last time they had smiled that wide in his presence, with the edges of their eyes crinkling. His face was a wreak: a cut near his eye, bruises too. At least the nosebleed had stopped.)
(The crooning. To the ocean, it whispered. To the waters.)
(The further Vessel followed the voice, the more muddled his memories became. But of course: Sleep had to preserve as much of himself as it could while allowing for the change to take over his soul and body. The god thoughtfully pulled out threads of memories from his mind and layered them deep within him, someplace where the change wouldn’t reach.)
(The god hummed the song that Vessel had hummed the first time it had tried to coax him into the depths. It had heard its acolytes talk about this human before. How lovely he was. How his voice was fit for a siren. How he was a vessel for the ocean itself. How much more they could love him if he would let them.)
(Now, as the god rearranged him to sing and have those pretty white jaws and eyes fit for being saved by a god such as itself, they would have all the time in the world.)
Vessel, Sleep whispered. Awaken.
------
The orca merfolk knew that III was scheming something when he nuzzled his masked face into the crook of his neck before purring, “I bet the next fish I hunt that you can’t lure a human with your voice.”
Vessel groaned and proceeded to shove III off the rock they were both sunning themselves on. The eel merfolk let out an undignified yelp before flashing his middle finger back and yelling, “Rude!”
“My voice is not something you can make bets on.” Vessel stretched and shifted positions for comfort, the dorsal fin on his back something he found a bit cumbersome at first, but now he had gotten used to it. He still missed sleeping on his back sometimes.
“II and IV make bets on your voice, you fucker.” III lowly laughed when Vessel perked his head up at that. “IV bets you’ll add someone to the polycule, while II thinks it allows you to hunt easier.”
“No, I don’t think so, and no?” Vessel shook his head and asked out of morbid curiosity, “What do the Espera think?”
“They think we’re lunatics.”
A hearty laugh escaped Vessel’s mouth, starting deep from his chest and echoing up and out. Several seagulls nearby abandoned their posts, squawking bloody murder at the sudden disturbance to their peace.
“How about it? Nearby boat full of humans who’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
Vessel could practically see the shit-eating grin on III’s face, even with the mask on, but he still hesitated. “Wouldn’t there be stories? Or at least, videos?”
“Sleep takes care of that. It’s scarily good. II saw speakers explode when humans partied too hard and too close to your grotto once.”
“That’s why I —? Holy shit.” Vessel shook his head and deserted his sunning rock, diving back into the salty depths. He paused to gather how his words would translate underwater before clicking, “Let me guess: IV found the boat?”
“And II is pretending to not be interested, you know. All grumpy and shit.” III swam in a circle around Vessel before pressing his mask to the orca merfolk’s own as a sign of affection.
Similar to the Espera’s masks, Vessel’s mask left his mouth open while having six slanted eyeholes for his eyes. The world had been severely disorientating when he had first awoke changed, forcing him to have spent several days in a cave that the merfolk had called home before II had swam up to him with a mask in his hands. It was carved white with golden filigree around the edges, bits of green decorating a sigil.
“For you,” he had said. “So we can spend time together again. As many times as it’ll take.”
Vessel tapped his fingers against the forehead of his mask as he swam to the fated boat. The others, along with the Espera, were already there. They were all still underwater and a safe distance away, but even from here Vessel could hear loud, energetic music. “If there’s something I find fun,” Nia chirped when she tried to loosen Vessel’s nerves up, “it’s singing with you and my loves.”
“I thought it was watching humans in amazement over our voices and stumbling around,” corrected Patricia.
“Sleep forbid a merfolk has hobbies.”
Estrella pointed towards the surface and placed a finger over her lips. “Do you still want to do this, Vessel?”
Before he could chicken out — before something in his mind, something still raw and hurt over the fucked-up way that Sleep granted not only his wish, but the wish of the merfolk who treated him leagues better and for longer than he had ever had with his ex, who upon praying to their god had found out that it granted both wishes and that he didn't have to worry his sorry human mind over land lows and woes anymore — Vessel silently breached the water’s surface.
The music was louder now, less muffled. It was a remix with a thumping bass and a well-deserved drop. Vessel hesitated for a breath, then he opened his mouth and loudly, wordlessly, sang.
He sang solo for a bit, not wanting to pressure the Espera to join if they weren't ready. But they harmonized soon enough, barely luminous in the afternoon light but elegant all the same. IV soon joined in, albeit quieter. II and III didn’t sing, but instead contributed in a different way: III lowly hummed while II tapped on the water’s surface in a rhythmic manner
It was beautiful. It was everything Vessel could’ve asked for.
When someone on the boat shouted, the merfolk dispersed underwater with thrilled clicks while a familiar hum reverberated in the back of Vessel’s mind.
It was perfect where he was. He wouldn’t change it for the world.
A visit to an aquarium shouldn't read like taking their singer out before putting him down, like he was a gravely sick pet that they only wanted to treat one more time.
But it does.
OR: Vessel starts to shows signs of needing to visit Sleep once again. Hopefully, this cycle of how he visits ends tonight.
Word Count: 5.7k words
TW:
Temporary major character death
Drowning
Choking (not in high detail, but it's there)
Implied self-harm
Implied suicide & suicidal ideation
Blood
Author's Note: I highly encourage you to read it on AO3 (this is a Tumblr copy for when AO3 does down for maintenance); I ramble a lot more on there in both the beginning and end notes, and they contain a lot more insight into the process. Besides that, this is my gift exchange for @cracked-mask! Thank you for @elkkiel for hosting this!
Disclaimer: This is me playing around with the stage characters. There’s nothing intentionally related to their real identities here, and I don’t intend for there to be. Please respect their privacy and identities of the band.
(AO3 Link below, fic underneath the cut)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“A heart’s a heavy burden.”
- Sophie Hatter, Howl’s Moving Castle (2004)
------
Four
It started at breakfast.
In between bites of scrambled egg, Vessel suddenly stood up and bolted away, a hand covering his mouth as he did so. The door to the bathroom slammed open, then the faint sound of heaving echoed through the house.
IV sipped his coffee, eyeing Vessel’s abandoned plate from the corner of his eye. “The bread didn’t get moldy yet, right?”
“Why would I feed you moldy bread?” III playfully shot back, breaking off a piece of the aforementioned toast before tossing it at the guitarist’s face (it wasn’t very appreciated, but IV brushed his face free of the crumbs and ate the offering nonetheless). “I’m a brat according to II, but I’m not a murderer.”
“With how you dress, you might be,” IV replied. He turned his gaze to II, who was bouncing his leg while looking in the direction where Vessel had run off to. “II, it’s going to be okay,” he said.
“You don’t know that.” II avoided IV’s eyes as he bounced his leg a few more times before he got up to follow Vessel. “I’m checking on him.”
“Mother hen,” III murmured, only to be hit in the arm. “II! Your punches hurt like a motherfucker!”
IV snorted. His mouth opened to say something when a presence made itself known in the house, slow and stalking. It loomed over the table, picking at the crumbs and examining the utensils. Saltwater pricked at IV’s nose and with it, red liquid iron. He could taste it in the back of his throat, deeply settling in past the coffee aftertaste.
In the midst of it, Vessel tottered back to the table. IV didn’t remember hearing the toilet flush. The singer quietly pushed his breakfast around with a fork, leaning into II’s touch when the drummer placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s happening again,” Vessel whispered. His voice was hoarse, and from where IV was seated next to him, the guitarist could see faint bits of red mix with spit when he licked his lips. “Tonight.”
The presence rumbled deep in IV’s chest, running its limbs up his ribs like a xylophone and ringing out minute vibrations through his entire body. ‘Tonight,’ it whispered, ‘tonight.’
“And we’d been planning this visit all week too,” III groaned. “Is there really no other way to do it?”
“Not really. I mean…” Vessel played with his food a little bit longer before pushing the plate away from him. “At least it won’t leave physical scars on me. It’s how it happened, so Sleep can fix it.”
IV didn’t miss the hesitant pause. Hopefully fix it. There was no guarantee of anything working when one toyed with a god and its changing whims. He finished whatever was left in his mug, ignoring the churning in his stomach when he foolishly asked, “What color was it?”
“Like coffee grounds,” Vessel said. “Digested. Though, it slowly turned red near the end.”
“How’s your throat?” II asked, already leaving the singer’s side to find cough drops. Lemon and honey flavored with the texture of hard candy. “Feel like you can talk for long?”
Vessel shook his head, fingers playing with each other. “Really sore.”
III was already abandoning his breakfast to pull out some tea, letting out a disgruntled noise when Vessel slinked out of his chair to lean against him like a cat. “Think you can brush your teeth before we head out? Your breath smells like a vampire.”
IV ignored his bandmates for now, ducking behind them and managing to hear the bassist cry out against Vessel flicking his cheek. He reached into the freezer and pulled out a whole fish in an icy plastic bag they had been planning to bake. He then grabbed a cup, filled it up with water, then announced, “Heading to the small shrine.”
The small shrine wasn’t very far; just climb up into the attic and hope that he hadn’t left a trail of thawing fishy water behind him. IV set the main offering down as he lit the red candles, arranging them neatly. He pulled out the fish — its flesh still icy cold and stinging his hands with its chilly bite — and set it on the black plate of the shrine. He moved the cup just in front of the fish, knelt, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands together.
Vessel had been interested with the process by which the fish was gutted and cleaned, staying by the counter the entire time in silent fascination. There was the sharp knife to the fish’s gut, a hose blasting out water to clean it of its blood and innards, a sharp chop to the neck to rid the fish of its gills.
IV? Much less so. But as much as the process grossed him out, he pushed it down for Vessel. For Sleep. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Let us have a good day, please. Just for today.”
Water crashed in the back of his mind, drawing air up from his lungs. Coaxing it out to replace it with nothing but liquid. IV gasped, and a pressure formed behind his eyes, causing light reds and whites and many other colors to bloom. Something leaned against his back, cold and wet and heavy. It pushed him lower as it reached over him. Deepen his prayer, his devotion, his worship.
‘Until I wake, I dine.’
The pressure disappeared, leaving the guitarist panting for air. The fish was gone, bones and all, save for one eyeball that stared back at IV. The cup of water held the other eyeball, and as IV stared back at the submerged remains, something disturbed the water. Ripples formed outwards as the water turned a deep red color, hiding the eyeball completely.
‘Everything we touch turns water into blood.’
IV bowed once more before he blew out the candles, collected the cup and eyeball, and headed back down. II and III were missing, though he heard water running in the bathroom. Vessel remained in the kitchen, finishing up drying the dishes.
IV silently held the remains of the offering out to Vessel, who finished putting a plate away before he took them without another word. The guitarist thickly swallowed when the singer placed the raw fish eyeball into his mouth and appeared to chew on it, spitting something hard and round and small into his free palm before he swiftly drank the red concoction, not once coming up for air until every last drop was gone.
“On Sleep, your gag reflex is dead,” IV said, shivering at whatever their god just made Vessel ingest.
“It’s okay.” Vessel’s voice already sounded smoother as he up the small object to the kitchen light and grinned, pearly white teeth stained with red remains. “This is the lens of the eye. You can’t eat it.”
“Good, now brush your teeth– Vessel!” IV let out a curse when Vessel instead wrapped his arms around the shorter of the two and pressed his lips against the guitarist’s cheek. He tried to shove Vessel away from him, but it only resulted in the singer giving him a quick kiss on the lips. It tasted like blood and raw fish and salt, but it felt like a goodbye. “You’re disgusting, luv.”
“You love me still,” Vessel cooed, “so thank you for that.”
IV couldn’t argue with that, so he kissed Vessel back on the cheek. “Don’t pout at me, you’ll get a proper kiss when you taste like mint instead.”
“Who said you weren’t the one pouting?” Vessel teased, but he eventually left IV alone to exchange places with whoever was in the bathroom.
“Don’t forget to glamour up before we leave!” IV shouted, shaking his head at the endearing way that Vessel waved an affirmation to him. With that, a weight settled into the pit of his stomach, heavy and sloshing.
‘Tonight, tonight,’ the presence in the house crooned, ‘tonight, you have the answer.’
But it always said that.
IV could only hope that tonight would be the last night.
------
Three
The aquarium wasn’t too busy when they arrived, but there were still more people than they had anticipated. III saw at least two different groups of kids wandering around with parent chaperones and teachers who were doing their damn best to not raise their voices at someone who was at the most a single digit number in age.
III felt a set of eyes drilling into the back of his skull from a lower angle than what he would consider to be from IV or II. He turned around and locked gazes with one of the kids. They had a soft jellyfish hat on, the round bell snug on their head while two tentacles created attached hand warmers for them. III smiled to himself and waved his hand, chuckling when the kid blushed at being caught staring and scrambled off to congregate closer to their friends.
‘And when you think I don't notice,’ hummed the presence of all the water, washing over him and eliciting goosebumps all over his body. ‘But I am.’
“Don’t,” III hissed beneath his breath, “make this a trip we’re going to regret.”
The warbling sound of bubbles was his only answer.
III rolled his eyes at the cryptic response and adjusted his mask, wrinkling his nose when someone let out a hearty sneeze nearby. He swore he could feel it in his bones. Since it was flu season, everyone seemed to be sniffling and coughing and sneezing up a storm. Redirecting his internal annoyance externally, he leaned against the unlucky (or lucky, it really depended on how someone viewed his lanky presence) bandmate gracious enough to be nearby.
Which happened to be II. Curse his spine.
“Did you not drink enough milk when you were eight?” III asked. Not to really poke fun at the drummer, despite what someone might think. Just to keep him on his toes. Keep everyone on their toes. Loosen up the tension in II’s muscles and kneed his brain so he didn’t end up with a permanent furrow between his brows.
Prepare him for tonight, where he would always volunteer to have the hardest job out of all of them.
“Did you ever think about sharing the genes you borrowed from a tree with us?” II replied.
“Oh! Ouch! Paradiddle, you hurt me. No —!” III scrambled back from II when he raised a hand, letting out a huff of exasperation when he saw their drummer’s eyes twinkle with the knowledge that he could single-handedly command the bassist with a specific threat. “I just said this morning you hit shit like they owe you money.”
“It’s my job III.” II shrugged as he held out his hand and added, “Vessel and IV have already left us behind, asshole.”
III snorted and accepted the drummer’s offer, feeling a strong and steady grip encompass his own hand. “And whose fault would that be, hmm?” he questioned, not at all bothered when II didn’t answer him.
They didn't catch up with their melodists immediately; III found himself easily distracted by multiple exhibits despite this visit to the aquarium not being the band’s first, playing hide and seek with some of the aquatic creatures as they darted in between underwater flora. He stayed long enough to let II read the informational panels on each creature, tugging on the drummer’s jacket and meeting either resistance or compliance.
III abandoned II when the bassist found a pair of familiar backs, relishing at the yelp that Vessel let out when III wrapped his arms around the singer. “Boo,” he whispered directly into his ear, feeling the singer shiver slightly from the sensation.
“Fuck off prick,” IV lightly said as he tried to pull III off of Vessel. Tried being the word, seeing how III could’ve certainly let the guitarist, but there wasn’t any fun in that. “Where were you two?”
“Exploring.” III lazily adjusted IV’s mask and gave him a quick kiss — mask over mask, like the good old days — for good measure, feeling the guitarist’s lips perk up into a smile. “Where are we now, by the way? Never seen this part of the aquarium before.”
“That’s because this part,” II said as he took one of Vessel’s arms and hugged it, “is usually filled with people.” The drummer swiveled his head as he looked around the large room, much like an owl.
He wasn’t wrong. Currently, the band found themselves in the room housing the largest exhibit in the aquarium: a large tank that spanned two floors, filled with the most amount of aquatic fauna that III ever saw congregated in one room. Small sharks swam with fish, while starfish and sea urchins and other flora remained on the artificial sea floor. The lights were pleasantly dim, creating moving shadows as the water and its inhabitants moved.
The pavilion was Vessel’s favorite exhibit.
The presence made itself known again, an unknown shadow looming over the tank and swimming in between the creatures. Something heavy leaned against III before launching off, water sloshing in the bassist’s eardrums. His vision swam for a moment and he squeezed IV’s shoulder as he rapidly blinked in an attempt to regain stability.
The pre-recorded narration on the speakers that described the pavilion and all that it held stuttered to a close. Crackles burst forth like mild feedback or like water running over rocks, then a song started to play.
Vessel let out a joyous cry before he pulled IV away to dance in the middle of the empty room, Bruce Springsteen all the while singing about dancing in the dark. Somewhere in the middle of the song, III noticed that IV had pulled off his mask and had it stuffed away, public battle jacket flashing with the numerous gifted patches stitched on.
A dose of happiness condensed in the room, so palpable that III pulled his own mask off just to feel it better. No one was here; their identity wasn’t at risk of being exposed (although, based the way that the fish and sharks moved, as if coordinated with each other to display the perfect amount of dappled light onto the impromptu dance floor, III wasn’t so sure that the cameras were even recording).
As the song shifted from Bruce Springsteen to Whitney Houston belting her heart out about dancing with somebody who loves her, so did Vessel’s attention. He pranced around IV one more time, gave him a kiss on the head, then pulled III over.
III let himself be dragged under the whims of the singer, eyes drinking up every minute action that Vessel did. The way that he mouthed all the lyrics, the way that he threw in his own physical flourishes, the way that he let himself exist without boundaries. A far cry from when they had first joined together as a band, as acolytes, as… them, whatever they all were.
The bassist wanted to take Vessel far, far away from his impending fate forever.
The song switched once again from Whitney Houston to Peter Gabriel crooning about a book of love, and with it, Vessel became softer. II approached without being coaxed first, and III backed away to watch with IV at his side.
The way that the two danced was less energetic. Less a prance (at least on Vessel’s end) and more of a quiet closing to a chapter. Not once did the drummer and singer break eye contact, and the longest time that the two went without some form of physical contact was but a breath. The strings swelled and the fish danced alongside the founders of the band.
“This is going to hurt,” IV whispered, “isn’t it?”
III forcefully broke his gaze from the dance and took in a long breath. “It’s going to hurt him more than us. You know how II is with Vessel.”
“I know, but…”
“We can’t change his mind.”
As the song tapered off to a close, IV placed his head against III’s shoulder just as II does a similar action with Vessel. “I wish we could.”
The quiet admission faded as the the speakers crackled and the pre-recorded narration leapt to life once again. Water sloshed as the presence jumped, using III (and the others, based on their shouts of surprise) as stepping stones, pulling them to follow it outside as they all fumbled to place their masks back on.
Cold, fresh air was the first thing to hit III’s face once they left the aquarium. Large drops of rain were the second thing. “For fuck’s sake—!” he muttered as he pulled his hood over his head. “The forecast said it wouldn’t rain until tonight.”
“We didn’t have a god empty out the pavilion without payback.” IV was already trying to use his jacket to save himself from the worst of the downpour, but it was no use.
(Later, III would see a post by the aquarium: a massive infection spread through several of their exhibits. However, the infection didn’t spread to the pavilion. The fish were expected to survive, but the staff called it ‘mysterious’ and ‘unusual’.)
(III could hear a babbling brook echo through the house for weeks on end.)
‘For so long, I have waited,’ the god whispered. ‘So rain down on me.’
Vessel held his arms up, letting the rain soak him to the bone. Perhaps it was preparation. Perhaps it just because he wanted to. “I’m not going to be gone forever,” Vessel announced. His voice sounded hoarse again, but it was clear through the heavy rainfall. It was clear through the sound of waves crashing in III’s ears. When Vessel faced his bandmates once again, he looked tired. Accepting. “I’m ready… I’m ready. Let’s go.”
------
Two
There was the shrine in the attic.
It was small, quaint, and simple. It contained candles, a black plate for an offering, incense sticks if they wanted to feel fancy or official, and matches. II preferred going upstairs to the shrine for many reasons. It felt casual upstairs, the small plate implied smaller physical offerings, and it reminded him of Vessel.
The candles were picked out by the singer, as were the incense sticks. He built the shrine up from nothing as a devotion to their god. He showed just as much devotion to his bandmates, doing small tasks for them because that was how he showed his affection the best, especially when words failed him.
There was an altar in the basement.
It was large, grand, and exquisite. It lived in the depths of the house, deeper than the lowest floor where they practiced if they didn’t want to rent out a space in public. It was never the same shape, for it shifted to accommodate the needs of the god and of its acolytes. Vines and flowers bloomed around the edges, pinks and greens, golds and whites, reds and blues. Floating lights appeared above the structure, shifting and changing in numbers and intensity. An old radio sat on one of the corners, quiet and ancient save for when the god twisted its knobs to speak words that weren’t directly meant for it, when it borrowed from other songs and offerings. Today, the granite alter was deep enough to hold water while multiple small lights orbited around a larger one.
II loathed this.
He knew it was safe. Somewhat. III and IV were waiting just above in the room where they practiced. They had wanted to help, take some of the burden off of II’s shoulders. He wouldn’t let them. It was his burden to bear, and his alone. It had been his burden from the start, back when it had been just him and Vessel, and it would continue to be his burden until the end. It was what came with being one of the founding members of the band.
But as II stood there in nothing but his boxers, watching Vessel dip himself into the cold water of their smooth concave alter with a rough sigh, he wondered if III and IV were right. Perhaps the entire isolated ritual was nothing but a burden he placed on only himself.
Then, Vessel reached for him, a silent invitation to join him as if it were just a swim or a bath, and all the burden came crashing down on II’s shoulders.
The radio crackled to life as the god said, ‘I’m on the edge of my coffin, with a smile and some hope.’ Vessel’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh while II grimaced at the Sleep’s choice. It was a good song, don’t get him wrong, but it was too on the nose for the moment right now. The singer’s wet hands placed themselves on his shoulders and II’s self-imposed obligation became physical.
“Luv,” Vessel rasped out, “it’s okay.”
“You don’t know that.” But II joined him nonetheless, shivering as the cold water pulled the air out of his lungs. “What if you don’t come back?”
“I will.”
“My hands are not worthy.”
“I should be saying that.” Vessel reached out and held II’s face in his cold and wet hands as he whispered, “You’re worthy of everything II. You, and IV, and III.”
“They’re not worthy,” II breathed, “of what I’m about to do again.” He hits things for a living, coaxing to life music and rhythm, a heartbeat for the soul of Vessel. They’re not meant for causing prolonged, permanent suffering.
“Last time tonight,” Vessel reassured him.
“Sleep always says that.”
“Last time.”
II exhaled, inhaled, and gave Vessel a kiss on the forehead before he whispered, “If you don’t come back, I’ll rally the others up to find you.”
Vessel laughed. It sounded like he was going to choke on blood, yet it was a sweet sound. “I love you.”
“Tell us again when you come back,” II said as he breathed one more time to prepare himself.
‘Drag me under again,’ Sleep whispered deep in II’s bones, ‘hold me beneath the surface.’
Vessel slipped beneath the water, bubbles escaping his nose and mouth as his eyes blinked to adjust. The singer had once told II that the reason he had six eyes was so he could gaze upon all of the numerals at once. Right now, all of his eyes looked at II and only him. Willingly trapping himself beneath the surface, Vessel mouthed something unheard, the god translating it perfectly for II: ‘To merely behold you.’
II felt more like a speck of bacteria beneath a microscope, slowly being cooked alive by the heat of the light. He wrapped his hands around Vessel’s neck — feeling blood rush in a pulse beneath his calloused fingers, tendons and muscles relax under his palms — and applied pressure. His hearing dampened immediately, as if he were the one underwater instead of Vessel. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears, waves crashing against rocks, bubbles floating to the surface. He could feel the god’s presence in his bones and nerves, wrapping and settling down as the obligation of what he had always volunteered to do from the moment he knew about it nearly made him choke.
Despite it all, Vessel grasped at II’s hands. It wasn’t to pull them off, contrary to what II wished he could do; it was to encourage him. More pressure, more weight.
Drown him.
Something tightened around II’s arms and locked his elbows straight. It dug into his skin, carving new marks over his tattoos and threatening to cut off blood circulation. That same presence leaned on his back, silently encouraging him to put more weight. Cut off the singer’s oxygen, let carbon dioxide build up, acid in Vessel’s blood.
Something restrained Vessel’s limbs the second they started to thrash from the innate need to breathe, digging in deep enough to bruise. His eyes began to panic now as they frantically searched for oxygen.
But II continued his duty.
‘I ache for your eyes,’ Sleep hummed as Vessel fought against the god’s will, ‘and the way you breathe.’
II forced himself to watch as Vessel’s struggles slowly stopped, as the last bits of air left the singer’s lungs. He forced himself to watch as blood became the one to rise from Vessel’s mouth. As the light from his eyes faded out. As his limbs stopped fighting. As his pulse faded beneath II’s hands. As Vessel’s chest stopped moving.
His breathing was always the last thing to go.
The drummer waited for what felt like a long time before he slowly rose from the water, goosebumps immediately erupting on his skin. He pulled himself out of the pool of an altar, dripping water the entire way up the stairs as he entered the band’s practice room. II barely managed to get a word in when a large, warm towel enveloped him. He was unceremoniously dragged to the floor and sandwiched between stocky and lanky, whispers of reassurance flooding his ears until the torment of his responsibility was nothing but white noise.
“You did well,” IV whispered as he held II so tightly the drummer thought his ribs would break. “Rest now.”
III said nothing at first; instead, he pulled the towel away from II’s face and just planted a kiss in between the furrow of his brow before he murmured, “You good?”
“How many more times can we do this?” II asked. His voice betrayed him, already thickening up and rendering him unable to speak properly. It was a miracle that Vessel could talk, even sing, after sobbing. But II? Consider him mute if he ever started to cry.
Someone’s phone vibrated before a song exhaled a message, falling silent once the god finished: ’That is when you let them in. Let them in before they go.’
II knew that. But all he could do was wait while Sleep worked with Vessel. Until Vessel came back, II would wait with the others for however long this attempt would take.
------
One
A long time ago, before Vessel decided to make music to try and understand the depths of his mind, the expanses of how much he felt and hurt and wished to hurt, he had walked into the ocean and never expected to come back.
The water had been cold, stealing his breath when it had dragged him under. For a moment, he had wondered if taking a blade to his skin and dragging it deep enough to slice open his arteries would’ve been a better option.
Then, the need to entirely disappear had overtaken him. If he had picked blood loss, there would’ve been a body to try to revive and bring back to life. But the ocean swallowed all, even if it wouldn’t be quick.
Vessel had always loved the ocean. To die in the ocean then, had seemed like a proper end to his existence. To be killed by something he loved… how poetic. He had nearly died walking upright in the waking world: glass on the pavement, raised voices, red flags embedded in his eyes but he had sworn to himself that it would be better the next day.
At least the ocean would accept him in his entirety, fucked-up flaws and all. At least the ocean would love him. At least the ocean would take everything and never let go.
Between the carbonic acid that had been building up in his blood, the water that had entered his lungs and irritated the delicate tissues, and some small part of him that had begged to live (it had wanted, to want, to live), Vessel had found something in the depths of the water.
It had cradled him in its arms, cold and slippery with a tight grasp that had held him even when he had thrashed around. It had grasped him similar to how a child would have gripped a stuffed toy against the dark of the night. He had been held as if he were delicate, precious even.
Vessel didn’t remember anything beyond his numb, cold lips mouthing the words, Save me.
When he had awoken in a hospital bed, lights burning his retinas and chest simultaneously light yet heavy, something had been there next to him. It had existed in the corners of his mind, haunting his shadow and reflection like an apparition. He had left without being officially discharged, and no one had remembered his existence there.
The presence had stayed. It had whispered in the shower, in the rain, in the times where Vessel had enough energy to do some dishes and laundry. It had never spoken, but it had never let him forget it was there. It had only been when Vessel had penned lyrics to a song that had been spinning in his head ever since the attempt had the entity made itself known.
’We can spend the night in fascination,’ it had whispered at the stroke of midnight. ‘Come on and find out.’
They had met in dreams. Vague messages underwater that had left Vessel gasping for air as he was shot back to the land of the living. Something was missing, he had realized as he penned more lyrics and wrote more songs. He had lost something, he had realized as he slowly gathered his band, feeling his chest constrict as his thoughts wandered.
When Vessel had started to cough up blood, starting off dark like coffee grounds and ending up coagulated and fresh, water had flooded his eardrums. Beyond rational reason, he had longed for his lungs to fill with water.
He didn’t like to remember how many times he had drowned himself to sate the feeling, sometimes with Sleep’s help when his mind panicked over his nightmares of the ocean. To stop the abnormal blood from coming out of his throat as it started to shred itself. He hated the look in his bandmates’ eyes when he had to break the news: he has to drown again. He loathed the way that II always volunteered to do it himself, how III and IV helped prepare for the quiet slaughter of the singer.
Vessel awoke floating in dark water. It was cold, like it always was. His throat was soothed once again and the faint metallic taste in the back of his throat was absent. As he sat up and started to walk atop the surface, small lights flickered to life, illuminating the way like streetlights down a dark road. Piano echoed through the darkness, the notes gentle as if the player was apprehensive. Despite it, the singer could feel each note ripple through his bones. The water mirrored the notes, guiding Vessel alongside the lights.
“Is this the last time?” Vessel asked. His voice echoed out into a chorus, reverberating onto itself until he felt as if he were compelled to answer. Yes. Please.
‘You could stay alive,’ Sleep sang back, ‘just tell me that you notice.’
“What do I notice?”
The ground beneath his feet gave way, quickly pulling him under the surface of the water. The icy temperature stole air from his lungs as he gasped, liquid quickly replacing it. Vessel thrashed and kicked, reaching for the surface and the light. No, no no no —!
‘Nobody else can pull me out.’
Vessel continued to fight until his head broke through the surface. He gasped for air and coughed as he threaded water, head swiveling to try to see if he could find a physical indication of the god. “Sleep!” he yelled.
The water cupped him like two hands and he rose in midair. The singer wheezed as he tried to properly clear his lungs. A light drew his attention back, and he watched silently as it floated in front of him. He held out his hands and it softly settled, tickling his skin as it seemed to zip around the small space like a firefly.
“Did…” Vessel licked his chapped lips and tried again to coax the words out of his throat. “Did you find the last of it? The missing part that– You said that I lost a part of myself when I drowned the first time. Did you find it?”
Something poked at Vessel’s spine as lyrics chanted and water vibrated, ‘So if your wings won't find you heaven, I will bring it down like an ancient bygone.’
The singer held the light close to his chest, feeling it burrow beneath the skin. His chest still felt contradictory, light and heavy at the same time. But this time, he had words to name it.
‘Call me when you get the chance.’
And Vessel was shot back to the waking world.
The alter was flat and he was dry, but still devastatingly naked save for a pair of boxers. He slowly sat up and took a few steps towards the stairs before he broke off into a run. Out of the basement, past the place where they practiced. It was dark outside, and a quick glance at the clock said it was just past midnight. How many days have passed?
Vessel rushed upstairs and opened the door to the shared bedroom where they sometimes all slept together. His gaze flitted over each of his bandmates, who simultaneously looked up from what they were doing (in numerical order: mobile game, phone scrolling, and book).
No one moved at first.
‘Oh, you said you'd better believe it,’ the presence, the god, Sleep, proudly crooned. ‘I said you don't even know.’
Vessel found himself in a tangle of limbs on the bedroom floor as his bandmates — his wonderful makers of music, the reasons why his chest feels so light with affection and heavy with the weight of it all — showered him affection. “I told you it would be the last time,” the singer teased, only to find himself promptly shut up with a kiss.
He wanted, to want, to live. He’d pull himself out of the depths again and again for them, reaching for them on faith alone. The firefly in his chest glowed, and it illuminated his way through the dark waters back to shore.
