seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from Australia
seen from Australia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Lebanon
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
Thumb and middle finger pick notes and he wishes he had his capo.
Internally, he sighs and wishes he had his capo, again.
It's spindly, reaching into octaves he should be playing with a capo, but he's the only one paying attention, so it's fine, right?
x
1, 12, or 13 with ii and whoever else!
Between the two of them, Her Second is the one who can talk to real life adults. Ones with careers and leases and valid government IDs. Whether this is the reward (or hazard) of having not grown up around other children is uncertain. He's so charming! Doesn't stumble over his words or awkwardly look away or run the other direction.
Has he mentioned the charm?
Definitely charmed him when they met.
But here they are, sat before a representative of a record label that--against all odds--likes their music.
He lets Her Second do the talking.
There are questions, of course, about the masks, about their story, about the darkness beneath their skin, and about the contracts they'd be willing to sign. There are answers, some of which they'd agreed upon before and others they work out in tandem on the fly. Colors pass between them, affirmative cerulean and stormcloud negatives met by acquiesceing sunflower and skeptical mustard. They're aligned on their goals, for the most part, but there are things that they failed to consider.
In the end, they know what they need to do.
It's still nerve wracking.
There's a jitter in his body that manifests as a bouncing leg, tapping fingers, chewing the inside of his cheek. He knows it's going as well as it can--they're nothing, they're new, they're so far from the norm as to be alien. They've expected nothing and still gotten this much, which is a blessing and a terror both. He doesn't know how to contain himself.
Her Second slides a hand beneath the table and takes his. It is an instant comfort, no matter that he's already been receiving buttercup brushes for some twenty minutes now.
Not enough to calm him completely, though. He still feels like he's going to throw up. Wishes he could have stayed back home with the Third who's probably busy working on whatever it is he's gotten into his mind to fix up next. Wishes he and Her Second were on the sofa, tangled into one lump of skin and blankets. Not even sex! Just cuddles! Or a nap! As long as it's not here!
If Her Second twigs his embarrassment at the line of thought, he doesn't show it. He does rub his thumb across a clammy palm, though, makes sure comfort is available.
The label guy stands and bids them wait just a moment. They stay seated as he leaves to grab something from the printer.
Her Second turns his whole body to look at him, still holding his hand. There is nothing in his posture that could indicate irritation or exasperation, but it's suddenly the most likely thing in the world. Obviously Her Second is about to tell him he's over-reacting and reprimand him for not trusting in the obviously fantastic negotiating skills of his obviously perfect--
Her Second says nothing, just pulls their joined hands to his face and drops a lingering kiss on the back of his knuckles. Eye contact never wavers, nor does the radiant, warm light of hope that shines upon him.
Everything in him relaxes. He visibly deflates. A watery smile filters through the thin blur of tears that well up from within him.
Oh.
Right.
The label guy is back, talking a mile a minute, so doesn't seem to notice their moment. If he had, it would have been terribly embarrassing bcause neither of them is prone to public displays of affection and--
Her Second places one last surreptitious kiss to his knuckles and turns his attention away.
Right.
Together.
They do this together.
42 or 46, any ship?
They play.
An offering.
Nothing less than worship.
It is breathtaking.
It is dizzying and addicting.
The final notes ring out into pitched silence, every face in the crowd caught up in the rapture. That note continues even as it dies, even as it is replaced by the roar of every voice taking flight. Their cacophony blends seamlessly with the ghost of his song, entwined as one.
He falls to his knees, strength sapped from every limb.
It hurts. It hurts like in the beginning when the bare floorboards of the attic altar were his only support. It hurts like the hours of busking and the nights which froze them to the bone. It hurts like every step that shattered him on the journey here.
He feels alive.
So far from that first time he glimpsed the darkening of his fingertips.
His note.
Her note.
It is in Her voice now. The one he cannot hear but yearns to understand. The one that dictates the beating of his heart and the exhortations of his soul.
On his knees before this congregation of Sleep, in a house made holy by the presence of the God inside him and around them, he shudders in holy recognition. He shakes and it does not stop. Knelt before the collected mass of their first ritual, he thinks he might fall to pieces.
But She is here.
And She will never let him come apart for as long as he loves Her.
In his blood, flowing through his veins, She holds him in vital embrace. He can feel how She squeezes him tight from the inside, how She loves him back in the way that only She can.
From beside him, Her Second presses pure and shining gold into his shoulder. An anchor, not pulling him down but mooring him in safety.
It's all he can do to twine blue between his fingers and return every blessing he can imagine into the connection.
He feels Her ride the wave of it and crash against Her Second's joy, infecting them both with a giddiness neither of them can contain.
The wave continues, larger and larger. It multiplies and echoes through every corner of their minds and bodies. It escapes those confines and eclipses the room with vibrant majesty. A shiver runs through the ritual-goers and they feel it too. They must. Some of them are crying and he knows the feeling, can just about trace the tracks of his own tears through the overwhelm of sensation.
He feels it then.
He will never be able to explain how he knows it is the brush of Her lips against his head. He will never be able to say how he knows it is Her featherlight kisses which grace his hands. He will never be able to describe the feeling She imparts to him.
But he knows the feeling to be true.
He knows how proud She is of him.
Him.
Her First Vessel.
----------------
\o/
cm, it/they
🙊
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The Man Who Is Vessel, cm canon, solo work,
gravity, beach fic, co-written project
Yikes!, sk!iii, solo work, now complete
Haunted House, solo work, 70% drafted redrafting 👍
Prompts: slow but open.
Warning: Contents of blog sometimes veer into graphic horror.
🙏
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