❝ you can talk to me, vessel. ❞ / ii for ves ?
hands are made a woven web, to support the weight of his head. curved prominence of his knuckles curled around the plastic and paint, pressed and imprinting six slits against the planes of his palm.
the flat of his back is still draped in his hoodie - pressed up against the plaster of the wall.. for the vessel's bed has been made into a home, in visible signs of deteriorating mental health. his belly concave and wavering in breath, growling humbly despite the minefield of hostess wrappers, and tin-foil strewn about. like a teenager, in the height of their angst. for hunger is an ache that he's unable to sate at the best of times, despite an inherent desire to feel that fullness only worship can provide. an altar when not a vessel, poured into with offerings. a man on his knees, that now he can barely recognize. sitting in obscurity, a breeze he assumes he never feels passing through his lengthening hair. hair vessel combs, sometimes. when he hears clatters in the bathroom, and goes in to see iii struggling. staring at something, a thousand miles away from him. and soon there are soothing hands on the bassist's waist - a steadying head between two shoulder blades. umoving, whilst still the figure seeks him out like a flare. the lank of him leaning, scapulae pressing in around his head. sweeping of the high tide onto shore.
it never fails to wrack his shoulders. stretches his saliva 'tween the pressed bow of his lips, that part and peel from white enamel in heaving anchors of breaths. now holding down he whom had kept vessel from drifting off to sea. but still he holds fast, and pulls himself up. does what he has to. gentle in making sure the other was taking care of himself while going through the motions, as he himself is continually neglected. already beginning to lose body definition. ( why waste your time caring for the automaton ? he is lost to you. i function for him ). a reverberation, rattling behind the fleshy orbs of his eyes and in the space between his skull and brain. because it makes me feel sane. he answers the disembodied voice. makes me feel closer to him.
he could feel the rage rattle pill bottles in the cabinet. the squeal of a kettle downstairs. the crack, crack, crack of the mirror which reflects a dead expression.
[ . . . ] ii is the only one who has a key to his room. had it just in case of an emergency. in case he needed to come in while vessel was pulled far away. entangled, and unable to pull himself out. in case... well. —
a part of vessel is glad that he'd given ii that key, while another, more tangible part suffuses with the ugly guilt of regret. not that the end result was entirely dependent upon that one detail, however.. nothing had gotten any easier since. iii was gone, and he wasn't coming back. and the cord he had pressed between ravenous teeth, passed from one canine jaw to the other, had still yet to be severed. useless in attempt to bring the other's final dream to reality. to bring him back from the dead, in sacrifice of himself. ( again, the question could be posed - how much of you is left? self acceptance achievable only in becoming someone entirely new ).
an open pad is laid out next to him. a weave of pen in breathing pictures, of the ocean - of a black hole. scrawling of lyrics, the beginnings of words brought to the surface. and it still makes my blood run thin / to remember what you are to him / and i'll live like i've got missing limbs for you. it's been weeks - time ticking by since he'd ultimately decided that he could not live like this any longer. and yet, here he was. so what was he to do? jabbing pen into windpipe and extracting emotion. for they'd written and begun recording a decent chunk of the album by now, which brings offerings of respite for short periods of time. and while he doesn't necessarily intend to write, such things seem to come naturally. an instinct he acts upon, with the nagging itch of sleep's influence. capitalize on your suffering. rawness breeds reflection. your mask their mirror.
he wets his lips, made into an uneven line as he tugs his palms down the odd slopes of his face. thick mucus rattling in the hollow of his chest, while he forces himself to face the imposing presence in the dimness of the space. delayed in shoving mouth in the crook of his elbow to cough. for the hallway cast in infinite blackness swallows up the shorter man's shadow. the intensely woven worry in his eyes staring down at the vessel accusingly.
he whom can almost smell the apprehension in the air. saturating past the stench of his sweat, that's seeped into the mussed bed sheets beneath him. he doesn't wanna face it. dangling limbs from his drawn up knees, and not even bothering to slam the book closed next to him. "what is there to talk about?" he asks, chin finally tilting upward, when wrists bring palms tipped with splayed fingers together. this isn't necessarily unlike him, though it is uncharacteristic at the same time. entrenched in emotion, and dying to expel it. but he's done enough to ii already. has piled enough on top of him.
feet flex with a wiggle of his toes - raising the tendons that so too lift in the side of his neck, when he cocks his head in invitation. taking the time to lean over so that he could usher some random crap off the side of his mattress, and cross his legs beneath one another. "unless there's something that you'd like to say..." mouth moves, monotonous in his staring at a random chip in the far wall. but it's a showing of vessel's support, if nothing else.
though he cannot help but to already anticipate the answer. for ii doesn't seem to like making things about himself - while that is all that vessel seems to do.
he feels like shit. back to that gnawing guilt, again. for this wasn't just about iii, or even himself anymore. all three of them remaining had lost their best friend, and — succumbing to the depths of his despair had undoubtedly wrought emotional consequences for the remainder. head turns in the other's direction. lips remaining open, as he flicks his eyes behind mesh. really forcing himself a study of the other's face. and with another swipe of tongue over lips, he shakes his head. "but i can't go back and change it, now. any of it." namely, what he'd done. "i can't bring him back."
𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝟐. @bl1ghtd.
