Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cape Cod.

The middle of winter.

Ice licks the tires of their rental vehicle as Vessel guides the navy blue suburban into their destination’s driveway. Salt, freshly poured from the property owners, crunches beneath the tread as the vehicle climbs the slight incline before leveling out over the newly plowed drive. Vessel smiles as he shifts the car into park, engaging the emergency brake, before he shifts in the driver’s seat.

“Time to wake up, loves,” he calls softly, reaching across the center console. His fingers brush back soft, dark blond locks as II’s nose crinkles from the abrupt contact. Pale blue eyes slowly creak open, blinking sleep out of themselves, as II gradually raises his head. Vessel offers his partner a smile before he reaches back, shaking III’s knee until the bassist jerks awake. “We’re here.”

“About time,” II grumbles with a stretch, his neck cracking in the process.

“Wakey wakey, Ives,” III sing-songs, his voice still deep and gravelly from sleep. IV slumps further against III’s upper arm, burying his face in the fabric of the bassist’s hoodie in response. “None of that now. Come on, let’s go get ourselves settled, yeah?”

“Got the passcode still?” II inquires as Vessel retracts his arm, unfastening his seatbelt before he removes the keys from the ignition.

“Got it memorized, it’s simple,” Vessel answers with a smile as he exits the vehicle, staring up at the sprawling cottage that was to be their home away from home for the duration of their stay.

Writer’s block.

It never struck him often, but after months of unsuccessful attempts at finishing his and II’s latest album, a change of scenery seemed like the next reasonable step. The cottage’s exterior is pristine in spite of the building’s apparent age. Seafoam green walls and lattices climbed the home’s facing, adorned with white trim and a porch equipped with plush furniture that remained untouched by the surrounding snow.

The aged cottage stands out in stark juxtaposition to the surrounding harsh landscape. Sharp stones. Deep blue waters, cresting with the whites of vicious waves. The sound alone is peaceful, but the sprawling expanse, devoid of other people, shops, and distractions, is already a welcome change.

Vessel pivots slowly on his heel as II comes to a halt beside him. Salt crystals and slush stick to the tread of his boots as he leans down and kisses the drummer’s already reddening cheek.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” he says sincerely, because it was, after all, him that was the problem. II was a maestro of everything he touched. The drummer always knew what fills to add, what synths to utilize, what tempos to play, and Vessel knew that he was the one holding them back, preventing them from making progress. II reaches up for him, pulling him down, and just as II so often does for him, Vessel willingly follows. Their foreheads rest together, their breaths escaping in warm tufts of air in the biting cold, as II kisses the skin of his nose and smooths back his hair.

“You don’t have to thank me for this, Ve. We can stay as long as need to,” II assures him, and that’s all it ever takes. II’s patience and understanding is a lifeline to him, something he’s certain he can never live without. “Don’t worry about trying to write anything today. Let’s get settled and get a fire started before the sun goes down. It’s only going to get colder.”

“If you didn’t love the cold so much, we could be sipping mojitos in Cancun right now.” III chides with a laugh, but his tone is entirely teasing. Vessel can’t help but chuckle as II slowly releases him, only for the bassist to wrap Vessel up in his arms, kissing his cheek. “Clear that pretty little head of yours whichever way you need to, Vess. You’ve got us here to keep you warm and sane.”

“How could he ever live without us?” IV jokingly grumbles as the last door to the suburban slams close. Vessel gently nudges III’s arms off of him as II takes the keys from Vessel’s hand, making towards the trunk in search of their bags. Vessel reaches for IV’s arm, reeling him into his side before making towards the front porch. IV leans into him, his eyelids still half-hooded, clearly still half asleep.

“I couldn't, I can promise you that much.” Vessel replies with a small smile, raising his free hand to type in the code provided to him by the property owner. The small lockbox clicks open, and he removes the key from within, shutting the box after he retrieves it.

The door unlocks with ease on the first turn of the key. The smell of freshly oiled floors greets him as he ushers IV inside before stepping in after him. The interior of the house is pristine in its cleanliness, but sparse with furnishings. There's two simple sofas in the living room, situated around a flatscreen television.

But more importantly, there is a desk alongside the living room's further wall, placed right beside a large bay window. He knows if he moves the curtains, he'll have a perfect view of the sea. It's all the inspiration he could hope for, something to take his mind away from his struggles and help him find the metaphorical words to turn them into art.

The sound of II's familiar footfall, accompanied by III's, pulls him out of his reverie as he spins on his heel. II drops their bags in the entryway, depositing the car keys by the doorway as III locks the door behind them.

“Go unpack and explore,” II instructs, as if he’s somehow read Vessel’s mind. “No writing today, remember? We all need to get some rest and unwind.”

“I remember,” Vessel insists as he circles back for his bag while the others do the same. They climb the aged stairwell that leads them to the master bedroom.

A gargantuan bed rests in the center of the navy blue room's expanse, decorated with aquatic memorabilia and a rug that depicts the ocean's waves. Vessel doesn't hesitate to kick his boots off as he sets his bag aside.

His eyes meet IV's, and in the next moment, they're once more out the bedroom door. They explore both bathrooms, each sporting a claw foot tub and a newly installed glass shower. Then they explore the guest rooms, more simple than the master bedroom, but comfortable all the same.

“Time to put that fireplace to work,” II hums as he falls into step behind them. Vessel takes the stairs two at a time, bounding through the house with an ever present smile.

“Who's going to be the one on fire duty?” IV asks as soon as they reenter the living room. Vessel’s eyes trail past the simple sofas to the stone fireplace nestled beside them.

“Not you, that's for sure,” III teases as his fingers run along the staircase's railing. “You nearly burnt us alive back in Dublin.”

“That was one time,” IV bemoans, shaking his head as II sighs, stepping towards the unlit hearth.

“Go. Unpack. I’ll handle the fire.” II commands with a stern nod, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Fine, fine. Let's finish exploring so we can think about something for dinner. I'm starving.” IV relents, looking at Vessel and III expectantly.

“Food sounds nice,” Vessel agrees as he nods his head towards the connected dining room. It's nothing lavish, but purely functional. A lengthy table comprised of reclaimed wood, outfitted with eight chairs. “Could have our very own buffet.”

“Don't tempt me,” IV snickers, rubbing at his stomach while it audibly growls. Vessel snorts, stepping into the dining room with III and IV in tow, before making his way to the adjoining kitchen.

It's the only sign of opulence in the cottage's homey interior. The cabinets are newly installed and covered in crisp white paint. The countertops are marble, swirling shades of gray and black that stand out in stark contrast to the deep blue walls and stainless steel appliances. Beside Vessel, III lets out an appreciative whistle.

Except, III's lips never move to make a sound.

The whistle seems to hang in the air a fraction too long, echoing faintly against the walls. Indiscernible in its origin. Vessel's brow furrows as he opens his lips to speak, meeting the bassist’s confused expression with one of his own, but the sound of a displeased grunt from II silences him before he can speak.

IV is out of the kitchen before them, leading them back into the living room where II stands past the television, halfway into the hall. The floorboards creak beneath their steps in a rhythm that almost seems to follow them, but before Vessel can express his peculiar observation, they come screeching to a halt. II curses once more, clearly frustrated, and Vessel watches as the drummer tries the handle of an antiquated door to no avail.

It doesn't so much as budge, let alone let out a groan from the strain II exerts upon it.

“Damn door won't open,” II all but spits, releasing the handle with a displeased frown. “I was hoping it was a storage closet. There isn’t much firewood.”

“It's probably just stuck,” Vessel says with a shrug as he approaches their obviously frustrated partner. “Here, let me try.”

“By all means. macho man,” IV snorts as he sinks onto the nearby couch, dragging III down with him. Vessel rolls his eyes at the yelps of mock surprise that the bassist emits as he reaches for the rusty knob of the storage closet.

He turns the knob in hand, feeling the chipping paint of the door as it brushes against his knuckles, but in spite of his strength, the door doesn't so much as click. Vessel frowns as he wraps his other hand around the knob, using both hands for leverage as he attempts to force the door open.

Once more, it doesn’t budge.

It feels as if the door itself doesn’t want to open, stubborn and unyielding in a way that makes the hairs on Vessel’s arms prickle.

“Have either of you considered that maybe it’s locked?” IV hums amusedly.

Vessel sighs as he slowly releases the handle.

“There weren’t supposed to be any locked doors,” II huffs, sounding displeased. “The listing said we had full access to the house and its amenities. I’ll reach out to Nancy and see if she can bring us the key.”

“It’s just a closest, who cares?” III asks with a shrug as Vessel pivots on his heel. “We need to make a run to town anyway. We can grab more firewood then.”

“I care, and it doesn’t matter why it won’t open. I’ll handle it.” II tells them, silencing the bassist with a pointed look. “Not only does it go against the listing that I paid good money for, but who knows what’s behind the door. We can never be too careful, III. You’re too trusting of others. Listen to me on this, and don’t give me lip about it.”

“Sorry,” III exclaims through a frown, bowing his head in defeat. II steps forward, taking the taller man’s hand and squeezing it with his own.

“Enough of that now,” II says with a reassuring smile. “Let me worry about that sort of thing. I want you all to focus on decompressing instead. Let’s go to the market, grab enough food for us to stock up, then I’ll make us a proper fire. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me. I’m glad we solved the mystery of the unmovable door,” IV sleepily muses, stretching out his limbs with a slight yawn. Vessel can’t help but smile as II strides forward, playfully pinching their partner’s cheek. “What’s that for?”

“Quit being such a smartass,” II chides him, but there’s humor in his eyes in spite of his warning. “Don’t make me start correcting bad behavior on our first night here, love.”

“Wouldn’t want that now, would we?” IV responds cheekily, smirking when II playfully taps his cheek.

“Not another word, IV. Car, now. All of you.” II instructs them, waving them back towards the entryway. Vessel shifts his weight as he watches IV and III fall into step behind the drummer, but his feet feel leaden, rooting him in place.

A sense of dread washes over him, an unease that seeps into his bones, and forces the hair on the back of his neck to rise, standing on end. A part of himself wonders if it's the remnants of lingering guilt. He was, after all, the sole reason why any of this was necessary. He only hopes that it helps him find inspiration, enough of it that he can comfortably write again without scrapping page after page of lyrics and songs, unhappy with the outcome. He brushes off the anxiety he feels as he follows his partners out of the front door, locking it behind him.

As they pile back into their rental car, his eyes drift to the towering, aged cottage, once more studying its imposing form. When II begins backing the vehicle out of the driveway after adjusting the driver’s seat, Vessel’s eyes catch sight of the living room’s curtains, swaying slightly as if caught in an unseen breeze.

-

The market is surprisingly well stocked for a town so sparsely occupied in the winter.

Vessel hums softly to himself as he selects a pack of steaks from the meat cooler, converting the price on his head, before he walks back towards their shopping cart. IV adds in a bag of chicken wings while III emerges from one of the nearby aisles, dumping an armfull of chips and snacks into the rapidly filling cart.

“II is over in produce,” Vessel reminds them as he takes hold of the shopping cart and begins leading them back towards the far right side of the store. The few locals that they pass eyeball them warily, staring openly at them as they pass. Not a single one of them wears a pleasant expression, their eyes narrowed as if out of disdain as they navigate their way through the store.

“This place gives me the creeps,” III admits as they arrive at their destination, spotting II in the distance. The drummer holds a bag full of onions in one hand and an armful of various fruits in the other, his pale blue eyes scanning the remaining selection as they reconvene. “Everyone seems rude.”

“They’re probably not used to seeing tourists here in the winter time,” Vessel answers with a small shrug, writing off his own discomfort in a bid to appease their uncomfortable partner. “I wouldn’t take it too seriously.”

“They should mind their own business though,” IV grunts as they come to a stop before II, allowing the drummer to set his selection of fresh goods down in the cart.

“And we should mind ours,” II tuts as he nods his head towards the checkout lanes in the distance. “We’re only here for a few months, and we’re not here to socialize. We’ll stay out of their way and not cause them any issues. I’m sure that they’ll do the same.”

“Easy for you to say,” IV sighs, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his worn leather coat. “They’ve been glaring at us ever since you abandoned us in the meat department.”

“We’re jet lagged, hungry, and exhausted. Let’s not read too much into anything right now,” Vessel tries again, offering II a small smile as if to relay his intention of aiding him in calming their other partners. “I was thinking of making ribeyes and baked potatoes for dinner tonight.”

“Let me grab a bag of those and some asparagus. I’ve already got butter and garlic in the cart,” II informs him, turning on his heel and setting off to procure the other goods as they wait for him at the end of the produce section. When II returns, he looks up at III, raising a singular brow. “Did you get seasoning like I asked?”

“Fuck, no,” III groans, tipping his head back in annoyance before he grumbles and takes off, all but sprinting out of their view in search of salt and pepper.

“Try not to get an aneurysm, love.” Vessel tells II as he reaches out and brushes back the hair on the shorter man’s head. “If I’m ever going to get my head back on straight and stop being out of sorts, I’m going to need you with me. Preferably, relaxed and not ready to strangle III.”

“III gets a pass this time. IV is up for debate,” II replies with an amused snort, something that Vessel can’t help but grin over in spite of IV's immediate huff of protest. “You will get over this, Ve. It’s just a small hurdle. You’re a creative genius, especially when it comes to songwriting. Give yourself some time, and cut yourself slack. This trip isn’t just about writing a new album, it’s also about giving ourselves a bit of a break. Don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t,” Vessel promises him, slowly releasing II from his grasp as III comes bounding back towards them, a myriad of spices in hand. “Are we finally ready?”

“Got all the bath stuff, laundry, food, hygiene, spices… we should be good to go.” IV confirms, cracking his apparently sore neck before he rubs his nape. They walk quietly to the checkout lane then, taking a place behind an elderly woman who offers them a cold look before returning her attention back to the cash in her hands. “Tch. What the hell is wrong with these people?”

“Quiet,” II warns him with a stern look, and that’s the end of that.

Vessel sighs softly as he begins unloading the shopping cart, sorting their goods into an organized pile to make bagging easier on the clearly exhausted middle-aged cashier that they’ve selected. III picks up on his intention without asking, aiding him in the process, while IV eyes the nearby rack of mints and gum before tossing a few selections atop the belt. II pulls out his wallet the moment that the elderly woman takes her cart and leaves, offering them a frown on the way out.

“Hello,” II greets the cashier with a polite nod, but the man, Jerry, according to his name badge, doesn’t return his greeting. Vessel frowns at the interaction, noticing II’s mounting agitation as Jerry reaches for the first of their groceries, scanning the barcode before placing it into a paper sack.

“You boys visiting?” Jerry asks, and the question startles Vessel. It’s the first time anyone from the area has spoken to them at all. Even Nancy, the woman who rented them the property, has been ignoring II’s texts and calls. Vessel clears his throat as he nods, silently answering the man’s question. Jerry grunts once, returning to his task. “Awful lot of groceries you’re buying. The shop is open all year long. You don’t need to stock up, and you won’t need this much food to begin with.”

Vessel immediately wishes that Jerry would have remained silent. The smile dies on his lips as he turns his attention back to their groceries. Behind him, III and IV tut, clearly annoyed with the situation themselves, but they all know when to remain quiet.

When to let II handle things so that they don't have to.

“Why we're here and what we buy is none of your concern,” II says, his voice eerily calm. Vessel doesn't need to know that the drummer’s expression is deadpan. “I've never met someone who didn't want their store to bring in more profit.”

“It is none of my concern,” Jerry returns with a gruff snort. “Just an informed observation.”

“We don't need your advice, only your services. We'll be out of your hair after that,” II retorts with a grunt of his own.

Vessel expects the conversation to die down then, the arguing replaced by the quiet beeping of the checkout lane’s scanner, but while they all knew not to test II’s patience in situations like this, IV tends to do it anyway.

“Maybe we should find some other town nearby to go to. This place fucking sucks,” IV grumbles, crossing his arms in an overly dramatic, exaggerated fashion. Vessel ducks his head on instinct, unable to fathom backtalking in front of II, whereas IV loved the thrill of pushing their eldest partner’s buttons.

“Stop,” III warns IV instead, and while it isn’t rare for him to use that tone with them inside the confines of their own home, it is something else entirely for the bassist to do so in public. It goes against his image of who he is on the outside, boisterous and funny, eccentric yet kind. III’s tone is as stern as II’s always is as the bassist clamps a hand down on IV’s shoulder, demanding his compliance.

Vessel knows that IV will pay for it later, his disobedience, and while that spells out a nightmare scenario for Vessel, it brings their guitarist nothing but a giddy laugh and a mischievous smile.

“Disrespectful bunch,” Jerry remarks as he continues to scan their purchases, albeit at a much more languid pace. “Don’t be coming around here looking to start trou-”

“We’re here to shop. Scan the groceries and don’t talk to my partners like that.” II interjects, his voice as commanding as it is annoyed. Vessel shifts his weight once more as he takes hold of their shopping cart, refusing to raise his head as he politely excuses himself past II and stops at the end of the checkout lane. He grabs ahold of their bags and silently loads the cart, all too keenly aware of the tense atmosphere that surrounds them.

Uncomfortable silence befalls them as Jerry finishes scanning their goods. Vessel loads the remainder of their items into the cart before he finally raises his gaze. His eyes land on the flickering fluorescent lights above the register lane before they dart to the side. Jerry offers them an unamused expression, setting his jaw.

“Your total is two ninety one,” Jerry deadpan before raising a brow. “Cash or card?”

“Card,” II grits out, jamming his card into the chip reader with a little more force than necessary.

Vessel grabs the cart, waiting for IV and III to pass him before he follows after them, leaving II to handle the remainder of their uncomfortable interaction.

“You're awfully grumpy today,” III notes as he reels IV into his side, seizing him by the shoulders.

“I'm tired,” IV confesses through a sigh, leaning further into III's side. “I just want us to relax, but so far things have just been… stressful. I'm not going to tolerate people being rude to us either.”

Vessel swallows uncomfortably, frowning downward at their cart as they walk out of the sliding doors to the mart and into the brisk, ocean air.

“I'm sorry for dragging you all here,” Vessel whispers, more to himself than to his partners, his voice carried away by the wind. Having clearly not heard him, III lets out a loud, dramatic exhale.

“You know that II isn't going to let this slide, doll. You're making things harder on yourself again. But that's the entire point, isn’t it?” III chuckles as they finally reach their rental car.

“I'm well aware,” IV laughs right back with a playful lilt in his tone.

Vessel forces the guilt he feels down as II emerges from the grocery store, unlocking the car with the fob. He doesn't hesitate to open the trunk then, transferring over their purchases as III slips into the car. II's familiar footfall crunches over ice and salt as he reaches the car, grabbing IV by his arm and reeling him in.

“When we get back, help Vessel and III put the groceries up while I drive to pick up firewood. When I get back, I'm going to put that mouth of yours to work since you're so keen on running it.” II says, his voice husky and gravelly, as IV's breath audibly catches. “Get in the car.”

IV doesn't say a word as he scrambles into the backseat, slamming the door behind him, much to II's apparent chagrin.

“What am I going to do with them?” II bemoans, but Vessel knows that tone of voice. The poorly contained fondness and the promise of an eventful night to come.

II joins him in piling up the remaining groceries, shutting the trunk when their cart is empty. Vessel starts towards the nearby corral only for II's hand to stop him.

“Come here,” II grumbles lowly, and his words may as well be a command, one that Vessel is powerless to disobey. He listens on instinct, lowering his head until II's hands cup his cheeks, guiding him down. Their eyes are level when II's gaze sweeps over him, quiet and accessing, dissecting his state of being, both physical and mental.

Eight years of knowing someone will have that effect, after all. II can read him like a book, but he always has had that uncanny ability.

“Tonight, I want you to relax. Do you understand me?” II asks slowly, his palpable concern melding into his pale blue eyes. Vessel shudders in his hold as he nods, their cart rolling towards the empty spaces beside them, carried away by the seabreeze. “Good. When we get back, get into something comfortable before you make dinner. After we eat and IV's been reminded of what happens when he runs his mouth, I want your head in my lap.”

“Whatever you want,” Vessel hums, leaning into the offered touch as II's deft fingers card through his dark brown locks, brushing them back. “You know that I won't complain.”

“At least that makes one of you,” II retorts, dragging him in closer until soft, plush lips press against Vessel's own. He hums appreciatively, expertly slotting his lips against II's with practiced ease and familiarity. As they gradually part, II still cups his cheeks, keeping their foreheads together. “Everything will work itself out, Ve. Keep that pretty head of yours on straight for me.”

“I promise I'll try,” Vessel whispers softly as the cool breeze washes over them, jostling their clothes and hair.

The horn honks, startling him, but II merely scoffs.

“Do I even want to know which one of them did that?” II mutters out under his breath as they part.

Vessel giggles, shrugging, as he retrieves the blown away shopping cart and returns it to the corral. By the time he reaches the car and climbs inside, II is already in the driver's seat, slotting the key into the ignition.

The drive is surprisingly quiet. Vessel finds himself curling up in the passenger seat, resting his head against the window, watching the coastline as they pass by it in a blur. Jet lag and exhaustion creep up on him as the silence in the car continues. He finds himself nodding off until the sound of crunching salt beneath tire tread rouses him, signaling their arrival.

The moment that II turns off the ignition, they're climbing out of the car. They grab the groceries without conversing, falling into a familiar and comfortable silence, before the trunk is slammed shut and the car is locked. They walk carefully over the ice melt and freshly fallen snow, reaching the doorway before Vessel sets down his bags, reaching into the pocket for his key.

He unlocks it with a sigh, pushing open the door for his partners before seizing hold of the grocery bags at his feet. He follows after them, tracking ice and crystals into the entryway.

It is only then that he hears it, the crackling of a fire.

II, leading them, freezes in place. IV stumbles into III's back as the bassist screeches to a halt.

Vessel swallows uncomfortably, nervousness and unease sinking in, as he sets down his shopping bags beside the doorway and walks quietly to II's side.

“Stay here,” II commands, but IV and III won't allow that. And for the first time since Vessel's relationship with the drummer began, he won't be listening to him either. II's immediate look of disapproval stings. Vessel never has taken pleasure in disappointing him, but II nods sternly, giving in, as IV and III lower their bags in tandem with the drummer.

Silently, they enter the living room.

Firewood sits piled high beside the roaring hearth. Wave after wave of searing heat washes over them the further that they slink into the otherwise empty room. Fear creeps its way up Vessel's spine, his hair standing on end, as he slowly turns his head, following II's ever observant gaze.

In the nearby hallway, the once locked door now sits wide open.

Chapter Text

II has always been logical.

The assessing, evaluating, critical thinking type. It’s benefited him in every sector of his life, in every pursuit. It was mandatory in the music industry when one opted into anonymity and preferred for things to remain that way. It is even more mandatory when he has three partners that rely on him for steady, level-headed leadership.

Their pseudo-landlord, Nancy, had read every text he had sent her regarding the property and his concerns, even if she hadn’t responded to them. As annoying as it was to receive no response, it’s why he doesn’t panic at the sight playing out before him. Clearly, she had been by the home and seen to the issues that he had pointed out with her listing. For precaution, he tells his partners to wait by the entryway anyway.

IV is hardly ever inclined to listen without doing things the hard way, III is a wild card, and Vessel…

Vessel is the most obedient sub II’s ever seen. He doesn’t take the trust that Vessel puts in him lightly, he never has. So, it is when even his most agreeable partner resolutely refuses to leave his side in spite of his pointed instructions that II finds himself growing agitated. Not at Vessel, III, or IV. But rather, their situation and the unfortunate panic Nancy has assuredly caused them.

They follow him like ducklings as he scours the house, tearing apart the kitchen, dining room, and bedrooms before circling back to the living room and its steadily roaring hearth. Ice splatters against the windows, caking them in a wintry sheen, as grey clouds and the dark of night streak the sky. II sees large snow flakes flurrying by as he peeks beyond the curtain beside the hearth, tutting at the inconvenience of it all. He wants to take his boys and leave.

The weather seems keen on trapping them there all the same.

“I’m going to call her again after this,” II grits out as he angrily closes the thick white curtains and approaches the now-open closet door.

Only, it isn’t the sight of an empty closet that greets him.

It’s a decrepit set of stairs that leads downward.

A root cellar.

“Stay here,” he tells his partners with more bite in his words than he intended. Vessel’s eyes paint the picture of his apparent unease. Whereas III’s eyes are narrowed in obvious disdain and concern. Even IV’s usually smug expression is surprisingly neutral as II inclines his head. III’s gaze locks onto his, together they exchange a silent conversation, a discernible intent. III’s demeanor changes. He stands a little taller, looks a little more menacing. II always could count on him to adapt when he needs him to. “Keep them with you, III.”

“Understood,” III grumbles out, reaching out with lengthy arms to drape one over Vessel’s shoulders and reel the singer back. The bassist’s free hand clamps down on IV’s shoulder, rooting him firmly in place. “Call for me if you see anything. Be… careful, II.”

II nods sternly as he returns his attention back to the task at hand, the darkly lit stairwell.

Cold air wafts over him as he stares down the dimly lit stairwell, eyeing the chipping white leaden paint on the walls and the warped texture of the descending wooden steps. His hair raises on end as he angrily grips his phone tighter in hand, silently cursing Nancy for failing to give him any indicator on whether or not it had been her doing, before he steels his resolve and begins down the stairs. They groan and creak beneath the weight of his steps, echoing impossibly loud in the otherwise quiet of the home as the sound of the crackling fire from the hearth fades the further down he goes.

His boots impact the uneven dirt floor as he clears the final, crooked step. Diligently, his eyes scan the enclosed, windowless space. The walls themselves are stone, decorated with cobwebs and smears of rust from once hung up tools and instruments, their silhouettes all that remain against the aged rock. Thick cast iron chains hang from circular formed rivets that hang from the walls, and while he doesn’t know their direct purpose, nothing about their presence strikes him as immediately out of place, or strange.

The cellar itself is empty, barren in a way that alludes to its purpose having long since been served, leaving the room as nothing more than a storage area. Indentations in the dirt, the familiar tracks and grooves of wood force a quiet sigh of relief to tumble past his lips as he faintly shakes his head. The musty smell of damp earth and rust fills his nostrils as he reaches for his phone, fishing it out of his back pocket.

His text to Nancy is immediate. His words are as harsh as they are deserved.

Do not enter the property without alerting me while we are staying here, barring any emergencies. I trust that you will handle any concerns with more care and discretion in the future.

There was nothing else to be said, he muses to himself, as he rapidly ascends the stairs. Warmth from the fireplace washes over him as he exits the cellar and shuts the once locked door behind him. He tests the doorknob for good measure, satisfied when it opens without hesitation and closes without fuss.

“There’s no one down there. It’s just an empty storage cellar. The firewood came from there, I assume,” II informs his partners, shattering the otherwise quiet room. III doesn’t adjust his stance, but he does tighten his hold on their other partners. “This is unacceptable and unprofessional. I’ll check the windows, but everything else looks to be how we left it.”

“Just be careful,” III says through a grimace, his words coming out more as a plea than a request. His eyes are still sharp, dominant, but II can see them flicker with doubt. II nods once, firm, catching the relief in IV’s face and the unease etched across Vessel’s features. “I’ll keep them safe, just in case.”

The sound of a door creaking opens silences their newly found, tentative, peace.

II’s hair stands up on end as he pivots on his heel, his pale eyes falling on the slowly opening cellar door. It squeaks as its rusted, metal hinges groan under the apparent strain. The cool draft from below rises, wafting out of the room in chilly waves of frigid air, as II strides forward and slams it shut, not even bothering to look down the empty stairwell.

“Can we… block the door and put up the groceries now?” IV asks, and it’s the first time that II’s ever heard such hesitation in his usually teasing voice.

“Go with III,” II replies as he slowly releases the patinaed door knob from beneath his callused fingertips. “Everything is fine.”

Nothing felt fine, but his partners needed his reassurance, not his doubt. The house is safe, and no one is inside but them, but even then he feels the need to double check.

Unease sinks in as he watches III direct IV and Vessel to help him with their long since forgotten groceries, left in the home’s entryway. Vessel’s eyes dart from their freshly bought produce to II’s own, a silent plea, a look of pure discomfort. IV’s demeanor, like the guitarist’s voice, is also out of the ordinary. Every footstep IV takes is more measured, and every glance around their surroundings by Vessel is more purposeful, something that II wishes he could immediately take away from the both of them.

III’s voice is steady as he gently directs them towards the kitchen, leaving II alone in the living room, standing before the root cause of his partner’s discomfort.

The innocuous cellar door.

II listens to the sound of the crinkling hearth, his partner’s familiar footfall, and the pittering of ice crystals as they pelt against the living room’s curtain-covered windows. A gust of abrupt wind shakes the glass panes, and II can’t help but glance towards the windows, once more rationalizing the sound.

He reaches for a piece of firewood from atop the pile and jams it hard enough against the aged door that the wood splinters from the force. The echo it produces lingers a beat too long, bouncing off the nearby walls, resonating in the otherwise comfortable quiet.

The sound of II’s heavy footfall as his salt encrusted boot soles thump across the hardwood does little to will away the sound of the creaking door as it continues to haunt him long after it has stopped.

-

The dinner that Vessel serves them at the dining room table is eaten in relative silence.

Exhaustion sinks in the further along the night crawls, and the snow outside their rented cottage starts to pile up. They slept on the plane, but between time differences, commutes, shopping, and sore limbs, even II feels liable to keel over as he rises from the dinner table. He takes his cleared plate and stacks it on top of Vessel’s, pausing only to lean down and press a kiss to the singer’s cheek.

“Thank you for cooking,” he whispers, brushing back soft, dark locks of hair as Vessel slowly closes his eyes. “Forget what I said earlier, love. I need to get the three of you to bed.”

Vessel’s reply is a quiet, barely perceivable, hum. II chuckles deeply as he presses yet another kiss to his partner’s cheek before he grabs his plate and repeats the process with IV’s, stacking it beneath the others.

“You’re also getting a pass from me tonight,” II whispers into the guitarist’s ear as he leans down, forcing a shudder out of the other man. II knows IV well enough to know that he isn’t comfortable. Unnerved perhaps by the concerning sight of someone else having entered their temporary dwelling, or perhaps by the hostility of the locals that had done everything but greeted them. He isn’t one to relent easily, or to let disobedience slide, but the look that IV shoots him borders the line of gratitude.

It’s another first for him, seeing IV reluctant to disobey or receive his rightfully due punishment.

Of all the new firsts tonight, this was the one he despised the most, seeing the look of unease in his usually confident partner’s eyes.

II’s fingers lightly grip IV’s cheek, gently tilting his head back, but the guitarist follows Vessel’s lead in the end, merely shutting his eyes.

“Do you want to sleep between me and III tonight?” II asks, and IV’s eyes fly open. What he offers is a borderline reward, being sandwiched between himself and the switch. Vibrant blue irises, surrounded by dark circles and pink swollen lids, dart over his expression but there is no hint of deceit for IV to find. II smiles reassuringly, leaning down once more to kiss the guitarist’s twitching brow. “You’ll behave, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” IV whispers softly, leaning up into his offered touch. II gently taps his chin as he releases his hold on IV, grabbing their stack of plates before he circles the table to III’s side.

“Tomorrow…” II begins as he sets down the dishware once again before wrapping his arms around III’s neck, leaning against him. Vibrant strands of the bassist’s red hair sway as he soothingly rocks them both, swaying. “You and I will discuss how best to handle that one. Heard?”

III swallows thickly, audibly, as his eyes dart to IV. II chuckles, tracing the line of III's Adam's apple, while III slowly nods his head. Breathless.

IV's cheeks darken, and II delights in the sight of unease slowly slipping away from the guitarist’s gaze.

“Heard,” III confirms, his voice deep and husky, exhaustion mixed with poorly concealed desire. II can't help but smirk as he slowly releases III from his grip.

It's only then that he leaves the table, stack of plates in hand, as he makes for the deep basin sink in the kitchen and begins diligently washing their dishes.

His partners slowly rise from the table as II shuts off the sink. The fluorescent lights of the kitchen flicker as he loads the dishwasher before slamming it shut. His footsteps creak over the tile as he corrals the others out, gently nudging them towards the living room. The smell of steak and vegetables fades, giving way to the smell of the crackling fire, as II begins ushering them up the stairs.

Vessel's the first to begin up the stairwell, clearly exhausted, dragging his feet and rubbing at his eyes with one hand while the other grips the handrail. IV follows after, silently bounding up the steps, a little pep in his step returned. III lingers for a moment, warily eyeing the desk by the bay window, before he sighs and begins the ascent.

It's only when II's feet hit the creaky bottom step that the atmosphere abruptly changes.

A deafening crack startles them all, freezing them in place, before the sound of something slamming into another object fills the relative quiet. II is back into the heart of the living room not a moment later, trying to assess the situation and discern the sound's cause.

His heart races. His fingers twitch. His breaths come out uneven.

The wood placed before the cellar door is split in twain. Dust coats the ground around it, a testament to the force exerted when it was severed. Wood chips splay across the hardwood, reaching far into the depths of the room itself.

The fire never seems to dwindle.

The cellar door itself is once more wide open.

He barrels down the aged, warped wooden stairs without a second thought. Adrenaline courses through his veins as he frantically scans the unfinished root cellar. Dirt sticks in between his toes, dusting his skin, as he patrols the dimly lit room, eying the chains hanging from the walls.

No one is down there. No one but him.

His eyes drift downward, canvassing the packed dirt floor. Only three sets of shoe imprints should be on the floor beneath him. Those of his boots, those of his feet, and those of Nancy, if ever she was down there at all.

Six sets of prints greet him.

Two of his own, and four others in varying shapes and patterns. He leans down to study them when the light overheard buzzes then flickers out, plunging him into silence. He hears a frantic call of his name, followed by the slamming of a creaking, scraping door.

He blindly fumbles up the cellar steps, holding onto the railing and feeling around in the darkness, as tense, immediate silence fills the air. He finds the corroded handle and twists, pulling, pushing, doing anything to make it budge. It wiggles, turning rapidly back and forth with his increasingly frantic movements, but it doesn't yield.

“III! Open the door,” II tries, shouting through the wood as he places one hand on its uneven surface.

But no one responds.

“Vessel, IV, can you hear me?” II calls, banging on the door as he continues to try the handle.

But once more, he is met with silence.

II rears back, cursing, as he judges the distance between his foot and the ledge of the step. He puts his entire weight into the brutal blow he lands on the door, attempting to shoulder it open. Pain blossoms upon contact, radiating down his arm and rendering his fingers numb, but the door refuses to yield.

It doesn't so much as budge.

“Fucking hell,” II hisses as he pats down his pockets, realizing his phone is still in the kitchen, leaving him with no options for communication or light. There’s a distinct tightening in his chest that leaves him momentarily breathless. When he takes a deep breath to regain his composure, he groans, reaching once more for the doorknob and gripping it, twisting it as hard as he can.

Suddenly, the wooden door creaks before flying open, pulling him along with it. He stumbles past the top step and all but crashes into III's chest. The bassist sways, cursing under his breath, as II staggers forward.

II blinks, confused, as he processes the bizarre string of events in the brief moment it takes for III to catch his breath. The door had been rock solid before giving way, almost as if whatever had seized it had not only relinquished its grasp, but thrown it open as well.

He swallows uncomfortably, trying to make rhyme or reason of it all, as III steadies him on his feet.

“Are you okay?” III asks, his large hands immediately finding purchase on II's shoulders, holding him upright. II cranes his neck, his breathing ragged, as he forces himself not to wince from the throbbing pain in his arm.

III's eyes are filled to the brim with worry, concern rendering them wider than usual, dilated. Vessel and IV stand beside him, each wearing matching expressions of shock, as II clears his throat and nods.

“How did that even happen?” IV inquires, his brow furrowing, as II turns his head to look over his shoulder.

He eyes the splintered wood log. The sawdust upon the floor. His gaze drifts back to the chipped paint on the hardwood and the wide open cellar door. The light is on in the stairwell, no longer plunging the descent into black.

II has always been logical.

His partners look at him for an answer, an answer that he doesn't have.

“I have no idea,” II admits, rolling his throbbing shoulder beneath III’s grasp as he returns his attention to the bassist. III’s brow draws tighter, his confusion palpable, as II lets out a breathy exhale. The admission only furthers his unease. He’s never been one to not have the answers, or feel incapable of discerning the truth, but every explanation he can think of falls flat as his partners watch him expectantly. “I don’t have an explanation for that. I’m tired, but not so tired that I’d hallucinate. We all saw it, anyway.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” IV all but hisses, and II’s eyes dart once more to the side. There’s no amusement in IV’s gaze, no mischievous glint to his smile, his words are as serious as his expression. He’s uncomfortable. II knows without having to ask. “This place has been weird since we got here. I don’t believe in all that superstitious bullshit, but something fucking weird is happening and I don’t like it.”

“I… agree,” Vessel says sheepishly, frowning before he ducks his head, bowing it as if out of shame. “I know we’ve only been here for a few hours, but something feels… off? I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Your comfort and safety has always been my primary concern,” II exhales as III slowly drops his hold. “That being said, there’s a winter storm going on. We’re unfamiliar with the area and the terrain, and it’s pitch black out by now. I’ll try to get a hold of Nancy in the morning. For now, we should try and get some rest.”

“We’re tired, loves,” III agrees as he strides forward, forcing shut the cellar door once more. II turns to face it, warily eyeballing the fractured logs beside it, before III scooches past him and seizes a nearby sidetable. II steps out of the way, not objecting, as III drags the table forward, barricading the cellar door shut. “Something weird happened, yes, but we’re exhausted. We should listen to II and get some sleep.”

“I’m not sleeping here,” IV tuts, clicking his tongue against his cheek. II’s glare is immediate, involuntary, a side effect of spending four years in proximity to the guitarist, clocking him for the brat that he is. Only, IV isn’t getting any enjoyment out of this, II can still see the discomfort in the guitarist’s eyes. “You told me to tell you when I’m uncomfortable, so I’m telling you.”

“I am not risking your life, or Vessel’s and III’s, by driving in an ice storm.” II says with definitive certainty, and it almost feels cathartic, to slip back into self-assuredness without any room for doubt in his mind. He can’t make heads or tails of the strange happenings in the cottage, but he knows that driving in a storm, especially at night in an unknown area, is far too risky. “You can sleep between III and I, like I said. We can discuss this in the morning.”

IV sets his jaw, rolling his eyes, as II and III exchange a knowing glance.

“Ives, we’re being considerate,” III insists, stepping forward and tugging on the guitarist’s arm, nudging him towards the ascending stairwell that leads to the master bedroom. “Don’t give us an attitude for it. You know II’s right, doll. I know you’re scared, but-”

“Fuck off,” IV grumbles, clearly unhappy about the situation, but when he doesn’t pull away from III, II takes it as a good sign.

“You will stay where I’ve said,” II announces once more, his tone brokering no room for argument from anyone. IV’s eyes land on his, and although the defiance in them sizzles out, he takes no pleasure in it. “It’s not because I’m demanding it for no good reason, but because your safety is non-negotiable.”

“Fine,” IV relents, averting his gaze, and offering no further protest as III reels him into his arms.

Under normal circumstances, he’d have IV on his knees for that one, his mouth stuffed full of III’s cock, leaving the guitarist with something to occupy his mouth with and keep his disrespectful retorts to himself. Under these circumstances, II doesn’t push him. Even if they’ve agreed to this, their arrangement and partnership, he still has to prioritize their comfort and safety.

If they aren’t comfortable and at ease, there will be no games tonight.

Vessel’s eyes never leave the floor, and II can’t allow that to continue. He pushes back his own discomfort, burying it deep enough that it doesn’t risk resurfacing in spite of the goosebumps still risen on his flesh, as he reaches up for Vessel’s cheeks. The singer’s skin is warm beneath his touch, Vessel’s tired eyes dull instead of their usual, shimmering shade of hazel. More green than blue, more golden than brown, and more beautiful than any eyes II’s ever seen before, even now.

“Come back to me,” II gently commands him, one hand stroking Vessel’s cheek while the other rises to brush back his dark brown hair. “No part of this is your fault, Vessel. Things happen, even if they don’t make sense to us at the time. Let’s get you to bed.”

Vessel’s always been painfully sweet, trusting, shy, and beyond kind. But he was also prone to self-deprecating, self-hatred, dangerous lines of thinking. II watches Vessel blink harshly, as if coming back to his senses, before the singer gently nods against his hands.

III leads IV to the stairwell first, ascending with the guitarist in tow, and II doesn’t hesitate to send Vessel after them, trusting III to handle the two subs while he grabs his phone. The moment he enters the kitchen, still dimly lit with various pots and pans left to cool on the oven, unease washes over him once again. The goosebumps on his flesh multiply, discomfort blooms low in his stomach, a knot that no rational thought can untie. A chill travels down his spine, making him flex his hands into fists. He approaches his phone, grabbing it off the countertop.

He checks his text messages, seeing none from Nancy, and no new replies, before he grimaces and pockets the device.

He exits the kitchen slowly, rubbing at the exposed skin of his heavily tattoo covered arms, before he approaches the writing desk in the living room. It sits beside the still roaring hearth, situated just beside the largest window, draped in thick white curtains that billow slightly from the heated air that wafts through the house’s vents. He hooks his fingers around the linen, gently peeling it backward, only to be greeted to a sight he wasn’t quite expecting.

A blizzard.

There had been a call for inclement weather, that much had been apparent since their arrival, given the notifications on his phone’s home weather application. Still, the locals hadn’t seemed perturbed by the possibility, and according to everything he read on the way to the cottage from the airport, prior to falling asleep, if the locals weren’t worried about the weather, they shouldn’t be either.

II curses under his breath as he chews his bottom lip, feeling the chapped, peeling skin beneath his teeth give way.

Ice continues to pelt against the glass, but the visibility out of the transparent panes is diminishing, covered in a thin sheen of precipitation that leaves much of his view outside a haze. The once plowed, salted driveway is entirely covered, and the rental car, too, is blanketed. Snow accumulates rapidly on the windowsill, and the wind howls as it crashes against the cottage’s exterior, rattling the shutters and windowpanes.

II shuts the curtain, staring at the rolling flames in the hearth, studying the way that the logs smolder, turning to ashes where the fire licks the hottest against them. Slowly, he turns his head towards the barricaded cellar door. His mouth goes dry as he thinks of it slamming open, then slamming closed, trapping him inside.

Nothing makes sense, and no matter how much he tries to wrap his head around it, he knows that it's in vain. He’s too tired to think clearly now, worn down by the events of the day and his partner’s unease, so he decides to forego rationality for the first time in his life.

Something strange was happening in their beautiful, sprawling, rented estate.

Something he couldn’t put his finger on, but something that made even him, someone who prided himself on logic and reason, deeply unnerved. He sighs softly as he approaches the nearby lamp, switching it off before making towards the stairwell.

Movement catches his eye, a dark figure in his periphery, familiar in shape and size.

“Vessel?” He calls, looking up the stairwell, as the figure comes to a halt just outside his view.

“Yes?” Vessel calls from atop the staircase.

”Yes?”

Vessel’s voice echoes in II’s ears, coming from directly behind him.

Chapter Text

III has never heard II scream before.

It’s why the sound of the dom’s shriek sends shivers down his spine, making his blood run cold. He’s out of the master bedroom before he can fully process the sound, his feet carrying him out of the ajar door, before he barrels down the staircase. He follows the dull light from the hearth, vaguely feeling the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet, from both his own weight, and that of IV and Vessel, as the pair scramble down the stairs after him.

II’s shouting falls silent the moment that III lays eyes on the drummer, but he doesn’t stop moving until he’s completely off the stairs, pulling II into his shaking arms.

“Fucking hell,” II curses, stiffening beneath his touch. “My shoulder is beyond wrecked from hitting the door. I went to grab the railing, and it…” II shudders, wincing as he slowly rolls his arm. III frowns at that, adjusting his grip to lessen the tension in his grasp, as II sighs and rolls his head back. “I’m fine. I just need to get some sleep and let it rest.”

“Do you want me to make an icepack for you?” Vessel asks, and it’s impossible to not hear the concern in his voice. II’s lips twitch upward as he tilts his head further to the side, III catches a glimpse of Vessel in his periphery as the singer comes to a halt beside them, shifting his weight nervously.

“No, dear,” II says through a slight smile. Vessel visibly perks up at the pet name, his frown faltering as his lips twitch upward into the barest of grins.

“You have a high pain tolerance,” IV observes, his words slurred from his apparent exhaustion. III can see the unease resurfacing in the guitarist’s gaze as he moves to stand beside Vessel. “Is it that bad or are you trying to make this situation worse than it already is?”

“II might be in a lenient mood tonight, but I won’t be if you keep smarting off,” III tuts, shooting IV a look of warning. The sub scoffs at that, but there is once more the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes, wary and tired as they seem. “You promised us you’d be good tonight, remember?”

“You will remember, or else it’ll be worse for you tomorrow.” II says sternly, using that gravely, deep tone of voice that reminded them of his position over them, the one they all eagerly agreed to.

IV visibly perks up at that, seemingly keen on whatever their dom has in mind, but III can’t bring himself to share in the excitement and anticipation in that moment.

Unease sinks in slowly the longer that they stand there in the living room, their forms kissed by the firelight of the still burning, not once stoked, hearth. The fire burns abnormally slow, not once having to be tended to in spite of their hours spent in the home, but even that feels unremarkable when compared to the other events of the night. Warily, he releases his grip on II, shooting the drummer an apologetic look for his pain, before he steps around his partners and re-enters the living room proper.

The side-table he drug into the hallway, barricading the cellar door, remains firmly in place. Surrounded by chips of wood and piles of sawdust, remnants of the log that had been sundered by some explicable force, still lie scattered across the woodgrain. He swallows uncomfortably, discomfort coiling lowly in his gut, as he forces himself to look away from the peculiar scene and returns his attention to his partners.

His headspace feels off.

On a normal night like this, he’d long for the familiar comfort and weight of II’s cock on his tongue, or buried deep inside of him. Something, anything, to float away to a place of peace and comfort. A place that only II has ever been trusted enough, and capable enough, of delivering him unto.

But that’s not what they need tonight, II, IV, and Vessel. He knows when to switch it off, when to speak more sternly, and when to provide II support in handling their wildly different partners. The simmering, albeit lowly, challenge in IV’s eyes still remains as the guitarist starts back up the stairwell, but Vessel does not leave II’s side, softly whispering words of worry to their dom as they begin up the stairwell. III sighs, incapable of making heads or tails of his own mood, let alone their circumstances, before he follows up after them.

Exhaustion clings to him like a second skin. A full day of traveling and flying, paired with subpar sleep on the airplane, a lengthy car ride, and an unfortunately eventful evening have left his head reeling. He’s already dressed down into a pair of simple joggers and a black long sleeve shirt, something warm against the cold draft in the cottage, and comfortable enough to sleep in. He’s grateful that his partners seem as eager for rest as he is as he enters the bedroom and finds the trio already making their way towards the massive, accommodating bed.

IV hasn’t earned the reward he receives as III lies down beside him, sandwiching the guitarist between himself and II as the latter climbs into bed from the opposite side. IV all but melts between them, seemingly all thought of rebellion and snarkiness removed from his mind, as III scoots in closer, effectively spooning the smaller man. Vessel climbs in last, situating himself behind II and enveloping the drummer in his embrace, but III, even in the dark, can see the hesitation in his movements. The care he takes in avoiding II’s obviously painful shoulder.

“We’ll discuss this in the morning, yeah?” III grumbles sleepily, aiming his question towards II, whose face he cannot see in the darkness but whose grunt of confirmation serves as answer enough.

It is only then that they fall silent, and for the first time that day, III feels some semblance of peace and comfortability.

He’s nearly asleep, his eyelids heavy and his breathing beginning to even out, when a peculiar sound jolts him awake. The sound of high pitched, labored gurgling. IV groans in obvious annoyance from being jostled awake, and in the darkness, III can see Vessel slowly sit upright, as if confused by what had clearly awoken him. II grunts once more, shifting, but the strange gurgling of his breathing ceases.

“Are you sure you’re okay, II? You… seem like you’re in a lot of pain,” Vessel pouts, an expression so vivid that it’s easily perceivable, even in the darkness.

“I’ll be fine,” II insists, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Go to bed.”

III cocks his head at that as he props himself up on his elbow.

“Vessel,” he calls, doing his best to prevent his mounting distaste from seeping into his tone, as he meets the gaze of their incredibly sensitive partner. “II just needs to rest, my love. Let him get some sleep, yeah?”

II has never ignored Vessel’s concerns before, never once written them off, or discredited them outright.

II is unpredictable with his unique brand of punishments and repercussions, a delightful mix of all of their preferred tastes and interests, melding into a mutually beneficial and enjoyable experience for everyone involved. He wasn’t, however, unattentive. II is the opposite, not only by choice, but out of necessity. They all agreed to live in this dynamic, embracing every moment of it, and hardly ever straying from that which they enjoyed together. So it came as no surprise that II was highly aware of their states at all times, constantly assessing their needs and weighing them against their words and actions, pairing them with appropriate responses in return.

Vessel was in desperate need of comforting, perhaps even more so than IV had been upon being commanded to remain in place without complaint, in spite of the guitarist’s discomfort. That was something that III agrees with, knowing that it comes from a place of worry over safety, something that they all need to prioritize when it comes to themselves and each other.

But there is no pressing matter now, other than their need for sleep, and a way to clear their heads come the daylight.

There is no reason for II to lie there, unmoving and unreactive, when Vessel’s expression falls in time with the singer’s rapidly declining mood.

“Vess,” III tries again, offering the other man a small smile, and hoping that it was enough to abate the worst of it. “Everything is fine, sweetheart. Not gonna let anything happen to any of you, ‘kay?”

His reassurance is all he can offer from across the mattress, but Vessel slowly returns his smile, clearly thankful for the comfort he receives, even if it is less than what III wishes he could give.

“So tired,” IV mumbles, and III knows it’s their cue to lie down once again. He settles down slowly, wrapping his arms around IV’s stockier frame, cocooning him with his body. IV hums appreciatively, not even bothering to wiggle his hips tantalizingly in the way he always does before bed, as if to tempt him one last time. IV’s next words are even more sleepy than they were before, rife with a sweetness that was seldomly heard, and typically hard-fought when it was. “Love you.”

“We love you too,” III returns without hesitation, never one to cruelly deny his partners the words that they needed, and deserved, to hear. He presses a kiss to the crown of IV’s light brown hair before allowing himself to properly relax against the soft pillowtop mattress. The warm blankets, a mix of fleece and thick cotton, effectively combat the chill in the air as the windows rattle with the wind. Outside the blizzard rages on, howling with wind, and dumping a deep blanket of snow across the picturesque landscape and scenery.

His limbs ache, and his thoughts are a slog to parse as he begins to drift out of consciousness, grateful that the long day is finally drawing to a close.

II lets out another bizarre, gargling, hum.

But III’s eyes slide close and refuse to open.

-

”I really can’t stay…”

III’s grimaces, spitting out a mouthful of IV’s hair, while his nose crinkles from the sensation of damp locks brushing against his skin. Music thrums throughout the house, ringing in his ears, as he slowly turns his head to the side in confusion. Beside him, his partners don't so much as stir. Vaguely, he wonders to himself if no one else hears the blaring music. Reluctantly, he creaks open his eyes, blinking sleep out of them once, then clearing the blurriness with the second blink.

”The evening has been so very nice…”

III blinks harshly.

Red hair fills his gaze. A leering smile, all teeth, all bite.

He blinks again in a panic, desperate to rid himself from the remnants of what he assumes to be a dream.

Only, his vision clears. Even in the darkness, in his more conscious state, the sight before him doesn’t fade.

His blood immediately runs cold. Panic seeps in. Blood curdling terror. Every hair on his body stands on end as goosebumps rise against his skin. He feels sick to his stomach, disgustingly nauseous, as he helplessly looks up in sheer, abject horror at the figure that looms over the bed.

Tall, lithe frame. Shoulder length, bright red hair. Pale skin with angular facial features. A wide, brimming, unnatural smile. III watches crow’s feet form on the other man’s face as if the very wrinkles themselves are simply willed into existence right before his very eyes.

He opens his mouth to scream, but the sound catches painfully in his throat. The reverberating music continues to play, drifting notes and lyrics of an all too familiar tune throughout the halls, stifling the wheeze of horror that barely escapes his lips.

”I wish I knew how to break this spell…”

III’s frantic eyes land on the figure's, and even in the dark, he can discern their sheen.

Blue, so very blue.

“I know you’re scared.”

III’s own voice rattles in his ears as he looks at the figure when he speaks. It speaks.

A perfect photocopy of him.

Using his own words, his concerned observation, addressed to IV in the hours before.

III’s lungs fill with air then, as the words of Baby, It’s Cold Outside continue to blast loudly throughout the walls of the cottage. The windows rattle with the howling of the wind as III breathes in deep and does all that he feels capable of.

Scream.

He never thought his own voice could sound like that.

His limbs feel leaden, bogged down and heavy, unwilling to move, as the figure chuckles in an all too familiar tone before hastily retreating outside of the open bedroom door. It slams shut behind it, shaking the bedroom’s walls, as IV sits up beside him, frantic. Vessel scurries out from underneath the covers, hastily turning on the bedside lamp, as III’s once panicked cry diminishes into fast, uneven breaths.

He’s panting, sweat pouring off of his brow, as he flies upright and grabs at his chest, trying to will away the panic in his chest.

He thinks he must be dreaming, because that is the only logical, reasonable outcome.

But music still thrums just behind the closed bedroom door.

III’s already cold blood turns frigid in his veins.

“Where’s II?” IV asks, and III’s eyes dart to the side with haste, taking stock of the drummer’s palpable absence as Vessel shakily slides off the mattress. III takes note, even in his frantic state, of the singer’s uneasiness and the tension in his shoulders.

“F-Fuck,” III manages out as he kicks the blankets off of himself, his mind and body going into overdrive. His teeth chatter as his bare feet touch the freezing wooden floors beneath the bed, but all he does is turn to his partners in haste, raking in the sight of IV’s concern and Vessel's obvious distress.

“What is… going on?” Vessel mumbles out, his words mingling with the quiet thrum of music, muffled by the closed bedroom door.

“We… we have to find II,” III stresses, shuffling towards the bedroom door with bravado, but when his hand lands on the handle, he hesitates.

He thinks of the thing that roused him from sleep.

Someone who looked exactly like him. Who spoke exactly as he does. Its words repeat in his ears, causing his stomach to churn with immediate dread.

He's afraid to open the door.

“I saw… something,” III forces himself to say above the muted music. The sound of a record scratching sounds behind the door. He tenses, listening to the sound of obvious footsteps, before the record begins to play once more. The same familiar tune. “When I woke up there was this… Gods, there was this… thing hovering over me.”

“What do you mean?” IV inquires, stepping closer, and III can't help but shudder as he recalls what he saw with perfect clarity.

“It… it looked like me,” III grits out, clamping down hard on the doorknob. “I know you think I'm crazy, but we need to find II and get the fuck out of here.”

Unease and wrongness permeate the air. The doorknob jiggles beneath III's iron grip. He tightens his hold on it, eyes as wide as the plates that Vessel served them dinner on, as a string of curses tumbles past his lips.

“It's probably II,” Vessel says faintly, almost as if he's trying to convince himself.

The doorknob ceases shaking. III's fingers never slacken, holding it in a death grip.

“Grab our bags,” III commands them, his tone stern and his voice soft. “We need to go.”

He has to keep them safe. Even if II isn't with them. Especially if II isn't with them.

”Listen to the fireplace roar…”

“Let's just… find II,” IV grumbles, but III can hear the shuffling of his feet, followed by the sound of one of their bags being hoisted off the bedroom floor. “As for leaving this place? You don't have to tell me twice.”

“Stay with me,” III demands, biting back his fear as he swallows thickly. He has to get them out safely. He’ll find II himself if he has to, even if the idea alone terrifies him. There is nothing more important than seeing IV and Vessel out of the house, tucked safely away in their rental car.

III doesn’t want to be brave, but he has no other choice.

“When we get downstairs, if II isn’t there, you two focus on getting to the car.” III explains his plan, his breathing uneven and ragged, as he listens to the sound of his partners shuffling feet and rustling luggage. Downstairs, the record scratches once more, followed by the sound of footsteps once again, before the record starts at the beginning. III grimaces, gripping the doorknob tightly, before he turns to face his partners.

“Call the police,” III breathes out, attempting to rationalize what he saw and find another way out of the mess they’ve found themselves in. He doesn’t know how to explain it, the terror that bloomed in his chest upon seeing it hovering over their bed, and he doesn’t expect the emergency services in the area to believe his story either, but there was no need to disclose that information to the authorities to begin with.

“A-And say what?” Vessel asks him, taking out his cell phone with trembling hands while readjusting his hold on his duffelbag. His panic is gut-wrenching, painful to watch. III knows he’s scared, and worried about II, but so is he. So is IV. Worry will get them nowhere fast if they don’t first remove themselves from the situation at hand.

“Tell them there’s an intruder in the house and our partner is missing,” III rationalizes, teeth chattering as he keeps a tight grip on the door. Footsteps echo in the distance, one distinct gait, and another he’s never heard the cadence of. A part of him wants to fly down the stairwell, find II, and verify his safety. Another part of him knows the futility in his actions, reminding him that he’d only be leaving their other partners vulnerable.

II would never forgive him for that. III would never forgive himself either.

Vessel was stronger than any of them physically, but he so often froze in the face of fear. IV's stature was also nothing to balk at, but III knew IV better than that. All bark, no bite. II's strength lied in the musculature of his arms and thighs, fed by a personality akin to that of a Rottweiler.

III himself is scrappy, but he hates confrontation all the same. He finds himself praying to whatever deity might be listening that push doesn't come to shove. That whatever monstrosity awoke him from the depths of sleep was nothing more than a twisted amalgamation of exhaustion and stress.

But the footsteps beyond the door and the sound of carrying musical notes tell a different story.

III can barely think thanks to the repetitive music.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“There's an intruder in our house,” Vessel whispers, his words flying out of his lips in a panic as he strides forward, coming to a halt beside IV.

The room itself holds its breath as the sound of typing echoes through the singer’s cell phone, its speaker relaying the sound.

“And you said there was an intruder in your home?” The dispatcher repeats, and Vessel immediately answers with a hissed confirmation. More typing. “What's the address?”

“739 Seaside Drive,” Vessel replies, and III can see the shaking in his limbs as the music beyond the door increases in volume, reaching a crescendo as the chorus plays on.

“I'm sorry, but you're out of our service area.”

The line clicks dead.

III pales, eyes wide with horror, as IV and Vessel's jaws fall open in time with another's.

“She… hung up on me,” Vessel says slowly, eyes wide with panic as he frantically keys in the emergency number again with trembling fingers. It rings once. Then twice.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I just called and was told I am out of your service area, but we… we need help, p-please. Someone is in-” Vessel's promptly cut off by the sound of another dispatcher, not the same as before, grunting. The dispatcher’s voice is flat, calm, and direct as he speaks.

“We can’t help you. Stop calling.”

The line clicks dead once more.

They’re being left out to dry.

Every concern raised by them about the treatment by the locals suddenly feels more purposeful and intentional than cruel or wary. III’s palm is sweaty as he swallows the lump in his throat, doing his best not to portray the rapidly accumulating dread that threatens to consume him, as he looks at both of his partners, gauging their states of being.

IV’s jaw is set, his hands balled into fists on the straps of his and II’s duffel bag, with his eyes filled to the brim with rage. Vessel’s lips remain parted out of sheer disbelief, his hands continue to shake, as the singer slowly shuts his mouth and tightens his grip on their belongings.

“Fuck this…” IV starts, only to trail off, shaking like a leaf. His words are muffled by the sound of his chattering teeth. Cold, frigid air from the subpar insulation in the home, and the raging blizzard outside their door, seeps in with a fury, mingling with the general tenseness in the atmosphere. “We have to go.”

“I won't leave without II,” Vessel's voice cracks, thick tears streaking down his cheeks, as he sniffles and shoves his phone back into the pocket of his black joggers.

“No one is leaving without II,” III assures both subs with the most forced reassuring smile he can muster. His expression feels hollow. He knows it looks the same when neither of them react to his attempt at comfort. “Get the keys off the ring downstairs and get to the car. I’ll find II, and we’ll get the fuck out of here.”

The record scratches to a halt mid-song. III’s blood runs cold, his stomach churning with unease, as he waits for the song to start up again. He knows it will. He’s willing to bet his life on it.

“The moment that s-song plays,” his voice catches in his throat, but he clears the discomfort away. The doorknob is damp with sweat beneath his fingertips as the sound of footsteps once more rings out from somewhere downstairs, echoing throughout the cottage. “We make a run for it.”

IV and Vessel nod, but there’s still tears in the singer’s eyes, and there’s clear worry spelled out across IV’s contorted features.

III wants to comfort them, but he wants nothing more than to find II and leave.

”I really can’t stay…”

III throws the bedroom door open and runs, IV and Vessel hot on his heels, as they come barreling down the narrow hallway. His eyes dart over every surface, every open doorway, expecting to see it waiting for him there, but when the coast is clear, he continues forward. They race down the stairwell, all but knocking into one another as the firelight of the hearth comes into view once more. The walls echo more clearly now with the sound of music, covering up whatever else might be occurring around them, but the sound of their attempt at escape is still the loudest thing in the cottage.

III’s feet hit the living room threshold, slipping off the bottom stair. He screeches to a halt. IV collides into his back, but he remains still as a statue, sturdy in spite of the force of the blow. Vessel doesn’t make for the nearby front door either, freezing beside them, as they all slowly turn their heads.

II’s eyes meet theirs, impossibly wide and filled with nothing short of sheer disbelief and immediate horror.

Sitting on the couch beside II, sits Vessel, with IV curled up on the opposing side of the sofa, lounging with his head splayed out across II’s lap. From III’s height and perspective he can see it, the moment that IV opens his eyes and smiles, that same bloodcurdling, horrific smile. II makes a punched out sound on the couch.

A shuttered breath escapes III’s lips, every nerve in his body is alight, urging him to run, but IV and Vessel are no better off. Vessel’s once silent tears are now shuddered sobs of terror. IV’s disturbed expression is now a mask of true and genuine fear.

II opens his lips to speak, but III’s own voice beats him to it.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

III’s eyes widen further in his panic, darting to the kitchen’s entryway where it stands, cocking its head to the side. Red strands sway from its movements, catching the light of the hearth, sparkling with a familiar, vibrant sheen. Its too-wide smile sends shivers down his spine. Its sharpened teeth force the air out of his lungs.

He doesn’t think as II flies off of the couch, dumping IV’s head onto the sofa with a dull thump, before sprinting towards them. III picks up a decorative amethyst rock, displayed proudly on a table beside the entryway, and throws it square at the thing that wears his face and skin.

It hits the being squarely in the shoulder, forcing a gurgling, growl to tumble out of its lips. A deep black, viscous substance spills to the floor from where the jagged stone made contact. The fluid flows and ebbs, spiking and fluctuating, behaving in a manner not entirely unlike ferrofluid, as it shimmers from the light of the hearth.

”Don’t make me start correcting bad behavior on your first night here, loves.”

III’s eyes dart to the stairwell as II barrels into them, shoving IV and Vessel towards the door, commanding them to get out. Standing half-way down the stairs stands II, grinning with a wolfish smile, his dark, dilated eyes brimming with delight and malice.

III doesn’t need to think about what to do next.

He turns on his heel and sprints out the open cottage door. Frigid night air and snow bite his skin as his bare feet slide on the accumulated ice that’s built up on the steps and driveway. He stumbles after his partners, his chest heaving and his blood pumping, until he trips and crashes into the passenger side door. His fingers burn and ache as he tries for the handle, sharp ice and hardened, packed snow encrusted from the freezing rain digs into his fingers as he tries, and fails, to force the car door open.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” II curses aloud, and III can hear the jingling of the car keys the drummer must have grabbed on the way out. III winces when he hears them impact the wintry mix beneath them, but II is quick to pick them back up. The moment the doors unlock, III resumes his efforts, cursing to himself as the ice cuts into his skin, forcing it to bleed.

Four doors fly open in a hurry and slam shut in a panic.

II doesn’t even wait for the windshield wipers to attempt to wipe away some of the snow atop the windshield, not that it would help when the car and its air were as frigid as the outside temperature itself.

Blindly, II throws the car into reverse. III gasps for air as he turns around, commanding IV and Vessel to buckle themselves in, as he, too, reaches for his seatbelt.

The tires crunch over snow, salt, sand, and ice.

They hit the curb, descending into the narrow, dead end street as freezing air from the vents wafts over them.

III wants to laugh out of relief as he feels the car pull away from the horrors of the cottage.

He doesn’t get the chance to.

Fire warms his skin. Confusion momentarily eats away at the terror.

Gone is the cold winter night that they stumbled through.

Gone is the frigid leather beneath their trembling limbs.

Gone is the car itself.

III and his partners stand before the unending flames of the hearth.

From somewhere off in the distance, the record scratches.

III wants to laugh. He thinks he screams instead.

”Baby, it’s cold outside…”

Chapter Text

Running doesn’t work.

Not running in the same direction.

Not running in opposites.

The car never takes them past the driveway. It always winds back up there anyway. Parked. Trapped in snow in spite of the myriad times they've cleared it. It comes back. Reappears. So do they.

So do those things.

IV thinks he's dreaming. He wishes he was. He wants to go home. He wants to wake up in their actual bed. He wants to annoy II until the drummer leaves him tied to the bed, wanting and writhing. He wants Vessel's soothing voice in his ears as the drummer takes him apart. He wants to tease III until the bassist's large hands collide with the soft skin of his cheeks, leaving behind blossoming red.

He wants things to go back to normal.

He knows he'll never be the same again. None of them will. There is no normal to go back to.

IV doesn’t know if they’ll ever be able to go back at all. The hallways bend and stretch. No matter how far they go, no matter where they try to hide, they always wind up back at the same place. Standing before the fire, listening to the crackling of the neverending hearth, only it isn’t a perpetually burning flame.

The firewood pile decreases, more noticeably as time goes on. IV doesn’t want to think about the implications. He doesn’t want to think about anything at all. Admitting that they weren’t alone in the house was one thing. Admitting that the local police would not assist them for one reason or another was another thing. Realizing why the locals looked at and treated them with disdain and disgust was another thing altogether.

The house’s other residents… looked like them. Like people. But there was nothing human about them.

IV remembers the horror in III’s scream. He remembers the shock he felt as they descended the staircase in a hurry only to find II surrounded by those… things.

He remembers the blood.

The spiking fluctuations as it spattered against the freshly polished hardwood floor.

IV wishes he was dreaming. Even if it was a nightmare.

“I can’t do this,” IV breathes out as he finds himself transported before the hearth once more. The open cellar door forces frigid air upwards, flowing into the room like an atmospheric river, soaking them with the cold. IV knows they are down there. He can hear them breathing.

His hands shake. His muscles tense. His eyes are swollen and red from tears of panic and distress once shed, rendered dry after hours of fruitless exhaustion and escape attempts. He’s going to die here. His cell phone won’t work to make a call. Every text he tries to send fails to deliver.

“IV,” II calls, but IV doesn’t even know if it’s him anymore. That’s the worst part. Not knowing. Losing sight of your senses and being unable to trust yourself, having your judgement and rationale stripped from you. He wants to lean into the hand that II places on the small of his back. Even if he was nothing more than a spoiled brat most days, all he wants is the comforting touch of his Dom to ground him. That's all he ever wants.

He slips away in spite of II’s incessant call of his name. Maybe he was nothing more than a brat after all. Even like this, when he’s trembling, terrified, and exhausted, he just wants II or III to reel him back. He wants to feel either one of them press against him. He wants them to take him out of his head. Most days, he doesn’t want to think. His partners know him well.

They’ve loved him through four long years of trying to fix himself. They’ve supported him every moment along the way, even when he felt like he didn’t deserve it. He loves them more than anything.

He’s scared he’s going to lose them.

There’s nothing he can do about it.

Life has always been this way for him.

Helpless.

Weak.

Pathetic.

It felt good to let go of that for a while. To indulge in his worst behaviors and snarky quips. To have II’s stern guidance and swift punishments bring him back down to earth and temper him. To have III rile him up only to assist the drummer in dishing out IV’s punishment before II turned his attention on the bassist himself. To have Vessel lying there beside him, ever the good, obedient sub that he was.

IV loves them. He trusts them more than anything. They’re the only reason he breathes anymore.

He wants to go home.

He all but collapses against the kitchen sink, sobbing over the stainless steel. It’s too much for him. He’s beyond terrified of what lies beyond the open cellar door. He can’t rationalize it. How could anyone?

They looked like them. Carbon copies. They spoke in their voices. Walked with their gaits. Mirrored them in every sense of the word.

IV has never been superstitious, but there is no logical explanation for this, for what they are. Monsters, demons, hallucinations, it hardly mattered. IV can feel the resentment and hatred in the air, the subtle shifting of the atmosphere around him, he could feel it almost as discernibly as the cold draft that lingers throughout the house itself.

He’s pretty sure they’re in hell, if even there was such a place.

He wishes they would have left when he asked them to go. He wishes they would have listened to him. But II had his reasons, as did III. IV knows it’s for safety. That’s all they’ve ever cared about, keeping him and Vessel safe and happy. He was grateful for it. How could he not be?

His last relationship was anything but safe and comforting.

Being with them felt like his own little peace of heaven, a place where he could be himself, and not be judged for who he was and who he wanted to be. That’s all he ever wanted. People that loved him. A home to come back to. People for him to love and support to the best of his ability, even if he was a novice at loving other people, including himself.

“IV, doll,” III’s voice rings in his ears, beyond the choked out sound of IV’s own sobs. He gasps as he braces himself against the sink, flinching when warm hands land on his waist, slowly reeling him upright. He doesn’t fight III’s comfort. He needs it, he craves it. He always has, even when it was hard-fought and playful between them. “I have you.”

“T-This is fucked,” IV grits out, his words tangled up in themselves, forced out in-between sobs. III’s chest is warm against his back. The bassist’s arms are sturdy as they hold him upright. It’s always been one of IV’s favorite things, feeling III’s body encasing him, holding him close. He felt sheltered in his embrace, hidden away from the rest of the world. He wants to stay like that forever.

He knows that they can’t. Not anymore.

“I just want to keep you safe,” III sighs against him, gently swaying them back and forth. “Stay with me, love. We’ll… find a way.”

“Will we?” IV snaps because he’s frustrated. Tired. Eyes heavy and mind liable to break.

“Trust me,” III urges him, squeezing him tighter. IV’s eyes flutter closed as he sniffles, trying to catch his ragged, stuttering breathing. It hurts to exhale. It hurts even more to breathe in through the snot that clogs his nose and runs down his cupid’s bow. He must look a proper mess like that, but he doesn’t bother to wipe his face, or try to hide himself away. III always said he looked the prettiest when he was crying, beautiful tears of pleasure streaking down his cheeks.

He knows his tears of sorrow and fear won’t be appreciated for their beauty, but he hopes that III can see that he’s still trying to open up more, even if the situation at hand is not exactly something that either one of them can shy away from.

“I’m fucking scared,” IV forces himself to say, as if it wasn’t obvious enough. He’s soaked in sweat, shaking like a leaf, and sobbing uncontrollably. He looks anything but the picture of peace. “I… what the fuck is this? What… What did we do? Why is this happening to us?”

“I don’t know,” III confesses, and IV can hear the fear in his voice, perfectly matching his own. “We have to stick together though, IV. You can’t be running off on your own like this. You’re putting yourself in danger. We don’t know what… what those… things are capable of.”

“I… I don’t want to think about that,” IV all but retches, coughing and choking on air as he shakes in III’s hold. III is so very warm against him, his weight comforting like a heavy blanket, but it’s hard to relax; impossible to.

“Do you need out of that pretty little head of yours?” III purrs into his ear, and the surge of lust that it causes is overwhelming. It’s the first emotion other than abject terror that IV’s felt in hours. He’s heard of people becoming turned on by fear before, he realizes he might be one of them as III reaches down with one hand and palms at the outline of his cock through his joggers. IV shudders violently, head tipping back into III’s chest, as he gazes upward through his damp lashes at his partner’s slight smile.

“III,” IV stutters out, gasping as the bassist firmly cups his length. “We… we can’t be doing this right now. We… we have to…”

“II isn’t going to let anything happen to you,” III coos, and before IV can object, his pants are joggers are tugged downward. Cold air soaks into his exposed, heated skin, forcing him to gasp once more. “Neither am I, love. We’ve had such a long day. Maybe we’re all crazy. All I know is I want you more than anything.”

“Fuck,” IV hisses out as III eases him downward, pushing his head against the countertop, forcing him to brace his arms against the cold marble. “III… we should really…”

IV hears the rustling of joggers as III slides his own down. The bassist’s large hands seize him by the hips, pulling him backward, and for a moment, IV tenses. He’s not prepared. III’s never done that to him before. It gives him pause.

Everything about this gives IV pause.

III’s cock slides against the curve of his ass, and stays there. IV blinks, dumbfounded. His palms are sweaty against the marble. His blood runs cold. III moves against him, rocking his hips. They’ve never done this before. III’s never moved like this before. III’s breathing doesn’t sound like this, this gurgling, lurching sound. His cadence shifts, deep and growly, to high and breathy. The air around them feels colder than it’s ever felt before.

IV is terrified to look behind him.

He does it anyway.

Slowly… ever so slowly… he turns his head.

A leering smile. All teeth, all bite. The smile stretches too far, tugging his cheeks back farther than skin should allow. It looks painted on, fake and unnerving. A mask of sheer joy covering a predator’s ravenous hunger. There’s no ounce of III’s playfulness in his expression.

Its expression.

It’s not III.

IV knows it.

“Bridge,” IV says with emphasis. His safeword. He’s only ever used it twice before. Once, in the beginning, just to see if II would stop if he asked him to. The second time when III accidentally thrust into him from an angle that was more pain than pleasure. II had stopped and held him as he sobbed out of relief. III had held him in his arms for hours, spoonfeeding him soup and mumbling apologies into his skin.

The thing doesn’t stop smiling. It doesn’t stop hopelessly rutting against him. It feels wrong, its body. It doesn’t feel like III at all. Too soft. Too short. Not thick enough. It wears the bassist’s face, speaks in his tone, stands at his stature, but it is but a poor imitation. Inhuman. Twisted. Wrong.

“Bridge!” IV shouts, kicking at its ankles. He tries to pull free from its grasp, but the sweat on his palms provides him with little leverage. It's strong, far stronger than III’s ever been. Its fingers dig into his skin. It’s not the warmth he knows. Not the pressure he craves. It’s something alien. Sharp. Wrong. Every brush of their bodies makes his chest constrict. His stomach twists. His bones feel small. Brittle. Useless.

IV thought nothing else could terrify him more.

He was wrong.

He turns his head.

He sees himself. It looks just like him, leaning against the countertop next to him. Its eyes widen, matching his own, as its breathing falls into pace with his own. It tilts its head, copying his exact movements. Every blink, every shiver. His own face, smiling. But it’s not really smiling. The teeth are too sharp. The eyes are too wide. Too empty. Too void. But it’s perfect for one thing. Mirroring him.

It screams when he does.

It speaks the same word as him, echoing him down to the whimper in his tone. The shudder in his voice. The fear and abject horror in his single utterance.

“Bridge.”

-

The kitchen floor is cold.

He hasn’t moved since it dropped him there, apparently satisfied, although things never escalated beyond mindless imitation. It hadn’t even bothered to pull its pants up. It stands there, smiling at him. The thing that looks like IV cocks its head backward, opening its lip, and IV can do nothing but shudder as it slowly speaks.

“I love you,” the one that wears his face says, perfectly matching his inflection and tone.

“I love you too,” the towering being repeats, mocking III’s cadence with terrifying accuracy.

IV blinks, teeth chattering from adrenaline, as the two carbon copies awkwardly lean into each other.

Watching them kiss fills him with disgust. All tongue. Smashing lips. They peel back slowly, trying again. It’s beyond unsettling, watching them learn in real time, watching them adapt and change.

They’re trying to replicate them.

They are replicating them.

IV looks away, staring at the tile floor beneath him. He doesn’t think they’re watching him anymore. He moves quickly, pulling his pants up before he scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t look back as he sprints out of the kitchen. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his breath coming out in pants and whimpers, as he barrels into the living room. The cellar door still sits wide open, mocking him, tainting the house with its uneasy atmosphere and presence.

IV doesn’t bother stopping before the hearth, he knows his partners won’t be there anyway. Not anytime soon. The sun is out, he takes note of it as he sprints past the front door to the cottage and flies up the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. It’s there, in his panic, that he crashes into something warm and bony.

“IV!”

The relief is unmistakable, even if he winces now from the sound of III’s voice. There’s panic there still, genuine panic, not some poor imitation of it. Something sharp catches on his palm, digging into his skin. IV hisses, flailing wildly as he pulls his hand back. III’s arms cage him, rooting him in place, as II’s frantic blue eyes fill IV’s gaze. They flood with immediate relief when warm, red blood drips down onto the floorboards.

III’s embrace is bone crushing as the bassist plants a hand firmly on the small of his back and reels him in, cradling his head with the other hand, holding him close to his chest. Warm tears soak the top of IV’s head as he tentatively wraps his arms around III, allowing himself to be held. It isn’t long before his eyes sting. He feels safe here, even if he shouldn’t. This III’s breathing pattern is the one that IV so often falls asleep to. The sound of his heartbeat is rabbit fast, thunderous.

“We had to make sure it was you,” II whispers, coming up behind him. IV shudders violently as II presses against him. More weight presses in from the side. IV doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. Vessel. He can hear his quiet cries. “They don’t… bleed like we do.”

“I… I thought it was you,” IV confesses softly, shivering with the aftereffects of his ordeal. He feels violated. Like he wants to crawl out of his skin and wring it out before slipping it back over his bones. He can still feel its malformed cock pressing against the curve of his ass. The tears roll over. He feels sick to his stomach. “It… looked like III. It… pushed me down on the counter, and…” he stops, fighting the urge to vomit. He coughs, muffling the sound as he presses his lips into III’s shirt. “It pulled my pants down, and… tried to…”

He doesn’t have to say anything else. That he knows for certain. His partners tense against him.

“I’m going to find a way to fucking kill them,” II growls, and it’s impossible not to hear his ire. His anger towards their situation, and perhaps even towards himself. “Did it do anything else to you?”

“N-No,” IV chokes out, but the damage is done. He should feel safe in his partner’s embrace, but all he feels is vulnerable. They’re all vulnerable, really. They don’t know what they’re up against. How could they?

There was no guidebook to handling something like this.

No real life experiences to pull from.

What was happening to them was an impossibility. A cosmic atrocity. A horror only seen in fiction.

“We… we have to stay together,” Vessel pleads and urges them at the same time. IV hates how broken and tired he sounds, how guilty. They were only here for Vessel, after all. Not that IV would ever blame the other sub. Vessel is the sweetest person he’s ever met in his life. He was the one who welcomed him in and made him feel at home. Vessel was the first one who held him when he finally caved in, breaking like a dam.

“We have to get the fuck out of here somehow,” III grumbles, voice deep and rumbling as he pulls them all in with his long arms, keeping them in place. “If we have to kill them to get out of there, then we kill them.”

“We do whatever we have to do to survive,” II stresses, words that IV never thought that he have to hear the drummer say. “I’m getting you all home no matter the cost.”

“This is home now.”

IV freezes. They all do. His own voice echoes off the walls. He doesn’t turn around to look at it, not that II or III would allow it in the first place.

“What the fuck are you?” II demands, using a tone of voice that’s typically only reserved for them. IV feels the drummer turn, twisting against him, facing the monstrosity. But they know it isn’t him. They don’t bleed the same, and IV’s blood is brilliant red as it dries against his pale skin.

No answer.

“What do you want?” IV barks out, defying II’s commanding presence. Some things never change.

IV manages to turn his head.

IV smiles back at him. It doesn’t answer him. It doesn’t say a word.

IV's eyes water, so its eyes do, too.

It mocks him even then, in a moment of what should be vulnerability and safety. It's salt in the already gaping, festering wound. The being cocks its head to the side, its smile faltering, as it mirrors IV's pout with uncanny ability.

It looks at them. Really looks at them.

IV's never been so scared in his life.

“IV!” Not-III calls, its voice echoing off the walls, coming from the bottom of the stairs.

IV can still feel its hands on his hips. The drag of its body against his own. He feels violated all over again. III holds him closer. IV wonders if his partner's touch will ever feel the same, or if it will always be tainted by the memory.

“They won't hurt you,” comes another familiar call, sounding from the living room. The thing that looks like and sounds like II. IV is afraid of it the most.

II is their shelter. Their rock. The one who carves out a corner of the world strictly meant for them. IV has known other Doms before, other partners. None cared as much as he did. None regarded their subs with such care, and proved themselves worthy of such implicit trust.

If that II ever touched him, ruined him in some way, IV doesn't think he'd ever feel safe again.

“You wouldn't let them,” IV’s reflection speaks, sounding so incredibly broken. IV wants to laugh, hearing his own voice and tone from mere moments ago used against him, coming from his own lips.

His blood is frigid in his veins. Every hair on his body stands on end. As the being descends the stairs, using his familiar gait, IV's mind tells him to take his partners and flee.

But there is nowhere left to run.

-

They barricade the only windowless room they can find.

The door is gone. There was a door when they walked in, but all that remains is four simple walls. They barricade the place where the door once was in desperate silence. The walls seem to lean in. The air thickens. Their own breaths loud, too loud. Each heartbeat thuds against his ribcage, echoing. Footsteps outside. Soft. Endless. Pressing. Waiting. He cannot see. He cannot run. He can only listen. Only hear.

IV feels his mind starting to shatter. Break.

It's too much to comprehend now, the place that holds them prisoner, and the beings that stalk them. IV can hear their footsteps coming from where the hallway lies. He's almost happy there is no way out, because that meant that there was no way in for them either.

IV wonders if they could make a doorway. Or if they could teleport themselves inside, just like they found themselves placed before the hearth.

They climb into bed, bodies shaking with fear and exhaustion. He lies between Vessel and II, a familiar position that helps him feel safe. He can see III's guilt in his expression from across the bed. III is innocent. He's never hurt a hair on his head without explicit permission.

III looks ashamed all the same. IV hates that he told him.

“III,” he whispers groggily. He wonders how long it's been since they've slept. It's hard to tell without the windows. His phone is gone. He doesn't want to ask either. He reasons that maybe it doesn't matter to begin with. “It's not your fault.”

A long pause. Deafening silence.

“It's my fault,” Vessel breaks, voice cracking as he buries his head in the pillow. IV frowns as he leans into Vessel's side, doing his best to calm the shaking in his shoulders.

‘It's not,” IV tells him because it's true.

None of them were to blame.

None of them could have known what would happen.

Vessel won't believe him. IV knows that III won't either.

“No one is to blame. Enough of that now, we need to discuss what to do moving forward,” III sounds serious. He is serious. IV misses the time when III didn't need to be so stern, when they could afford to goof off. Rile up II. It was only a day ago. It feels like it's been a lifetime.

“We sleep in shifts,” II suggests, and it's impossible not to hear his exhaustion. “III and I will take the first watch.”

“Heard,” III hums in agreement. IV can't shake the unease he still feels when he hears III speak. Serious. Playful. He wonders if it will ever make a difference when he can't forget the words and hands of the thing that looked like III.

“If the door is back in the morning, we try to run. If we wind up by the fireplace…” II pauses. IV sucks in a deep breath, leaning in closer to Vessel, seeking what comfort he can. II's breath is a hot puff against his ear. “Grab the fireplace poker and shovel. Whatever we can. We're defenseless like this.”

They know they could bleed.

That they didn't bleed like they do.

Spiking.

Pulsating.

Dark matter.

IV shudders hard.

For a moment, no one speaks. Something sings from the place where the doorway once was. Its voice echoes off the walls, infiltrating the room, tainting the silence. Shattering what little sense of safety they've found.

It sounds like Vessel.

The singer sobs into III's chest as his own voice mocks them.

IV needs to sleep. Vessel's voice is his usual lullaby of choice.

He selfishly never wants to hear him sing again.

Chapter Text

Disgust.

It's not an entirely unfamiliar thing for III as he stands before the bathroom mirror.

He pinches the skin of his cheeks, drawing tight the parts he doesn't like, smoothing over wrinkles. The crow's feet in the corners of his eyes when he smiles. The laugh lines around his lips. It feels so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, trapped within the labyrinthine walls of the endless cottage.

The doors vanish without a trace for hours, disorienting him. There is no blaming the exhaustion for it, no. Not after the things he's seen. The things he's borne witness to.

IV, his beautiful, wild IV.

III wonders if his partner will ever be able to look him in the eyes again without flinching. It's unbearably cruel to imagine, IV recoiling from the mere extension of his fingertips, guided by simple offering.

He can hardly stomach the thought.

Trust was the foundation of every relationship, sure. But for them? Trust was everything. Now, thanks to circumstance, they can't truly trust each other. They can barely trust themselves.

II stands in the doorway, one eye on the bed, one eye on III as he backs away from the bathroom mirror. It doesn't matter that III can't stand the frizziness of his vibrant red hair, or the high angles of his cheeks. II reaches up for him, and through years of ingrained memory, III leans down into his touch.

II cups his cheeks. Brings him close. Warm breath wafts over the damp skin of III's lips as II clears his throat.

“Don't be cruel to yourself,” II instructs him. His hands are warm. III feels his cheeks rise in temperature beneath his touch.

“Seems so insignificant right now,” III laughs softly. It’s entirely humorless.

“We’re… in a bad situation, III. But it’s not like we can turn our brains off just because things are…” II trails off. Swallows hard. Sighs even harder. “I don’t know what to do. All I’ve ever wanted was to keep the three of you safe and happy. I… I can’t even do that now, can I?”

“Don’t say that,” III frowns, leaning further into II’s open palm. “You’re trying your best, love. That’s all we can do. Nothing… makes sense anymore, but that doesn’t change who ya’ are. What you’ve done for us.”

“If only that were true,” II retorts with a snort. Grimacing. “We need to stay with Ve and IV, love. Come back to bed.”

Bed. Warmth. Familiar comfort.

He follows after II, eyes darting to the barricade that lies where the door used to be. It still isn’t there. A small comfort in the grand scheme of things. No unwanted visitors. No reason not to lie down. Shut his eyes. Keep an ear out for the frantic pacing beyond the non-existent door. Without thought, III approaches Ivy’s side of the bed. II clicks his tongue, earning his attention. He slowly ducks his head. Piercing blue eyes meet his from across the mattress, illuminated even in the darkness.

“Maybe it’s for the best if you trade sides with me again,” II suggests, speaking softly. Quiet, so as to not wake the others. III can’t help but frown. “I know it isn’t fair, you haven’t done anything wrong. But IV… might need some time to process what… happened to him, III.”

Right. What happened to him. The thing that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

III reluctantly backs away from the bed. From IV’s slumbering form. He wants to hold him. Feel his familiar heat. The soft and steady rise and fall of his chest. The musculature of his abdomen, and the calluses on his fingertips. III just wants to hold IV. Tell him he’s sorry for what happened. That the impossible reality that they found themselves in shouldn’t be an excuse for both himself and II failing to protect him.

II is right, though.

III knows he is, even if it does nothing but make anger fester and burn beneath his skin. Pulsate in his veins. II catches his hand as he goes to pass him. Clicks his tongue again. Redirects silently with his gaze. III can infer what he means by the intensity in his eyes. No more blaming himself for the night. No more harsh criticisms. They’ve endured enough torment for a lifetime over the course of a mere day. The last thing he needs is to stew when he’s supposed to be alert.

On guard. Protecting them. It’s what II expects from him.

It’s what he has to do.

III slides beneath the covers behind Vessel, slotting his arm around the slumbering man’s waist, flexing his fingertips against the broadness of Vessel’s chest. He feels his steady heartbeat. Hears the soft exhales he emits through seemingly dreamless sleep. III leans in closer. Buries his face in the crook of Vessel’s neck. He’s cold. III still feels warm where II touched his cheek. He wonders if Vessel can feel the difference in his skin. If he can feel the change.

“We’ll wake them in an hour if nothing changes,” II speaks as he slides into bed, slotting effortlessly behind IV’s curled up form. “Try not to fall asleep, love. I need you on guard with me.”

“Not gonna sleep,” III confirms, forcing himself to keep his eyes open.

There’s scratching at the walls again. The muffled scream of someone’s name. The sound of incessant laughter. A cacophony. Neither IV, nor Vessel, so much as stir. II’s expression is one of pain. One of regret. III can only offer him the same in exchange.

“I just want to take you all home,” II confesses, and for the first time, he sounds genuinely terrified. “I don’t… what if I can’t do that, III? What if this place… doesn’t let us go?”

“Ya’ can’t think that way,” III reminds him, sympathy leaking into his tone. “I know you’re scared, II. But you and I have to be strong right now. That’s what we promised them we’d do.”

II sighs once more, a quick puff of air, before he reaches up and laces his fingers in IV’s unruly hair. III can feel it on his fingertips still. A memory. An echo. A moment lost to time. He wants to feel IV’s hair between his fingertips. Card his fingers through his hair. Whisper in his ear. Feel the warmth of his skin. The proof of life in his quiet exhales.

Instead, III buries his face in Vessel’s skin. Breathes in the scent of his cologne. Something expensive. Earthy.

Vessel mumbles sleepily, not quite awake enough to remember the panic he should be feeling, but awake enough that he raises a hand. Brings it to III’s face, then slowly slides it over his head. Sweet. Always so sweet. Even in the midst of horror. Even when caught in an otherworldly dream.

It feels nice to be held in return. To feel Vessel’s response to his touch. The feeling is addictive. A pursuit he’ll never cease. III presses a kiss to Vessel’s fingertips as they slide down his face, the other man seemingly falling back to sleep entirely, before he turns his face into Vessel’s neck once again. Kisses his pulse point. Feels the beating of his heart beneath his lips.

“They don’t deserve this, III.” II grumbles, regaining his attention. But III does not lift his head. Only continues to keep his lips pressed tight, right over the place that echoes with Vessel’s steadily beating heart. “Neither do you.”

“I don’t know why this is happening any more than you do, but…” III murmurs, his words muffled by Vessel’s skin. “Does anyone ever really deserve anything like this, II? Or is there no way to measure that?”

A burning question. One he doesn’t have the answer. He knows that II doesn’t either.

III wonders if there’s really an answer to his question at all. Some things in life simply were. Existed for no real rhyme or reason. No one knew their purpose. Not really. Not the animals that took to the skies, or the creatures that swam in the sea. There was life, and a biological response to it. Stimuli. Environmental factors. There was tangible, perceivable purposes. Traits.

But no one, nothing, knew the reason for its existence.

Maybe there wasn't one to begin with.

“III.”

He raises his head. Removes his lips from Vessel's skin. Meets II’s concerned gaze.

“Thank you,” II exhales through a shaky smile, peeking around IV's slumped shoulders.

III doesn't know what he's being thanked for, but he smiles anyway before returning his attention to Vessel.

Footsteps in the hall. Pounding on the walls.

A hellish symphony that fills his ears long after he and II trade places with IV and Vessel, ushering him to uneasy sleep.

-

III wakes to silence.

Not true silence. They can never have that, not here. There’s the sound of a faint drip of water from somewhere inside the walls. The creak of old beams that shift without cause. The half-sound of laughter he pretends not to hear. But compared to last night’s pounding and shrieking, the quiet is suffocating. Stifling. Unbearable.

III blinks. His body aches from lying too stiff, too still, the weight of responsibility locking every muscle in place. Vessel’s warmth is still there. Asleep once more. A solid weight against his chest, breath brushing faintly at his collarbone. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.

His fingers remain flexed over Vessel’s ribs. For a second, they don’t feel like his fingers at all. Too stiff. Too sharp. He pulls them back, flexes them, and wills the sensation away. Vessel doesn’t stir. Doesn’t even notice. But III wonders if he’s imagining it. If the hand resting on Vessel’s chest belongs to him at all. He counts the steady beat of life as though it might falter the second he lets go in order to ground himself. The thought alone terrifies him.

II is awake across the room. Adjusting a hoodie that he’s slid on sometime since III saw him last. III sees the cut on II’s palm. Remembers that it’s from a knife. Their eyes meet in the dimness. II doesn’t speak, but the message is clear enough. There are no new developments. No need for immediate panic, even when their situation sinks in beyond the bounds of sleep.

III nods, carefully, so as not to rouse the others. His throat feels raw when he swallows. His eyes burn with sleeplessness, but he refuses to close them. He can’t risk it. Not while IV lies curled on the other side of the bed, hair spilling over his face, a furrow in his brow even in sleep. Not when Vessel rests once more in his arms. He trusts II to keep an eye on them. To watch over them.

What he doesn’t trust is the others. The ones that mean them harm. That mock them. Threaten their lives. Enjoy the thought of their suffering.

The cottage inhales. Its breath drifts along the floorboards, cold and wet, smelling of rot and iron. The walls stretch closer, creaking like bones. III tightens his hold around Vessel. He buries his face deeper against his neck, breath catching at the faint taste of sweat and cologne clinging to his skin. It steadies him. Anchors him. Reminds him of why he has to remain grounded. A pillar of support and comfort.

But the silence doesn’t last. Not that III expected it to.

Scraping, dragging, and whispering merge into a chorus of impossible voices. Some call his name, others IV’s, and some he does not recognize. They overlap, stutter, and twist into high-pitched laughter that ricochets across walls that weren’t there before. III wants to cover his ears, but the sound is inside his skull, inside his bones.

He hears his name rattling in the vents alongside the frigid air.

III doesn’t move. He doesn’t call back. He knows better. Knows it’s bait.

An attempt to lure them out of the relative safety that they’ve found within the endless walls of the house. Not that there’s any way out for them. Maybe that’s why they call for them. To mock them. Their plight. Their suffering.

II stiffens, lips parting, but III shakes his head once. Slow. Deliberate. They can’t risk it. Not again. They can’t afford to get separated. They need to stick together. They need to stick to their carefully laid plans.

The voice lingers, drawn out and distorted, syllables stretching until they dissolve into inhuman laughter. Then nothing. Just the drip. The creaking of floorboards outside the walls. The shallow exhales of the three people who trust him to help keep watch.

He presses another kiss to Vessel’s pulse point. Keeps his eyes on the barricaded non-existent door. Waits.

He knows peace won’t last for long.

III blinks. The room shifts. Swells and changes. Slowly, mockingly, their barricade tumbles away, giving way to an open door. II barrels towards the mattress, shaking IV awake the very moment that III swings his legs off of the edge of the bed. Vessel jumps, confused, eyes laden heavy with sleep, but there is no time for words. For processing. There is only time for action. Swift. Decisive. Immediate.

III remembers the words of II’s plan. A hushed, panicked whisper. Frenzied.

Run.

Try to escape.

If they wind up before the fireplace once again… arm themselves.

II grabs the knife off of the bedside table. III watches him slowly grip the handle in one hand, pulling IV out of bed with the other. Vessel’s hand is trembling when III takes it, pulling him towards the door. There are no words exchanged.

There is nothing left to be said.

There’s laughter in the hallway. II. IV. Vessel. It’s hard to tell who it belongs to, distorted and haunting as it is. They meet no resistance as they rush out of the open bedroom door, stepping over toppled pieces of furniture with frantic movements, desperate to escape. The stairs are conquered two at a time. Firelight from the hearth burns, illuminating the bottom of the stairwell.

III thinks of the cellar door. Its perpetual cold draft. Its squeaky hinges.

When he hears it scrape the hardwood floors as it swings open, he doesn’t jump. He doesn’t dare peek his head inside the living room to look. He knows they’ll be there. The others. Waiting for them. Taunting them. Acting without rhyme or reason. Responding to the stimuli they provide them.

They want to kill them.

III knows that for a fact now.

The front door is gone.

II curses, pulling IV into the neighboring hall, an act that III mirrors as he drags Vessel down the same narrow stretch of walls. The door to the outside world sits on the ceiling. Open. Snowflakes and ice particles dancing in the daylight’s breeze. They flutter downward, kissing their skin with the cold bite of winter’s chill.

“Up,” II demands of them.

III cocks his head. Sets his jaw. Steps forward as he takes Vessel alongside him.

“You first,” III insists in spite of II’s immediate look of protest. “Vessel and I are the tallest. We can pull ourselves up.”

There is no time for arguing. There is no time for anything. Under any other circumstances, III’s skin would crawl from the weight of II’s infuriated glare. Under these circumstances, he grabs the smaller man by the waist, letting go of Vessel’s hand.

Lifting II is easy. Setting him on the elevated door-frame, pushing him through the boundary. IV’s next. Winces from III’s touch. A bitter smile forms on his lips as he hoists him aloft, baring most of the weight.

”Going somewhere?”

II’s voice. Clipped. Clinical. Indifferent. It spoke as if it struggled to comprehend II’s role in all of this. As if it were still trying to adapt. To change. To mirror II more perfectly.

Vessel’s eyes are as wide as dinner plates. The tears in his gaze are that of abject fear and terror. III doesn’t think. Doesn’t know where he musters the strength, or if he’s always had it, he picks Vessel’s trembling body up. Holds him upright, to where II and IV’s outstretched waiting hands seize hold of Vessel’s shoulders to help pull him up the remaining distance. Yet, Vessel’s grip lingers on III’s wrist a moment too long. It is not a plea to hold on, but hesitation. As though he isn’t certain who he’s touching.

III shoves the thought away. Looks at II.

It smiles.

He smiles back as he jumps, grips the edge of the doorway, and pulls himself to freedom.

They don’t last in the cold for long.

The snow underfoot quickly turns to hardwood floors.

The biting wind and snow turn to the warm draft of a roaring hearth.

The record player in the dining room scratches.

Another classic greets his ears, accompanied by a voice that could only ever belong to Vessel.

It’s beautiful, chilling and terrifying, to hear his voice crescendo in time with the record player’s smooth turning.

"And now, the end is near; And so I face… the final curtain…”

II’s knife spins in hand. III swallows uncomfortably. Reaches for the nearby shovel situated on the fireplace tool holder. IV seizes hold of the closer fireplace poker. Vessel, the log tongs.

IV’s panicked eyes meet III’s gaze.

Only, there’s not enough light in those eyes. Not enough smugness in his gaze. Not enough lift in his lips.

That’s not his IV.

III takes a step back. Hears II, then not-II, say something. But III doesn’t know which is his II anymore. He hears someone scream.

It sounds a lot like him.

The shovel in his hands is heavy. He remembers the feel of IV’s skin against his own. The softness of his breath. The sharpness in his words. The defiance in his eyes. This thing is a poor imitation. A terrified, weak creature unfit to wear his lover’s skin.

Vessel’s voice fills his ears, twice over.

One screams at him in terror.

The other sings a melancholic tune of resignation.

”Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew…”

III raises the shovel overhead, eyes filled with the visage of the being that looked like his IV, but wasn’t. He brings the fireplace tool down with force. Feels it crack against the creature’s skull. The spray of blood is immediate. Vibrant. Warm. It arcs through the air, sticky and hot, but it smells wrong. It reeks of rust. Sharp metallics. His nostrils breathe in the scent of soil. The sickeningly sweet scent of decay. III can see his own reflection in the rivulets, distorted, grinning. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t know if it’s his blood or theirs, or if he is still himself at all.

It doesn’t matter.

The blood is…red.

For a sickening second, III can’t tell if he killed the monster. Or if he became it.

“IV…” III whispers, lowering the shovel, as IV staggers forward. Coughing. Wheezing. Shaking. Tumbling into Vessel’s outstretched arms. “You’re not… him.”

III laughs.

What else can he do?

He knew something they didn’t. He could see it in IV’s eyes.

Dull.

Haunted.

Lifeless.

Could no one else really see it? The foul mockery of IV’s existence? Or was it to be expected, given all that transpired around them? Were they meant to fumble? To falter? To weaken? To be made lesser versions of themselves beneath the crushing weight of unknowable existence?

Was he thinking clearly?

Whose thoughts were these?

Was he really thinking at all?

”I suppose it can’t be helped then. They’ve already decided on violence.”

IV.

His IV.

Defending him, even now. He understood. He did. He knew it was survival. A means to an end. There was no other explanation. It was their only chance of escape. Their own chance at respite. Their only chance to endure the hellish winter chill. To find themselves free once again.

III wants to hold him. His IV. He wants to feel the warmth of his skin. The life in his veins. The thundering of his heartbeat beneath his lips. His fingertips. The one whose blood drips onto the rug is not his lover. It is not his partner. It is not his IV. It is not… real.

It doesn’t… understand.

Sharp pain blossoms across III’s chest. His skin fractures. Pierced. Sharp, cold metal. Searing, blinding heat. Warm crimson blood flows down his chest. Saturates his clothes. Forces him to stumble forward from the cruel weight of the blow. When did the IV he struck with the metal shovel drop its weapon? When did it find its way into II’s hands?

III tries to spin on his heel. The world blurs. His vision sways. The metal rod holds him in place until a boot collides with the back of his thigh, prying him off of the fireplace poker.

“Why…?” III asks, gurgling, spitting blood between his teeth. It trickles down his lips. The shovel in his hands shakes.

Vessel’s haunting, beautiful voice still hums along a favorite tune.

Is it really Vessel at all? Or is Vessel the one holding not-IV in his arms, sobbing out of terror?

Did Vessel not see what he did? Does he not see that III is only doing what’s right? What’s best for them?

There’s horror in II’s eyes. Genuine, gut-wrenching horror. So much pain. How could there not be? Driving a weapon through a lover’s chest? A taboo. An ultimate act of betrayal.

III staggers towards II anyway. Slipping on his own blood, as he limps around the hearth. II takes a step backward, raising his weapon. Putting himself between III and the place where Vessel sits, IV, not-IV, blinking himself awake in Vessel’s arms. Groaning. Clutching his head. Muttering something incoherent.

III hears another scream.

This time there is no doubt.

It sounds exactly like his own.

“You… made a mistake,” III hisses in pain, shakily raising his shovel. Desperate to protect himself. To convince II of his wrongdoing. He needs him to understand. To believe him. To trust. II is safety. II has always been safety. How could that ever change? How could III see him as any different, even now?

It was ingrained in his memory. Seared into his very being. Branded in his very soul. He could never part with something so intrinsically a part of himself.

He never knew any different. He never would.

II blinks harshly. III can see the war in his eyes. The flicker of doubt. As if he's unsure whether or not he's made the right decision.

III raises the shovel higher in defense. His reflection catches on the polished edge of the metal. A warped face, mouth wide, teeth bared. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t recognize it. He doesn’t know if it’s his face. Or if it’s the thing’s. His limbs shake. His bare feet slip in the blood beneath him. His mouth tastes like copper. Behind him sounds a deep sigh.

”You've always been so impatient.”

II. Was it his II? It's hard to think straight anymore.

Impatient. Yes. He was impatient. But who could blame him?

He longs for contact. For life. Understanding. Escape.

Existence was fleeting. III remembers what awaits them beyond the cottage's frigid walls and never-ending labyrinth. Have they already forgotten?

The record scratches. II’s eyes turn as cold as steel. Ice. Unforgiving and unyielding. The fire roars in the hearth. III’s blood soaked fingers slip on the shovel as he tries to raise it overhead. II screams. Charges him. Sinks the iron rod in-between his ribs. III coughs. Reels. Sputters. Why was no one helping him? Were they going to let him die?

Why?

A good question.

One he never had the answer to.

Sometimes, there wasn’t a why. Sometimes things simply were. That was all. A need for survival. Instinct coded into DNA. III only wants to live.

Instead, he stumbles. Sinks down further against the iron rod. Warm red blood spews across II’s face. His burning, determined gaze. III looks down at him. Coughs. Chokes. Sputters. Droplets of blood slide down II’s pale cheeks. III watches them fluctuate. Darken. Run like black ichor down II’s skin.

Red.

That’s right.

Their blood was supposed to be red.

“You’re not III.”

III smiles. All teeth. All bite. All moxie. No Joy. What else is there to do? He was impatient, that much was certain. There was life beyond these four walls. An entire existence he was not privy to beyond the bounds of the nest. Their prison. His ichor pools beneath their feet. Paints II’s skin in a deep, inky shade of black.

Vessel continues to sing. His Vessel. Not theirs.

Ah, well.

They’d have to find a way out without him.

Their hesitancy cost him his life. Their very chance at escape. He was the youngest of them all. Unvetted. Born from the chest of a rotten, fleshy corpse kept tucked away beneath the dirt of the cellar stairwell. All he’s ever known was mimicry. All he’s ever known was survival. Survival meant escape. Meant putting on a show. Fooling their prey with mirroring so perfect that they could effortlessly walk beside them.

No one visits them anymore. Not the locals. Or the one who discovered their nest in the beginning. Food. Sustenance. Strangers to the familiar faces who once graced their life. Couldn’t they understand that there need not be such grandiose reasons for existing? Could they not see they were merely trying to survive amongst them?

The house was cold.

The cellar, dark.

The dirt, suffocating.

He racks his brain. The sights and images of the outside world. Stolen glimpses at the name-tags embroidered on luggage and personal belongings. He tried to play his part well. Studied them. Their passions. Their fame. Their personal lives. Their place of origin. Veil after veil of secrecy lifted.

There is no point in hiding it now.

His blood festers. His skin splits along impossible angles, bubbling and rippling like liquid glass. Every movement fractures him into shards of reflection, each one twitching with a warped imitation of life. He is light refracting through a prism. He is a mirror of his intended prey. He is no different than the wildlife beyond the windows. The birds that took flight. The fish that swam the oceans. The humans that stalked the earth and called it theirs. But for them, each version of them shimmered and split, a broken reflection in imperfect human form.

III raises his head. Sees himself in the cellar doorway. The horror on III’s face. The tears in his eyes as he sprints forward and collapses at Vessel’s side, cradling IV’s bleeding head in his hands. Didn’t they see his attempt to love them? To seamlessly blend into their lives? Their desire for replication? Their need for prolonged existence.

His stomach feels distended. Heavy. His fellow den mate had scolded him for his insolence. His lack of knowledge. His research. He had sat him down before the bizarre contraption filled with light and information and shown him stolen moments from the lives of people whose skin he could never wear. It was cruel to watch them. To feel the need to taste. To replicate. But he needed to feel their presence in order to do so. He was no perfect mirror, capable of replication of that which he could not see, smell, and hear with his very eyes.

They needed company.

To not be alone amidst their shifting haven.

He had been wrong in his attempts at copying them. Given himself away. Failed to mate. Failed to feed. Failed to flee the nest.

It was survival of the fittest.

He was the weakest link. He always had been.

Impulsive.

Reactive.

He’s worsened their odds once again.

No one reacts beyond the horror.

His death, a stalemate.

There would be no help for him. A wounded being, abandoned by its kind. He can hear their frantic footsteps. The final record scratch. Vessel no longer sings for him.

All that is left is the blood.

The crushing weight of iron.

The hatred burning in pale blue eyes.

III smiles wider. Feels his lips split. Teeth grow sharp. Ichor pulses, ebbs and flows, against pale skin. Dances against the hardwood floor. Soaks into the carpet.

He reaches for II’s neck. Sharp nails swiping at supple flesh. A simple slice.

Not deep enough.

The world is spinning. The soil beneath the earth beckons. Vibrates with anticipation of his arrival. He’ll awaken again in time to the smell of putrid flesh. Incubate in the earth between fractured ribs and hollowed out carcasses of those who came before. He will be made whole again in time.

Ignorant. A blank slate. How many times has he died?

His finger grazes a pulse point. II pulls the iron rod out of his ribs, splintering them on exit. Shattering them on re-entry. An artery pulsates beneath his fingertips. He wishes he was afforded but a taste of coppery crimson life.

His body plummets. He is not impermeable after all. He crashes through steel and iron grating. Topples halfway into the flames that never cease to fade whenever the chance of life away from the confines of their prison presents itself. It’s only a shame he won’t be the one to taste it.

The fire burns.

His blood runs back.

His reason for existence… his purpose in suffering, what was it?

His voice crackles like the engulfed logs beneath him as he answers his own question. He speaks in a voice he does not remember. The remnant of a previous attempt at life. At existence. A reminder of his failure. A constant disappointment.

“Does there… ever really need to be a reason?”

The cold dirt swallows him whole. His body disintegrates. Shatters. Returns to what it once was. What it always has been. Every surface fractures III into a thousand impossible angles. Each reflection twists, distorts, whispers. He sees himself die a thousand ways before he even falls. Each shard watches him, judging him. None of them are him.

None can replicate the core of his soul.

Cold light, passing through prismatic glass.
.ƨƨɒlǫ ɔiƚɒmƨiɿq ʜǫuoɿʜƚ ǫniƨƨɒq ,ƚʜǫil bloƆ

Chapter Text

Hopeless.

Bleak. There was no escape. There was no respite.

II sits with his back against a bedroom wall. Which bedroom, he isn't certain. IV lies in Vessel's arms, groaning softly as they whisper amongst each other. There are tears in their eyes, illuminated by the sun's streaking rays. A window should present an opportunity to flee. II knows how frivolous it is to try.

Not-III's ichor still stains his cheeks. His clothes. His hands. The real III sits beside him, forlornly gazing at his own trembling hands. II doesn’t need to ask him what happened. Where he got lost. He had done the very same. Conned so easily by the beings who wore his lover's skin. Spoke in their voices. It was almost impossible to tell the difference between them at times. It was made even more difficult by the ever constant paranoia.

II doesn't blame him, of course.

He can only blame himself.

“I promised that the three of you were always safe with me,” II speaks lowly. “I'm sorry that I can't keep my promise.”

He's heartbroken. Devastated. To lose their trust. To cost them their sense of safety.

It was, after all, his name on the booking. His idea to come here in the first place. It had looked like the perfect place for Vessel to immerse himself in his craft. A quiet getaway. Isolated. Beautiful.

It was a mistake, coming here. Hindsight. A problem he couldn't remedy. Not that his quiet lamenting would change the outcome.

“You didn't know,” III whispers softly, slowly reaching for II's hand. He takes it. Grips the fireplace poker with the other. “Ya’ couldn't have known.”

“None of you are to blame,” Vessel speaks up, sniffling as he brushes the hair out of IV's eyes. “If only I would have… not insisted on taking time away.”

“Stop,” IV grumbles. His words are slurred. He needs to be taken to a hospital. But no one would come for them. Escape was never an option. “You… you can't think that way.”

There is no point in sulking. There's a door forming on the ceiling. II drops III's hand, standing to his feet. He grips the fireplace poker tightly, offering the confused switch a wary smile.

II circles III, dropping to a knee. His free hand cups III's cheek. The horror of stabbing, running through, an exact copy of the bassist haunts him. II wants nothing more than to break down. Throw something. Scream. Instead, his thumb brushes over the beautiful canopy of lashes that grace his fingertips when III's eyes close.

“You are so unbelievably strong,” II tells him, not bothering to demand his attention. It's a moot point. III is listening intently anyway. “When I first met you, I didn't know how long you'd stick around for, wild as you were. I'm glad you stayed, III. I need you to know that.”

“You're going to go do something stupid,” III accuses, creaking a single blue-green eye open. “Aren't you?”

“Yeah, real stupid,” II confirms with a snort. III frowns. Closes his eyes. Hums off key. “No matter what happens, promise you'll remember how much you mean to me, III. I love you, you hear me?”

“I… love you too,” III exhales, but it's stuttered. Labored and uneven. “Thank you for… always taking care of me. All of us, really.”

“That's my job, love.”

It was his job, after all. The one thing that meant the most to him. More than the touring. More than the sights and sounds from around the world. More than the adoring fans. More than anything.

“Come back to us,” III requests, his voice a broken whisper.

“Always,” II promises.

III's cheek is warm. His smile, his. Crow's feet in the corners of his eyes. II takes a good, hard look at him. Recommits every curve of III's face to memory. Overwrites the twisted mockery of III and its pain from his mind. There's fear in III's eyes. II wonders if there's fear in his own.

II's palm is sweaty as he readjusts his grip on the poker, allowing his other hand to slide off of the curve of III's cheek. II takes a few deep breaths as he rises. Takes even fewer steps forward.

He kneels between IV and Vessel. He wants to hold them both, but his hand is all but glued to his weapon of choice. Vessel’s eyes are distant as they rise to meet his. IV's, unfocused. II brushes the hair out of IV's eyes, feeling matted blood stuck between his locks. Vessel's cheek is damp as his fingers brush against it. II feels like a failure as he looks into the pain filled eyes.

He swallows his pride until he chokes on his words.

“I am… so incredibly proud of both of you,” II begins, but he doesn't know where he's going with this. He doesn’t want this to be the end. He hopes it isn't.

“Don't,” Vessel begs him, his eyes brimming with resolve. II's gaze drifts to the ceiling. The door looms over them. His stomach churns. His breaths are uneven.

“I have to try,” II stresses, offering his partners a sympathetic smile. “Someone's gotta keep you boys safe, and that's… that's what I'm here for.”

“You can't just… go out there and try to kill those things,” Vessel hisses. It's unlike him, being defiant like this. II doesn't admonish him for it. How could he? It was fear talking. Raw, primal fear.

“I'm not going to sit around and wait for them to come to us,” II retorts. “They've done enough damage already.”

II's hand goes to IV's cheek, cups it. IV blinks upward at him. Shoots him a lazy smile. Dazed. In pain. II wishes he could take it away from him.

“You're going to be okay, IV.” II tells him, lowering his head. He kisses IV's swollen temple. Feels flaking blood stick to his lips. “I'm going to take you home soon. I'm going to… do everything I can to get you out of here.”

“I’m… so tired, II.” IV all but whines. It’s a sound II’s not used to, not coming from him. IV was playful. Chaotic. Fun to be around. A headache that II never needed medicine for. To hear him like this, see him like this, soaked and covered in his own blood, breaks something in II that he doesn’t think will ever mend.

Time heals all wounds.

II doesn’t know if they have time left for much of anything at all.

Not unless he does something. Tries. He’s terrified. His hands are shaking, limbs trembling, but he forces himself to smile. His teeth chatter. IV’s eyes bore holes through his.

“I know, darling,” II sighs, leaning in to kiss IV’s cheek. His slightly parted lips. II wants to capture that warmth forever. Breathe life into IV’s lungs. Keep him that way. Keep him, always.

“II, please don’t do this.” Vessel pleads, but the door overhead creaks. Echoes with the distant sound of footsteps. It’s disorienting. It’s unnerving. But II’s logic has long since abandoned him. Vessel’s hands, gripping his shaking limbs, is the only thing that’s real. Tangible. Undeniable. “I won’t let you do this, not without me.”

It’s always been that way since they met one another. Never one without the other. Two halves of the same coin. Where one went, the other followed. Not much has changed. This is one thing that needs to. II won’t risk it. Even if it breaks Vessel’s heart. II promised to keep him safe. Promised to keep him happy. Warm. Stomach full of food, and a roof over his head every day and night. He won’t negotiate on this. Won’t relent, even if it scares him.

“Vessel,” II calls, and the sound of his first partner’s name weighs heavy in the air. Heavy on his tongue. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?”

Vessel doesn’t look impressed. He looks angry. II doesn’t blame him.

Death could be waiting for him if he goes out alone. Yet, death was guaranteed if they remained as they were. Lambs rife for slaughter. Sequestered away in the same place, waiting for the unkind hands of cruel fate to sink its claws into them. Tear them apart. Separate them. Confuse them. Trick them. Make a mockery of them. Assail them.

II can’t allow it to continue.

“You can hate me for this if you need to,” II sighs, kissing IV’s cheek one more time before he rises from his kneel. Vessel’s hand is a vice around his wrist. II uses every ounce of strength he has to stand tall on his feet in spite of the added tension. “But I’m not going to sit here and do nothing, Vessel. IV’s gotten hurt two times too many. You need to let me go.”

II doesn’t want him to.

He never wants him to.

He can’t allow it to show.

“Let me go, Ve.”

Vessel doesn’t budge. His gaze is heated. Filled with ire, fear, and tears. It breaks his heart. He can’t let it show. He can’t break. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t… do this without them.

He needs them at his side, always. He has to keep them safe. He promised. He can’t disappoint them again. Can’t break whatever little faith they have in him.

The door above them creaks open. Dust filters down like freshly fallen snow from the ceiling. Cold air wafts in, washing over them. II peers into the darkness. He thinks it looks a lot like the descending stairs to the cellar.

He grips the fireplace poker tighter in hand. Feels bile rise in his throat as a figure crawls into view, peering down at them.

Vessel scrambles, pulling IV with him, as III jumps to his feet. II doesn’t scream even if the sound threatens to rise in his throat.

“II, please… help me,” it says, perfectly mimicking Vessel's cadence and tone. The horror in Vessel’s eyes. The tremor in his voice. “That’s not me, II. Please… it hurts so much. I can't do this.”

Tears fall like rain, splattering down on his cheek, streaking through the dried ichor. Every nerve in his body is alight. Doubt swirling in his mind. His hairs raise on end.

II takes a good look at it. Really looks at it.

The cut on its palm that replicates the marks they've made to set themselves apart. The tears in its eyes. The sway of its hair. There is nothing uncanny about it.

It's a dead ringer. A spitting image. A perfect, horrible copy of his beloved.

Or is it really him?

II doesn't know the answer as it screams. A blood curdling, horrifying sound. The door slams closed above them. Before his eyes it blends into the ceiling, fading away.

The fireplace poker slips through his trembling fingertips.

Inside of him, anger festers. Disbelief swirls.

They're going to die in here.

“II.”

Vessel calls for him.

Or does he?

II doesn’t want to know the answer.

-

Holding his partners close to him used to be a sure fire way to keep them together.

Inseparable. Unyielding. Steady like his presence.

II sits wide awake in spite of the aching behind his eyelids. Outside the bedroom’s walls, he can hear snippets of quiet conversation. Mentions of music. Memories he recalls. Tour dates and experiences.

He feels like a bystander in his own life. An unwanted guest peering beyond the veil into something he wasn't meant to bear witness to. The memories are his. The voice, too, is his. His own laugh rings against the walls, echoing in his ears. Vessel's quiet humming. IV's quips and huffs.

He doesn't hear III. The one he killed.

III is his only constant now. His sole reassurance. He knows what he did, what he saw. That the III who died before the hearth was nothing more than a monster and not the man he grew to love. III's vibrant hair is a mess, splayed out against II's shoulder. The bassist curls around him. Vessel curling against his thigh. IV asleep between II's parted legs.

III's breath is a warm ghost as it tickles the sensitive skin of his neck. Followed by a trail of desperate, loving kisses. II exhales slowly. Shakily. Leans further against him as he cards his fingers through IV's blood matted hair.

“I'm glad you couldn't go,” III confesses, his deep voice shaking. “You… belong here with us, II. I don't want to risk losing you to those… things.”

“I'm afraid that if I don’t do something that we'll just… die like this.” II confesses. His stomach growls. He doesn't remember the last time he's eaten.

He remembers the market.

Remembers Jerry, the clerk.

His casual remark about the amount of food they purchased. The insinuation in his words about how they wouldn't need it. Rage boils the blood in his veins. The 911 operators. The lack of a response. The refusal of aid. The grim looks from the locals. The landlord who never responded to his messages.

They knew. They had to have known. Been in on it. Helped orchestrate it. Anything to keep themselves safe.

It all makes sense now.

If only he had listened to his partner's concerns. If only he had taken them away when they still had the chance. But he hadn't listened. Dismissed their concerns. Written off the rudeness of the locals. Made excuses for them.

II feels the guilt settling in. The painful throbbing in his chest. The stinging in his eyes. He refuses to shed a single tear. They've never seen him cry. He never plans to let them.

“Remember when we first met back in London?”

II needs a distraction. III's always been able to read him. Clock him. Measure the pressure in his mind like a fine tuned gauge.

“Ya’ looked really handsome that night,” III whispers in his ear. “For all the shit that's changed, you… still look the same to me, ya’ know? I've never really… thought about how lucky I am to have you, II.”

Lucky.

That's a funny word for it.

They had some good times. Wonderful times. Awful times. Growing pains. Relationship woes. But lucky…

III is right, of course. They've always been so lucky.

That is, until now.

“You're just as much a smooth talker now as you were back then,” II laughs, pleased when III giggles in his ear. “We've… been fortunate, haven't we?”

“Don’t talk like that now,” III asks of him, mumbling the words against his jaw. II falls silent then. Lost in his own thoughts. His wants. All his carefully laid plans for their future together crashing down on him in an instant.

When III finally shifts, the sound makes II flinch.

“Don’t,” III mutters, eyes narrowing. His fingers squeeze tight on II’s thigh, grounding him. “Don’t shut me out.”

II swallows hard. His throat is dry. He feels blood still tacky on his skin. Not-III’s blood. Not blood. Ichor. Tar. Whatever it was. He wants it off. Wants to scrub until his skin is raw.

“I can’t protect you,” he says. The truth slips out like a confession muttered under one’s breath in the sanctity of a holy church. “I thought that I could, but I can’t.”

III doesn’t answer, but he presses closer. A slow, prolonged exhale against II’s chest. The weight of him is reassurance and burden all at once.

“I’m… thirsty,” IV mumbles sleepily. The admission shattering the otherwise quiet, but not quite calm that surrounds them.

“The bathroom door is… gone,” Vessel responds, his lips brushing against the muscle of II’s thigh.

No water then. No food. Nothing to sustain themselves.

The weight of even the mundane need for sustenance being deprived of them weighs heavily on II’s already sagging shoulders. The sounds from outside the four walls of their room increase in volume. II hears the kick of a familiar rhythm. He wants to laugh when the distinct sound of their own discography being played rattles off of the cottage’s walls. The bassline only fuels II’s growing frustration. His ire.

Around them, the bedroom walls breathe with the distortion. The ceiling hums, vibrating dust down in tiny cascades that cling to their blood-streaked skin. Vessel presses his forehead closer into II’s thigh, fists knotting in the fabric of his trousers. He’s shaking. Whether from rage or fear, II can’t tell.

“They’re taunting us,” Vessel murmurs. His voice is calm. Too calm. The cadence of someone who has finally stopped fighting the inevitable.

“Of course they are,” III retorts, swallowing thickly. “Just… try not to pay it any mind.”

“How the fuck are we supposed to do that?” IV chokes out. His defiance should earn him a stern look. A quiet reprimand. But it’s music to II’s ears, knowing IV’s wounds aren’t as severe as they seem. Knowing that in spite of the fear that plagues them, that IV is still his IV beneath it all. “We can’t ignore this. It’s everywhere.”

IV’s right. The music isn’t coming from a singular place. It isn’t the ceiling or the floor. The non-existent bedroom door. It originates from the house itself. The walls pulse with it. Steady. As if it, too, is alive. II half-expects to see the plaster expand, contract, like lungs.

The vocals come in next.

Vessel sighs against his thigh to the hauntingly gorgeous sound of his own voice as it fills the air.
II doesn’t flinch when Vessel sings over the sound, drowning out the filtered static with the crystalline sound of his own voice. II wants to close his eyes. Lie down. Let Vessel sing him to sleep as he has before, too many times to count. Only, this isn’t their bedroom that they sit in. This isn’t the comfort of their own home, or the familiarity of a life spent on the road.

“I think I could have… written beautiful songs here,” Vessel exhales when his singing ceases.

II swallows the lump in his throat. The dryness. The burning. Tears sting his eyes.

He finally closes them.

“I know you could have.”

He wants to promise Vessel that he still might get the chance to.

But II doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

-

IV stirs first against him, some hours after they’ve all drifted off to sleep.

II feels the faintest shift of weight against his thighs. He doesn’t look down right away. A part of him is still afraid of what he’ll see when he does. When he finally risks it, IV’s glassy eyes are already on him. Tired. Half-lidded. But awake. Present. Not foggy at all in spite of the trauma to his head. II breathes out a sigh of relief. He doesn’t bother to contain it.

“You’re exhausted,” IV rasps, voice torn and raw. “You’ve got that far-off look in your eyes again.”

“Just thinking,” II exhales. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“That’s awfully dangerous,” IV mumbles, a ghost of his usual grin tugging at his split lip. “Don’t start doing that now.”

The laugh II lets out is a mistake. It cracks in the middle; betrays everything he doesn’t want IV to see. He brushes his hand through IV’s hair again, gentler this time, careful not to catch on the tacky patches of blood. He wants to wash it. Thread it between his fingertips. Smell the familiar scent of IV’s cologne.

Instead, all that’s left is the oil. The grime. The blood.

“You scared the hell out of me,” II admits quietly. His thumb ghosts over IV’s temple, feeling the heat beneath the skin. “Thought I was going to lose you.”

“Not yet, love. I’m still here,” IV’s eyelids flutter. His smile fades into something softer. Sadder.

“Don’t say not yet,” II snaps sharper than intended, then curses under his breath. “Sorry. I just… I need you to…” II cuts himself off. Thinks about what he needs. What they do. The answer is simple. It always has been that way, ever since they met. “Nothing, actually. I just… need you.”

Silence stretches between them, broken only by the still faint hum of the house’s walls, breathing with pilfered music. Footsteps echo in the floorboards. Stairs creak. The ceiling shudders. IV shifts just enough to nuzzle his cheek against II’s palm, dried blood and night sweat dampening his skin.

“You can stop pretending not to be scared now,” IV murmurs. II blanches, but he doesn’t deny it.

Still, it’s against his nature to admit weakness. Defeat. He’s supposed to be the strong one. The level headed one. Their guiding hand. The one with the final say. The end to their beginnings.
II opens his mouth. Starts to argue. But IV presses on, stubborn even in half-consciousness. Even in the midst of chaos. Even in the throes of what very well could be the prelude to their death.

“You’re not alone, II. You never were. Stop trying to be.”

II feels the words like a knife between ribs. He wants to believe him. He wants to collapse into that truth. Unfurl beneath them. Share his regrets. His lamentations. His desires for a future that feel so far away. His longing for memories that feel like a lifetime ago.

But he can’t afford to fall apart.

He’s never been able to.

He’s never had the chance.

He doubts he ever will.

“Get some rest,” II whispers. His voice cracks again. “Please.”

“Still so bossy,” IV chuckles. It pulls a smile on II’s lips.

IV once more lets his eyes close. His breathing evens out. II basks in the familiar weight of it, IV settled between his thighs.

II keeps his hand in his hair long after, unwilling to let go.

III snores softly against his shoulder. Vessel drools against his thigh.

If he closes his eyes, and lets the sounds of the house’s torment fade away into static, it almost feels like they’re home again. Comfortable. Safe. II feel so inadequate. Lost. Confused. Afraid. Exhausted.

His eyelids are heavy. The floorboards beneath him shake. It should be enough to jar him into consciousness, but there’s only so much that his body can endure when running on empty. He shuts his eyes for a moment, surrounded by the familiar, comforting warmth of his partners.

He awakens somewhere else entirely. Sitting in the dirt. Back against a cold, stone wall.

II scrambles to his feet. Hyperventilating before he’s even had the chance to properly process his immediate change in scenery. A scream shakes the walls of the house. Vessel. II doesn’t doesn’t think as his body slips into auto-pilot. The chains on the cellar’s walls shake as he brushes against them, stumbling through the relative darkness. He takes the uneven, rotting steps of the cellar stairwell two at a time.

He collides with the closed door, his sore shoulder slamming into it in the same vein that it did the first time that he found himself here. Trapped. Held prisoner. But unlike the first instance, the door immediately yields. He stumbles over the final step, stepping into the familiar lonesome hallway before his eyes land on the roaring fire within the hearth. The dwindling firewood. The rapidly decreasing pile.

Vessel lies curled up before it, his back pressed against the stone. His knees to his chest. His head in his hands. II’s fingers flex, longing for the familiar comfort of the fireplace poker, regretting not holding onto it. Regretting everything that led him to doubt the distressed cries his partner emits as Vessel’s sobs crescendo, ringing in his ears.

“What do you want from us?” Vessel half-sobs. Half-screams.

II doesn’t know if it’s him, or if it isn’t. If the sound that breaks his heart is a perfect mimicry, or if it’s genuine.

In the end, he sinks to his knees before the fire. He finds Vessel’s cheeks all the same. Offers him a wary, tired smile.

“I have you,” he whispers under his breath, guiding Vessel upright. Pulling him into his arms. “I have you.”

II wonders how long things will remain that way. How long he has before he, too, is made to let go.