Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had never been good with spoken words. Words were precious things, sharp like knives, easy to hold, easier to wound. They carried weight, promises he could never keep, emotions he didn’t know how to hold. His father’s words had always been sharp, his mother’s soft but fleeting. Words had never been his refuge. Music, however, was his lighthouse.

Amidst the stormy waters and crashing waves against shore, music had always been a beacon, a constant beneath his ribs, a guide to home against the chaos of the sea, the only language he truly spoke. The weight of ivory keys under his fingers was more familiar than any touch, the resonance of chords more comforting than any voice. He lived in the sound, let it fill the spaces where words failed him.

The old piano groaned under his fingers, the weight of it pressing down, as if it could feel what pain he was pulling from it. The melody spilled into the air—low, mournful, a song with no name, no structure, only feelings.

It was late. The kind of late that blurred the hours, where the world outside melted away, where the dim glow of the single overhead lamp was the only thing connecting him to reality. Shadows stretched across the walls of the practice room, shifting as he moved, his body swaying slightly with the music, lost in it.

He barely noticed the door easing open. Didn’t hear the footsteps. His body lost in the moment, completely devoted to the rhythm his heart set. Until the last note lingered and faded, leaving behind only silence. And then… Clapping. Slow clapping, steady palm against palm. So bloody loud in the empty practice room.

His breath caught in his throat. His hands stilled on the keys, fingertips hovering, his entire body going rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see. And there the intruder was. Sitting on one of the battered chairs against the far wall, legs spread lazily apart, arms crossed over his chest.

The first thing he noticed was the eyes—blue, dark and yet soft, like the sky at its saddest, they locked onto him with something unreadable. The second was the drumstick twirling between slender fingers, catching the dim light as it moved, rolling over knuckles with practiced ease. The stranger didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let his gaze settle, unwavering. Then, a few moments later he opened his soft pink lips, “Not bad.” His voice was quiet, the softest sound Ves ever heard. 

Vessel exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair, fingers pressing briefly into his scalp as he tried to ground himself. The weight of exhaustion finally settled to his limbs, a dull ache blooming back in his chest, the melody long forgotten in the warm air. The dim light cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. He blinked, his gaze flickering toward the figure in the corner, unease curling in his stomach. “…How long have you been sitting there?”

The man hummed, a low absent-minded sound, tapping the drumstick against his knee in a steady rhythm. He exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Long enough.”

Something in his tone sent a shiver down Vessel’s spine, the hairs on his arms rising. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, charged with something he couldn’t quite grasp. His fingers curled slightly on the keys. He should’ve been annoyed, should’ve told the man to leave, but the words caught in his throat.

The stranger leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, the dim light catching on the soft angles of his face. His gaze stayed locked onto him, steady and unblinking, like Ves was something worth looking at. “You always play like that?”

“Like what?” He snapped.

A slow tilt of the head. “Like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

His breath hitched, a stutter in his ribs, like a wrong note played too hard. The stranger must have caught it, the flicker of something vulnerable in his expression, the way his fingers curled just slightly against the keys, as if gripping the edge of a lifeline. Against that display the stranger’s lips, pale pink and soft, twitched at the corner. Not quite a smirk… Something else. 

“Do you always break into practice rooms?” he shot back, his voice steadier than he expected, though his pulse betrayed him, drumming quick beneath his skin.

The man shrugged, leaning back again, stretching his arms along the back of the chairs next to him. “Only when I hear something worth listening to.”

Vessel sighed, the sound quieter than a whisper, and finally tore his gaze away. “Right.”

The stranger didn’t move. He didn’t offer more, didn’t fill the silence with empty words. He just stayed there, watching. Waiting. Ves should have hated it. He was used to his own solitude, to the comfort of being unseen. He had spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm's length, a safe distance. But now, under the weight of that steady gaze, something in him frayed. He wasn’t sure if it was irritation or something else. Maybe just something he didn’t want to name. His fingers pressed absently against the keys, as if searching for an anchor, but the music was already lost and gone, swallowed by the presence in the room. “Do you need something?” His voice cracked, higher than he intended, rough at the edges.

The stranger’s lips twitched again, another ghost of a smile. He tapped the drumstick against his knee once, twice, the rhythm lazy. Then, another slight tilt of his head. “Maybe.”

Ves exhaled through his nose, dragging his gaze back to the piano, as if the familiar sight could ground him. His fingers hovered over the keys, but didn’t press down, silently begging them to steady him. “I’m not a fan of vague answers.”

Another soft hum, slipping into the silence like the trailing end of an undiscovered melody. “I want to play with you.”

That made Ves pause. His fingers hovered over the keys, his pulse kicking up slightly despite himself. He turned his head just enough to catch the expression on the stranger’s face, searching for any sign of amusement, any hint that this was a joke. 

But there was none. The man just watched him, waiting for him patiently. Ves swallowed hard. “I don’t play with anyone.”

“I figured.” The words weren’t mocking, just… knowing. Like he had already guessed the answer but asked anyway. “But you should.”

Ves frowned. “And why is that?”

A small shrug, the drumstick rolling smoothly over pale fingers. “Because you play like you’re carrying something too heavy for one person to carry.”

His breath hitched. It was such a simple thing to say, yet it landed somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere raw… somewhere a wound had yet enough time to heal properly. He forced his expression to remain neutral, even as something twisted in his chest. “You don’t know me,” he said, carefully measured.

“No,” the stranger agreed. “But I know that.” His eyes flicked to the piano, then back to Ves. “And I know you’re too good to keep you locked away in a practice room.”

Ves clenched his jaw, the weight of the words settling over him like an unwelcome chord, dissonant and off tune. He finally gave up and let his hands slip from the piano, his supposed refuge offered no solace tonight, and pressed his palms against his thighs, grounding himself in the warmth of his own skin. He shouldn’t let this conversation continue. He shouldn’t let him stay. And yet… “What’s your name?”

The stranger’s lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “Two.”

Vessel’s dark brows furrowed slightly. “Two?”

A faint smirk, another ghost added to his collection. “It’s what my friend calls me.” Amusement flickered in his expression, something private, something only he understood.

Ves studied him for a moment longer, trying to read something in the way the stranger sat so comfortably in this space, like he had already decided he belonged here. Ves huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “Strange name.”

Two shrugged again, unbothered. “Strange suits me.”

Ves couldn’t argue with that. Another silence settled between them, thick yet comfortable. Then, finally, Two leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees, voice quieter now, almost begging. “Play something for me.”

Ves blinked, thrown for a moment by the softness of it. It wasn’t a demand. Wasn’t even really a request. It was an invitation. His fingers twitched against the keys. He shouldn’t give in. Shouldn’t let himself be seen any more than he already had. But for some reason… For some reason, he did. Without thinking, without answering, he pressed down. A single note. Then another. Then another…

And as the melody filled the space between them, Ves felt a tightness coil harder in his chest, sharp and painful. Because in all this time, through every note he played, every sharp breath he took, Two hadn’t looked away, not once, since he had broken into the practice room. 

Two hadn’t moved. He was still leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, still watching, his presence pressing against the air like a second gravity. Ves didn’t have to see him to know. He was listening. Not just hearing the music, not just catching the notes as they drifted into the dimly lit room… No, he was listening to something deeper, a story whispered just beneath the sound. And somehow, that was worse.

The melody shifted, took shape under his hands, aching and intense, the kind of song that didn’t need words to be understood. The kind of song that revealed too much… He should stop. He should pull back before he lets it say something. But he didn’t… Because Two was watching him like the music was answering him all the damn questions in the world. Like it had confirmed something he had already known. And Ves felt himself getting drunk by the look, the intensity of Two’s blue eyes, safer than a lover's embrace, more certain than the ground beneath them.

His fingers faltered for just a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, barely real, but Two caught it. Vessel knew because the drumstick stopped moving. The faint tap, tap, tap against Two’s knee stilled, and the shift in silence was so sharp, so absolute, it nearly made Vessel miss another chord.

Then, soft, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, “…What are you running from?”

Vessel’s hands stilled completely. The last note faded, dissolving gracelessly into the air between them, but Ves didn’t lift his fingers, didn’t move. He just sat there, his breath coming a little too fast, his pulse pressing against his ribs like it wanted to get out of his skin.

Slowly, too damn slowly, Ves turned his head.

Two’s gaze hadn’t wavered. He was still sitting there, still watching, but something had changed. His expression wasn’t amused anymore. Wasn’t teasing. It was curious. Careful like he had found a loose thread and was waiting to see if Ves would let him pull it.

Ves swallowed, his throat tight. His fingers curled into his palms, pressing hard enough to feel the tension in his knuckles. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Two didn’t blink. “Liar.”

The word landed softly, but it wasn’t a joke. Vessel’s chest ached. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t damn fair that this stranger… this man he had just met, could just sit here, in the dark quiet of his practice room, and see him so clearly.

Something flickered in Two’s expression, something thoughtful, something almost gentle. He leaned back slightly, stretching his arms across the back of the chairs again, as if sensing that Vessel needed space. “I’m not asking for an answer,” he said, voice quieter now, less harsh. “Just don’t lie to me.” 

Ves clenched his jaw. Something about the way he said it, made it sound like a promise. Like a rule, even. As if he had already decided that if this thing between them was going to be anything, if they were going to be anything, honesty would be the only thing allowed between them. And that was dangerous. That was something Vessel couldn’t afford.

Ves exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers before turning back to the piano, pressing into the keys again, like it was the only answer his body knew how to provide to Two. The sound filled the silence again, but this time, it was controlled. A shield. A barrier set in place.

Two let him have it. He didn’t push, didn’t pry into his armor, just stayed. Ves didn’t know if that was better or worse.

The rain was coming down in thick sheets by the time Ves left the practice room. The university campus was almost empty, just a few students rushing across the pavement, their faces buried in their jackets as they tried to avoid getting drenched. He should’ve checked the weather. Should’ve brought an umbrella. But planning ahead for anything outside of music had never been his strong suit.

He adjusted the strap of his bag, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie as he started walking. His apartment wasn’t far, just a short bus ride away, but the thought of going home to silence, to the empty space where his keyboard sat waiting, made something in his chest tighten. He’d already poured everything into the piano tonight. He wasn’t sure he had anything left to give.

The rain had soaked through his sleeves by the time he reached the bus stop. The streetlights buzzed softly, their glow flickering against the wet pavement. Vessel stood beneath the bus stop, staring at the puddles forming along the sidewalk, letting the cold seep into his skin.

Then he heard footsteps. Steady, unhurried footsteps. Not someone rushing to get out of the storm. Someone comfortable in it. Ves didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“You walk home in this?” Two’s voice was even, just loud enough to be heard over the rain.

Vessel exhaled sharply, tilting his head slightly, just enough to glance at the shorter man. “Don’t exactly have a choice.”

Two stood a few feets away from him, hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, completely unfazed by the weather. His dirty blond hair was damp at the edges, sticking slightly to his forehead, but he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t looking at the rain. He was looking at him. “You could’ve asked me for a ride,” Two said simply.

Ves huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, his breath fogging into the cold air. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Two didn’t answer right away. Just kept studying him intensely. Then, “You didn’t ask.”

Ves swallowed, his smile dying down, and looked away. The bus wasn’t coming for another ten minutes, but he suddenly wished it would hurry the hell up. There was something about the way Two stood there, like a presence, something solid, that made it hard to breathe. He’d spent years perfecting the art of making himself small despite his height, of going unnoticed. But Two didn’t let that happen. He didn’t fill the silence with meaningless words. He didn’t let Ves disappear into it. He just stayed. 

The rain kept falling, thick and heavy against the street. Two shifted slightly after a moment, pulling out his keys. “Come on.”

Ves blinked. “What?”

“My car’s not far. I’ll take you home.” His tone left no room for argument.

Ves hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. He wasn’t used to this, people offering things without expecting something in return. He should say no. Should wait for the bus and keep things simple. But his clothes were already soaked through, and Two was just standing there, patient as ever, like he had all the time in the world. Ves exhaled slowly. “…Fine.”

Two didn’t react. Just nodded once and turned, walking toward the parking lot like he already knew Ves would follow. And the worst part? He was right. 

Two’s car was nice. Too nice. Ves wasn’t sure what he had expected, maybe something old, something practical, but this was sleek, expensive, the kind of car that made people notice you.

Ves slid into the passenger seat, feeling out of place immediately. He was still dripping, his hoodie clinging to his skin, and he hesitated before pulling it off, not wanting to get the leather seats soaked. Two didn’t seem to care. He just tossed his keys into the cup holder, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street with the kind of smooth, practiced ease that made it obvious he’d never had to take the bus a day in his life.

Two drove in silence for a while, the rain drumming steadily against the windshield. Ves kept his eyes on the city lights, watching them blur past, feeling the exhaustion settle deeper in his bones now that the weight of the day was catching up to him.

“You live alone?”

The question was casual, but Ves still stiffened slightly. He glanced at Two’s profile, taking in his soft features. Two didn’t notice, he was focused on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping absently against his knee. 

“…Yeah.” Ves cleared his throat and glanced away. “Why?”

Two shrugged. “Just wondering.” A pause. He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment. “You don’t seem like the type to like silence.”

Ves frowned slightly, his fingers tightening where they rested on his lap. “What does that mean?”

Two kept his gaze forward, hands steady on the wheel, expression giving nothing away “You fill it with music every chance you get.”

Vessel didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to. His throat felt tight, words pressing at the edges of his mind but never quite forming. Because Two was right. Again.

Finally, Two turned to Ves’s street, slowing as he pulled up in front of the apartment building. He put the car in park but didn’t move to turn it off, he just sat there, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel.

Ves shifted, fingers curling around the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Yeah.” Two’s voice was even, giving nothing away. Then, just before Vessel could step out, he said, “You gonna be at the practice rooms tomorrow?”

Ves hesitated, his grip tightening slightly. “Why?”

Two exhaled through his nose, like the answer should be obvious. “Because I’m bringing my kit.”

Ves blinked. “You’re—what?”

Two finally looked at him, ocean eyes sharper in the dim glow of the dashboard. The blue in his eyes was different from any other blue eyes Ves had seen, more intense somehow, containing a sea full of emotions buried deep inside. He had the pained look of someone who wanted to go home, but could never find one. “You play,” he said simply. “I drum.” A beat. “That’s how bands work.”

Ves opened his mouth, then closed it. “…We’re not a band.”

Two just stared at him, expression steady as the ground. “Not yet.”

Vessel’s breath caught, the weight of those words pressing against his ribs, knocking something loose inside him. The car suddenly felt smaller, closing in on him. Rain drummed softly against the windshield, a quick rhythm that matched the pulse in his throat.

Two didn’t wait for a response. He just nodded toward the door, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “Get inside before you catch a cold.”

Ves swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag like a lifeline. He should argue. Should tell Two to drop it, to let it go. Should sever whatever thread had started to form between them before it tightened around him. But instead, he exhaled, opened the door, and stepped out into the rain. The cold bit at his skin instantly, but he didn’t flinch. He just shut the door behind him, the soft thud swallowed by the rain.

Two didn’t pull away immediately. The engine hummed low in the night. Ves could feel his gaze, still lingering, still watching, waiting for him to enter the building before he finally drove off. And for some reason, he didn’t hate it.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile across the country…

The road stretched ahead, dark and endless, the roar of his bike the only sound keeping him company. The city lights had long since faded behind him, swallowed by the open highway and the quiet hum of the night. Out here, under the weight of the bright stars, there was nothing stopping him but the road and speed. Ivy liked it that way.

His fingers curled tighter around the handlebars, the leather of his gloves creaking with the pressure. The wind fought against his bare face, cold and sharp, but he barely felt it. The warm engine beneath him thrummed steady, a familiar pulse that drowned out the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind.

He had no destination. Never did. He rode because stopping meant thinking. And thinking was dangerous. It dug up bad memories and even worse truths. Thinking meant getting a slap back to reality he didn’t feel like taking. Not tonight.

The sign for Greystone blurred past on his right, another nameless town he had no attachment to. Didn’t matter. He could stop here or keep going, it made no difference. But his bike was running low, and his stomach was starting to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since morning. He sighed through his nose, braced himself and took the next exit, rolling into town like a ghost.

Greystone wasn’t much. A few old buildings, a gas station, a bar with a flickering neon sign that simply read OPEN. A handful of bikes were parked outside, lined up like watch dogs waiting for their owners. The sight was familiar, this was a biker town, or at least, one that tolerated his kind.

Ivy pulled in beside the others, cut the engine, and swung his leg over. The second his boots hit the pavement, the silence of the night rushed in to take the place of the engine’s hum. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the worn strap of his guitar case across his back before heading inside.

The bar was dimly lit, thick with the scent of whiskey, smoke and sweat. A few regulars sat at the counter, hunched over their drinks, murmuring low conversations. A couple of guys played pool in the back, their laughter sharp, half a second away from turning the night into something else.

Ivy ignored them. He slid into a stool at the bar, nodding at the bartender, a woman in her forties with bright eyes that missed nothing. She glanced at him, then at the guitar strapped to his back, and smirked. “You a musician or just carrying that thing around for fun?”

Ivy huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and dry, like gravel rolling over itself. He reached for his pack of cigarettes, tapping one out with practiced ease. The bar’s dim light flickered against the sharp angles of his face, catching in the creases around his eyes as he smiled. “Depends on who’s asking.”

The bartender didn’t flinch. Her expression stayed flat, unimpressed, as she wiped down a glass with a clean cloth. “Someone who doesn’t serve free drinks to strangers.”

Ivy exhaled through his nose, the hint of amusement never quite reaching his tired eyes. He flipped a couple of bills onto the counter, the edges curling with wear. “Whiskey,” he said back, “Neat.”

She poured without another word, sliding the glass toward him before leaning against the bar, watching him with quiet interest. “We get a few musicians passing through, but most of ‘em are washed-up rockstars looking to drown whatever’s left of their careers.”

Ivy smirked, lifting the glass to his lips. The whiskey burned on the way down, exactly the way he liked it. “I don’t have a career to drown.”

“Shame. You look the part.” 

He didn’t answer. Just took another slow sip, letting the warmth settle in his gut.

The jukebox in the corner crackled to life, some old blues song drifting through the speakers, the kind of music that clung to your skin. A guy with a cheap acoustic guitar sat on a stool near the back, strumming halfheartedly, his fingers fumbling over the strings. Ivy barely realized he was staring until the bartender spoke again.

“You actually play?”

His fingers tightened slightly around his glass, slick and cold against his skin. A muscle in his jaw ticked, like he was weighing the truth against the cost of saying it out loud. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice quieter now.

She studied him, eyes flicking over the worn calluses on his fingertips, the way his shoulders held a weight that wasn’t just from the long night. After a beat, she jerked her chin toward the back. “Stage is open.” 

Ivy shook his head. It had been a while since he’d played anywhere that wasn’t some rundown motel room or the side of the road. He didn’t do crowds. Didn’t do performances. Music was for himself, not for show.

But tonight, with the road still humming in his blood and the weight of the past pressing heavy on his chest… maybe a tiny part of him needed it. The guitar was the only thing remotely close to home, the notes were like a heartbeat to him. He played like he rode—smooth, effortless, like the strings were just an extension of himself. But pouring anything out tonight just hurt too damn much. 

He sat there for a whole hour, sipping his drink slowly, waiting for something that will never come. He knew he was just biting his time, fighting the inevitable… he would have to come back home eventually, if he could ever call this place a home. These past few days, it felt more like a cage than anything. He wasn’t ready to leave this shithole behind and yet it consumed him, tearing down his body, poisoning his brain. Lil was the only reason he stayed. He knew he would go through hell and back just for her. He didn’t know how this girl had made her way into his heart, but since she did, he couldn’t breathe quite right knowing he wasn’t close to her. She wasn’t even his blood, but she ran deep in his veins. 

The ice in his glass had long since melted, watering down the last sip of whiskey and making it almost disgusting to drink, but Ivy didn’t care. He rolled the glass between his fingers, staring at the amber liquid like it held answers, like it could tell him what the hell he was supposed to do. He knew he couldn’t stay there forever. The town was too small. The house was too suffocating. His stepfather was too damn much. And yet, the thought of leaving felt just as unbearable as staying. Because leaving meant leaving her.

Lil was too oblivious to understand the weight of it, the way Ivy’s entire world had shifted the second she’d stumbled into it. She wasn’t his responsibility, not by blood, not by law, but that had never mattered. The moment she had looked up at him with those big wide brown eyes, clinging to him like he was something solid, something safe, he had known. She was his to keep. And he’d be damned if he left her behind.

Ivy ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He could already picture what was waiting for him at home… the stench of booze and cigarettes, the TV droning into the silence, Frank slumped in his chair, looking for an excuse to start a fight… His jaw tightened. He could leave. Could get on his bike and keep riding, let the road take him anywhere else. The thought was tempting, and maybe, if it weren’t for Lil, he would have done it already. But she was still there, stuck in that house with no way out. And as long as she was there, Ivy would be too.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed back from the bar, grabbing his guitar case and slinging it over his shoulder. He tossed a few more crumpled bills onto the counter then nodded once to the bartender.

“Take care, kid,” she said, watching him with something unreadable in her gaze. He didn’t answer. Just pulled his jacket tighter around him and stepped out into the night.

The cold hit him immediately, strong and unforgiving against his skin, but he didn't pay attention to it, it was the kind of sharp pain he liked. He walked toward his bike, the streetlights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The town was quiet, the streets empty except for a few cars humming in the distance.

He took his time strapping the guitar case on his back, fingers lingering over the worn leather. His body was already bracing for what was waiting at home, muscles tensing in anticipation. But he had survived worse. Ivy swung his leg over the bike, gripping the handlebars tight, and with a twist of his wrist, the engine roared to life. The sound cut through the stillness, grounding him, anchoring him to something solid.

He took one last look at the empty road ahead, his eyes filled with longing… Then he turned the bike toward home. 

The night at the Palermo club was particularly busy. People lined up in the long line at the entrance, creating a pressure cooker in the city's open air, feet shuffling to the side and nervous signs could be heard from afar as these people realized that there might be a chance they wouldn't get into this place. The nightlife was full in this area of town and if you looked closely enough you could see money running around, drug dealers slipping bags of cocaine into the hands of teenagers, soon going to the bathrooms to snort the stuff and live on the edge knowing that one day they would fall an endless fall from that same edge.

Ivy had seen it all before. Hell, he had lived it before. But he wasn’t here for any of that. It was just one reckless stop before home.

He pushed through the crowd, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, keeping his head low. He didn’t have to wait in line, he knew the right people, had been there enough times that the bouncers recognized him on sight. They let him through with a nod, barely sparing him a glance as he stepped inside.

Music blasted through the speakers, making the floor vibrate beneath his boots. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, but Ivy had never minded the chaos. People moved on the dance floor like a single living thing, bodies pressed together, laughter mixing with shouted conversations. He liked all of that.

He passed through the crowd with practiced ease, slipping past drunk people and couples pressed up against each other. He wasn’t here for fun. The Palermo Club was just another stop, it was a little past midnight, he knew he had another two hours to kill before he could face the reality waiting for him back home. 

The familiar smell of sweat, booze, and cheap cologne filled his nose as he approached the bar. That’s when he heard it, a loud, obnoxious laugh cutting through the music, one he recognized instantly.

“VIVI!” He sighed. He didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. A long arm slung around his shoulders, nearly knocking him off balance. “Look who it is! My favorite brooding highway bad-boy!”

Ivy shook his head, glancing to his right. “Jesus Christ, get off me.” The man towering over him grinned, his tall, lanky frame bending at a ridiculous angle to lean against Ivy. Wylie was dressed like he’d walked straight out of a rockstar fever dream, tight ripped jeans, a sleeveless band tee, and an old leather vest covered in pins and patches. His bass guitar was strapped to his back, the neck of it nearly smacking someone as he turned. “What the hell are you doing here?” Ivy asked, shoving his arm off.

Wylie clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch, man, straight to the heart. Maybe I just missed you.”

“You don’t miss shit.” Ivy flicked his eyes to the bartender, wordlessly calling her over.

“That’s fair.” He grinned. “Got a gig tonight. Filling in for some asshole who bailed last minute. You should stay, watch me absolutely demolish these posers.”

Ivy snorted. He turned to look at Wylie, noticing his face was bare tonight, usually his shoulder length hair was getting in the way, but not tonight. Tonight he could clearly see those baby blue eyes, his pretty straight nose and those goddamn pale lips…“Last time I saw you play, you tripped over your own amp and knocked out the drummer.”

Wylie gasped. “Okay, first of all, that was ONE TIME. Second, that dude had it coming. Third, I have improved significantly. I’m a professional now, V.”

Ivy rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned back, crossing his arms, watching Wylie.

Wylie took an exaggerated sip of his drink, pinky lifted like he was savoring the finest wine instead of a lukewarm shitty beer. Then, with absolutely no respect for personal space, he leaned in, way too close. His breath was warm, laced with laughter and the unmistakable scent of… cotton candy? “Come on, mate,” he murmured, voice dripping a tone lower. “I know you secretly love my music. Stay. Let me tempt you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are. Coincidence? I think not.”

Ivy just shook his head. He had known Wylie forever, since they were  kids running around the neighborhood, sneaking into bars they had no business being in. The guy had always been loud, always been an absolute menace, and for some reason, he had latched onto Ivy like a burr that refused to come off.

Before Ivy could come up with an excuse to leave, the club’s manager, a tired-looking guy with a clipboard, marched over. “Wonka, you’re up in five.”

Wylie saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain.” Then he turned back to Ivy, pointing dramatically. “If you leave before I finish, I’ll hunt you down and make you listen to my entire set in my mom’s garage.”

Ivy sighed, a slow, weary thing that barely masked the fondness underneath. “Guess I’m staying, then.”

Wylie’s face split into a grin, all bright mischief and reckless charm. He clapped Ivy on the shoulder, his touch lingering like a promise. “Knew you loved me.”

Ivy didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a beer, the glass cool against his fingers, and leaned back into the bar. Wylie belonged to the stage, to the music, to the moment. And Ivy, despite himself, was willing to wait, willing to watch, willing to be caught in the escape Wylie offered, for just a little while longer.

The stage lights flickered as Wylie swaggered up, grabbing his bass with an exaggerated grin. The rest of the band was already setting up, a drummer who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, a lead guitarist tuning his strings with efficiency, and a frontman adjusting the mic stand, cracking his neck like he was getting ready for a fight.

Ivy took a slow sip of his beer, watching as Wylie slung the bass strap over his shoulder and leaned into the mic with his usual shit-eating grin. “Alright, Palermo, let’s wake the fuck up, yeah?”

The crowd cheered, some half-heartedly, some already too wasted to care. The first chord ripped through the speakers, loud and nasty, and just like that, the place came alive.

Ivy felt it more than he heard it. The pulse of the music thudded through his chest, rattling his ribs. He loved clubs, loved the way they pressed in on you, but music was something different. It had a way of settling in his bones, crawling under his skin in a way nothing else could. Even if it was just Wylie’s brand of chaotic, half-rehearsed, borderline-disastrous punk rock.

Wylie played like he lived, reckless, loud, and just a little bit sloppy. But there was something real about it, something raw that made people pay attention. Ivy found himself tapping his fingers against his bottle without meaning to, his body instinctively keeping up.

As the set went on, he let himself get lost in it, let the music drown out everything else. Frank. Lil. That damn house. The road that called to him and the weight that kept pressing down on him. The music burnt everything away because Wylie played like the world was on fire, and Ivy… Well Ivy had always been the kind of idiot to walk straight into the flames.

But the thing about music? It always has to end.

The last note rang out, vibrating through the air before disappearing into the hum of voices and clinking glasses. Wylie, sweaty and breathless, shot Ivy a triumphant look from the stage before hopping down, shoving past drunk people to get to him. “Well?” Wylie panted, grabbing a beer off the counter. “Tell me I was amazing.”

Ivy smirked. “You were loud,” he said, amusement laced in his voice, he desperately tried to hide it behind the beer bottle, with no success…

Wylie gasped. “How dare you? That was ART, you uncultured bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ivy finished off his drink, setting the empty bottle on the bar. “Good set.”

Wylie grinned like he’d won something “That’s right,” he purred, tapping a finger against Ivy’s arm. “And now, my dear, you owe me a favor.”

Ivy barely spared him a glance, lifting another beer to his lips. One brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?”

“Since you stayed and enjoyed my show.” Wylie slung an arm around his shoulders again, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. “I got word of something. A little… opportunity.”

Ivy sighed. He already didn’t like where this was going. “Wonka.”

“Hear me out,” Wylie said, grinning. “There’s this guy, runs a club out in Ridgeway. Pays good money for musicians who know what they’re doing. And I just so happened to mention I know a guy who plays like the devil himself.”

Ivy tensed. “No.”

“Hey! It’s one night. One set. You get paid, maybe even get laid,” he paused, wiggling his eyebrows, “and I get the satisfaction of knowing I dragged your brooding ass into the spotlight where it belongs.”

Ivy shook his head. “I don’t play for crowds-”

“You play for yourself,” Wylie interrupted him, rolling his eyes. “And that’s exactly why people should hear you.”

Ivy ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. His gut reaction was to shut it down, to walk out of here and forget Wylie had ever brought it up. But part of him hesitated. Money. He needed it. Frank sure as hell wasn’t helping. And Lil… Lil deserved better. Better than him, better than what he could offer.

Wylie must’ve seen the hesitation, because he smirked. “Just think about it, V. The road’s not the only thing calling you, you know.”

He rolled his eyes, but the words stuck. And that was the problem. Because he was thinking about it, more than he wanted to. "You're a goddamn asshole, you know that?" Ivy cursed, shaking his head. He could feel himself giving in, and it annoyed him as much as it tempted him.

Wylie just shrugged, his grin growing wider. "Part of my charm, mate. You know you love me for it."

Ivy grumbled a curse in response, trying to fight the urge to say yes. Playing in some dive bar to a bunch of strangers? It went against every instinct he had. But money...  He again swore under his breath. "Fine. One night. One goddamn set.”

Chapter Text

Her eyes were wide open, two endless pits. Inside, an entire ocean raged. The waves surged, moving in endless circles, captivating him, almost swallowing him whole. The waves crashed with tremendous force, rising like walls of water only to collapse with a roar, shaking everything in their wake. They wanted to wash over him, but he didn’t give in to the pressure, he resisted it, refusing to be sucked into the abyss. He knew that beneath the mesmerizing blue depths of her eyes lay nothing but darkness and icy water, so cold that it could freeze off his heart. 

But he didn’t look away. Despite the currents that pulled him in, despite the cold that began to creep through his veins, he remained standing. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with force, while the pressure around him increased.

She said nothing. She just looked at him, her eyes storming, but remaining still. An impossible contrast that shook something inside him. He knew that if he fell in, if he let himself sink, he would never be able to come back up. But maybe, just maybe, deep down, he didn’t want to. Maybe the cold of the bottom had more to offer him than the world above ever could.

He allowed himself to take a step closer. The cold grew, sinking its claws into his skin, sending shivers down his spine, but he didn’t back down. There was no point. Those eyes were already taking their best aim at him, locking onto him like unseen arms that slipped beneath his skin, gripping his heart and whispering to him in a beautiful lullaby, urging him to let himself sink, to let himself break. 

She blinked for a moment, the movement of her eyelashes like a breeze on a stormy sea. Maybe she knew. Maybe she saw the hesitation in him, the small cracks in his defenses. But she didn’t push him. She just stood there, letting him struggle with his thoughts, knowing that the decision was not in her hands but his. And he, for one brief moment, wondered if it could even be called a choice.

The waves in her eyes rose, dark shadows swirled in the depths. His heart began to beat faster, his chest tightened. He gasped for air, but the air was already cursed, water had already begun to fill his lungs. He wanted to leave, but his legs wouldn't listen. The world around him blurred, a fog, and only her eyes remained clear, gaping holes that called his name, finally losing patience and tearing through his body. And then, he fell.

The water closed in on him, suffocating him, running through his body. An unbearable cold seeped into his bones, burning him from the inside out. He struggled, his arms breaking through the water in a desperate attempt to rise, but every movement only pulled him deeper. The shadows within the ocean swallowed him, moving around him, whispering in a language he didn't understand, pulling him further into the dark. He opened his mouth to scream—

He woke up. The cold air of the practice room wrapped around him with icy intent. The wind howled through the open window, rushing in to devour and freeze everything in its path. The moon painted in white casted a bright glow over the room, stark against the darkness, and the air? The air carried the scent of a nightmare, from which it was impossible to wake, the both were a terrifying combination. 

His lungs burned as if they were full of water. His gaze flickered sharply from the window, and instead of the moon, he saw dark keys, piano keys below him. A low note trembled into the air, the keys pressing under his weight.

Slowly, he lifted his head. His neck was stiff, his limbs heavy, the remnants of something clinging to him like unseen weight. He was in the practice room. Next to his piano. Everything seemed normal, and yet, something was still not right.

"Is everything okay?"

The voice reached him as if carried through water, muted and distant, but as his eyes turned to its source, his body immediately stiffened. Two stood there, looking at him with obvious concern. His eyes were blue, warm, familiar... But for a split second, just a fleeting moment, they were not. For a moment they were too deep. Too stormy. Too blue. He blinked, and everything was normal again.

“Is everything okay?” Two asked again, stepping forward.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the words tangled in his throat. Somewhere beneath the surface of his thoughts, beneath the wind rattling the windows, he swore he could still hear the waves.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the wet feeling that still clung to him like a second skin. His hands, resting on the piano keys, trembled slightly. He balled them into fists, pressed down on the cold surface as if he were grounding himself into reality. The wind outside howled louder, slipping through the cracks, filling the silence between them. 

“I’m okay,” he blurted out, his voice rough, unfamiliar even to himself.

Two didn’t look convinced. His blond brow furrowed slightly, his weight shifting as if he were debating whether to press the issue. But then, with a small nod, he pulled back, his gaze lingering a little too long. “You zoned out a lot today,” Two said, his voice softer now, hesitant. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me, you know?”

Wrong?

The word clung to him like damp clothes, seeping into his skin, chilling him to the bone. Something was wrong. Something lurking at the edges of his mind, in the spaces between wakefulness and dream. Something followed him, hiding in the depths of the ocean eyes that weren’t his, yet somehow had become his prison. 

He forced a small smile, though it barely reached his lips. “Just tired.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.

Two exhaled through his nose, clearly unconvinced. He hesitated, but didn’t push any further. “Let's take a break. Come on, let’s get out of here for a bit.”

The thought of leaving the practice room, out into the night where the wind carried the echoes of the sea, made his stomach twist. But being here, alone, with nothing but the weight of his thoughts and the steady sound of the waves, felt even worse. "Yeah," he said finally, lifting himself from the piano bench. His legs were heavier than they should have been.

He followed Two out of the room, but before the door slammed shut behind him, something pulled his gaze back. For a second, just for a heartbeat, he swore he saw water dripping from the piano keys…

It had been almost two weeks since he and Two had fallen into this rhythm, this unspoken understanding—if it could even be called that. There had been no formal agreement, no words to bind them, no promises exchanged. It had simply happened. Every night they found themselves in the practice room, in the same place, at the same time. Without planning, without speaking, just a call that pulled them back together. 

They had let the music speak for them. Until Ves’ fingers began to ache, until Two's sticks had worn down at their ends, until the walls echoed the last notes they had left to give. It was the closest thing to friendship he had ever known. One built not on words, not on questions or confessions, but on rhythm. On something deeper. Something neither of them dared to name, always remaining in the depth of the practice room. Until tonight.

The night air struck him the moment he stepped outside, sharp, cold and real. Ves took a deep breath, trying to push out the lingering feeling of drowning, but the air did nothing to clear his lungs. The weight of the water still pressed against his ribs.

Two walked beside him, hands jammed in his pants pockets, his breath visible in the frozen air. Neither spoke as they emerged into the quiet streets. The wind rushed through the narrow alleys, rattling signs and pushing their backs as if urging them forward. “Where are we going anyway?” Ves asked after a long moment, his voice still rough.

Two just shrugged. “Somewhere.”

That was fine. He didn’t mind going somewhere. He just needed to be anywhere but in that practice room, sitting at that piano, waiting for something to pull him back under.

The city was quiet so late at night, beneath the black sky, the street lights flickered faintly. Their footsteps echoed down the empty sidewalk, their pace strangely steady. Ves let his eyes wander, tracing the outline of the buildings, the empty street, the passing headlights cutting through the night. Everything seemed normal. He exhaled sharply. You’re just shaken. That was all. A dream, just a dream, no matter how real it felt. So why did his hands still feel damp?

Eventually, without intending to, his feet took him home. Only as they approached the familiar street did Ves shake his head slightly, as if he had just noticed where he had walked into. The air still felt heavy, the storm inside him had not died down, but at least here, between the buildings that knew the sound of his footsteps, he could breathe a little easier.

The silence followed them up the stairs, their steps slow, unhurried, each one echoing against the narrow walls. Ves ran his fingers along the cold metal of the handrail, grounding himself in the sensation, the coldness of it. When they reached the door, he pulled the keys from his pocket, but his hand froze for a moment on the knob. Behind him, Two stood within arm’s reach, close enough that Ves could feel the quiet weight of his presence. He didn’t speak, didn’t press—he just waited. Without thinking too much, Ves opened the door and walked in, then stopped.

Ves didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t invite. Didn’t close the door behind him. A few seconds passed, and then Two followed him in. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them into the silent warmth of the apartment, together.

Ves went straight to the small kitchen, pulled out a glass, filling it with water, and immediately after set it in the sink, not entirely sure why he was doing it. Maybe because his hands needed something to do, maybe because it was better than standing still and letting his thoughts drown him under again.

Two sat down on the couch as if it were natural, as if he had been here before, even though he hadn’t. He didn’t speak, just looked at him, a quiet but steady presence.

“I’m not going to sleep,” Ves finally said stiffly, the words slipping out before he could fully register them.

“I didn’t say you should,” Two replied, his voice soft, the corner of his eyes wrinkling.

Ves leaned against the counter, his gaze fixed on something in the air. How long did the stare last? He didn’t know. But somehow, his hands stopped shaking, and something about Two’s presence made the room feel less… overwhelmed.

“I’ll stay,” Two said after a few moments, as if it were the simplest decision in the world. And Ves didn’t respond. He just nodded slightly, then finally breathed.

The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional whistle of wind filtering through the half opened window. Ves leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest, watching Two sink into the couch as if he had always belonged there. The way he moved was in stark contrast to the storm still churning in Ves’s chest. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly peaceful either. It felt like the space between notes in a song, a pause before something inevitable.

Ves let out a slow breath, sweeping a hand through his hair, his fingers briefly clinging to the strands. He was still damp with sweat, or maybe something colder. He glanced at Two, who was leaning back on the cushions, his head tilted slightly as he scanned the ceiling. His drumsticks were not in his hands for once. Ves wasn’t sure he had ever seen him without them, as if they were extensions of his fingers.

“You’re not playing with them,” Ves muttered, nodding toward Two’s empty hands.

Two blinked as if noticing them for the first time. He lifted them slightly, flexing his fingers like he had forgotten what they were meant for. A quiet huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so soft that Ves almost didn’t catch it. “I’d probably end up breaking something in here,” Two said, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You seem like the kind of guy who’d throw me out if I so much as tapped on the table.”

Ves arched a brow, titling his head slightly, his arms crossing more tightly, “Depends.”

Two’s smirk deepened, his brows rising, “On?”

“On whether or not I liked the rhythm.”

Two let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he stretched his legs out in front of him. The fabric of his jeans crinkled softly, catching the dim light of the kitchen. “You’re worse than my teacher.”

Ves scoffed, but there wasn’t any real bite behind it. “Says the guy who spends hours beating the same three sections into the kit.”

Two shrugged, unbothered. “Perfection takes time.”

Ves hummed in vague agreement, pushing off the counter and making his way toward the small fridge. The handle was cool against his fingertips, and as he pulled it open, a wave of cold air stung his skin. He scanned the nearly empty shelves, eyes flicking over a carton of milk that was probably past its expiration, a few sad-looking leftovers, and a half-empty water bottle. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. A distraction, maybe. Something solid to remind him he was here, with Two and not somewhere beneath the surface of his own mind.

Behind him, Two’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with amusement. “You don’t have anything good in there, do you?” 

Ves shot him a flat look over his shoulder. “Define ‘good.’”

Two stretched his arms above his head, bones popping faintly as he sighed. “I was thinking something along the lines of instant ramen. Or at least some leftovers.”

“You’re free to go back out and scavenge for food,” Ves said, his voice dry as he closed the fridge, the soft thud of the door settling into the quiet.

Two made a face, tilting his head back against the couch dramatically. “Ugh, no thanks. Too cold.”

Ves shook his head, but the corners of his lips twitched despite himself. He leaned back against the edge of the counter, fingers tapping idly against it. The weight in his chest was still there, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore. The apartment felt… steadier with Two in it, like an anchor without being a chain.

Out of nowhere, Two rose up from the couch, and walked to the half opened window. He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket, gesturing with his hand, “You mind?” In response, Ves simply shook his head and watched.

Two’s back was turned, the smell of cigarettes was strong in the air and the smoke was released in the yellowish glow of the old street lamp that stood right outside the window. Ves could almost feel the scent caressing his body, brushing his skin to finally enter his nostrils hungry for something, something solid. It didn't take long for the strong smell to fill his nose as if it were drugs. Ves simply gasped and kept silent, looking at the glowing rays of the street light falling on Two’s frame and a tune played in his mind, a melody with high notes, slow and pulsating, an intoxicating ballad.

Everything seemed so easy beside Two. The scent of smoke, the shivering cold that clung to his bones, the light that shattered into pieces in the apartment, the silence that settled between them, everything was strangely aligned.

When Two turned, his face stood out in a haze of half-light and smoke, pale and soft, wrapped in a quiet and understanding gaze. He looked at Ves so gently, his pink lips tracing a smile, and the smoke seemed to suddenly flee towards the walls to make way for him. His presence dominated the room, like a hill, like a splash of black paint against white canvas. The whites of his eyes burned against the darkness of the room, in a look that Ves immediately caught.

Ves licked his sudden dry lips as Two came closer to him, viciously slamming his baby blue gaze into Ves’ eyes, his lips were pink, somehow fuller than before, and seemed irresistible. 

There was nothing soft about the way Two drummed. The drums trembled under his blows, a loud, rough, nasty sound. It was not the sound Ves knew, not the music he had grown up with, not something civilized, not something planned. It was wild, chaotic, almost ugly. And he loved it. He loved the way it raced through him, the way it filled his lungs with more than oxygen, the way it extinguished all the thoughts that had been giving him no rest. He loved the thrust that went straight to his bones, the strength it required, the fact that there was no room for gentleness here. 

But when Two reached out carefully and caressed Ves’s sharp jaw, so damn gently and foreign, Ves thought he might just die on the spot. Two’s hands were the gentlest, softest, most beautiful hands he had ever felt, the kind that would be etched on his mind forever, the kind that tore down every barrier inside him, the kind of touch that took Two deep into Ves’ fragile heart, melting everything away. 

Two lips parted as if to suck out the little energy Ves had left, his very last breath. Two gently cradled the sides of Ves' pale face, until he pulled closer to press his forehead against his, and Ves let him—his Adam's apple bobbing, the only sign he let on.

Two blinked, his light brown, almost blonde eyelashes moving as he looked into Ves’ own grey eyes, his hair all so light around his face. For a moment, Ves felt more naked than ever beneath him. He felt like Two could see right into his soul. As hard as he tried to build these walls around himself, to close his heart to keep himself safe and others out, Two somehow broke through them without lifting a finger. And beneath his ribs, Ves' heart heaved with a deep rumble of distress and fear. He knew his soul wasn’t worthy of this kind of guest.

Two was still so close to him when he tilted his head slightly, studying him, “So, is this gonna be a thing now?” He murmured, his thumb getting dangerously close to Ves’ lips.

Ves raised a brow, meeting his gaze, he didn’t back away, “What?” he simply whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

Two only smirked vaguely, lifting his forehead and looking up at Ves, “This. Late-night existential crises and me crashing on your couch.”

Ves exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening slightly around the counter behind him. He hadn’t thought about it, not really. But now that Two had said it out loud, Ves realized he didn’t mind. “…Guess that depends.”

Two smirked, his thumb still caressing mindlessly Ves’ cheek. “On whether or not you like the rhythm?”

Ves huffed, shaking his head. “Something like that.”

Two seemed satisfied with that answer because he leaned back, the cigarette back between his lips, hands leaving Ves’ face and folding loosely over his chest. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows like a restless ghost. But inside, the quiet held firm, stretching between them like a steady pulse, neither empty nor heavy. And for the first time that night, Ves let himself believe he wasn’t sinking.

Chapter Text

Somewhere across the country… 

“Are you leaving me again?”

His hands stilled on his jacket zipper. His boots were already on, gloves strapped tight. The only thing half open was his jacket, but all of that disappeared into ashes, when he heard the soft question being asked from her lips. He dropped his hands and turned around to meet her, knowing that later he’d curse himself for being so weak. But all of those thoughts left his mind the second his eyes met hers. 

Big, brown, swelled with unshed tears. And Ivy wanted nothing but to dig his own grave with his ten damn fingers and bury himself alive. He swallowed hard, his throat awfully dry. “It’s only for a little while,” he said, though the words felt like broken glass in his throat. He wanted to reach for her, to wipe the unshed tears from her lashes before they could fall, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. Didn’t trust himself not to break.  

Her hands curled around herself. Protecting what’s left of her broken body. "It’s always for a little while," she murmured, and there was something so devastatingly final about the way she said it that Ivy felt his chest cave in. He wanted to hold her, but didn’t trust himself not to break her further. His hands were too rough for her, laced with sharp thorns, he couldn’t fool himself that they somewhere hid roses. He wasn’t the solid ground she thought he was. He was sand, slipping between her fingers, no matter how tightly she would hold on. 

He was a goddamn coward. So instead, he forced himself to smile, the curve of his lips not quite reaching his eyes, “You’ll be okay, Lil,” he said, her name leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, “it’s only for a few days.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself, breathing like she was trying to hold something in. Maybe words. Maybe tears. Maybe both. Ivy clenched his fists. If she told him to stay… if she just gave him even the smallest reason, he wouldn’t go. He’d drop everything, take off his stupid gloves, and stay. Just to see if there was even a fraction of a chance that she needed him as much as he needed her.  

But she just nodded, small and final. "Okay," she whispered. That was it.  Not don’t go. Not I need you. Just okay. And Ivy had always been good at taking a hint. He swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth, the metallic taste stronger on his tongue. It was only then he realized how hard he was biting his lower lip. He had made it halfway to the door when her voice stopped him, never letting him go. And yet never holding him.

“Will you ever stay?”  

It was barely above a whisper, but it hit him harder than any scream could. His breath became ragged. His fingers twitched at his side. If she turned him inside out, she would see it all. The way he ached for her, the way he wanted her in ways he had no right to. The way he’d die a thousand times if it meant being hers. But it didn’t matter, not to her, so he forced himself to do what he always did. He lied. “Of course,” he whispered, not daring to turn around. “One day.” And left.

The floorboards creaked beneath his weight, each step pulling him further away, though it felt more like sinking. By the time he reached the door, his hands were violently shaking. He shoved them into his pockets and stepped out into the cold.

Outside, Wylie was waiting, leaning lazily against Ivy’s bike, one boot crossed over the other. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember flaring as he took a slow drag. The moment Ivy stepped out, Wylie flicked it to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. "You're late," he muttered, pushing off the bike and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. His gaze flicked over Ivy’s face, sharp and knowing. "She asked you to stay."  

Ivy didn’t answer. He just walked toward the bike, swinging his leg over the seat. His hands felt like ice when he gripped the handlebars, his stomach a hollow, aching thing. Wylie sighed and ran a hand through his messy untied hair. “It’s fucking twisted,” His voice dripped with something that wasn’t quite pity, wasn’t quite amusement. “Kinda fun.” 

Ivy kicked the stand up and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life beneath him, drowning out whatever else Wylie might’ve said. Because none of it mattered. It never did. ”Are you staying here?” Ivy said, voice flat, turning his head to Wylie, who smirked back and immediately swung his leg to sit right behind Ivy. 

“Not a chance,” Wylie snorted, loud enough to be heard over the engine. Ivy could feel the weight of him settling behind him, his arms wrapping around him lightly, he was so damn warm. "You know," Wylie started, his breath warm and sweet against Ivy’s ear, "it’s kinda hot you have a thing for your sis—"

Ivy’s hand snapped tight around the throttle, twisting it sharply. The bike lurched forward, cutting Wylie off mid-sentence, the growl of the engine swallowing whatever twisted shit he was about to say. The bike immediately shot forward, tires skidding against the gravel before catching traction. The wind cut sharp against Ivy’s face, cold and relentless, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the fire in his chest. His fingers curled tighter around the handlebars, knuckles white against the worn leather of his gloves.  

Behind him, Wylie let out a sharp laugh, the vibration of it buzzing through Ivy’s spine where their bodies pressed together. “You sick bastard,” Wylie mused, voice barely audible over the rush of wind and the steady growl of the engine. His arms tightened just slightly around Ivy’s waist, a lazy, knowing grip that made Ivy want to peel his fingers off one by one.  

“Shut up,” Ivy muttered, his voice deep, laced with a smirk, almost drowned out by the roar of the road beneath them. He leaned into the next turn, the bike tilting dangerously close to the asphalt, but Wylie didn’t flinch. He never did.  

The city lights blurred past them, neon bleeding into the darkness like distant ghosts. The further they rode, the more the weight in Ivy’s chest grew, heavy and suffocating. He told himself it was just the cold. Just the road. Just exhaustion settling deep in his bones. Not regret. Never regret.  

Wylie’s chin came to rest against Ivy’s shoulder. “Please,” he begged, his voice low against Ivy’s ear, “Faster.”

Ivy’s grip flexed on the throttle, but didn’t snap this time. Didn’t give Wylie the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, He just focused on the road, on the hum of the engine, on the empty stretch of night ahead of them. Ignoring the trail of goddamn lava flowing through his veins, threatening to spill.

The bike roared down the empty stretch of highway, the city now nothing but a distant glow in the rearview. The neon, the music, the smoke-filled chaos of the city fading. Only Wylie remained a steady presence, shifting behind him, adjusting his grip. He’d settled comfortably against Ivy’s back, like he belonged there, like the space between them was meant to be filled. Ivy hated that it didn’t bother him as much as it should.

After what felt like an hour of relentless, fast riding, Wylie let out a dramatic sigh that was heavy with impatience. “Alright, pull over,” he demanded, his voice thick with frustration. Ivy didn’t acknowledge him, his focus unwavering, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Wylie groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. He knocked a lazy fist against Ivy’s shoulder, the impact more of an annoying tap than anything forceful. “Mate, you trying to kill us?” he snapped, his voice rising in irritation. “I said pull over!”

With a sharp sign, Ivy slowed the bike, gravel crunching under the tires as they rolled up to a small roadside motel. One of those nowhere places, standing stubborn in the middle of nothing. Faded vacancy sign buzzing weakly. Ivy killed the engine, anger flashing in his eyes. “Why?”

Wylie swung off, stretching his arms like he’d been riding for hours. “Because I need to piss, and you need to stop being such a dramatic bastard before we get to the gig.” Ivy scoffed but didn’t argue. His fingers ached from gripping the handlebars too tight, his back stiff from the weight of the road. A stop wouldn’t kill them. Wylie strolled toward the motel office like he owned the place. Ivy followed, pulling his gloves off with his teeth, cursing the day he met the guy.

Inside, the air smelled like stale cigarettes, cheap air freshener and the unmistakable scent of sex. The guy behind the counter barely looked up from his radio, some old rock song crackling through the static. “Room for two,” Wylie said, slapping a couple of bills on the counter.

Ivy’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “We’re not staying the night.”

Wylie’s smirk grew, teasing. “We’re staying long enough.” He leaned back, his tone playful. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

The clerk handed over a key without comment. Wylie twirled it around his finger, already making his way down the hall, a joyful tune fixed on his lips. Ivy considered just getting back on the bike and leaving him there, but instead, he sighed and followed.

The room was exactly what he expected. Dingy yellow walls, a bedspread that looked older than both of them, a buzzing ceiling fan that barely worked. Wylie tossed his jacket onto the bed, already toeing off his boots.

Ivy remained by the door, his posture tense, arms crossed. “You better have a real good reason for this.”

Wylie flopped onto the bed, arms stretched above his head, looking at Ivy like he was the dumbest man alive. “Yeah. We need to be rested enough to play tomorrow.” He gestured lazily. “Relax. Take a shower. Grab a smoke. Do literally anything other than stand there looking like you wanna punch my pretty face.”

Ivy exhaled sharply. Wylie wasn’t wrong. The road had drained him, and the thought of showing up to a gig half-dead didn’t sit right. With a muttered curse, he yanked off his jacket and tossed it onto the chair.

Wylie grinned. “That’s the spirit.” Ivy just rolled his eyes and headed for the shower, already regretting every decision that led him to this motel with Wylie goddamn Wonka.

The shower was colder than he liked, but Ivy didn’t mind. He stood under the stream, letting the drops hit his shoulders and pierce his skin like tiny needles. The cold was supposed to clear his head, wash the night off him, the city, home, the weight of Lil’s voice still tangled in his chest. But nothing washed away. His thoughts clung to him like stubborn dirt, refusing to dissolve with the water. And it sure as hell didn’t wash off the asshole laying at the bed just a few steps away.

That asshole was everywhere, burrowing under Ivy’s skin like a bad habit. The way he pressed too close, the way he smelled sugar-sweet under the smoke, like some damn carnival treat. The way his voice curled when he said his name, like it was something soft, something Ivy wanted to hear again. He pressed his fingers against the wall, took a deep breath. It was nothing. He just had to get this over with—the show, this city, everything that was starting to get tangled up in his ribs. Take the money and move on.

He stepped out of the shower. The steam from the shower curled around him, covering the room in a thin layer of damp heat, but that didn’t stop him from sensing the chill in Willy’s gaze—or maybe it wasn’t chill at all.

“Jesus Christ, Ivy.” Wylie was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a beer dangling from one hand. His eyes flicked over Ivy slowly, trailing along his chest, traveling down his stomach, lingering a little too long on the too-low towel line. Then he smiled, crooked and cocky, and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were walking around half-naked. You do that for me, sweetheart?”

Ivy clenched his jaw. “I will kick your ass.”

“Yeah?” Wylie took a long sip of beer, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop. “Bet you’d like that, huh?”

Something in Ivy’s stomach tightened, heat curling low. He ignored it, even though he could feel Wylie’s eyes still on him, lingering like they had every damn right. “This gig,” Ivy said, voice sharp, cutting through the weight of the room. “We play, we get paid, we go. That’s it.”

Wylie tilted his head, studying him, like he knew Ivy was lying to himself. He always knew. And he loved pushing it. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice dropping to something almost dangerous. “Is that so, V?”

Ivy should’ve walked away. He should’ve grabbed his clothes, climbed into bed, and shut his eyes until morning. Should’ve ignored the way Wylie was looking at him—like he knew things Ivy wouldn’t even admit to himself. But he didn’t. Because Wylie was still smirking, still sitting there, fingers tapping lazily against the neck of his beer bottle. And Ivy was still watching him. Eyes like a predator, and Ivy would lie to himself if he didn’t want to let himself be prey. Just for once.

“Tell me to stop.”

Wylie’s voice was low, smooth like a slow-acting poison, seeping into the air, curling around Ivy’s bare skin. It teased, it burned, it suffocated—wrapping around his throat like invisible hands, pressing, lingering, daring him to speak. 

Ivy’s breath hitched, coiled tight in his chest like a wire pulled too far. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “Wylie.” His own voice felt thin, stretched taut between warning and desperation.

“Tell me to stop,” Wylie repeated, slower this time, dragging out each word as he uncrossed his legs and pushed himself off the bed. He took a step forward, closing the space between them. The motel room suddenly felt too small, too hot, the air buzzing like static.

Ivy should’ve said something. Should’ve shoved Wylie back and laughed it off. But his body had other ideas—his pulse hammering in his throat, his breath uneven, his lower stomach uncontrollably hot. Wylie reached out, fingers ghosting over Ivy’s wrist, the touch so light it barely registered. But it burned. “You want me to stop?”

Ivy opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Wylie just smiled, that same infuriating, reckless smile, and in one smooth move, he closed the distance. Ivy barely had time to react before Wylie’s hand was on his jaw, thumb tracing over his week's worth of stubble, slow and measured, like he memorized every roughness, every softness, every single detail about Ivy’s jaw. Wylie hummed, pleased, dragging his fingers down, skimming the column of Ivy’s throat, pausing just long enough to feel his pulse hammering under his skin. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice rough. 

Ivy swallowed hard, but Wylie’s touch didn’t stop. His hand drifted lower, Ivy’s upper body, muscular, smooth and almost hairless. He was a marble sculpture, white and delicate but strong; his abdominal muscles were taut, outlined flawlessly, weaving a clear path to his groin. Wylie's stormy eyes eagerly observed Ivy’s body, engraving every detail in his memory, turning from playful to full of lust. 

Wylie’s hand explored his bare chest, every dimple, every texture from ivy’s shoulders to his waist. And Ivy just clenched his jaw tighter. He should move. Say something. But Wylie’s hands were warm, his touch slow, confident, like he already knew Ivy wouldn’t stop him. “Wylie.” Ivy’s voice came out pleading, weaker than he intended. Wylie just smirked, pressing in closer, his breath warm against Ivy’s skin. “You talk too much,” Ivy muttered, grabbing his wrist, but even then, he didn’t push him away.

“Yeah?” Wylie’s other hand slid dangerously close to Ivy’s crotch, his fingers pressing into the fabric of the towel, teasing, testing. “Then shut me up.”

Ivy’s grip on Wylie’s wrist tightened, his knuckles white with the pressure. The other hand clenched into a fist, muscles flexing with barely contained restraint. The air between them was thick, buzzing with something Ivy didn’t want to name. Ivy could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his body reacting despite his mind screaming to stop. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Ivy exhaled sharply, the sound escaping his lungs like a low growl. Without thinking, he shoved Wylie backward, the movement sharp and sudden, but not hard. Not like he meant it. Wylie’s body hit the mattress with a soft thud, but the grin that spread across his face was anything but soft. Ivy could see it, the way Wylie’s eyes half-lidded, dark and lazy, were far too knowing.

Ivy stood there, breathing hard, every inch of his body wound too tight, his skin still burning where Wylie had touched him. “Go to sleep,” Ivy finally muttered, voice rough.

Wylie just laughed, stretching out on the bed like a satisfied cat, arms folded behind his head. “Whatever you say.”

Ivy turned away before he did something stupid. He knew, at first it was going to be beautiful like fireworks and fucking butterflies. Then it would explode right inside him. The fireworks were too damn beautiful that Ivy couldn't face them, Wylie was too damn beautiful. The blue of his eyes, flowing into Ivy like an ocean, making him lose his balance. This was the kind of love that was going to eat at him from the inside. He was going to destroy him. Ivy didn’t know any other way… Lil was the living proof of his rough hands.

Ivy’s love was never right. It was an addiction, like a drug, but not a soft drug, it was tough. Violent as a dose of cocaine. Destructive as a shot of heroin. It was madness at best and it was going to drag Wylie down in an incredibly slow fall into the jaws of death. Ivy was going to tarnish Wylie's light with his darkness. Because Wylie was too bright and he was a little too dark.

Ivy hadn’t realized how much he craved Wylie’s affection and attention, not until he lay down and turned his gaze towards the ceiling. He exhaled, closing his eyes, but the weight didn’t lift. His body still hummed with the memory of Wylie’s touch, his mind tangled in the craving he hadn’t seen coming, hadn’t wanted to name. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t anything soft. It was lust. And that was far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

Ves watched the slow curl of smoke slip from Two’s half-open mouth. Two was perched on the edge of the mattress, spine curved, cigarette burning out quickly, replaced by another. It was Two’s third cigarette in the past half hour, but he couldn’t seem to stop. And Ves couldn’t seem to stop watching him either. There was something addictive in the way Two held the cigarette between slender fingers, the way his lips curved around it, like a lifeline. 

The bed creaked, sheets rustling under Ves as he shifted, the silence breaking as he straightened, back against the headboard. The cold pressed against his back, cooling his feverish body, but the burn didn’t subside. Like a small spark in a forest destined to be set on fire; it became addicted and destructive. Ves fought it all the same, an impossible battle. He didn’t want to let this momentary bliss burn him. He didn’t love Two, he didn’t do love. He liked the comfort of their ‘friendship’, loved the freedom to speak in sound instead of words, he loved the music they created, the way it made sense when nothing else did. Loved this bubble of silence in the loud chaos of his mind. But Two? Two wasn’t his to love. And yet, ever since last night, the craving hadn’t stopped. The memory of Two so close to him clung to him like sweat, heavy and sour. He yearned for Two’s nearness like oxygen, and throttled himself on it.

It was terrifying. Being near Two was like swimming endlessly up through dark, cold water, without even sunlight to tell you how close you are to the surface. There was only the endless water around him and the only thing he could do was keep swimming in the dark, and hope something would break through. But nothing did. There were no instructions, no guide to tell him where to turn, what pressure to put, what could prevent him from breaking these fragile, precious threads from snapping. All he could do was learn how to breathe underwater.

He slept untouched by dreams last night, forgetting every burden that dared to weigh his body, letting go of every biting piece of himself he held painfully close, he just closed his eyes and let the weariness of his body finally settle down. And then he woke up, too damn early judging by the dark sky outside, surrounded by the smoke and Two’s equally addictive and burning presence and no place for thoughts or caution was left. Only blind swimming.

“I’m not good at this,” Ves said after a while, his Adam’s apple bobbed, neck exposed as he leaned back against the headboard. He gave up trying to catch Two’s gaze, it was too focused on the dark world outside the window, god knows what he was thinking in that pretty head of his. 

“That’s fine. I’m not expecting a love song.” Two’s voice was amused, but there was a flicker of something gentler beneath it, almost like he wanted to reach out and touch the edge of Ves’ fear without scaring it further into hiding. He shifted slightly, finally turning his head, eyes finding Ves with something unreadable in their blue depths. 

Ves snorted. He pulled his head from the headboard and gave a slight shake, “Good. I don’t write those.”

Two smiled, baby blue eyes so bright, soft wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. “I know,” he simply whispered back, and Ves wanted nothing but to creep back into the shadows of his cell. He didn’t deserve the look on Two’s face, the one that melted every ounce of ice in his heart. If he followed the path Two offered, he wouldn’t trust himself not to look at Two. And want something he knew he couldn’t get.

He leaned back against the headboard and gripped the sheets so tight, trying to block out the image—Two, on his goddamn bed, limbs tangled in the mess of a blanket, his face soft with the kind of trust Ves didn’t think he deserved. That kind of peace wasn’t meant for people like him. People who’d long since stopped believing in second chances, in clean slates.

Ves breathed through clenched teeth. He was too used to the sound of silence screaming in his ears. Too used to the chill of an empty room, of walls that didn’t echo anyone else’s footsteps. Too used to forgetting what warmth felt like. And now—now, everything caught fire. Like his body was waking up from a sleep he didn’t realize he’d fallen into. He hated the burn. He hated how Two looked at him like there was still something left after the flames, like there was a version of Ves that still had skin instead of scales. 

Two shifted quietly on the bed, he came closer, until he was sitting right in front of Ves, almost touching, almost there. “Hey,” Two whispered, almost pleading. “Tell me how I can fix everything.”

Ves didn’t answer. He was afraid that the moment he opened his mouth, all that would come out would be a drowning sound. There was something awful about the way Two looked at him—as if even if the darkness swallowed Ves completely, he would still recognize the shadows within. In some twisted, shameful way, Ves wanted to go deeper.

Ves moved closer, tilting his head until their faces were perfectly aligned—grey eyes drowning in baby blue, soft breaths brushing ragged ones, half parted lips hovering near shut ones. Ves could feel the heat of Two’s breath, could smell the smoke clinging to his skin, could almost taste the salt of whatever this was, rising between them like a tide. And above it all, one thought surfaced, how damn badly he wanted to reach the sweetness waiting at the shoreline of Two’s rosy mouth.

Ves soon discovered, as he feared, that Two’s lips were the most indulgent, most addictive drug he’d ever taste. But a taste would never be enough. He tilted his head to press deeper into Two, brushing their mouths together gently with a certain stubbornness, until Two’s lips gave in and parted hungrily, until they covered each other completely and filled every need, every hunger inside Ves, and a single, logical thought couldn't form in his mind. 

There was no room for thought in the way their lips met, in the small sound Two made against him before Ves smashed his lips hard, almost painfully, against his. Until he forgot that he didn’t belong in this peaceful life, and Two didn’t belong in his. But when Two slid his sweet tongue past Ves’s lips and grabbed his jaw in strong hands, all thoughts melted away with his touch. Ves could only feel. The way Two’s nails dug into his skin. The way his hands slid from his jaw to the nape of his neck, something so alive in the way he did it, something so needy and painless.

"God…" Ves said breathlessly as they pulled apart, as the desire to breathe grew and became inevitable. But he hated it, he wanted nothing to limit or prevent him from drowning in Two, he didn't want no float or redemption, he wanted to surrender to the waves and let them sweep him to whatever shore Two might lead him to. Ves wanted him so close, he wanted Two closer. He wanted the feeling of his skin pressing to be the only thing that would never fade, the only feeling loud enough to rise against the raging storm.

Two just smiled. When his eyes finally opened they landed on Ves, light lashes flickering slowly. His fingers remained tangled in Ves’s black hair, the pads still moving in lazy, tender circles against his scalp, as he opened that beautiful mouth, "What dirty, sweet lips you have..." 

All Ves wanted to do was sit with his journal in his hand, scribbling down the words that danced like music in his mind. He wanted to write songs and poems, describing every little detail of Two that caught his breath—every wrinkle Two revealed as he smiled, every twinkle in his baby blue eyes, every little stretch of skin that made his smile perfect. 

"So pretty for me," Two continued in his deep voice, and Ves grinned like a lovestruck highschool girl hanging on every word her crush dared to say, letting it echo through her chest like gospel. Two’s eyes held a certain emotion and Ves's stomach flipped from the bright blue. But Two kissed him again and made him forget everything as Ves tasted his sweet lips back, making him fall in love with the taste and get used to it again like a dizzying poison, like an addictive sin that Ves just wanted to commit over and over again like an oblivious outlaw who only cared about the next high.

Two crawled closer toward Ves on the bed, slow and gentle, until he leaned over and pressed their bodies together. And then Ves could feel him—truly feel him—on every inch of bare skin, fitting into him like the last piece of a puzzle he didn’t even know was missing. A puzzle that had taken years to find its pieces, and now that it was complete, Ves didn’t want to lose a single fragment.

All he wanted—needed—was to rip off the clothes that dared separate him from that beautiful body. He wanted to expose every inch of it to his mouth, to his hands, to his goddamn soul. He wanted to ride him like he was built to take him, like a thoroughbred flying toward the finish line, hungry and breathless and sure of his victory.

The hunger must’ve shown on his face, because without thinking, he shifted their bodies—flipped them—until Ves was on top and Two lay beneath him. The position didn’t seem to bother Two. His eyes stayed on Ves, lit with that same electric curiosity, that same heat.

Everything about Two felt more vivid and sharp from this angle, it was a strange contradiction. His nose was perfectly shaped, not a bump visible along its length to its rounded tip. It was a small nose that matched his delicate features. His eyebrows were thin and light, and framed his face with beautiful sharpness, his cheekbones were high and his almost white and long eyelashes were delicate like the wings of an angel. And those lips… They seemed redder under Ves, like a red, poisonous and desirable apple that he just wanted to bite into. Under Ves's searching gaze, Two’s chest rose with a deep sound, a heavy and desperate sound. 

Ves leaned closer, lips brushing past Two’s, not quite touching but teasing, torturing. Two’s neck arched instinctively, and instead of kissing him, Ves dragged his mouth to his ear and whispered, sly and low, “Let me…” And by the way Two’s chest rose, Ves immediately knew that Two might be the red and forbidden apple that he just wanted to take, but Two was ready to give himself into his hands without hesitation. 

Yet something shifted in the air. A flicker. A crack in the heat. It wasn’t hesitation in Two’s eyes, not exactly. It was something more fragile, more dangerous. A question. A flicker of are you sure? hidden in the haze of want. And Ves… Ves froze. The hunger in his chest didn’t vanish, but it stuttered. Faltered. His hand, tangled in Two’s hair, loosened. He was straddling a razor-thin edge, teetering between desire and something deeper, darker, something far too real. Two’s body was beneath him like an offering, lips still red from their kiss, eyes glowing in the dim room like a promise Ves didn’t think he had the right to keep.

This was more than sex. More than aching skin and a trembling need to be touched. This was surrender. And Ves wasn’t ready. He pressed his forehead to Two’s, breath trembling. “Fuck,” he muttered, the word thick with frustration and longing.

Two blinked up at him, lashes slow, searching. He didn’t move away. Didn’t pull back. Two was silent for a beat. Then he reached up and cupped Ves’s face with the gentlest touch. “I'm not offering a blur,” he said, voice steady.

Ves leaned into the warmth of his palm, let it anchor him, calm the crashing inside his chest. The temptation to lose himself in Two was still there, screaming under his skin, but he pushed it back. Not now. Not like this. He rolled off, breath catching in his throat, and lay beside him. The distance was only inches, but it felt like miles.

Outside, the sky was still dark. The smoke from the forgotten cigarette had faded. And in the quiet, the fire in Ves’s chest didn’t go out. It just learned how to burn without destroying.

His mother always told him their souls were bought long ago, and the time of their deaths will never be in their hands. From the moment Ves was born, she claimed to have built a big coffin for all his demons. Every night she would lay him on her lap, her face bruised, lips torn, a purpling stain blooming under her eye. She’d wrap her arms around him and whisper, “My darling, your life is not yours. It belongs to him. Don’t be greedy. We are just soldiers sent to battle.”

By seven, Ves already knew how to open that coffin, where the battlefield was, why his mother looked like death was approaching to embrace her, and why she never did a thing to stop it.

Every time he felt his father’s presence lurking in the corner, Ves clung to her tighter. He was already up to her chin by the time he came back—always threatening to take her away. But her lap, sharp-boned and trembling beneath him, was his place alone.

Her pale, spindly arms pulled Ves in. Her bleeding lips kissed his forehead. His gray eyes lifted to meet hers as she closed them and tears sealed those cheeks. Ves felt his chest burning. The voice of that man she called husband and he called father approaching didn't stop her from closing her eyes, her dry lips kept kissing Ves’s cheek, he could feel her nose stuck in his right cheek as her tears hit his skin as if they belonged to him.

His mother never kissed him like she was afraid to say goodbye. But that night… that terrible night… Ves felt it. Ves could feel his father coming back again, he was lurking in the corner, grey eyes like theirs, a black silhouette that eclipsed the color of the night. A shadow too ugly for night to contain.

“My darling,” she whispered, her voice trembling like she was standing on the edge of a cliff and the wind was beating down on her. Every drunken footstep downstairs felt like a storm surge. And that night, she was swaying too close to the fall. Ves didn’t know how long he could keep her upright. How long he could keep holding her against the cold that was turning from friend to foe. Her body was already starting to lean. He didn't know how long he could go on, but the loud ticking of the clock above their heads didn't stop no matter how much he screamed at it to stop. His mother's beautiful eyes foreshadowed bad things that he wanted the time to swallow.

“We’ll play another game tonight. You’ll go to the big closet and hide there until he’s gone. I’ll call you out, okay?” Her voice usually sounded like a broken melody written by some divine being who tried to make art but only made torment. Tonight, this torment whimpered, shaking with raw fear. Ves didn’t want to play the game. His father wasn’t hunting him, he was hunting her—and some deep part of him felt like she did belong to him. But that only made Ves hold her tighter.

Her thin hands cupped his face. Her lips kissed his nose. Those grey eyes that seemed to know that death was about to paint them with its color, looked at Ves as if he was the greatest cause of her pain, and at the same time the only thing keeping her from falling off the cliff. And that’s exactly what he was.

“Mom—” The word caught in his throat like a rock. She just pressed her forehead to his, rubbed her nose gently against his cheek, her arms wrapped around him like the thought of pulling him back inside her body enchanted her. The slamming downstairs was louder now. Doors. Fists. Rage. But her eyes made all the sound fall away. Ves couldn’t hear anything but her. 

“I’ll see you again, my darling. My sweet little boy. Be good for me. For your mother?” She smiled through trembling lips. A hot pain knifed through his chest. Tears flooded his throat, making it impossible to breathe. The air was so thick, something was wrong. The moment his first tear landed on his blue shirt, the world shattered.

Boom .

Her head snapped up. Panic filled her eyes. She scooped Ves up like he weighed nothing and ran—her legs rushed to the big black wardrobe she’d never let him open. She shoved him inside. But before she could shut the door completely, the door of the room was torn off with a bang and crashed against the wall on the other side. 

Through a sliver in the wardrobe, Ves saw a hand—large, dark—grip her hair. It yanked her toward the bed, fingers locking around her neck, restraining themselves from snapping it outright.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” The voice was thick, deep, soaked in venom. Familiar. Ves saw the gold watch on that choking hand. He knew that watch. He knew that man. His throat locked. His mother’s head was pulled back and slammed into the wall. Her face went blank, stunned.

The man threw her on the bed and climbed on top of her. One hand pressed a knife against her pale, beautiful neck—the same neck that hugged him goodnight. All Ves wanted to do was open those doors and kick this man to hell. His hand reached forward, opened the closet door slightly, and while the man continued to speak to her, his mother's eyes did not focus on him, the man did not seem to even notice it. Her grey eyes landed on Ves’s and a sudden fear appeared in a momentary flash that only her son could understand. She tried to shake her head and scream in warning, but he wanted to get out, he wanted to help her, he wanted to move this man away from his angel.

His mother didn't try to fight. Her hands simply held the hands of the man who was holding her, her head was lowered. Something felt wrong. Sounds filled his ears, a heavy weight was placed on his chest, his eyebrows furrowed as he struggled to breathe, he leaned back when the door of the closet refused to close back, a loud scream was heard throughout the room and his eyes could see the way the sharp knife cut its way through the air and landed in his mother's throat.

Blood flooded her mouth. Her body convulsed. Her eyes froze. Ves couldn’t scream. He couldn’t cry. He shoved his hands over his ears and curled into the dark, into the corner with the spiders and old boxes. Tears fell silently. His vision vanished. Time disappeared. Everything went dark. He didn't even notice that his body started to sway as the darkness enveloped him and for once he had a shield, comforting him for his loss and telling him that nothing would be the same. Ever again.

My darling, I will see you again…

“Everything’s a mess here.”

Heavy footsteps creaked across the floor. Ves trembled. He had to stay hidden. He couldn’t find him, he promised. He looked at the tiny opening of the closet, his mom's body was lying on that cursed bed and when he looked at the lifeless face that kissed him every night and whispered sweet nothings to him, he realized that now those lips would never comfort him in a moment of pain. Those hands would never hug him to give him comfort. Those lips would never stretch for him with an adoring smile, and the only thing he was ever holding on to, finally fell off the cliff and lost itself in the air as if it had sunk and surrendered to the sea that awaited below. A sob tore out of him.

Ves could hear the sounds of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, with each slow step, the darkness became stronger, until he could see the tiny opening filling with complete blackness and he could no longer see the outside world. Tears continued to flow from his eyes, his heart contracted as the cold water continued to crush his chest, and then he could feel his beating organ pounding hard as the sound of the doors opening.

The moment the doors swung wide open, his body threw itself back as far as it could, his muscles shook uncontrollably and a new burst of tears shook his body. He could see three more men he hadn’t noticed before and one towered over them all. A man whose black hair and fair skin made Ves discover his stormy gray eyes and his icy face that was like a bucket of cold water on his skin the moment those eyes landed on him.

“And what do we have here?” The man’s eyebrow rose, as if Ves were an unwelcome discovery.

Behind the man, Ves could see the blood like water on the floor. Sobs continued to come out of him when a strong hand suddenly grabbed his face and pulled him, dragging him into the light. The man studied him. His breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, like sin distilled. He ran a thumb over Ves’s wet cheek, leaned close like a god inspecting a broken offering.

“Seems death passed you by, son.” The voice was soft but sharp, like a knife through wool. His father's head lowered towards him as if he wanted him to know what he was capable of, to know that this hand could break his neck as easily as he could wipe those tears. 

The chaos inside Ves only made the crying increase, the rage awakened, his grey eyes looked at that face and engraved it well. A twisted emotion formed in his stomach, a feeling he couldn't name, but he was about to intensify it and he knew, one day he would take his revenge. 

“You will not be punished for your mother’s sins, small bird.” Then the hand released him, letting him fall like nothing. Ves couldn't get a word out, his mouth was dry and his face was burning from the saltiness of the tears. His throat felt as if thousands of knives were rubbing against his windpipe and robbing him of his voice. 

His father looked different from all the others in the room. This man was the reigning monster against the other smaller men. He straightened up and didn't give his son another look. Ves wanted to beg him to let him go, to let him go back to his mother, not to drown him into a life of cold suffering. But he could only see his broad back turned against him, legs began to walk away from him, his cheap shoes treading on his mother’s blood as if he despised her. But before his father left the room, he stopped and Ves’s soul stopped with him. All he could hear was his father's deep voice that froze his body.

"Follow me."