Work Text:
There was a difference between being shy (which Vessel was, despite him trying to grow out of it) and being introverted (which Vessel was arguably not). It irked him when someone looked at him in the grocery store, limbs hidden beneath an oversized dark hoodie, and immediately decided that he was an introvert. They’d leave him alone after that assumption, leaving him no choice but to choke down any “what ifs” and approach them himself.
Introverts looked at others invading their personal time and said “Fuck people” as a response. While Vessel certainly had his moments where he wanted to scream “Fuck off!”, loud enough to engrain the message into people’s brains to leave him and his band alone off-stage, he mostly welcomed the attention. It made him energized and happy at the end of it. Most of all, it satisfied Sleep, who would hum appreciatively in Her vessels’ heads after each ritual.
No, Vessel wasn’t an introvert.
The singer was just shy, hiding his face underneath a mask. He had always been shy, even before Sleep found him. He hid himself in oversized clothes, eyes (two, now six) darting around between people.
Don’t catch someone's eyes, don’t make eye contact.
Fuck, they looked at you. What do they want? Oh. Nothing. Good.
Who to talk to ask a quick question?
No.
They’ll recognize you, what would happen if they recognize you? Your privacy would be gone again, they'll find out where you live. Sleep wouldn't protect you now, you massive fucking idiot —
“Vessel.”
And the singer breathed once again. The faint scent of hotel shampoo and body wash entered his sensory library, then the slightly dusty smell of the air conditioning unit. The hum of the unit was drowned out by the slightly louder television program being played, a calming narration about animal life in the Artic Circle. A textured blanket was wrinkled beneath his bare feet, and one of his cheeks lay on the lap of someone as fingers ran through his hair.
A hand curled around one of his own, squeezing it and relaxing on steady, consistsnt counts of a second. A simple rhythm, quite unlike the more complex ones he could come up with. But Vessel was no drummer, so he left that thinking to his expert instead.
But this was simple enough. On one of the off-beats, the relaxes of the squeezes, Vessel squeezed back.
“Hey Vess,” II murmured. His fingers continued to entangle themselves in the singer’s hair, nails gently scratching at the scalp.
A content sigh freed itself from Vessel. “Hey II,” he murmured back. “I napped?”
A hum of affirmation, golden adornments on his skull-like face clinking with his nod. “The ritual must’ve taken a lot out of you. I’ve never seen you knock out so quickly before.”
Vessel slowly sat up and smacked his lips. Water. He needed water. And dinner. He wouldn’t survive on his post-ritual snacks until breakfast. Where was IV and III?
Oh, right. They had left to find takeout. There weren’t going to be a lot of places open close to midnight, but he could always hope. If anything, he could always give them a ring to just get some instant noodles from the little hotel shop next to the check-in desk.
He could always do it himself, but…
He eyed the hotel door, then his mask. A glamour would do, including one for his voice, but one wrong move and he would be recognized.
He was not an introvert. He was just shy, and that coupled with those pervasive thoughts of being recognized and followed home dug into his brain like claws and sharp teeth.
Instead, Vessel wrapped his arms around II and dragged him down onto the hotel bed, cackling at the drummer’s surprised yelp as his view of his program became obsured by the view of Vessel’s six eyes.
“Rude,” II said, glowing eyes rolling in mild annoyance within their dark sockets. His golden adornments however, jingled with amusement. “I was enjoying that program.”
“I'm your new program now,” Vessel retaliated.
“You could at least be interesting then. You’re not just a pretty face to look at.”
“I'm your pretty face to look at.” Vessel grinned when II's Sleep-changed skin shimered akin to a blush, golden adornments clinking in flustered sputters. “You can’t deny it, luv.”
“Only because you make it so easy,” the drummer spat back, only without venom. “You’re dangerous Vessel.”
The singer hummed the song with the same name as he pressed kisses onto II’s golden skull of a forehead, one on the sigil and one just off it. “Do you like that?”
“Stop quoting our damn songs.”
“Never.”
The hotel door jiggled, then the sound of the lock being activated by the card key buzzed. The buzz repeated once more. A curse, them the door finally opened as IV maneuvered himself inside with a large paper bag in his arms. “Bitch-ass door. I did the key thing right, why are you so finicky?”
“How much do you think the hotel will charge us if we kicked down the door?” III asked as he leaned against the door to prop it open for three women to walk in, his hands full with a box of canned soda.
“III, I swear to Sleep, if you get us dragged into getting the band banned from the hotel, we won’t invite you to spend time with us anymore,” Patricia said, pulling her copper red hair back into a ponytail as she gave a nod to Vessel and II.
“Espera,” Vessel greated them.
“You ran into our hooligans outside?” II asked.
“More like we tagged along,” Nia corrected. “We needed dinner too. Plus, we get to spend time with you, boys!” Despite the Espera not being as heavily changed by Sleep as compared to its vessels, there were still Her marks left on the women. Golden swirls around their eyes obscured them from normal view when unglamoured, and soft waves of darkness wafted around their bodies like early morning mist.
“We got Mediterranean food,” Estrella said, “and III here got diet coke.”
“Fuck yes,” II sighed. “I love you III.”
“Enough for a night later?” III asked as he dropped his glamour.
“Ask me that again before my diet coke and I’ll give you a buzzcut.”
“No! Vessel, control your drummer!”
“He's your drummer too,” Vessel snickered as he peeled himself away from II. He got around to setting up the food while IV made it his personal mission to ramble about something to II, the two shorter members of the main band entangling limbs like the touchy beings they were.
As they ate their very late dinner, seven beings touched by a god in the same hotel room, Vessel let his shy layers disintegrate into nothing. And slowly, those thoughts of “what ifs” faded away into nothing.
It would be okay. As long as he had them, it would all be okay.