Chapter Text
Bzzt.
The lights buzz overhead, tinging the room a sickly blue. A cup of lukewarm coffee in a paper cup sits on the table in front of him, but he hasn’t done more than pull the lid off. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes, fighting off the waves of nausea at the noise and tint of the lights.
Ostensibly, he’s sat in some shitty coffee shop, open twenty-four hours for whatever sad sacks meander their way inside in the dead of night, searching for caffeine or something else to fill a void.
The black hole in his chest opens wider, a gaping maw—Bzzt.
Practically, he’s sat in some shitty coffee shop, open twenty-four hours, because his boyfriend – shit, ex, now – put a fist through a wall and then tried to break through his face with the plaster still flaking off his knuckles after he accidentally interrupted a casting. He couldn’t stay at his flat after that, staring between the hole in the wall and the bloody circle on the floor and wondering if the piece of shit would come back to finish the job – to finish both jobs.
His hands shake.
He flinches as something clatters atop his table and a chair screeches back. He cracks an eye open – not the blackened one – and stares at the only other customer in the coffee shop, who decided his table was optimal when so many others were open and empty. His stomach rolls as he’s met with blue eyes and a fringe of blond hair.
Even sitting down, the man is impossibly tall. He looks like an adult sitting in a child’s chair; the thought trailing nonsensically through his brain. He almost looks familiar, but the kind of familiar where maybe someone who looked like him showed up in a previous dream; there for a moment and then gone again, a whisp of four or five people amalgamated into one body for a drowsy memory. All of the stranger’s limbs are encased in black fabric, and he watches as the man leans forward to tap the table in front of him.
He fights back another wave of nausea and closes his eyes. He wants to believe that it’s just from the probable concussion he has.
The man taps the table again and he opens his eyes to balefully stare at the interloper.
“Who did that to you, sugar?”
The man’s voice is solemn, but he can detect bright fizzy pops of sound in it, like carbonated water, and he lets himself sink into the voice for a moment. He curls in on himself, protecting his soft insides, and wonders when the last time anyone spoke to him in such a kind voice was.
Bzzt.
He stares down at the man’s hand resting against the table instead of looking at his face, and thinks he sees a smudge of something dark against the inside of the man’s wrist. The man wiggles his fingers to catch his attention.
“Are you okay?”
The man must mean in this moment, because he caught his reflection in a car window after he fled his flat and he saw the wince the barista had given him when he stumbled in at two in the morning.
There was nothing okay about the damage: a quickly darkening eye socket, a bruise of fingers around his throat, a scrape of his cheek, a cut above his left eye, and a lip split down the middle. And that’s just what’s visible. He doesn’t know what his boyfriend was trying to accomplish in the living room before he showed up. He doesn’t know what kind of marks were left that he can’t see.
He tongues his split lip, flinching at the sharp sting and the taste of blood, and shrugs at the man in answer, eyes heavy and sullen.
The man’s head wobbles on his shoulders as if to say fair enough, and he pitches forward far enough to catch his gaze. “My mates are outside—” a hand waves toward two figures he can just barely see outside the shop’s front windows: one shorter than the other, both caught in conversation. “They tried to convince me not to come in here. Said I didn’t need any more caffeine tonight. They’re probably right.”
He struggles to follow the man’s train of thought. His head pounds and his ears ring.
“But d’you ever get that feeling that you’re meant to be somewhere? Like something really important’s about to happen, and you need to be there when it does?”
“What,” he scoffs, trying so hard not to remember the squeeze of a hand around his throat and failing. Someone he trusted didn’t care about hurting him, he thinks. His voice feels scraped raw, so he drags his tepid coffee close to wet his mouth. “You think you were meant to find me here?”
The man’s brow furrows.
He laughs, but it isn’t a funny thing. Someone he loved tried to kill him tonight and here sits a man talking to him about right place-right time. There is nothing right about this situation.
“No, sweetheart,” the man says, “I think it fucking sucks that you’re out here looking like this in the middle of the night.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “it really fucking sucks.”
“Let me walk you home.”
He can’t stop the full-body twitch. His knees knock against the table and jostle his coffee, sloshing liquid over its surface. The cup not upending is, frankly, a miracle. His hands scrabble uselessly at his sides. Go home? There’s no fucking way he can do that, not when he doesn’t know where, doesn’t know what— “Who the fuck are you?”
“Me?” The man splays his hand against his own chest. “I’m III.”
Something about that feels familiar, enough to shock him out of his panic at the thought of returning home. It feels familiar, why does it feel so familiar? “That’s not a name,” he says instead.
“It’s mine,” III shrugs. He points out the front window at his mates and says, “The tiny one is II, and the other is Ves.”
He studies the other men outside for a moment. They seem caught up in their conversation, but their eyes flicker back to the building every so often. He isn’t sure if they can see him. He doesn’t know if he wants them to be able to see him talking to their friend.
III’s brows furrow again, and he murmurs, “Don’t tell II I called him tiny. He’ll hate it. What should I call you?”
He equivocates, avoiding the question. “You seem sure I’m going to meet your friends.”
“You should. They’re great,” III says, a sparkle in his eyes. “You don’t have to, though. We can keep it at this, and I’ll leave, but I’ll feel guilty about it later. I’ll wonder if you got your ribs checked out, and I’ll wonder if you made it somewhere safe.”
He closes his eyes at safe – what he wouldn’t give to feel safe. He presses his hand against his side and hisses. His ribs ache, but he doesn’t think any are cracked. “So, I should let you walk me home, so you don’t feel guilty?”
“No, sweetheart,” III says in a low voice that shouldn’t sound as soothing as it does. “You let me walk you home, so you can feel safe.”
“I won’t,” he admits. "Not there."
He feels, rather than sees, III exhale. III gently presses the back of his knuckles to the line of his jaw. When was the last time someone touched him so carefully? Why is it this man with a weird name, and not the person who was supposed to love him?
“So, then I take you home and we pack you a bag. We’ll take you somewhere safe.”
That doesn’t sound too bad, but the thing that keeps tripping him up is that he doesn’t even know this man. He says as much out loud and tries not to tear up when III removes his hand. That would be too much, surely.
“I know,” III says regretfully. “I understand it’s a big leap of faith, considering what just happened to you. But—” III pauses here, and he watches as III turns to stare at his friends outside— “but II and I have already done this for Ves. We could do it for you too, easily.”
This could end so badly, he thinks, but the worst thing that could happen to him has already happened. He rests his elbow against the table and carefully leans his head against his hand. He scrubs his damp eyes and then runs his hand through his short hair.
He looks at the doorway of the coffee shop, with its protection charms littering the frame, and thinks carefully about what it means to be safe.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” III asks, eyes widening a fraction.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “Yeah, walk me home.”
Vessel cocks his head curiously as the door to the dingy coffee shop opens fifteen minutes after III entered. His words trail off, and II turns around to see what the matter is.
III comes out of the shop, thankfully without coffee but he brings another person out with him. His hand is placed carefully on the man’s elbow, and he leans down so he can speak in the man’s ear lowly.
As soon as they come to a stop in front of them and the neon light of the shop’s sign illuminates the man’s face, II can see why III’s so subdued with the man. A dark bruise blackens half of the man’s swollen face. Cuts litter his brow and a long rash races up the side of his face, almost like – no, exactly like rug burn. He favors one of his sides more than the other. His eyes flicker between Ves and II before coming to rest somewhere between III’s hand on his elbow and the ground.
“Hey, hey!” III says brightly to Ves and II. “I missed you!”
“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Ves says bemusedly, stepping toward III’s free side, and then faintly admitting, “I missed you too.”
III beams at him. “See, this is Ves,” he says to the man, “and this is II.” They’re going to help me walk you home, if you don’t mind. More eyes are better, right?”
II waits until the man looks up to catch his gaze and quietly raises his brows as he nods to him in greeting. The man doesn’t smile back, but his expression wobbles as he nods back. His fingers briefly press to his mouth before fluttering nervously down to his side.
“This is – well, you didn’t give me your name, but that’s okay,” III says. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and quickly swipes to the map application. “I do need your address, unless you want to put it into your phone and me not have your address at all.”
The man pats his pockets and then deflates, leaning heavily into the hand III keeps on his elbow. He exhales quickly and then wriggles his fingers. Instead of taking the phone from III, he punches in his address. III watches the app calibrate before handing the phone off to Vessel, who takes it easily and says, “Come along, then.”
Vessel looks to II and he nods. II leaves room for the man as they walk, because it seems like he needs the space. As they begin to move, II asks, “Is there someone we can call for you, so someone knows you’re okay?”
II watches the man’s face fall, cycling through a complex set of emotions before he grimaces and says, “No, it’s okay.”
II looks away and frowns. He wants to ask the man if he’s sure, but he beat him to saying anything.
“S’just – anyone I could call I met through him. They’re his friends, not mine.”
II winces in sympathy as the man inhales sharply through his nose. That sounded like it hurt – he wasn’t sure if it was a physical ache that did it or the man realizing he was alone.
Vessel leads them down a few streets, keeping up a steady chatter with II and III about what they were doing in the city, until they find themselves outside an apartment block. The man pants, hanging onto III more than he stands on his own, and looks close to tears.
II pauses their group on the sidewalk. “Ves, support his other side.”
Vessel hands III his phone and stands in front of the man. “Can I touch you? Is that alright?”
The man shudders but nods, so Vessel slips against his side to help stabilize him. III hovers and asks, “You got keys, sweetheart?”
The man fishes them out of his pocket and hands them over. III flips the keyring around his finger a couple times.
II steps closer, telegraphing his movements to the man who is steadily becoming more and more panicked the closer they get to the building. “Hey, listen to me. I know it doesn’t feel okay, but it’s going to be okay.”
Broadcasting his movements, II takes the man’s free hand and presses it against his own chest. He breathes in slowly and then exhales. “Feel that? Match that. Can you do that for me?”
It takes a few minutes, but eventually the man’s breathing evens out to something more manageable. “Good,” II soothes. “You’re doing really well.”
The man closes his eyes and nods, breathing in and out a few more times. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” II says, eyeing III over the man’s head. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here if you’re reacting like this outside your building. Let’s get some of your stuff, get an Uber back to our place, and you can crash with us for a couple of days. We’ll figure it out, okay?”
The man looks conflicted, but the exhaustion, pain, and panic clearly win over the apprehension. “What if – what if he comes back, though?”
“While we’re here?” II clarifies. “Then I’m gonna point III and Ves in his direction, and let them sort him out, sweetheart.”
III bounces in place, gentler than normal since he is keeping the man upright but still eager like he’s waiting for half of a chance to knock the son-of-a-bitch who did this right the fuck out. Vessel’s mouth settles into a grim line.
The man looks between III and Vessel before his gaze returns to II.
II smiles encouragingly at him. “All I need you to do is tell me what to pack. You wanna buzz your flat before we go up?”
He nods and lets them shuffle him up to the front door. He finds his apartment number quickly and presses the buzzer.
II scans the line to find his name – ████ ██████ – and, oh. He doesn’t think that the others catch the name, but it fits the man. It feels familiar in a way that has only happened to him a couple times before.
No answer comes from the flat, but the man presses the buzzer again anyway. Still no answer. After a moment of silence, III lets them into the building. The stairs are a tricky endeavor and by the time they make it up the last flight, the man shakes and sweats down his brow. He leans heavily against Vessel’s shoulder.
III unlocks the door and goes very still as he looks inside the flat for the first time. His mouth hardens into a line, and he gestures II over to survey the damage before he lets Vessel and the man come any closer.
II steps beside III and he sees in an instant why III holds himself so carefully. On one wall, someone has punched a hole and next to it there is an indentation, not quite broken through, the height of the man’s head. III can see the path of destruction through the flat. A lamp lies broken on the way to the living room, where a coffee table lies in two pieces, its contents scattered haphazardly through the room. In the middle of it all, someone scratched out a circle of runes in blood.
II pushes his way farther into the flat and surveys it to make sure no one was left inside. By the time he finishes and is sure that the flat is empty and quiet save for the four of them, the door is closed and locked.
Vessel has a hand on the man’s least-injured cheek. He tugs his face down gently, so the man looks at him. Vessel speaks quietly to the man, and II can hear the edge of his words, “Look at me. Just look at me.”
The man clutches tightly to Vessel’s biceps, breathing labored.
“II and III are going to take you to your bedroom, okay?” Vessel says. “I’m going to check this out, make sure the spell is inert.”
Vessel passes the man into III’s capable hands, and II starts herding them gently in the correct direction. He looks back at Vessel and then the magic circle, and Vessel nods him along. III has picked up Vessel’s steady chatter as he sets the man down on his bed and folds all his long limbs down so he can kneel in front of him. He doesn’t break eye contact with the man as he murmurs, “Where do you keep your ibuprofen?”
“The – the bathroom,” the man replies.
II comes back several moments later with the medication and a cup of water and tosses the pill bottle to III. III tips out an appropriate number of pills for bruised ribs and hands them over. It takes several minutes for the man to swallow them around his bruised throat.
“Good job, sugar,” III says.
II looks between the pair with an amused smile. III ducks his head, but only barely and makes no other indication.
II hates that they can only ask the man questions, since they don’t know him at all. It has to be taxing, after everything the man has gone through earlier in the night. The only way out, however, is to continue asking.
He lets the man direct him to comfortable clothes, toiletries and meds, things to keep him entertained.
“You wanna take your pillow?” II asks, thinking of how nice it is every time he slept in an unfamiliar place to have his with him.
The man nods gratefully, but II notices his eyes keep straying back to his closet. II gestures toward it and the man hesitates. “It’s too much to bring, probably. You’re already being too kind to me.”
II nudges the closet door open and laughs when he sees the guitar case and amp nestled carefully inside. “No, we have to bring this,” he says. “You any good?”
The man equivocates for a moment, then shrugs and nods. He seems vaguely confused.
“It’ll make sense soon,” II assures him. He turns to III and says, “Hey, grab these, please.”
III cocks his head and pushes up from the floor, peering into the closet to look around II. He makes a surprised noise and shoots the man on the bed a grin. “Can I look?”
A nod has III pulling the case out of the closet. He sets it on the bed next to the man and cracks it open, eyes brightening at the curvature of the guitar’s black body. He admires the guitar for a moment and then says, “Of course we’re bringing this.”
III reaches back into the closet and hefts out the amp.
“You’re never going to believe this,” he says, grinning at the man on the bed.
Vessel stares uneasily down at the smeared runes in the living room of the flat.
ᛒᚱᛁᛝ ᛘᛖ ᚹᛠᛚᚦ ᛁᚾ ᛖᚳᛋᚳᚻᚪᛝᛖ ᚠᚩᚱ ᚻᛁᛋ ᛋᚩᚢᛚ
The language of the runes isn’t one he’s too familiar with, but the intent is clear: money in exchange for a soul. It’s a get-rich-quick scheme done poorly. There’s no intended recipient and even the target, though Vessel knows it to be the man, is ill-defined. Still, the spell is doing something which is worrisome in itself. The magic crawls along with a limp, but it still crawls.
There isn’t an easy way to make the spell go inert, but perhaps he could define the parameters, delineate where the magic goes and who it affects. He pauses and his heart hurts, because he can’t do anything until he talks to the man, and this isn’t the way he likes to bring people into the fold.
Sleep likes a willing acolyte, after all.
Vessel retreats from the spell on the ground and goes to the bedroom.
Oh.
The man sits on the bed next to an open guitar case. III positions an amp next to the man’s belongings, and II says something that makes the man laugh.
They look comfortable together, even as the rest of the night’s events are so incongruous. Something about the three of them together feels right.
Vessel slips into the room and crouches next to the bed. The man switches his gaze over to him curiously. Vessel offers a hand, which the man accepts, and then Vessel finds himself stumped. This is a big moment. This is a fragile moment.
“The spell,” Vessel starts and then hums. “I don’t think I can stop it completely.”
The man frowns, and whatever easy atmosphere there was disappears. Vessel presses his thumb against the back of the man’s knuckles one at a time.
“I could redirect it in your favor,” Vessel continues, “but the source we get our power from doesn’t much like to share.”
“What does that mean?” The man asks. “What was it for?”
Vessel instinctively shakes his head, begs the man not to ask. He doesn’t want to have to tell the man that all this – the spell, the beating, the probable attempted murder – was for money.
He huffs in surprise when the man presses his free hand against his temple.
“The worst thing in the world,” the man says, “happened to me tonight. Tell me what it was for.”
Vessel curls in on himself a little bit and turns to look at II and III for reassurance or comfort or something he doesn’t know. III nods steadily, like maybe this is playing out the way it’s supposed to, and Vessel trusts in him not to lead him to places he shouldn’t go.
“For money,” he breathes out.
The man scoffs and pulls his hand from Vessel’s face. Vessel keeps hold of the one in his hand.
II leaves the room. Vessel watches the man track II’s exit and the hard set to his shoulders.
“You said you think you can redirect it,” the man says, shoulders drawing up defensively. “What does that mean?”
Vessel presses his thumbs against his knuckles again. “The terms of the spell are ill-defined. They’re too broad. I could narrow them down, but a consequence of doing that would be that you’d belong to Sleep.”
“Like you are?” The man challenges.
Vessel dips his head in assent. “Like I am. Like II is, like III is.”
III closes the guitar case. “We’ve had others before, and we’ve been able to let them go when it wasn’t right, but—”
Vessel feels III’s sorrow as acutely as his own by virtue of the fact that III is projecting loudly.
“But it feels right,” the man finishes for him, “because you felt like something important was about to happen.”
“You can feel it, though, can’t you?” III stares down at his own hands, picking at his cuticles. Then, like he’s trying to convince himself, “You can feel it too.”
“I don’t know what I feel,” the man says. He shuts his eyes. “Someone I loved tried to kill me because he wanted money. I feel nauseated. I feel betrayed. I feel… I feel like I know you already.”
“Yeah,” III breathes, not looking up. “Yeah, I know.”
Vessel watches their interaction carefully. There’s a fine line they’re treading here; if the man knows the extent of their gifts and says no, Sleep won’t be pleased. Vessel trusts III to know what he’s doing, but he can’t help the frisson of fear he feels.
He thinks of all the IVs they’ve let go before and knows acutely, due to the nature of the spell in the living room, that they wouldn’t be able to let this man go as easily as III suggests. The base intention is clear: a result caused by the trading of a soul. Sleep is a greedy god, one that won’t want to give a soul up so easily.
“You dream sometimes, don’t you?” III asks the man. He slides closer, pressing himself against the man’s legs. The man stills. “You have dreams where you know me already.”
Vessel wonders how long III has been sitting on this information. III was the one who suggested they come out to the city today. III was the one to take them down the street where the coffee shop sits. He wonders why III didn’t decide to share this information, and then thinks of the IVs that came before and understands.
III didn’t want to get his hopes up. III didn’t want to get their hopes up.
Vessel feels a pulse of love across their bond and looks up. II stands in the doorway, mouth cradled in a hand. Too late, he thinks. Their hopes are up.
The man’s hand spasms in his, and Vessel reaches up instinctually to shush him, to dry the tears that are streaming down his face. This is difficult, he knows; this is the hardest way to realize that someone has been looking for you.