Chapter Text
This is when you really noticed a change in Vessel’s behavior.
Before he was more reserved about his care, though you always knew it dug deeper than he would show.
Perhaps it was the way you’d allowed him to stay with you, the way you told him you already knew that he came to check on you at night, the way you’d been so gentle with him. You didn’t get mad. You didn’t turn him away. In fact, you’d even let him in, let him stay.
And he had decided that that was the point that he could no longer stop himself from caring for you.
He didn’t lose all of his restraint of course, but he no longer hesitated at your door when you didn’t answer, no longer felt guilty for checking in on you. No longer avoided letting your fingers touch when handing you your mug of coffee on the mornings he'd wake up early with you. No longer paused before giving you his jacket or wrapping an arm around your shoulder when you shivered in the cold.
More often than not, you found yourself falling asleep on the couch watching movies or reading, head on his shoulder. You’d wake slightly at the shifting of his arms under your legs and the fall of your head against his chest as he’d carry you to your room.
Carefully, he’d nudge the door open with his foot and walk inside silently, cautious about bumping your head on the door before walking you over to the bed and lying you down silently, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders and tucking it around you gently.
He’d leave your room and go to his own, knowing you were safe and alive and sleeping soundly.
One morning however, you woke up feeling absolutely awful. You could barely breathe through your nose, and every time you took a breath through your mouth it would lead to a string of hacking coughs. Your throat was sore, your head hurt, you were covered in a sheen of sweat and you immediately knew you were running a fever from the way you shivered even under the blanket.
You slid out of bed, standing and swaying dizzily.
“Water,” you mutter to yourself, walking out of your room and nearly slamming right into Vessel.
“Careful,” he said, steadying you gently. He eyes you quietly. “Are you… feeling ok?”
You shook your head. “I feel like shit,” you croak.
He presses a hand to your forehead, brow furrowing in concern.
“You’re burning up,” he says softly.
“I’ll be ok,” you insist. “I’m gonna get some water and take some medicine. I’m off work today, so no need to worry.”
He pauses before nodding gently, “Ok, just let me know if you need anything. Do you want me to run to the store and grab some things?”
You think for a moment. “Actually yes, here let me go grab my card.”
You start to walk away but he speaks again.
“You don’t need to do that, I’ve got it.”
“I insist, you’re already going to the store for me, let me at least pay for my things.”
He gives a small smile and nods. “Ok,” he says simply.
You grab your wallet from your bag and hand him your card.
“What would you like from the store?” he asks, taking the card from your hand.
“Mm… let me go make sure I have medicine,” you say, walking back into my room and into my bathroom, opening my medicine cabinet. Vessel stands in the doorway watching me rifle through everything. “So, I need medicine,” you say with a small laugh that turns into a fit of coughing.
“Want me to stop at that cafe on the way and get you some soup?” he asks, patting your back gently.
You nod softly.
“I’m also gonna get you some tea at the store,” he says.
“We have tea here?”
“Different kind of tea,” he says with a smile as we walk back into the living room. “You sit down and rest.”
You sit and tuck your legs under you, shivering.
He walks to his room then and returns with your favorite of his hoodies, helping you pull it over your head. You leave the hoodie up.
“I’m gonna go now,” he says gently, patting my head and setting something down on the table beside me.
“Be safe,” you mutter quietly, looking up at him through tired eyes.
“I will,” he smiles. “Text me if you need anything.”
And with that he leaves the apartment, closing the door gently behind him.
You glance over after a few minutes to see that he had set your card down beside you. Not an accident, you knew.
You curl further into the couch, the hoodie swallowing you whole. You reflected on the changes that had been made between the two of you. Since he stayed in your room that one night you could tell that things were different now. It was a good kind of different. You could tell that he was allowing himself to show how he felt more openly, allowing himself to care for you in ways that he otherwise used to avoid because he wasn’t sure it was ok.
And you tried to do the same, though you knew that while you cared for him equally as strongly, you cared in different ways than he. Where he’d be observing, watching to ensure you were safe and happy, you listened to his music when he was having trouble with a segment of a song or took care of chores for a few days when he was too exhausted from long days in the studio. It felt simple, but the way he gently would thank you, staring deep into your eyes as if viewing your soul… and all for such basic actions as folding his laundry that he usually does by himself or organizing the bookshelf after the two of you would spend a few weeks reading through each other’s books.
You find yourself drifting off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth of his hoodie, enveloped in the smell of him. Pretending, though you’d never admit it, that it was his arms wrapped around you instead.
You dream of odd things, your sickness fueling vividity. For some reason, Vessel’s friends are the focus of your dream. II throwing lemons around, III spinning around on his tippy toes, IV not watching where he’s going, guitar in hand as he trips and falls, the guitar ringing out around you like a headache. And of course, Vessel himself, carrying around a lawn flamingo and dancing around you.
Thankfully the dream ends before you begin to get overstimulated, and you’re shaken awake with a gasp.
“Flamingo?” you murmur groggily.
“What? No, I asked if you wanted your soup now,” Vessel says softly, knelt on the floor in front of you.
“O-Oh,” you say, blushing slightly. “Sorry, I was having a weird dream.”
“About flamingos?” he asks, tilting his head.
He hands you your soup, walking to the kitchen to grab a spoon for you to use as you begin to recount the details of your dream.
He returns shortly, looking amused, setting the spoon in your hand and a glass of water and some medicine on the stand beside you.
“That’s… actually rather interesting,” he says with a small smile. “We have some flamingo imagery in the upcoming album. Maybe I mentioned something about it and your brain took that and ran?”
“Perhaps,” you say, popping the medicine into my mouth and swallowing it down.
He watched you swallow the medicine like it's the most important task in the world, only relaxing once the glass is back on the table. You manage a few spoonfuls of soup before you set the bowl down and lean back against the couch.
“Man, even my taste is off right now,” you sigh softly.
“You don’t have to finish it,” Vessel says quietly.
“I know, I just wish it tasted as good as it usually does.”
He gives a small smile and presses his hand to your forehead gently, checking your temperature again.
“Still cold?” he asks, noticing the way you shiver.
“Mhmm…” you hum softly.
He looks at you, concerned. “You’re already sweating with the hoodie on, if I give you this blanket you’ll be burning up.”
“Yeah,” you say shakily.
He pauses, thinking for a moment.
“Why don’t you go take a bath? The water will be warm, you can sit and relax and by the time you get out the medicine should have lowered your fever and you'll be good to curl up in here.”
You nod softly, slowly rising from your place on the couch.
“Do you need any help?” he asks gently, watching me closely.
You shake your head. “I think I’ve got it.”
Slowly, you make your way to your room, into the bathroom and turn on the tap, allowing the bath to fill with steaming water.
Carefully, you strip off your sweaty clothes, toss them on the floor and step into the bath, leaning back and letting the water cover you completely. Your head is aching and you shiver in the water. It’s hot, but your fever is burning sharp, so the heat barely does enough to keep you warm.
You wish Vessel were here. And then you realize how ludicrous that sounds.
Then you pause for a moment.
Why do you want him there with you?
To sit and talk, to keep you company?
It’s not like you'd want him in the bath with you.
But you do.
Not in a spicy way (yet), but simply to hold you, to wash your hair for you, to baby you while you’re sick.
You sigh, sliding forward slightly until you have enough room to lie back in the water, drenching your hair.
You are down bad for this man, you think to yourself.
And you’re pretty much completely sure he feels the same way about you as well.
So what the hell is holding you back? You aren’t really sure.
It could be that little sliver of possibility that he might not feel the same way, though even the thought of that makes you roll your eyes because you know it’s not true.
Yet… part of you hesitates. Because if that possibility is the truth and he doesn’t feel the same way, what happens to the two of you? If you confess to him, things would play out so awkwardly and then, gods, you’d still be living together and it would be even more weird because then he knows you have feelings for him.
Oh, but imagine instead of a confession, you kiss him? That would make things worse tenfold.
Whatever tension or awkwardness would come from a confession is nothing compared to how much worse a rejected kiss would go.
You fear you would probably have to move out. Find somewhere else to stay in order to save yourself from the never ending horror that would be instilled in you.
You shake your head, rising from the water and pumping shampoo into your hand, lathering it into your hair.
No reason to be worrying about that right now. You’re sick, you’re not planning to confess anytime soon, and right now your biggest concern is making sure you don’t drown in this bathtub.
You rinse the shampoo from your hair slowly, eyes closed, letting the water run until your arms feel heavy and your fingers wrinkle. By the time you shut off the tap, your head is swimming. Not quite dizzy, but light, like you’ve been hollowed out and filled with steam.
You stand slowly and the room tilts just enough to make your stomach drop.
You grab the side of the tub to stabilize yourself until the world steadies again and then you slowly step out of the bath, wrapping a towel around yourself. You dry offf as best as you can, every movement full of ache, tug on clean clothes and brush your hair back with shaking fingers. You feel wrung out, emptied of all energy.
The apartment is quiet when you open the door and step back into the hallway, stumbling as you do.
Hands are on you instantly.
“Hey, hey,” he says softly, holding me still until I’ve regained balance. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you murmur automatically, though you lean into him without thinking.
He doesn’t call you out on it, simply stiffens for a fraction of a second before relaxing.
“You were gone longer than I expected,” he says softly. Not accusing, just concerned.
“Got… distracted,” you say slowly, eyes half-lidded.
He tilts his head slightly, a small, unexpected smirk playing on his lips.
“What does that… imply?”
I laugh softly, feeling myself flush a bit.
He studies you for a moment, gaze flickering over your face, the way your shoulders slump, the way your breathing is a little too shallow.
“Come on, let’s get you back to the couch.”
He doesn’t pick you up this time, probably because you’re awake. But he keeps a hand at your back as he walks you over, guiding you like something fragile. You sink down onto the cushions gratefully.
“Cold?”
You nod.
He disappears into his room and comes back moments later carrying the blanket you both usually end up stealing from each other on movie nights. He drapes it over you, and hesitates before kneeling to tug it up around your shoulders more snugly.
“There,” he murmurs.
You look at him, really look at him, kneeling there like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I want to,” he replies just as softly.
Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.
He reaches out again, slower this time, knuckles brushing your cheek before he seems to realize what he’s doing. His hand stills, hovering just off your skin.
“Is this… ok?” he asks, voice careful.
You lean into his touch in answer.
He cups your cheek fully not, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, like he's memorizing the shape of your face and you know he probably is. His expression softens, something unguarded bleeding through.
“You’re always so strong,” he says. “Even when you shouldn’t be.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Don’t really feel like it right now.”
“That’s alright,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The words settle over you like another blanket.
He helps you drink more water, hands steady, patient when you pause between sips. When you finish, he sets the glass aside and stays there, sitting beside you now, shoulder pressed lightly against yours.
You let your head fall against him.
He pauses for half a second, then relaxes, arm coming around you without hesitation this time. He rests his cheek against the top of your head, breathing slow and even.
You close your eyes.
This feels dangerous, you think dimly.
Not because it’s wrong.
But because its something that feels too right in a way you don’t know how to undo.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tighten his hold or pull away. He simply stays, as if he understands that this, this quiet, fever-warm closeness, is something that might spook if startled.
His thumb traces slow, absent circles against your arm through the blanket. Not intentional enough to be a gesture, not conscious enough to be meaningless.
“You can sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll wake you when it’s time for more medicine.”
“You don’t have to stay,” you mumble, already half-gone.
“I know,” he says.
He says it the same way he said ‘I want to’ earlier.
You sink further into him, your body betraying you by trusting him completely/ your breathing evens out again, shallow but steady, and you feel the faint vibration of his chest as he exhales.
Vessel stares ahead, jaw set. Not tense, but focused. Like he’s keeping watch.
He adjusts the blankets once more, careful not to wake you, and lets himself rest his head against yours just enough to feel your warmth. His eyes close for a brief moment before opening them again, resolute.
He doesn’t think about what this means.
He doesn’t think about what comes next.
He just stays.
And for now, that’s enough.