Work Text:
Something is making II's shadow itch.
If anyone were to ask him what's wrong, he would shrug, unable to articulate the feeling. It's not a physical itch, but a sense of something lying over him, its essence inimical to his. But no one's around to ask and so he doesn't have to try and scrape for an explanation – he's wandered off by himself for a bit, away from the bustle of kit being set up, cables thrown over stage boards, lights swinging to and fro to test color and pattern. It's a fascinating dance of assembly to watch, but he's watched it often enough lately that he doesn't feel like following the steps again tonight.
(a thought, now that he is alone outside: something followed him, and he is unsure if it was looking for him, or for Vessel. II is not sure he's glad it found him instead.)
"I know you're here."
It's not a challenge. It's a statement of fact, plain and patient. The itch twinges in answer, but II doesn't know what it means.
Vessel's god doesn't talk to him. II has never wanted it to; he's seen what happens when Vessel listens too closely. II does not know where he goes, but there is no desire to follow in after him.
(another thought: if he had to, he would. If it meant prising Vessel out of the god's grip or jaws or the call of a voice, cast like a lure out from the sea.)
"I don't know what you want," II says. He folds his arms over his chest, leans against the cool brick of the building behind him. Locust trees throw rattling shadows of their own over him, the setting sun turning them soft and vague. "I'm not the one you should be speaking to."
His shadow itches again; II shivers, as though the skin of his soul is twitching from insect bites.
"Go away. "
A twinge, as though in answer: it will not.
"Fucking Christ. What? "
II pushes away from the building, looks into the gathering gloaming. He had wandered out the back door into a small space that hosts a dumpster, a cigarette ash urn by the door, a plastic chair with one leg broken halfway; it's a throwaway space fenced in by chain link threaded with morning glory vines. The city – another city, it has been so long on the road they have all begun to blur together – lies on the other side of the fence, shielded from view by nature forcing itself through asphalt and concrete. A streetlight nested between locust branches burns acidic orange through the leaves.
II's shadow feels caught between teeth, and he is tugged towards the fence.
"No," he says. Quietly, firmly. He's not Vessel, heeding divinity when it hooks into his brain.
(Is this how Vessel feels, all the time? An itch in the soul, teeth in his thoughts?)
Twinging, prickling like a flash burn in II's mind: yes.
II steps forward, or is pushed.
There is no more dumpster, or ash urn, or broken chair. There is no more asphalt cracked apart and stitched back together with sand and stubborn weeds.
II is under trees, but they are no longer locusts, and there is very little light left.
The itch rides his shadow, and II goes very still as he finally feels the weight of what rides it.
"No," he repeats, very quietly. "No, no no. I'm not the one you want for this. I don't talk to…"
A mantid hook slides over onto his shoulder, leaving a wet wine-dark stain.
(no. oh, no.)
II has felt the periphery of what follows Vessel, has seen it biting at the edges of the real, but has never tripped over into it before. Has never been face to face with what lives on the other side of reality.
One gets used to just about anything, if they sit side by side with it long enough. Even godhead can become familiar. Uncomfortable, unsettling, but familiar. But II does not know this place, and that means he does not know how to get out.
The hook slides away, folded up so sharp ridges won't catch on his shirt or skin; II stays still, watches it out of the corner of his eye.
(why did he wander off, why did he leave the safety of a crowd why is this happening why is he here )
follow.
The word is hissed out. II feels cold sweat prickle the back of his neck, the hair raising on his arms.
"Rather not, thanks."
(Vessel would know what to do, as II does not. Vessel has been lured before, but he knows how to come back.)
follow.
follow.
A thin hand rests between II's shoulder blades and pushes him forward, insistent.
"How can I follow what I can't see?"
II braces as the hand pushes again; he wants to turn, feels certain turning and seeing what speaks to him will cross a line irreparably. Something is breathing over him, and a sharp fingertip skips over his spine, counting vertebrae.
a vessel but not the right one a vessel second to the first thrown on the wheel but not turned by sleep's hand and so just
who
are
you?
"You know who I am," II says. He is very, very calm, because otherwise he knows he will panic. "Second, just like you said. I think there's been a mistake here. I'm not the one Sleep talks to. I just wanted some air."
you reek of offerings of devotions what else are you
if not
an adherent
The hissing is becoming unbearable, cold and damp in II's brain. Disjointed words that he can still understand, but skipping back and forth over perception, following the pattern of sharp fingers still wandering over his spine counting vertebrae like prayer beads this place is not meant for II it's not meant for anyone fucking Christ why is he here
A branch snaps, very close by.
II can't stop himself from looking quickly towards the source of the noise; there is a gleam of white painted in streaks of red pitted with eyeless holes watching him through the thick dark in the trees and II
feels
something
speak
through
him
Words sliding viscous over teeth, curling off flesh; II hears his voice lift in the inflection of a question. A hook slings over his chest and unfolds, the tip knocking patterns over his heart.
The white-red-black thing between the trees approaches and it is Vessel, but it is Vessel as something II has never seen before: Vessel as he is beheld by the divine, skin coated void-dark, mask moving like flesh, voice honed razor-keen.
"This isn't playing fair, you know."
A reply, tasting like rust and damp. II doesn't know what he is used to say, but the silence that falls between them is brittle with growing anger. II feels very distant in all this: a vessel whose contents are being slowly drained away, leaving a skin for something else to wear.
(a memory from a world away and a thousand years ago: II speaking to Vessel, before names were given up and deals were struck and decisions made. II, considering a strange offer, reaching for it with both hands, feeling he is on the cusp of something he wants to understand.
Yeah, alright. Let's see where this goes. )
(a thought, faint under the sound of rustling insect legs: was it always going to go here?)
The hook taps, taps, taps. Taps a reverberating pattern through flesh turning hollow and II is not II he is a vessel second to the first thrown on the wheel turned by cold hands shaping him into –
"Stop."
II's rider closes its borrowed mouth. Watches through the liquid and lenses of borrowed eyes, feels the lively transformation of light into electricity to feed into a borrowed brain.
"Not keeping it," says the rider. "Just wanted to talk."
Vessel approaches and it's a thrill to feel his presence so close; Sleep is burrowed in him to the marrow and oh, oh it is hungry , hungry for the divinity soaked into him. Borrowed hands extend and Vessel catches one by the wrist, watching fingers curl.
"There's been a lot of talk recently. I don't mind it." Vessel doesn't sound angry, but the rider can smell it in him: astringent, biting. "But no one is allowed to use them."
( them? )
( Oh. Wait, II thinks. Remembering he is II, that this is his body, his voice, that he is still here inside. Them. Us.
Me . )
(there are rules, rules Vessel has put in place, and this thing has broken them .)
"Can't interrupt when a god and a vessel are talking. Heard you talking then, wanted to talk to you now ." Sing-song, taunting, luring Vessel closer come closer come closer come closer. A body taking a step back, luring again, can't let a vessel know he's being lured – but he's clever clever clever under that mask, that mask doesn't go to just anyone, hasn't ever.
Little crawling feelings dance over borrowed skin and bitten shadow, stinging Vessel instead. His grip on a body's wrist tightens and hunger surges like love: sweet, yearning to press against another body, a mouth that wants to open wide and eat.
"Take him off," Vessel says, very quiet, very angry, words dropping like stones past clenched teeth. "And talk to me yourself."
"Or what?" The word is drawn out, t-t-t-t clicking in the back of a body's throat.
(II, who watches what should be a horror with the detachment of a dreamer: I just wanted some fresh air before the goddamned set. )
"No. No, we're not doing this." Vessel's grip is a vise and it's too tight it doesn't hurt but he's pulling one thing and pushing another and almost, almost a body is free from its rider – II is there, close enough to the surface again to whisper, Ves? – and then the rider recoils, plunging into the dark.
"I didn't trap you," the rider says, ducking behind a tree, laughing like a rattle of insect wings. "Could have. Could have dragged you in and asked another to chain you down. Could have eaten you up, but didn't. So talk, talk for a moment, won't you? Talk and I'll take him off."
The rider leans II halfway from behind the tree to watch Vessel, fingers scratching restlessly at bark. Vessel is following, lured by a body he wants to rescue – rescue, isn't that so sweet .
"Come closer," the rider whispers. II's eyes are too wide, and there is something coiled up behind them.
Vessel does as he's told; he rests his hand on the tree trunk and II's hand darts out, pinning it down, nails biting into Vessel's skin.
"No lessons," the rider says. It lifts its head up out of II's, a miasma of presence over him –a face thorned with spikes, ropy tongue slithering untethered in grinning jaws. Voices twining together: "A question–" for a vessel. "Will you–" answer it?
"Fine." A curt reply, made shorter by the effort it takes not to wince; II's nails dig harder into Vessel's skin. The rider – chitinous, drooling viscous sludge like congealed rust, laughing mouths on sinuous limbs wrapping around II in an embrace – watches him closely.
"Oh," it sighs; II's voice is cracking under the strain, divine monstrosity too heavy for a human body. "Angry. Angry, but afraid to use it. Afraid to pull a body away."
"Ask," Vessel hisses, "your question. "
II leans close. His mouth pulls into a grin. "Sleep eats you. Sleep devours you. But you don't stay eaten. Will you teach me? Will you teach me to eat what wants to break you? I'm hungry, Vessel. Vessel, I am so hungry. Words and thoughts and ego and id and nothing, nothing fills me. " The rider's voice is giddy with starvation, its presence all hooks and teeth and rattling breath. "You're hungry too. You don't want them to see, but I see it. Worship me instead, please. I'll eat your prayers, I promise."
"If I teach you, you'll destroy everything."
"Isn't that the POINT! " II's voice breaks, rising into frenzied laughter. "Don't lie to me. You with your wants and your struggles. You can't lie to me. Under your mask and your piety and your flesh you are so fucking hungry."
Vessel's hand tears away and suddenly he's grabbing II by the collar, pulling forward like he's ripping him in half. It doesn't hurt, but all at once the cold and damp and taste of rust is gone and II is on the ground, feeling himself flood back into his own limbs. It's a terrible pins-and-needles numbness, soul reconnecting to body; II rolls onto his side and sees Vessel before a beast, a horror. A wound on its belly gushes an endless stream of writhing fluid, but II doesn't think it's blood.
"Ves," he croaks. Vessel half-turns towards him, but the rider drags itself closer, the plates of its body scraping over the ground.
Will you not worship me? the rider asks. II shudders: this thing was inside him, and he swears he can still feel the prickling itch of its insect hairs stinging his shadow. Vessel, Vessel, Vessel. Hollow thing, hungry thing. Angry thing. Every scrap of Sleep in you is marrow soft, heartblood warm. Worship me, teach me how to eat as you are eaten. When nothing is left of the god we can eat ourselves. Vessel, Vessel, Vessel, aren't you starving still? Teach me and we will eat forever.
Vessel is still, and so quiet II grows nervous. He can't be considering it, can he? This starved madness trying to sway him to a side II didn't even know existed, some private war against a god for the privilege of devouring its corpse.
"Ves," II repeats. Vessel's head turns, just slightly. "Tell it no. Please, tell it no. We shouldn't be here."
A hook raises, hinges open; it rests on Vessel's shoulder and is poised to snip his head off. The rider looks at II and runs its tongue over its teeth.
I was going to take him off. You took him off for me. I can be benevolent. I won't eat him. I won't take a single taste.
"This is two of you now," Vessel says, almost to himself. "Two of you, wanting answers from me."
You answered the one well enough, even chained, even trapped. I was only playing. I was only trying to get your attention. Vessel, Vessel, Vessel. The sea is changing and changes in you and we all feel it. Sleep's jaws do not cage you. The hook begins to close, swinging smoothly shut. Teach me. Teach me.
"I can't," Vessel breathes out. "I already know how. I can't teach myself the same lesson."
The hook quivers.
The hook opens, and draws back.
The grinning mouth falls slack, and the tongue curls back behind teeth.
II, confused as all hell, wishes quietly to himself that he had just stayed in the fucking greenroom.
But I'm hungry. The rider's voice is a whine. Vessel, am I not hungry? You will not feed me?
"I'm sorry."
Another whine, thinner now. Why won't you feed me?
"I have nothing left to give you. I can't give you anything else. If I do, you won't stop. " Vessel steps back, so cautiously. He half-crouches down and reaches for II, letting him pull himself up and use Vessel as a crutch. "There's nothing left to eat."
You would let me starve?
The rider is so very, very large; II hangs on to Vessel, watching it with revulsion. Vessel's still backing away, and the rider does not follow after them.
"Yes," he says, unflinching. "I'll let you starve. If I keep you inside me you'll eat me alive. You're part of me, but I don't need to feed you anymore."
Hooks click together. II flinches at the noise, and Vessel keeps him from drawing back; any sudden movement will break this moment, turn to hooks and jaws and the frenzy of devouring.
Two answers given, the rider says. It sounds despondent, distant. Sorrowing at an empty table and the plates scoured clean. And my answer is bitter meat. Cold blood in my mouth, marrow dried. You forsake me.
"No. No, I don't." II doesn't know how Vessel can speak so softly to this monster. "But I've fed you enough."
The rider turns its face to II, and he feels horribly exposed. "I've got nothing for you. Don't ask me."
Hunger and anger and teeth grinding through meat, the rider says. It's a whisper now, hardly there at all. Oh, I am taught. I am answered. I am hollow.
The wound on its belly flexes closed. Its teeth mesh together, sealing itself up, and the rider curls forward. II is reminded of watching an insect fold up in death.
"I'm sorry," Vessel repeats, and II realizes he means it. "But if I feed you anymore, we will be ruined. It has to stop now."
Go. Go. I am anger and hunger still, always. I cannot eat myself. I cannot fill this hollowness. The rider's head cranes up, and its grinning face is radiant with malice. How dare you rise above my reach.
Vessel's backwards steps haven't faltered, pulling II with him. When their backs hit the now cold brick of the venue they jolt in unison, scrambling forward. The trees are straggling locusts again, the street light bright orange through their leaves. Traffic hums on the far side of a morning glory-laced chain link fence, and the sky above them is fogged with light pollution, drowning out stars.
II is very quiet, unsteady on his feet. Something is slipping away from him and he doesn't know what it is, only that a cold, hollow feeling inside him is welling up like blood in a wound. The feeling is…II blinks. Sways, blinks again. He shivers like his soul is shaking something off.
The feeling is…
Gone.
The feeling is gone.
Vessel is beside II staring at nothing. II rubs at his eyes, feeling a little muzzy, and then it fades. He waits, but Vessel doesn't break the silence. After a moment II shifts his weight from foot to foot, taking up the task himself.
"Ves?" Vessel hums quietly; a sound that he is listening. "We out here for a reason?"
"Just needed some air," Vessel says. He's quiet a moment longer, then glances at II. He's not an easy person to read, with or without the mask, and his expression is fixed into some private feeling II doesn't want to pry into.
"Yeah." II takes a deep breath; something tingling and numb in his chest fades entirely, and between breaths he forgets it was there at all. A passing thought, a passing hurt. "Should get back in, I guess."
"Mm."
"Sure you're alright?"
"Positive."
It's not a sharp answer, but something in it tells II to let it go. He shrugs, putting questions aside and pulling the door open. "Ace. Is there anything to eat, you think?"
"...why?"
"Dunno. Starved all of a sudden." Vessel is not easy to read, and II doesn't always understand him and what he does: when Vessel pulls him into a tight hug, II decides he won't be startled about it, or question why. "Um..."
"Sorry. Sorry, let's just…food. Let's get food."
Vessel lets go, and doesn't quite push II inside. He waits until II is safely back in before he looks back to the little liminal pit of weeds and cigarette butts and rubbish.
Thick, wine-red stains are drying on asphalt, and in the trees Vessel sees dull gold chitin wrapped around the base of a trunk. A jaw open and slack, and a tongue hanging listless between teeth.
He turns away, and slams the door hard behind him.