Archive of Our Own ^beta

II

"The faucet's doing that thing again," III says, unbothered, as he breathes a great big cloud of smoke into the cold winter air. It makes II's eyes burn, but he fights the urge to blink away the acrid smoke. He plucks the cigarette from between III's lips and takes a drag off it himself. III grins, cat-like and amused, as the smaller man hands it back to him. 

"Not sure what you want me to do about that," II says, throat burning from the sting of smoke, blowing it so the wind will carry it towards III. A little payback for tempting him back to the vice he was trying (albeit not very hard) to forget. III rolls his eyes. 

"Talk to your boyfriend about it. He's the only one who seems to be able to fix the damn thing." 

II blanches, cheeks hot. 

"He's not my boyfriend," he says, and he cringes at how defensive he sounds. III ignores this, a rare kindness, and shrugs his shoulders. He takes another drag off the cigarette before dropping it to the icy concrete, crushing it beneath his boot. 

"Sure, you're not official or whatever. I don't care, tell him to fix it," he says. He leans down to pick up the crushed cigarette butt off the ground. 

"Can't do shit with the thing if it keeps spitting out black sludge." 

And with that, he drops the remnants of the cigarette into II's hands, and walks off towards the house. II stares at it, where it sits in his palm, and fights the urge to hurl the thing at the back of III's head. 

III was unfortunately right. Vessel was the only one who seemed to be able to calm the...eccentricities, to put it mildly, about the house. Every now and again the faucets would all start spitting viscous, black goo; on one particularly frightening occasion, it had dripped from the ceiling like rainfall. Even when it had finally stopped, the mess that was left was a pain to clean up– mysterious black ichor does not scrub out of floorboards easily. 

It wasn't just that either. The house sometimes shook violently, as if an earthquake had struck, and given the frequency of these events (and the fact they lived in rural England) there was no real geological explanation for them. Occaisionally, deep moaning could be heard at varying volumes and frequencies,  both day and night. Then there was the unshakeable, ever present feeling that something- not someone- was in the room with you. 

II may have been a self proclaimed skeptic, but even he could admit the place was definitely haunted. III and IV had come to similar conclusions as well. 

Vessel had never used the word "haunted." 

"He lives here. He has always lived here," he had said once. It was half past 3 in the morning and II had found him, hands and face pressed to the wall, singing gently under his breath. II could not make out the words, just a gentle, breathy melody. 

"Hey Ves...you okay?" II had asked. He hovered in the doorway, keeping his distance as not to startle the other man. Vessel did not turn to look at him, but stopped singing. 

"He likes music," he said, simply. As if it were obvious. II took a deep, shaking breath. 

"Who does?" 

"He who watches over us. This is his home." 

II's heart hammered in his chest. He didn't know what to say. After a moment or two of quiet, Vessel began to sing again. 

And then the next morning, when II turned on the faucet for tea, it ran perfect, clear water. 

So yeah. Definitely haunted. But at least Vessel seemed to have some sort of ghost whispering ability that meant they knew how to calm whoever "he" was. Which was nice for a number of reasons, not limited to the fact they'd spent a good deal of money to buy the place, and none of them really wanted to deal with the hassle of moving again— especially not back to the tiny, shared flat they'd been living (though perhaps "surviving" was a more apt description) in before. 

Upon Vessel telling them all that the being who lived there (who they had taken to calling "Sleep," as that was when Vessel was able to communicate with him the most) was fond of music, they tried to practice more during the day, whether together or apart. It seemed as long as they played for at least an hour or so daily, it kept the worst of the haunting at bay. At the very least, it had been months since the black ooze raining from the ceiling incident, and as long as that streak continued, II didn't care if he had to practice til his arms threatened to fall off. Anything to avoid having to replace the furniture again was fine by him. 

But now the tap was running black again. A comparatively small problem, as opposed to some of the others they'd experienced in the past. But II struggled to see that silver lining after so many months of relative calm. 

And so he marches after III, tosses his disgusting cigarette butt in the bin, and endeavors to find Vessel to request some ghost whispering. 

He shakes his head, scoffing to himself as he ascends the stairs. I can't believe this is my life now. 

IV

IV is on the couch when III returns, II hot on his heels before making a swift turn up the stairs. II looked pissed and III looked overly pleased with himself; nothing out of the ordinary, then. 

IV drops his phone to his chest, raising an eyebrow. 

"What'd you say to him this time?" 

"Rude," III scoffs, all but throwing himself onto the couch next to IV. "I'm trying to get us clean water. Whose side are you even on?" 

"The side that gets us clean water and doesn't piss off the guy paying our internet bill." 

III rolls his eyes but doesn't respond. Instead, he  maneuvers himself so he's laying between IV's propped up knees, back to IV's chest. He rests his head right beneath IV's chin, arms thrown over his thighs as if his friend were nothing more than a comfortable chair. 

IV's heart races, so loud and fast he can hear it thrumming in his ears. It was a small blessing that III couldn't see his face from this angle, which was sure to be a deep shade of red. 

IV wasn't unused to III's affections, per se- he was just a physically affectionate guy. Regardless of how much room on the furniture was available, III was likely plastered to the side of at least one of them. If you liked your personal space, so did he, as it were. 

But III was also tall. And lithe. And handsome, he was that too. Oh and his hands, y'know, his hands with those perfect, deft fingers that IV wanted to--

Well. You see where this is going. 

IV's poor, delicate constitution could only take so much physical intimacy before his brain started getting ideas about hands and mouths and where to put them and what he'd like to do with them and so forth. Which made life quite difficult when his incredibly attractive bandmate was constantly going out of his way to make sure they were sharing at least some skin-to-skin contact. 

IV had awkwardly excused himself from many rooms over the last several months. He had also made a point to invest in more loose-fitting trousers. 

Even that wouldn't save him now, with III between his legs and splayed across his front like he is now. IV clears his throat and tries to focus on anything but the weight of III's body pressed against him. 

"Comfortable?" He asks, hoping to sound blasé. Mostly it comes out choked. If III notices this, he ignores it, instead stretching so his legs hang off the arm of the couch and his head is nuzzled into the crook of IV's neck. He sighs, comically loud, and the heat of his breath against IV's neck makes IV want to jump out of his skin. 

"Now I am," III says, self satisfied. He's tracing mindless patterns on IV's knee and IV begins to feel a bit like he's watching himself outside of his body. 

A question tumbles past his lips before he can think better of it. If asked, he'd blame it on a lack of circulation from III going dead weight against him (among other, more accurate reasons). 

"What is this?" He asks. He regrets it immediately. 

III remains silent for a moment, but his breathing gets a little heavier. IV can feel the shallow breaths within his thin frame, where it's pressed to his chest. 

"What're you talking about, mate?" He finally asks. It's more chuckle than spoken word. A little defensive too. IV, perhaps stupidly, carries on. 

"This-- this thing we're doing," he says. The words feel clumsy in his mouth. He feels clumsy saying them. He wants to run a hand through his hair but his arms are pinned beneath him. 

He settles for staring up at the ceiling, wishing he had the wherewithal to just shut up. 

"The touching and cuddling and shit. Like-- don't get me wrong, I like it-- I like it a lot but. I just. I don't know if--" 

He's saved from stumbling through yet another awkward, half-baked sentence when II comes jogging down the stairs. Vessel is several paces behind him, looking much like II's sheepish, dejected shadow. 

"Good, you're both still here," II sighs with relief. He's got one hand on his hip and the other runs through his hair as he turns to look at Vessel, pointedly ignoring the proximity of III and IV and their flustered appearances. 

"Would you care to tell them what you just told me?" He asks Vessel, not unkindly. IV could swear he sees a flush creeping up Vessel's neck– though that may have been projection. 

Vessel seems suddenly very interested in the floorboards, eyes not leaving them as he clears his throat. He turns to face the pile of bandmates on the couch. 

"Well..."

III

Several things happen in rapid succession: 

1. Vessel tells them that for the last two weeks he's been having increasingly intense, erotic dreams about the four of them. He tried to brush it off as some manifestation of their relative isolation in their new location. 
2. 
   But now the tap is running black again. Apparently, the mirror in Vessel's bedroom shattered out of nowhere last night. He thinks these things are related. 
3. 
   Vessel at this point becomes very shy and hesitant to continue. II attempts to coax him into finishing his story. IV is blushing something furious and looks about ready to vibrate out of his skin. III decides he needs another smoke. 
4. 
   III gets up from the couch to pop out into the back garden. He discovers the door is locked from the outside. 
5. 
   Well. Fuck. 

III considers himself a fairly patient man but this can't stand. The others can blush and talk themselves in circles all they want, but III is not going to be kept from a smoke in his own back garden, or water free or mysterious black goo. And if it was his mirror that had shattered in the middle of the night, III thinks he would've taken up the occult to summon whoever this "Sleep" guy is to personally kick his eldritch, house-haunting ass. 

It occurs to him briefly that maybe this was what Sleep wanted anyway; maybe they were keeping things from each other. Maybe it would be better if they didn't. 

Whether or not this thought is influenced by his conversation with IV not moments ago is irrelevant. 

"So what, if we fuck it out then Sleep will leave us alone?" III asks, jiggling the door handle just in case it was stuck for some other, non paranormal reason. No luck. He hears the others go very quiet behind him. 

He turns around to face them. 

"That's what this is, right? You think that's the message he's trying to give you?" 

II glares at him from where he sits next to Vessel at the bottom of the stairs, a clear warning to shut his mouth. III decides he'll ignore it. 

Vessel, conversely, stares down at his folded hands in his lap, seemingly lost in thought. IV shuffles awkwardly in his seat on the couch. 

"It makes sense," IV starts, voice a bit hoarse. III fights back a smile. IV's cute when he's nervous, what could he say? 

"I think maybe...we haven't been fully honest with each other. About how we, uh, feel. And stuff," IV adds. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing up at III. 

"III and I were just talking about that actually." 

It's III's turn to feel his face go hot. Despite this, he nods. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans to maintain an air of casualty (and so the others can't see how his knuckles have gone white from clenching his fists— but that's neither here nor there.) 

Surprisingly, II beats III to the punch, and breaks the momentary silence. 

"They've got a point," he says, and he takes one of Vessel's hands from where it sits in his lap. 
"We should probably have an honest chat. About us." 

III grins, but valiantly resists the urge to gloat about II ceding any kind of victory to him. He'd wait til they got the faucet working again for that. 

Vessel looks up from the ground to look at II, the surprise contact breaking him from his trance. He glances at the others as well. 

And then he smiles. 

It's beautiful, and radiant, and just a bit shy. Charming, in that boyish way that never fails to make III's stomach do flips. 

"Okay," he says. 

"I'd like that."

Vessel

Later that evening, Vessel finds himself in the middle of his bed, II plastered to one side of him and IV on the other. III is on the opposite side of IV, long limbs tangled around him like vines, one of his hands stretched fully across the man so that it just grazes Vessel's chest. Vessel stares up at the ceiling, feeling pleasantly warm and hazy, in the place between wakefulness and sleep. 

He finds the heat and weight of the bodies on either side of him grounding. It's a rare departure from the usual anxiety that plagues him at night. A strange sensation, but a welcome one. 

Before he drifts off, he tries to put all of his intention into thinking the words: thank you. 

He feels a gentle weight settle over him, like the air itself clinging to his body in an embrace. 

And then, for the first night in many weeks, he falls into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

The End