Chapter Text
Vessel sighs, one long finger trailing down his glass of ice water, creating a path through the condensation from the rim to the bottom, where liquid has pooled and made a little mote where the base meets the table.
His hazel-blue eyes are deep and hooded as he tilts his head to the side ponderously.
The movement causes his auburn hair - long from the months he's forgotten to get it trimmed – to brush across his gaunt cheekbones, flush from the heat he's just escaped into the cafe he's currently sitting in from. He shakes it away, brushing the sweat off from his brow and face as he continues musing.
His full lips are pursed thoughtfully and the bottom one juts out without his say-so in a small pout that only increases the softness of the image he presents.
He brushes a lock of his hair behind his right ear, causing the small gold hoop in the lobe there to glint in the pale sunlight seeping in through the window beside him before it ducks behind the gun metal gray clouds beginning to gather outside.
He is a tall man, and slender in a willowy, sylphlike way that he spent his teen years trying to make up for by overcompensating with masculinity.
Now, though, he is twenty-seven, and, while he is not conventionally attractive, he thinks of himself as beautiful, an image he's only worked up to after many months of therapy and profuse self-care.
The smell of black coffee - brewed well so no sharp, pungent odor lurking about it – fills his pert nose and he pulls from his daydreaming to glance up at the young, blue-haired waitress that offers him the espresso he ordered about ten minutes prior. She's new here, he frequents the shop daily and is certain he's never met her.
He wonders absently how often she has to redye her ornate hair to keep it looking so lovely and sapphire, and if she's mixing it with a more bronzey to create the brassy tone it exudes, blending in marvelously with her workplace's steampunky, industrial interior design. The simultaneously comfy but cold aesthetic here has kept Vessel a natural regular since moving to this part of London several months ago - well, that and it's proximity to his front door - an entire twenty-five steps.
Her freckles pop when she gives him her customer service smile and Vessel offers her his own gentle one in response, "Thank you so much, that smells lovely."
She preens under his kindness and lingers a moment too long by his table making small talk.
He smiles graciously, remembering fondly what it was to be twenty – just starting out in the world and so curious at all its inhabitants and what they got up to – the wonder isn't totally lost on him yet, though, at times it threatens to slip away.
"Are you a writer?" she asks cautiously, clasping her hands behind her back, her sharp, black eyeliner suddenly seeming very dark and foreboding for someone so bright and vivacious.
He laughs, a little caught off-guard, "Of sorts - mostly poetry and mostly for myself. Is it my pretentiousness that makes you ask?"
She blushes and turns from side to side, bashfully fidgeting as she shakes her head, "You just seem like you're in your head a lot, and all the people I know who do that come out with great books or great art or... well, you know, something of that sort. I just wondered is all.”
Vessel raises his brows a bit, feigning an overdramatized flattered expression, "Well, I'm flattered you find my daydreaming so......weighted."
She holds out her hands, "See? That's something a writer would say! I would know, I’m one as well."
She puffs her chest up a just a fraction – he doubts she even knows it- in a very young way that he finds darling in that odd nostalgic way one often does things people your junior do that you’re certain you once did, as well.
He laughs and digs into his tailored denim pocket, "Well, tell you what, for your stellar observational skills, here's fifteen pound - you go find your own proper little cafe to muse in and I'll look for your name in the someday, kay?"
He reads her name tag, “Elsabeth?”
She nods quietly, taking the small wad of bills from his slender hand and holding it a little uncertainly as her expression darkens, "Was my nan's name."
His face softens, chest a little breathless in that way one gets when they realize the moment’s turned sad. He purses his lips sympathetically, "You're a lovely girl, Elsabeth, she should be honored to have you for a namesake."
Then, glancing behind her at the bustling beginning to form at the counter, he comments softly, worried she might be fragile from the conversation’s turn but also not wanting her to get in trouble.
"I think there are others now who would love to make your charming acquaintanceship, but I'll check in on your adventures later, yes?"
She looks a bit jolted to have been prodded to go back to work but nods succinctly, cheeks pinkening as she turns around to attend to the line forming at the register.
Vessel smiles to himself as she flounces away, leaving him with his espresso which is delightfully warm but cooled just enough to avoid scalding his tongue when he first pulls it to his parted lips and sips.
He closes his eyes as the dark, swelling aroma wafts up his nose before he gets the first sharp taste and that wonderful, cozy, first sip of the day sensation floods his body. It prods him awake and simultaneously wraps him in a comforting embrace, sustaining him while soothing the parts inside that find mornings just a bit too jagged and awkward to be enjoyable without the tiny consistencies like these.
His eyes feel less bleary and unfocused now as he divulges in his morning ritual a moment longer before picking up his phone from his thigh where he's left it face-down atop his pant leg.
He sighs a bit at the dozens of messages already in his notification bar, his forehead creasing as he replies to only the ones that are absolutely urgent and flips away the rest with his index finger - silencing them until he remembers to respond, which will likely not happen at all now he's removed them from his immediate path.
The swiping is interrupted by his screen erupting with a familiar contact, and, even though the person to whom it belongs is someone he sees on a regular basis, his stomach flutters as he pulls the bar along the bottom of the screen to answer.
"Hello?" he answers, heart a little frantic as he holds the phone to his ear, "III?"
He can feel a searing flush creeping up his neck. He flits his eyes around in embarrassment - drat his ginger roots and his subsequent inability to disguise anything that makes his heart flutter.
The cheery bassist answers quickly, completely oblivious to the flustered state of the frontman, "Mornin’, mate! I've got a favor to ask if it's not too much trouble. Are you busy just now?"
Vessel shakes his head quickly, electricity snapping to life inside him at the prospect of helping his somewhat eccentric bandmate, in a way that is definitely not normal but that he's choosing to ignore, "No, not at all, what can I do? Is something wrong? Are you alright?"
He panics inwardly at how frantic and nervous he sounds. III must think he's a proper spaz- then again, he's used to his antics and while Vessel's recently started seeing his longtime friend in a different light, III's never given any indications of reciprocating. From his time spent around heterosexual men – which he still identifies as, only choosing to occasionally glance toward the corner in himself that harbors his bi-curious tendencies – Vessel knows he can safely assume III is not at all concerned with his tone of voice or any particular details about him.
That's just how men are.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," III assures him, "My car's just had to go for a repair – got a flat tire, somehow- and me mum's expecting me today, she's got an appointment I was gonna see her to, and I was just wondering if you'd be able to drive me out to Nantwich and maybe take us there?"
Vessel blinks, unable to speak a moment as his mind and body reel concurrently.
III must mistake his silence for something else entirely as he's quick to justify, "I wouldn't bother you, and I don't mean to assume you're not doing anything – bit rude, that- but II said to give you a shot, since he couldn't- what with his brother's birthday party today. IV's got a gig early tonight and most my other mates haven't got proper travelling cars, so to speak, there a little-"
"Of course I'll take you-" Vessel rushes out, interrupting the man's babbling and hoping he doesn't sound overeager, even as his legs pull straight and his toes curl with an inexplicable rush, "What time? When should we leave?"
Vessel's thoughts race with vivid images that he so dearly wishes he could defer to after this call and the drive is over. Thoughts of having a sweet moment with the taller man in his little car flood Vessel's dopamine-addled brain - maybe singing a sappy, too-romantic love song beside the lanky bassist, side-eyeing him adoringly while he belts off-key and Vessel mellows him out by crooning softly.
They'd probably choose one of the many playlists they've compiled from their other car trips with IV and II, maybe the jazzy one that's Vessel's favorite because it has Etta James' At Last on it but just nearly at the end of it so that by the time it plays - based on the band's preferred traveling schedule - the sultry, soft song starts playing just as twilight is beginning to sparkle and they're slowly making their way through the middle of some lantern-lit city. III's always asleep by then – he always takes the first driving shift, as he prefers daylight- and Vessel shivers at the remembrance of his handsome, sharp face tilted back against the head rest, long eyelashes brushing his high cheekbones, his mouth closed in a thin line, the way he would be lit up brightly and then fall back into darkness as the shadows of the buildings pranced past the car.
"Ves?"
"Sorry?"
Vessel crashes back to reality, shaking his head a little and causing his hair to feather around his forehead, he looks around in embarassment.
No one is watching him, of course.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" III asks, sounding a touch worried.
Vessel nods vigorously, he would only be too delighted to take III on a special trip today.
"I'm fine, just finishing my coffee and then I'm free the rest of today?"
III sounds a little unsure still but agrees slowly, "Alrighty, it's a plan - thank you again, I hate to put you out."
Vessel waves him off, scowling and nearly spilling his espresso as he does, "It's genuinely no imposition, I can't think of a better way to spend such a lovely day than on a scenic drive."
"We're going to Crewe, mate, and it's pourin'."
III's voice is deadpan but Vessel blushes as the deep, rumbling undertone of it scruffs along his skin.
He glances out the window, noticing the weather now that he's not daydreaming, "So it is, ehm... I like rainy days."
III chuckles at that, a bit fondly, and Vessel squirms a little, "You would, I'll see you when you get here, V, thanks again."
"B-Bye," Vessel replies, breathless in spite of himself, and he cringes at the flush he can feel surging up his neck and cheeks, "See you in a bit."
The call ends, and Vessel stares into his shimmering espresso, the foam on top now mostly cleared.
He feels suspiciously seen, looking around as if searching for the set of eyes that must be on him as he quickly swallows the last dregs of his cup. He sets it on the small ledge where dishes are to be collected – since he's not one of those losers who leaves their dishes on the table lazily- and exits onto the street.
It's sweltering in the sultry heat of summer, but there's a light, albeit wet breeze pressing against him as he strolls back into his house just a few feet away, closing the door on the sepia gray of the world outside and ascending the staircase to the upper level.
His ears are buzzing with excitement now, and he wishes he didn't live in the city for just one short minute so that he could make the most ungodly loud sound that is hovering in the back of his throat. He feels like he needs to open a release valve and let some of the pressure out or he may explode.
He sits down on the end of his bed in his tidy little loft-style apartment and promptly falls backward, landing with a soft bounce off the mattress.
He gazes up dreamily at the silly plastic stars that he's stuck all over his ceiling, it's not quite dark enough - even with the gloom outside- for them to shine, but he imagines them twinkling down at him, laughing fondly at his girly imaginings and winking at his dirty thoughts. Nothing can happen on this trip - and nothing will- Vessel's sure.
It is so lovely, though, for just a few minutes before the axe falls to imagine what could have been - while the conditions are right for it to at least be a possibility.
He takes a deep breath and tries to calm his heart, even as it threatens to crash through his rib cage.
They've known each other so long, what could one more trip together possibly change?