Chapter Text
Vessel wasn't really the sort of person one would describe as impatient, but when it came to art, being forced to sit around and wait put him in a foul mood.
So, there he was, sitting on an old leather sofa in an old farmhouse, waiting to carry on while his brain wrestled with a very specific prosody. *
And all because of a minor technical issue with the microphone. Normally Daniel would have said, let's work on something with the guitar or the bass. A sensible idea, if that rebellious little brain of his wasn't so intent on getting this one line right.
Right now.
For all the trust he had in his musical abilities, he also knew that if he moved on, there were too many other ideas waiting in the pipeline. The line would disappear into the depths of his mind and stay there.
There were plenty of drawbacks to his brain and the way it handled emotions, memories, and defence mechanisms but when it came to music, he trusted his instincts. They knew how to outsmart the chaos.
He knew it was terribly inconvenient and that Daniel was probably grumbling about how difficult he was making things. But there was another person entirely on his side, fighting for that same perfection and backing him up.
The same person who had defended his antics by arguing that it was exactly these little details that had given them the opportunity to record this track in the first place.
On their album. Their very first one.
They'd received that phenomenal news the day before and, because of that little tidbit, the three of them had sat down with management in Daniel's kitchen that very morning to have the important discussion. Daniel had been given the green light to produce the album.
Said person, who had of course been sitting at the same table that morning while they discussed how they wanted to approach everything.
Said person who had handled the conversation with management because, honestly, who was he kidding? He was a complete wreck when it came to formal matters.
And said person who was still sitting beside him now on the old sofa in the dusty farmhouse that had been converted into a studio.
Even though he had absolutely nothing to do with today's recording session, he'd stayed.
Stayed to see where he could add a beat.
Stayed to help Vessel sort through the dozens of thoughts crowding his head.
If the last few people he'd allowed into his life had been punishment for old sins, then II was every apology and every reward for having endured them. He didn't know anyone in his life who possessed as much trust and patience as the drummer who had dug himself so deeply into it.
How often had Vessel wished for someone by his side who didn't make him feel as though he was too much? Someone willing to commit.
The answer to all that yearning was the man currently leaning forward and occupying himself with a packet of skittles instead of escaping the tedious waiting.
After all, there was no reason for him to be here, was his part usually the last thing they recorded.
Vessel was more than grateful that he and Daniel had found each other at exactly the right time. Both of them at similar points in their careers, meaning neither owed the other anything. Neither stood in the other's debt.
And Daniel was one of the few people who saw potential in him. One of the few people who showered him with praise for his musical craftsmanship and the way he wove harmonies together. That wasn't exactly the norm in the genre he worked in.
But what was music if not a sandbox? A place to see how a build worked rather than confining it to a single corner and insisting it belonged nowhere else.
Having II on speed dial, a man who was thoroughly bored with the niche he'd found himself in and who approached new ideas and technical challenges like a fish to water, felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
So much luck made him fear it would eventually run out.
Contrary to what Vessel had expected, II had never given the slightest indication that he was tired of him or that he'd lost interest in bringing the pianist's ridiculous ideas to life. If anything, he added even more ideas to the pile and kept building upon the castle in the air until neither of them could tell where Vessel's contribution ended and II's began.
Nothing remained of Vessel's original nervousness and awkwardness. Even if he still occasionally wondered how the two of them fit together at all. He was fully aware that he was still a nerdy music obsessive who looked more like a joke than a serious musician standing beside a metal drummer. Yet the other man never made him feel that way.
Not when he approached him with some ridiculous phrase that had come to him in the shower and might work as a lyric.
Not when he asked where a beat would fit best or which element should be pushed further into the background.
Not when he reminded him to drink water instead of reaching for a third coffee because his fingers had started trembling over the keyboard.
Not when every ghost note he played on his drum kit existed solely to underline what Vessel had created and push the message further.
And now he was sitting beside him, even though there were surely more productive things he could have been doing. Armed with a bag of Skittles they'd grabbed from a kiosk that morning on the way to Daniel's place.
Only to now spend his full concentration pushing them into differently coloured piles across the low oak coffee table.
One would think that the otherwise stoic and straightforward drummer would simply tear open the bag and shove a handful into his mouth.
But there was a method to it that he firmly believed in. After all, every colour tasted different and mixing them would only cancel out the flavours.
For all of Vessel's disbelief, silence hung over the little farmhouse. An unnatural silence.
Usually, the place was filled with basslines and melodies whenever they occupied it.
Instead, the first thing his attention landed on was a small strip of skin visible between the drummer's hoodie and jeans. Entirely insignificant.
Or it should have been.
Had it not become almost absurd how much that patch of pale skin occupied his thought with everything else on II's body was covered in art. Except for that small stretch of bare skin that somehow looked vulnerable.
Dotted with a few freckles.
Sparse and faint because the sun probably never reached that spot often enough to coax them into multiplying.
Everything in Vessel's head seemed drawn towards that patch of skin. That and the sheer ridiculousness of II's current activity.
Why couldn't he look away from it? And why was it making him forget all the things he would normally spend his time overthinking?
His attention was still fixed on that single patch of skin when the blond man suddenly moved and turned towards him.
Warmth rushed straight to his ears, as his gaze snapped upwards in a hurry, landing on the drummer's face instead.
Which wasn't remotely helpful. Now he was forced to focus on those blue eyes.
The short stubble he'd been letting grow for the past four days because the only people he had to face were Daniel and Vessel himself.
Not to mention the small scar beneath his right nostril. A scar he hadn't acquired during some reckless moment with an instrument.
No.
That one had come from drunkenly losing a fight with a fridge.
“Here. Orange was your favourite, wasn't it?”
The moment the man held out the brightly coloured sweets towards him, Vessel finally understood what had captured him, though he'd never imagined applying it to someone of the same sex.
He was fucked.
Utterly and completely fucked.
It was the last thing he'd ever wanted to feel again. Especially for someone he wanted to keep in his life.
Because, let's be honest, the last two times it had happened hadn't exactly ended well for him.
But it all came full circle, that nothing in his brain could ever be easy.
Nothing could simply be good and pleasant.
Everything had to be turned up to full volume.
And now it wouldn't only ruin the one friendship he'd ever had that didn't feel one-sided.
Now it could very well destroy the budding career he was pouring all his energy into.
It was then, with that soft smile on the drummer's face, his rough hands from years of manual labour on display and a few little sweets resting in his palm, that Vessel finally knew.
This was love.
And he was going to try and let it die.