Chapter Text
[ BLOCKED CONTACT ]
ii?? hey, man, is everything okay?? you didn't come home last night.
(READ — 13/04, 03:36.)
ii???? dude, please. this shit is starting to scare me. no one knows what happened to you, mate & all the profs just say that you were involved ina bad accident?? i cant remember the name of your tat parlor dude where are you??? are yuo okay????
(READ — 13/04, 09:57.)
ii pls i can't reach your mum either no one's answerinf my questions. pls man i just wanna know that ur ok.
(READ — 13/04, 16:02.)
why arent my texts reaching u?? whst happend?? pls tell me ur ok???? heard some jock student died near campus the other night and there was a shooting in westminsterrgod pls ii just answer me
(READ — 13/04, 21:32.)
your mum finally picked up siad that i didnt have to worry & everythings under control wtf does that mean ii ur scaring the shit out of me where are u whathappened pls
(READ — 16/04, 19:52.)
i miss u mate hope everything's well
(READ — 20/04, 02:19.)
This number has been blocked.
(27/04, 02:28.)
you're scaring me, ii.
(MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED — 02/05, 01:49.)
this is fuckin g ridiculous ii i dont know what happened or whyur so pissy with me all of a sudden byt i can liter ally see the read notifs i know ur getting my tet textsso wy arent you answrinb me ii i just wanted to make sure yu wrere ok is that so bloody awful of m e as ur childhod ood friedn i miss u so much wtf where did you go why did ur mum starg avoidinme kike im the goddamn plague this is so unfair this is so so so bloody unfair and i hate this ihate u i hope ur not dead in some ditch somehwere because otherwsie id bring you back and kill you again myself you fucking asshole e wtf wtf whrere e r u this is so stuopjhb d i hate u pleaese be ok pls dont be dead ii i miss you
(MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED — 12/05, 23:09.)
i'm sorry.
(MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED — 14/05, 04:51.)
i miss you, ii.
(MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED — 01/06, 18:24.)
i hope you're okay.
(MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED — 15/07, 20:28.)
i miss you so much, ii. i hope you're okay.
i love you.
(MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED — 19/09, 07:32.)
This number is no longer blocked.
(09/01, 03:15.)
you were my elysium.
(READ — 10/04, 02:56.)
This number has been blocked.
(10/04, 03:01.)
[ DO YOU WISH TO DELETE THIS CONTACT?
WARNING: THIS ACTION IS PERMANENT AND CANNOT BE UNDONE! ]
II can't remember just how many times he's debated on deleting Vessel's contact number. Though, for whatever reason, his thumb gently presses against the [ NO. ] option once again. It happens every other week or so, without fail. For better or for worse, II loses his resolve almost as soon as the warning notification pops up on his phone's screen.
It happened so fucking long ago—the… accident.
II had been walking home that night, a young student at the local further education college that had just finished a late night of student tutoring and was currently meandering his way back to his studio flat off-campus. While the campus itself wasn't obnoxiously loud, the streets just beyond the lush property were certainly alive with the buzz of student's partying and drinking.
Easter break was in two days. Well, technically it started tomorrow.
II was beyond ecstatic at the time; he remembers being so excited to spend time with his roommate and childhood friend, Vessel — also his long-time crush since mid-junior high and his closest confidante since II could hold a drumstick, but plenty of young university students had funky and over-complicated relationships like that— so excited to take a break from the studying, and so beyond elated to finally have his first major surgery coming up towards the end of this week.
Subcutaneous mastectomy with nipple preservation. That's what was written on the little post-appointment pamphlet his doctor had given him after his consultation. II was beyond excited to finally — well, for lack of a better phrase — fucking cut off his goddamn titties! He'd been so strategic with his financial choices up until this point; II had come from a small family, quite literally just him, his old childhood cat, and his mum after his father had walked out of his life when II began 'choosing to live such a sinful lifestyle'.
(II tried not to blame himself too much when the divorce papers eventually found their way in the post. His parent's relationship had been left to crumble and disintegrate for awhile, ever since it was first made official in the eyes of the government. Both his mum and his dad had been desperate for a big family, it was part of what initially drove them to each other with such strength, but after multiple tests and sexual counseling sessions, it became obvious that their compatibility was limited—both sexually and biologically.
II was their miracle baby. His mum had always wanted a son, but his father was desperate for the baby girl he'd held in the delivery room.
He tried not to blame himself too much for the divorce, focused on tending to the strong through broken pieces of his mum's heart as she went through the papers with a shaky hand.
He…he tries not to think about it.)
II had been so strategic about this part of his life: managed and budgeted his finances like a goddamn pro so he wouldn't be struggling to live after being away from any of his work for so long, prepared the staff at the local tattoo parlor where II was working through his second year of an apprenticeship for any possible absences and/or slight decline in work during his recovery, and he'd been stashing away plenty of FAQ surgery pamphlets for almost two years by that point; he was so fucking prepared. Though his tattoo apprenticeship went unpaid, II had still been quick to find himself a per-diem job on his university's campus, landing himself a small — albeit still with decent pay and flexible hours considering his situation — opportunity in the campus' greenhouse, making fast friends with the botany students given his mum's proud background in floristry. He was determined to earn the fuck out of this surgery; he'd worked so hard for this! And while he had refused to accept any extra financial help from his mother, though she — and, one way or another, Vessel also — was still more than happy to also physically help II during the time he would be recovering; they were both so goddamn overjoyed for II on his behalf, it just made his heart feel so full to finally have the two most important people advocating and supporting him after so long fighting for his goddamn life 'in the closet' as a mere shell of who he truly was.
II was so fucking overwhelmed by the sheer amount of pure excitement, unbridled joy, and the usual anticipation and general anxiety that came with waiting for the final few days; he felt like he was ascending, preparing to be blessed to live the rest of his life as who he really was on the inside. This would've be such a monumental step in the perfect direction for II! He was so excited to have Vessel take care of him for the next month, already planning to selfishly milk the experience for all it was worth before Vessel would inevitably move on and leave II in his beautiful dust.
Maybe if he had been paying just a bit more attention, II might've been able to, at the very least, maybe jump out of the way of the car that had been veered off the road by its too-far-gone driver in a drunken haze, crashing into II's side with the force of a lovesick, starving predator.
II has never been the same since.
His surgery never came, his bones still feel like they've never properly healed, he still walks funny, he can't hold a drumstick or even a tattoo gun for too long without the tendons and nerves in his hands erupting into electric flames, he still has his whole life ahead of him, he still feels like it's all been swept out from underneath his feet, and he still has his stupid fucking titties.
(Spondylosyndesis, open reduction internal fixation, olecranon fracture, twin brachial plexus injuries, fucking chronic tendinitis-)
Thank fuck that II didn't eat metal in the United fucking States of America, otherwise the man would still be paying off his medical debts to his goddamn grave; he's thankful for that at the very least, as whatever costs the National Health Service couldn't cover for whatever reason, II was able to pay off with relative ease. Even better, should II decide to inquire about another top surgery date, he could try again with no financial repercussions.
Should II decide to ever willing put himself underneath the cold hands and the bite of surgically sanitized steel-
(Even now, II hasn't found the courage.)
The recovery was a bitter experience, filled to the fucking brim with unfair struggles and brutal thoughts — because of course it bloody fucking was — but perhaps the most grueling part of it all was the goddamn physical therapy.
To walk comfortably again, despite the fucking steel rods keeping him together, it only took such a short time in the grand scheme of things; it was a little embarrassing at first—to find a young and once able-bodied young girl man fumbling with a walker or with a cane while two medical students slowly walked alongside him, their teacher drifting just ahead as she coaches and tries to encourage II to 'keep going' despite his newfound situations.
The hands almost always at his torso, at his sides were probably the worst. There were always fingers brushing against the scars alongside his arms and back, always brushing over his chest and his ribs to make sure his posture is straight, that he's re-learning how to walk in a safe and proper manner for the future. The constant contact of cold nitrile against his numb skin never failed to make his skin crawl: pushing and pulling at his bruises, poking and prodding at his sternum, always feeling, always fucking touching him. He felt bad, more than half the staff were lovely to II during his time in their Critical Care Unit, but that never changed the fact that their fingers still felt like centipedes making homes in the spaces between his broken ribs.
It made him feel ill; they… they made him feel diseased. II supposed that was the point, he was in the hospital. But their fingers made him feel numb, disgusting, less than human, like maybe the car rattled his brain beyond repair too.
(It happened more than a couple times — the staff that tended to his physical therapy always seemed to be a different batch of teacher/student combos every day — but his physical therapist for the day would almost always knock firmly against the door to his hospital room, holding a copy of his chart in their hands before clearing their throat and saying, 'hello, miss-' and II always had to resist the urge to cringe, or cry, or throw up, or scream, or fucking die a little on the inside every goddamn time.
Whenever his mum happened to be in the room with him, she would always patiently correct the physical therapist on his preferred pronouns, always respectfully ask that they respect his right to his identity before them interact with her son with a watchful eye and a careful ear; she was always so good to him.
Whenever it was just him, he'd stay quiet instead—die a little on the inside in angry silence.)
It was his arms that took the longest to heal—though, even know, II doesn't think they're his arms anymore. They don't feel right, even after the doctor's beamed at him with wrinkled crow's feet and handed his discharge packet to his mum, all while spouting such bullshit about being 'so glad that your child feels better'.
(He tries not to think about whenever most of the staff would be corrected on his pronouns, on his identity, that they'd never say 'your son'; it always started with 'your daughter', but it always ended with 'your child'.
Maybe he was overthinking it, maybe II was simply paranoid—always looking for something to be upset about; his dad used to always have a comment on how emotional he was.)
He doesn't—feel better, that is. He doesn't know if he ever will again. II can't really feel his right elbow anymore, can't move his fingers like he used to, can't twist his wrist like he once could, can't even shift his shoulders as fluidly as he fucking could; he can't tattoo, can't drum, can't be happy.
II feels ugly.
He used to think that he'd be proud of his scars, the ones that his long awaited top surgery would inevitably leave behind for however long, twin monuments of sacrifice, discovery, and self-love; he might waltz around his flat shirtless, without a single care in the world, or that he might decorate the part of his body that he once abhorred to such an extent that he couldn't even look at himself- well, he once thought that maybe he'd decorate the skin with beautiful ink to accentuate his accomplishments, pierce it with shiny silver or metallic black to draw attention to his growing love for his identity and his acceptance for his journey.
Now? II hides behind the ink, draws people's attentions to anywhere it doesn't still ache. He's disgusting, he shouldn't be looked at too closely.
(Vessel always loved to look at him closely.)
They were childhood friends, first—the kind of 'hey, can my little girl play with your little boy?' situation. They grew up in the same quaint little countryside neighborhood just outside of Cookham, II's home just across the road and down the block from Vessel's childhood house. There weren't very many children in the neighborhood by that point; maybe a small family of infants a couple houses down from II, two little girls in their early teens next door from II that he'd always get bullied by for his tomboyish nature, and one young adult preparing for college. At that time, II was almost eight years old and Vessel had just turned five—two years worth of difference between them.
("Don't call me a girl, okay?" II had huffed one day, his arms crossed over his stupid frilly little dress that his stupid father made him wear for the rest of the stupid day; his hair was long, put into twin braids with checkered pink bows to match the rest of his outfit. He didn't like his outfit.
"Oh. U-uhm, yeah, okay." Vessel had responded, shuffling his feet and looking awkwardly at the ground. "But, why not? You... you are a girl, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not!!" II had borderline screamed, stomping at the floor as the beginnings of a temper tantrum bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest. "Girls are so stupid, Vess! They can't do anything! They grow fat on their chests, they have to stay home and do stupid things instead of having fun, and they get blood in their knickers! It's so gross; I'm not gross, so I'm not a girl! I've never been a girl, Vess!!"
"O-okay." Vessel had nodded profusely, a slight nervous glint shinning in his dark eyes — they'd eventually grow even darker still, a brown so deep that they would make II feel as though he was falling into the ocean's warm abyss — as the little boy would fidget with his hands and fingers. "But- but what if I say the wrong thing to you? What if I say something mean to you, and- and you hate me?" Poor boy, II could remember the instant look of fear in a little Vessel's eyes so clearly.
"It's okay, Vess!" II had declared, putting his hands on his hips and puffing his little chest out in a look of pure determination. "I wouldn't hate you, 'cause you're my best friend!"
"Do you promise me?" Vessel had asked, his voice thick with tears not yet spilled. When he sees II nod his head firmly, he sniffles, though his posture almost immediately becomes relaxed. "'Kay. I think- I think I'll be okay though, 'cause I've never really seen you as a girl anyways. You're just- you're my best friend, y'know?"
II beams at this, cuddling up close to Vessel's side like he's rewarding a puppy for its stellar behavior.
"Oh! Since you're not a girl anymore... do you want a new name?" When II only looks at Vessel with pure confusion in his eyes, Vessel simply shrugs in response. "Well, 'cause, uhm, you always say how much you hate your name now—'cause your mum and dad thought you were a girl when you were born? So, like, should I call you something different? Now that you're a boy?"
"Oh." II slumps in on himself, his little brain trying to ignore the way his skirt flutters around his scabbed-over knees. He'd never really thought of that before! He didn't know that was a thing people could do, honestly. He knew some grown-ups did it when they would get married, but he never knew that kids could do it too when the hospitals make such awful mistakes!
It's nice to know that II could have a second chance like this.
…Oh-
"Two," He beamed, "call me Two!"
"Two? Like the number?" Vessel asked, his small brows pinched together in confusion.
"Yeah!"
"That's really weird," Vessel had mumbled, but he also had a small smile tugging at his lips, "but, I think you're really cool, Two."
Later on in II's life, he would later change the spelling from 'Two' to 'II' after the confusing questions of 'two?', 'to?', or 'too?' that would leave a little II's head spinning. Luckily, little Vessel is just as much of a little nerd as the Vessel that II once knew, and was very eager to offer up a solution.
"Not just 'two' like the number, maybe 'II' like the Roman numeral?" He had suggested, nose deep in a book on marine ecosystems. "For ease of spelling!"
And II will forever remember the way Vessel's smile glistened in the dim lighting of II's bedroom — Vessel had just lost one of his front teeth, the empty space of his gums doing scientifically strange things to II's heart.
"Y-yeah, uhm, okay." II managed a smile, watching as Vessel made himself a home in II's bed sheets, looking every bit like he belongs there.
He does. He always has.
"Like the Roman numeral." And it's been that way ever since.)
Their dynamic was unorthodox to say the least—even though it was II who was older and meaner than Vessel was, it was always II who would be specifically targeted. Well, to be fair, both of them would be bullied for their strange friendship. But it was Vessel who would come home beaten and bruised, and II who would be borderline assaulted.
Vessel was an easy target, especially when they were younger. He'd always been an awkward man, not much has really changed in all honesty, but it was something that the other kids could pick up on and hope to feast, like sharks with an injured fish in the water. Vessel has always had an unorthodox view of the world, and his questions and quirks only grew in their strength and numbers as he and II progressed through their lives. Other children always thought of Vessel as a bit of a freak, someone who should be made fun of for his stutter or for the way he'd fidget, as though bringing a negative light to those quirks would somehow make the poor boy 'snap out of it'.
II thought that was fucking stupid, even as a young boy.
Despite being older, II would always be nearby, always trailing after Vessel's heels like a hound hungry for the moon. Children thought it strange that it wasn't the other way around, that it was this tall, quiet little boy allowing some older tomboyish 'dyke' to cling to his side with bruised knuckles and a death glare.
When they were still young, it would start by being teased with 'Vessel's shadow': being tripped in the hallways, being shoved a little too hard on the playground, and always purposefully being the odd one out—II always felt bad about having inadvertently dragged Vessel into the drama of older children, but even the children that shared Vessel's younger years weren't the kindest; they were simply more passive about it.
As they grew older, however, the teasing would soon turn to violence. Purposefully being tripped in the hallways would lead to being dragged away, cornered, and devoured.
Luckily, Vessel was never harmed as much as II would be; he made sure of that. At the very most, Vessel would walk away with a scuff on the cheek, maybe a bruise on the arm. The last time some idiot bully tried to make a mess of Vessel, II walked away with a crooked nose and blood stained between his teeth, but the other kid…
II was suspended for the rest of the term. He didn't regret a damn thing.
Needless to say, the two were impossibly close. They made it through their early years of school attached together at the hip with nothing less than stainless steel staples and military-grade duck tape.
(Maybe it was inevitable that one of them might fall in love—but it was nothing short of cruel that it had to be II.)
He did nothing but absolutely hate himself the moment he first realized. He was in his 7th year, the ripe young age of eleven years old; Vessel was still in his 5th year, having just turned nine. II blamed his parents for a little while, blamed the fact that he was born a girl, that this is nothing more than those feminine emotions talking, ruining everything II tries to touch. Negative emotions — self-loathing and dysphoria — would swim around in II's brain like they owned the place, corrupting his friendship with Vessel and causing him to grow more distant, careful; he would still cling to Vessel's side whenever they were at school, but they'd eventually part ways once II made sure that Vessel was safe at his own doorstep.
II supposes that this was where his little bad habit started—the ghosting. Though, he'd never really known what that meant until he was reaching the end of his 11th year.
But, bless his anxious little heart, Vessel squirmed and wriggled his way back into II's pocket regardless of the older boy's protests. He didn't pry as to why his best friend had tried to suddenly disappear from his life, bit by precious little bit, but he did make it very clear — pre-pubescent voice cracking with tears gathering towards the edges of his eyes, his nose bright red and the very corners of his eyes even more so from where he'd been rubbing them — that he didn't want II to do that to him ever again.
At the time, II agreed, equally red in the face with his bottom lip pulled taut between his teeth.
(The irony of it now—it's all so painful.)
Regardless, at the time, their friendship was revived, and it was stronger than ever. They finished their schooling strong — II waiting for Vessel to graduate before even thinking about how to continue with his own life; it was a sappy thought, but II wanted to stay by Vessel's side for fear of the monsters from their younger years might try to follow them to university — enjoying a lavish summer together as young adults before once again pursuing their education.
(It was the best summer of II's life—filled with the sounds of Vessel's voice, his piano, and II's drums, his laughter at the antics they'd cook up while their shadows practically merged behind them.
He'd found solace in his mother, come clean about his identity and his name, and had even come to terms with his feelings about himself and Vessel.
They kissed. It's fine, II's fine. It's not like it was his first kiss or anything; it's not like it meant anything. They were drunk, celebrating their lives thus far with no one to judge them for their antics. Vessel was curious, II was desperate—that's all it ever was, all it ever is.
II tries not to think about how, if he angled his body just right in those sun-kissed hours they'd spend attached at the hip, it would look as though their shadows were holding hands.)
They found their desired path of education in an FE college out by London, not even an hour and a half away from their quaint little town. Vessel was able to find support in scholarships, mostly thanks to his excellent notes, and was even able to further his line of sight and find a proper university beyond the college. II didn't have as much luck, he was once an excellent little student, top of his class with his outstanding marks, but his interest and motivation were quick to die off by the time II entered his 10th year. His future wasn't quite so bright.
But, regardless, it made II feel so proud, so nauseous, at the thought of Vessel living his life, getting out of this town, making something with his beautiful life, moving on. But, the man was adamant—he wanted to stay with II for as long as he possibly could, clinging to his shadow like a cat thirsting for the liquid gold of the sun.
Selfishly, II couldn't bring himself to say 'no'.
So, they moved in together. II still remembers how much fun the days leading up to their first night together, alone, in their shared flat were, all the playful taunts and wrestling matches that would follow as they tried to help the other move in; he still remembers how warm Vessel's chest was, pressed so casually against his back after having jokingly pinned him to the floor, the yellow-white shine of his teeth as he'd bare them all in the most familiar, unsettling, devastatingly beautiful fucking grin II had ever seen on the other boy, still remembers the weight of Vessel's clammy forehead pressed against his own as the younger boy managed to choke out a breathless 'I win' over II's flushed cheeks.
(Still remembers how close the curves of their lips were, how endless the space between them felt in that exact moment.)
Vessel would major in musicology, with a minor in marine biology; he'd even elected to take a sacred music course 'just for fun'. Whereas II would major in the fine arts, minoring in music; it was more deceiving than II thought it might've been, as his coursework mainly involved music theory, music history—anything but actually playing his goddamn drums.
But, they made the most of it!
Until they couldn't.
Until II 'died'.
Well, at least, that's what he assumes that Vessel must think of him: 'dead'. He hasn't responded to his childhood friend in almost ten years, even forced his mother to never speak of him to Vessel, because they both knew that the man would come running when II suddenly disappeared.
(As far as II was concerned, he really did die that day—whoever he was before dropped dead as soon as the car crashed into his right side with a brutal kiss of metal teeth and the sweet tease of death.
He might as well be deceased.)
II's mother had begged him, pleaded with him to allow her to share something, literally fucking anything, with the poor little boy that she's known since II was still small enough to fit in the cupboards; she hated to see Vessel so distressed, those loving and motherly instincts calling at her very soul to whisk Vessel away from his and II's once shared flat and plop him right into her son's waiting arms. Vessel had been blowing up both II's and his mother's phones, asking about his childhood friend and trying to make sure that everything was okay.
It wasn't; he's always had a bit of a savior complex, especially when it came to treasuring Vessel. It was a concept that II has been familiar with all his life, while simultaneously keeping the mere idea of it further than arm's length away: this idea that II would so desperately crave the success and well-being of a human identity that wasn't his own. Maybe it's because II was there to witness all the different ways Vessel was utterly shattered as a young boy — when the older boys would knock him over in the hallways and steal his handwritten sheets of music, when they'd ask about his 'dog' while glaring daggers at II just behind him and ask if maybe Vessel was a fake boy too, when some older girls in their school had first jogged up to Vessel and watched like vulture when the youngest of the group had asked Vessel to a school formal and then laughed loudly when Vessel had said 'yes!' with the brightest fucking smile II had ever seen, when his parents couldn't show up to his final concert as a Year 13 student preparing for fucking university, and when Vessel had been fawned over in all the wrong ways with bandages wrapped around his arms and his eyes sunken in and hollow; II was there — or maybe it's because II could see.
He'd look at Vessel with his near perfect notes, with his dreams and aspirations, his boyish smile, the small dimples in his cheeks, those shiny, ivory teeth with that one slight snaggle-tooth that would jut out like a fang; the more than endearing uneven line of his teeth, the hook of his nose, the sharp curves of his cheekbones, the slight waves to his dark hair that would tangle between II's fingers so easily, and those deep, deep brown eyes that would shine gold when the sun would kiss them just right, and that would make II feel as though he was sinking into the depths of the ocean—comfortable, accepting, warm.
…
II could see Vessel's potential—in music, in life, as a human being.
He'd look in the mirror sometimes, and all he could see was his father's disapproval, his mother's anguish, a confused little girl-
His reflection would only look more broken after the hospital, after the accident.
To say that she hated herself-
…fuck.
It felt right, to crave Vessel's happiness more fiercely than his own, even at the cost of his own.
And so, II had selfishly tried to keep Vessel away from the source of where everything was decidedly not okay.
(Himself.)
II sighs, glances down at the phone still clutched in a vice-like grip in between his clammy fingers; he flips it over, checks the evidence of his mistakes one last time — it's not the first time he'd done this, it will not be the last — and reminisces of childhood whimsies lost underneath the shine of the moon and the tall stalks of sunflowers shielding them from the rest of the world.
[ BLOCKED CONTACT ]
you were my elysium.
(READ — 10/04, 02:56.)
This number has been blocked.
(10/04, 03:01.)
[ DO YOU WISH TO DELETE THIS CONTACT?
WARNING: THIS ACTION IS PERMANENT AND CANNOT BE UNDONE! ]
II sighs, the weight of the world pressing painful against the rightmost side of his rib cage, adding salt to the tattered scarring of everything that went wrong, his thumb gently presses against the [ NO. ] option and II returns his attentions to his flower shop with a heavy mind and a guilty heart.