Chapter Text
Vessel is certain that it all starts with the haircut.
Walking into the secondhand-book/coffee shop he co-owns with his best friend, a comment about the new storefront across the narrow street on his lips, he’s stopped dead in his tracks. Thinks for a wild second that maybe III’s hired a new barista, before he realizes no, oh no, that’s the man himself behind the counter, fussing with the milk frother he’s had a vendetta against for a good two years now. Gone is the shaggy mane of faded cherry red hair. Instead there’s a shock of platinum, perfectly complimenting those dark blue eyes. An undercut highlighting his high cheekbones.
And Vessel can’t help but think that he is absolutely fucked. He’s been so sure that his one-sided crush has faded into quiet acceptance, but it comes roaring back to life inside his chest at the sight of III’s new look. Heaven help him.
Fucked, Vessel thinks when III glances up at him.
“You’re early,” III remarks, then curses when hot milk splashes over his fingers.
“I have a delivery coming in and there’s new people across in the empty place and you got a haircut when did you get a haircut I mean you look good I mean it looks good the hair I mean not you but you too obviously I have to go get my delivery signed in.” Vessel gasps in a huge breath, all but running to his side of the shop (the dry, papery side) so that his cheeks can stop burning from embarrassment at the absolute deluge of word vomit he just subjected III to. Can he be any more of an actual disaster? He shudders at the probable answer to that as he hangs his hoodie over the back of the chair. It’s spring, but he always runs cold, even in their cosy little shop.
It’s during a lull after the morning rush that III comes to lean a slender hip against Vessel’s desk, where he spends quiet days writing.
“Guessing you saw that there’s new people across the street?”
“Yeah,” Vessel says, glancing up, but not letting his eyes drift higher than III’s chest, just to be safe and stay coherent. Pretends he hasn’t been staring all morning anyway. “Tattoo place. Interesting. For the neighbourhood.”
III chuckles. Aside from their own place, the street boasts a bakery, a florist and an antique shop. III often jokes about having to make their own displays match the ‘cottagecore’ vibe of their surroundings, and Vess had to google the term the first time, when III opposed him putting a weird mask he’d found at a junk shop on the shelf behind the espresso machine.
“I say, it will assuredly bring the property value down, old chap.”
Vessel snorts at III’s attempted posh accent. His own is more convincing when he tries for poor street urchin. “Right you are, sir.”
They grin at each other for a moment, before Vess drops his gaze back to his laptop screen, because III’s laugh-lines make him want to cry.
“Guess you’re not gonna support local business and get some ink?” III teases, and Vessel rolls his eyes.
“After you, mate.”
Whatever III starts to reply is cut off by the bell above the door, and he turns to help whoever came in. For a long second, Vessel tries to get back into the screenplay he’s writing, only to decide that it’s futile and he needs coffee to get his brain back in order. He gets up, barely sparing a glance for two men waiting for their drinks, their low voices drowned out by the sound of milk being steamed. He edges around III to fill his own mug from the old coffeepot that’s kept only for his benefit. There’s the usual disapproving face from III that quickly turns to his best customer service smile when he goes to hand the customers their coffees.
“Do you happen to be working at the new shop?” III asks the men, who both give an affirmative along with their thanks.
Vessel looks at them over the rim of his mug, notes the tattoos and piercings and sees how III made the connection. Then he does a double-take, his mug nearly slipping from his suddenly numb fingers. He sets it down clumsily, tepid coffee spilling, but he barely notices, stumbling forward until his stomach hits the counter separating him from the short man stirring sugar into a latte.
“T-two?” His voice is all breath, hardly sound, but the man’s head snaps up nevertheless. There’s a beat of silence, blue eyes widening in recognition as they land on Vessel’s face.
“Two?” III asks, shattering the moment.
II smiles, a small, slow thing. “No one’s called me that in… forever. Hi, Vess.”
“Hi.” Vessel feels like his heart is beating too slow, like it’s going to give out on him, like it’s finally decided it can’t do this anymore.
“Two?” This time from the other man, looking between them, at the same time that III asks; “You know each other?”
“It’s a nickname,” II answers. “Vessel gave it to me at secondary school, because I used to draw drumsticks on my homework and they kinda look like… nevermind,” he shakes his head, still smiling up at Vessel. “How have you been?”
“I… good. Been good. You?” Vessel used to be able to speak in full sentences, he’s quite certain of that.
“Good.”
Another beat of silence. Vessel opens his mouth to say… something. Then the other man interrupts after a glance out the window.
“Fucking finally.”
II follows his stare to where a van has pulled up with the name of a lighting company. “About time,” he mutters with an eyeroll, then turns back to Vessel. “We have to go, but I’ll see you, yeah?”
Vessel just nods, frozen as he watches II leave with his friend. Despite the tattoos and the nose and lip piercings, Vessel thinks he hasn’t changed that much in the decade or so since they’d last seen each other. His hair is longer, now. Vessel chokes back a hysterical giggle at the thought of both II and III having different hair. As if the errant thought calls his attention, III turns fully toward Vessel.
“Two, huh? Bit weird to name your friends like that, innit? But I guess it’s helpful for us, yeah? Shows us where we rank? How important we are? Is that it?”
Vessel isn’t prepared for the hurt on III’s face. “No, that’s not…”
“Spare me.” III steps sharply past him. “I’m having a smoke, man the counter.” There’s anger in his voice when he walks away, leaving Vess alone, spiralling in the maelstrom of his own mind.