Work Text:
Vessel wants to snap his pen in half.
But it’s his favorite one...
And then there would be ink everywhere...
He settles for throwing the pen down on the desk and crumpling up the page in front of him—just like the last several dozen—before turning to throw it out the door. II’s head appears in the doorway just in time for the paper to hit the center of his forehead.
“I was coming to ask how the writing was going, but—” II bends to pick the paper off the floor. “—not well, I see.”
Vessel puts his head in his hands. “Nothing I write down is good enough for the new album.”
“Are you being too hard on yourself again?”
Vessel’s response is interrupted by a knock on the door frame.
III and Ivy stand on the threshold, the guitarist’s knuckles raised to the wood. “We heard voices,” Ivy says softly, “Figured your focus time had wrapped up.”
“I suppose it has now,” Vessel says, sinking down in his chair.
II frowns and gestures to the discarded pages covering the floor of the office. “Is all this scrapped ideas?”
Vessel nods.
“You haven’t liked anything you’ve written for a while now.”
Vessel folds his arms. “I can’t fucking concentrate. Not with management breathing down my neck about every little thing.”
III walks past Ivy to sprawl across the sofa. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
As if on cue, Vessel’s phone chimes. While he retrieves it from his pocket, it chimes a second time. Then rings. He groans and tosses it onto the desk before scrubbing his palms down his face. II silences the ringer.
Ivy speaks up from where he leans against the doorway. “You need a vacation.”
“No, Ives, I need to get these bloody lyrics—”
“Shut up for a second,” II cuts him off. “Ivy’s right.”
Vessel raises a brow.
“You need a writing retreat,” II explains, “completely disconnected from all the bullshit. Somewhere you can focus on just your music.”
“Somewhere pretty,” III adds.
Vessel chews his lip. “But what about—” His phone rings again. “—that.”
II silences it again. He fixes the singer with a determined look, and says simply, “We’ll handle it.”
Vessel looks up at him. When he finds no room for an argument on his drummer’s face, he sighs. “You spoil me.”
—
A few days later, Vessel stands outside the airport with his bags packed for the southern coast of Spain.
“It’s just a couple of weeks,” II says as he pulls Vessel into a hug.
“I know…” Vessel grumbles into the drummer’s shoulder. When he pulls away, his brows are furrowed. “But what if—”
Ivy interrupts the protest with his own bear hug, knocking the wind out of him. “We can handle things while you’re gone. Promise.”
“No, no, I know,” Vessel says. He has trouble fully believing it, but he trusts them. II made it clear that no one from the label or management was to bother the singer—and continues to staunchly deny having to threaten anyone with violence. Regardless, Vessel still feels uneasy. He pulls away from Ivy and flexes his hands, trying to dispel the buzzing in his veins. “It’s just—”
“He’s just got separation anxiety,” III teases as he takes his turn to embrace him. “We’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. It’ll be good for you.”
When they finally wrap up their goodbyes, Vessel turns back to look at the others.
II smiles. “You deserve this,” the drummer assures him.
Vessel smiles in response. It doesn’t meet his eyes. As he goes through airport security, his thoughts turn bitter. He deserves this? What, to be sent away? Alone?
The singer catches himself, and takes a slow breath. He’s just being dramatic. That type of thinking won’t help. It won’t help him get through this exile vacation, and it won’t help him write this album. He knows the others are right.
By the time his flight starts to board, Vessel is calmer. When he scans his ticket, he feels almost—almost—optimistic.
He really should be paying his therapist more.
—
The others were, indeed, right.
Vessel leans on the wrought iron railing of his suite’s balcony to look out at the resort’s tiled rooftops and the sparkling teal waters just beyond. The breeze is soft and warm where it grazes his skin. He can smell the sea. He can hear the gulls overhead, and the rustling palms below.
It’s absolutely wonderful.
And he’s absolutely miserable.
It’s not like he’s incapable of being away from the others—it’s only been a few days, after all. He just misses them. He calls them in the evenings, and texts them pictures of things throughout the day, but still. He feels their absence like… well, like missing limbs. The singer rolls his eyes at himself.
Vessel tries not to stay cooped up at the resort, and goes sightseeing to nearby towns. He marvels at the Moorish architecture of a historic palace. The intricate gold detailing on the organ inside a monumental cathedral. The sharply angled tree branches of a metallic sculpture downtown. He brings notebooks with him for every excursion, and each one is filled with hastily scrawled ideas by the time he catches the bus back to the coast in the evenings.
Unfortunately, the singer sees more than just inspiration.
He sees the others in everything.
In town, there’s a street musician on the corner that II would really enjoy. At breakfast, he spots a funny bird that III would definitely make fun of. The sunsets are breathtaking, but his phone camera doesn’t do it any justice when he tries to send a photo to Ivy.
When he’s not out exploring and brainstorming, he’s in his suite composing and refining. There are no calls from the label, and no frantic messages from management. There is only peace, solitude, and time.
There’s so… much… time.
With the lack of company, the days seem to lengthen, stretching and distorting like the evening shadows. Vessel tries to keep his mind on his work, and away from the gnawing discomfort of being alone.
He spends one entire afternoon on the balcony, solidifying a bridge that’s been giving him trouble. When he finally cracks it, he excitedly turns around in his chair. His mouth is already open, ready to to yell over his shoulder out of habit to tell the others, but the words die in his throat. The suite is empty.
The only movement comes from the curtains shifting in the gentle breeze, and his heart dropping.
Nothing else gets written that day.
After the sun sets, around the same time as the past several nights, his phone lights up with a call from Ivy.
Vessel picks up before the first ring finishes. “Hey, Ives.”
II’s voice responds. “Hey Vess. It’s me. How’s the writing going?”
“Oh, still really, really well.” Vessel tries to keep the despondency from creeping into his voice. “You and Ivy were right.”
III’s voice is muffled, but can still be heard in the background. “I was right, too! I said somewhere pretty!”
Vessel smiles. “Thank you. It really is beautiful here.”
“Then why do you sound so sad?” II asks.
Shit.
“The lyrics aren’t taking you back to a dark place, are they?” II presses.
“No, it’s not that,” Vessel answers. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
Vessel looses a long breath, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in defeat. He answers quietly, almost a whisper, “I just miss you.”
“Vess…” II’s voice is gentle.
“It’s stupid. I know it’s only been a week, and I’ll see you in one more, but—” Vessel’s voice breaks.
The other end of the line is quiet for a long moment. Vessel tries to keep his breathing under control.
Then Ivy’s voice comes through the speaker. “Vess? Two said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Hey Ives. No, well yeah, but…” Vessel blinks hard. “It’s not a big deal. Why was Two calling from your phone?”
“He was worried his phone would get another call. Management is up his arse about something new every day. He didn’t want anything to interrupt this.”
Vessel huffs a tragic laugh.
“Hey,” Ivy says, “you wanna hear something to cheer you up?”
“Sure.”
Ivy’s voice is muted as he yells away from the phone, “Three! Come tell Vessel about that thing with the hot sauce!”
—
The next day, Vessel can’t shake the lingering melancholy.
It drapes over him, clinging to his skin like wet silk. The colors of the morning sunrise are dull and hazy as the light tries to filter through the drawn curtains. He orders room service instead of going downstairs to dine on the main patio, although the food remains mostly untouched.
He attempts to get some writing done anyway. But the words that flow from his pen are… dour, to say the least. It’s not exactly the energy he wants for the next album.
His mood continues to worsen throughout the day. By the afternoon, his jaw aches from gritting his teeth. The bin next to the desk is filled with pages—some crumpled, some completely torn apart. When he tries to throw yet another scrap of paper into the rubbish, it merely bounces off the top of the pile and falls to the floor.
He stares at the bin sullenly, and sighs. He feels fucking pathetic.
Vessel allows himself a brief moment to wallow in self-pity before forcing his tense body to stand. It shuffles to the bedroom without him making the decision. He soon finds himself bundled beneath the covers, his arms using the soft Egyptian cotton as a shield against the growing guilt.
His mind tries to fight off the tightness in his throat with rational arguments. He wasn’t getting any writing done. He was just torturing himself. He can be allowed a day to rest. He can afford one day.
Vessel ignores the growing dampness on the pillow, and shuts his eyes.
—
“Where the fuck could he be?”
“How should I know? He’s not been answering his phone.”
“Maybe he’s gone sightseeing again. We should—”
“Shush! He’s in here.”
Vessel is slowly pulled from sleep by the sound of several people talking. As his mind fights to drag itself out of his rather heavy nap, it struggles to make sense of the voices. They’re comfortingly familiar, but they’re muffled. They sound close by. They sound like…
They sound like they’re in his suite.
Vessel’s eyes fly open.
His vision is filled with II.
As he realizes he’s not about to be murdered in his sleep, any relief he feels is quickly replaced by confusion. II is standing at the side of his bed. In his suite. In Spain.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
Vessel’s eyes follow the voice to find Ivy leaning in the doorway. III stands beside him, gripping a rolling suitcase.
“What—” Vessel’s voice come out weak as he tries to sit up. He clears his throat and says louder, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
III snorts. “Nice to see you too, Vess.” The bassist turns to the others. “C’mon guys, he isn’t even happy to see us, let’s head back to the airport.”
Vessel launches a pillow at his head.
“We were worried about you,” II explains. He sits on the edge of the bed slowly, as if trying not to startle a stray animal. “We booked the first flight we could, to surprise you.”
Ivy snatches the pillow from III before it can be thrown again, and adds, “Two didn’t like how you sounded on the phone. So we’re gonna keep you company for the rest of your retreat.”
“Is that okay?” II asks. His eyes dart between Vessel’s. “If you want time alone after all, just say the word.”
“But if you say to leave, we probably won’t listen,” III says. “On the phone, you, err… You didn’t sound alright.”
Vessel blinks the sleep out of his eyes, and looks between his bandmates—no, his family—at a loss for words. His breath hitches. The second his chin begins to wobble, he’s surrounded on all sides by three sets of arms hugging him in a tangled heap.
After a long moment, Vessel pulls back to look at them. He sniffles, smiling. “You spoil me.”
—
After a night of unpacking, and a breakfast filled with reassurances, the four of them lounge in the suite the next morning.
Vessel sits at the desk while Ivy leans over him to peek at some of his new compositions. III flops onto the sofa, earning a glare from II as the drummer sits and types on his phone.
III tuts at him. “Working on holiday. Honestly you’re just as bad as Vessel.”
“I just have to send this last email,” II mutters. “After that, management knows not to bother us.”
Vessel raises a brow.
“Any of us,” II assures him.
“How did you even manage that?” Vessel asks.
“Two threatened them with violence again,” III says breezily. He leans backward over the arm of the sofa, dangling his head to look at Vessel upside down. “I heard him on the phone earlier. What was it you said about a drumstick finding its way somewhere unpleasant?”
Vessel points an accusing finger at II. “‘Again?’ So you did threaten them the first time.”
II’s eyes stay glued to his phone as he says, “Hey, Three?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Before the bassist has a chance to respond, II grabs an ankle and shoves, sending III backwards over the arm of the sofa with an undignified squawk.
Vessel turns back to the page in front of him while Ivy’s cackling laughter fills his ears.
He smiles, and picks up the pen.