Chapter Text
He's fucked.
Completely and totally fucked. And not in the way he'd like to be, although... No. There's no way. He's doomed. He's also holding up the line.
The barista clears his throat. "Sorry, what was the name for your order?"
"Oh, it's Vessel.” He feels disoriented as he snaps out of his thoughts.
"...Vessel. Right," The barista pauses slightly at the name. He quickly recovers and finishes ringing in the order, now with a small smirk on his face. Vessel doesn’t notice as he hastily pays with shaking hands. "It'll be at the bar."
Vessel barely chokes out a "Thank you" before nearly sprinting away from the counter. He debates fleeing the cafe altogether, but he really needs that coffee. Even more so now to ground himself. Vessel steels himself and quickly chooses an armchair in the corner that looks well-worn and weathered, but comfortable. It’s facing towards the window and away from the rest of the cafe, creating a refuge to shelter him from the potential judgement of onlookers.
He's spiraling. The last few minutes—was it really only a few minutes? It felt like eternity—replay on a loop in his head.
—
Vessel stumbles along the pavement, barely upright as he makes his way to the coffee shop. He’s exhausted. Actually, “exhausted” doesn’t even begin to cover it. His flight only landed a few hours ago, after which he was wanting to just unpack and spend some quality time rotting on his couch, maybe watch some familiar garbage on the TV. Perhaps play some video games. Or take a nap. He had weighed his options as he lugged his bags inside his house.
Then he found the package.
He’d fled the house, suitcases abandoned by the front door and the package laying open on the entryway floor. He couldn’t deal with it yet. So now he finds himself blindly trudging on dead feet towards his home away from home.
As Vessel opens the front door and steps into the coffee shop, he’s comforted to see that not much has changed while he was away. The vintage furniture of Birdsong Coffee is just as mismatched as its clientele. A few customers occupy small tables, sharply dressed, heads down, consumed by whatever tasks their screens demand from them. Others are casually nested in overstuffed couches amidst quiet conversations and too many throw pillows. Between the warm lightning, soft textures, and rich colors, the shop always makes its patrons resemble Renaissance paintings.
The highlight of the space, at least in Vessel's opinion, has always been the art lining the walls. Paintings of every size and medium are hung wherever there is space. Several of Vessel’s own paintings are among them, though all of his contributions are old. He hasn’t finished an original work in years. Lynsey, or Lyns—the shop’s owner—used to ask if Vessel had anything new to show her during his regular visits to the cafe, but Vessel’s answer never changed from a guilty “no, maybe soon.” The inquiries eventually stopped. Lyns always remained happy to see him, although there was something in her eyes that Vessel couldn’t place. Disappointment? Pity? Vessel tells himself it doesn’t matter.
Lyns isn’t in the shop when Vessel arrives, though (there would be a string of cursing and a “When did you get back?!” if she were). He’s mildly relieved, unsure if he could handle all of her curiosity about his time abroad right now. The exhaustion from travelling is being made worse by a lack of sleep. Vessel had hoped to get some rest on the flight coming home, but was plagued by vivid dreams. He’s not sure if he considers them nightmares. He’s had much worse, but these were certainly… intense. They’re still flashing in the back of his mind.
The heavy scent of mud. The sensation of sinking into the soft earth. Soft clay. Struggling to wrench his limbs free to no avail. Chill seeping into his bones from the damp. Then warmth. No, heat. Fiery heat like a small sun burning. The feeling of his skin baking and breaking with the earth around him.
Vessel shakes away the memories as he approaches the counter. He’d been gone for nearly a year, so hearing an unfamiliar voice welcoming him from behind the register is unremarkable. Birdsong may be special to Vessel, but it is still a coffee shop. Staff come and go.
The barista’s voice is smooth and soft-spoken. "What can I get you?"
"Just a double cortado, please." He doesn’t even check the seasonal menu—which is likely full of odd floral concoctions for spring anyway—before ordering his usual. Or at least, it was his usual. He craves some sense of normalcy. He wasn’t even supposed to go out today, instead planning to stay home to rest and unpack. Everything is starting to catch up to him and it's overwhelming. Being away for so long, the chaos of travel, and returning home to find the—
No. Don't think about it.
Vessel tries to clear the memory of what drove him out of the house to begin with. He attempts to focus on digging the right currency out of his wallet, but spots the glass bakery case. "...and a piece of coffee cake, actually."
"And your name?"
As usual, Vessel has gone through this entire interaction without looking at the other person's face. Eye contact has always been difficult. To Vessel, looking into another's eyes feels... invasive. Like a violation of the other person's privacy. And Gods forbid if the other person meets his gaze. He becomes a deer in headlights, a performer choking onstage under a spotlight. As if the other person can see into his very soul. So Vessel avoids eye contact whenever possible.
He breaks from tradition entirely by accident.
A sudden noise—the milk steamer screeching at some unfortunate trainee—has Vessel’s attention instinctively going up and behind the counter. His eyes flick over to the barista who's been taking his order. He's shorter. Relaxed but confident posture. And okay, Vessel's not trying to check him out, but his shoulders are a work of art. Softly sculpted. Gentle curves. The lines draw Vessel's analytical gaze up to a neck, a stubbled jaw, a brow raising, then…
Eyes. Huge, ocean blue, gorgeous eyes.
And they're staring right at him. Into him. Through him.
Vessel feels seen. He feels witnessed. His thoughts surely laid bare to this stranger. The man knows his secrets. He knows what he's done, he knows, he knows—
Vessel's stomach drops right through his body and into the center of the earth. He desperately wishes to follow it. To disappear. But doing that would mean not seeing those eyes ever again. It would be tantamount to torture, condemning himself to starvation after only just glimpsing something so delicious.
How long has Vessel been staring?
—
"Order for Vessel!" His name snaps him out of reliving the memory again.
And okay, maybe Vessel's not doomed. He's being overdramatic. Vessel tries to reassure himself that the barista can't actually see his soul. Or his secrets. One awkward exchange with a stranger does not mean that Vessel has to abandon his favorite coffee shop to get his caffeine in exile at a lesser establishment. He can be normal about it. He can get up, go grab his order, and carry on like a totally normal person who behaves normally.
He stumbles as his foot catches on the leg of the chair. Great start.
In an attempt to avoid repeating the earlier spectacle, Vessel keeps his gaze downwards while collecting his coffee and cake, and catches sight of the unfamiliar barista's name tag: II.
The fuck kind of name is that?
Not that he’s in any position to judge, Vessel scrunches his brow and can't help but glance up in confusion at the barista's face. Sees those fucking eyes again. Tries to quickly focus on something else—anything else—and makes the mistake of glancing at the man's mouth. His grinning, adorable mouth. Vessel quickly looks back down, but realizes that’s yet another mistake when he sees that the barista’s—II’s?—sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, displaying tattooed forearms.
Fuck’s sake.
The scorching fire of Vessel’s nightmare was nothing compared to the heat from his blush right now. He nods his thanks and manages to get back to his corner without combusting. Barely.
II is having a strange day. First the sleepless night after a bizarre dream—about drowning in paint, no less, which is absolutely ridiculous, who drowns in paint?—and now… this. The customer walking into the cafe is unfairly pretty: tall, broad-shouldered, with long lashes framing tired eyes that look anywhere but at II. He doesn’t know if the universe is rewarding him or testing him.
“What can I get you?”
The customer focuses on his wallet as he orders, large antique rings glinting on fingers that peek from under the sleeves of oversized cardigan. II swallows and tries to avoid staring. Why does he have to have such nice hands?
The customer’s face to finally lifts as II asks for his name, attention drawn to some noise behind the bar, and— oh, fuck right off. II sees his eyes and thinks they look like tiny night skies, the kind that you have to drive to the country to see, deep midnight blues accompanied by undereye circles almost as dark. The man’s eyes don’t retreat back to his wallet. Instead his eyes roam to II’s shoulder, up his neck, linger on his jaw. A faint blush begins to appear on the man’s cheeks.
II raises an eyebrow. The motion causes the man to finally meet II’s eyes, and it’s like he’s seen a ghost. He freezes as the blush drains from his face. There’s something in the man’s eyes that II can’t place. Fear? No, something stronger.
Terror.
Horror.
II knows his resting bitch face is pretty bad most days, but it shouldn’t warrant this reaction. He clears his throat, concerned. “Sorry, what was the name for your order?”
The man snaps out of it. "Oh, it's Vessel."
II pauses. So this is Vessel. II recognizes the name from several of the paintings hung around the shop. Pretty and talented. The thought makes II smirk. "...Vessel. Right.”
After Vessel hurriedly pays and goes to find a seat, II starts on the order. He lets the muscle memory of pulling espresso take over as he recalls what little he knows about the painter.
—
II had asked the cafe’s owner about Vessel’s art months ago after noticing that his eyes were always drawn to a select few paintings around the shop. While they were scattered on various walls, they all had the same odd name on their labels: Vessel.
Something about this particular artist’s pieces had captured II’s attention. The paintings had their own gravity. Whenever he had the time to give them more than a passing glance, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something. Especially whenever he looked at the largest, a scene depicting mossy ruins barely visible through a thick fog. It looked familiar. And not in the sense that the painting could resemble an old masterpiece. Pre-Raphaelite, a dash of Romanticism. II knows enough about art. Painting certainly isn’t his area of expertise, but he knows how to truly look at a canvas and appreciate it. He would remember if he’d seen these before.
So, on a particularly slow day while working with Lynsey, II asked.
“Hey, can I ask what the deal is with this painter? Vessel?” He gestured to the one nearest him.
“Oh he’s one of our regulars, has been for ages. Gosh, let’s see…” Lyns furrowed her brow as she searched her memory. “He started coming here when he was still a student at uni. Was studying painting. But he wandered in here one day on a friend’s recommendation, scrawny and exhausted and always stained with paint.” Lyns chuckled, a soft smile growing. “Poor thing ran on caffeine and raw anxiety. Still does. So he was in a lot, usually by himself to sketch or just people watch. Declared us his favorite spot, so he’s obviously got great taste.”
“None of his paintings are for sale though?” II had noticed that each one of the labels for Vessel’s works had “NFS” where the price would normally be. Every other work displayed at Birdsong was for sale and rotated frequently.
“Yeah, these are just mine. Permanent installations, I suppose. I convinced him to sell me a few pieces, ‘cause I was convinced he was going to become famous and move away and never come back. I needed to keep part of him around. And he was great. Really, these paintings are just a fraction of what he made.”
Lyns paused, her smile slipping.
“But one day he stopped. He still came into the shop of course, but he stopped painting. Barely sketched. By then he’d graduated, started working at a museum doing conservation. You know he studied chemistry too? I pestered him for a long time, hoping he’d pick up a brush again with a little encouragement. But he just sort of… shrank. Every time I asked he would try to deflect, saying he’d been too busy with work, or he was waiting for inspiration, or some other bull. I never found out what actually happened. This was years ago, mind you.”
II hummed and processed the new information while they puttered around cleaning the shop. He wondered what would make someone with that kind of talent just up and quit. It made him sad to think about. Lyns nudged him.
“He’s cute, too,” She smirked at II. “You’d like him.”
II rolled his eyes. Lyns had been trying to set II up on dates for ages, but no one ever kept his attention. “Well where’s he been then? Six months working here and I haven’t met him.”
“He got accepted to some fancy fellowship program on the continent, said he wouldn’t be back for like a year.” She tried to sound bitter but II could hear the pride in her voice. “But it’s just temporary, and he promised to tell me all about it when he comes back.”
—
Judging by the anxious lump of a man sitting in the corner of the shop, II thinks the fellowship must be over. Lyns is going to be pissed that she missed Vessel, but the painter looks like he’s about to keel over. Also, “cute” was a bit of an understatement—II’s not looking forward to admitting that she was right. So maybe it’s a good thing that she’s away.
He wasn’t even supposed to work today, but another barista had called out sick at the last minute. He’s exhausted and still has an afternoon class to teach at the studio. Hopefully his students will be focused this time and avoid any incidents on the pottery wheel. He’s grateful that his shift is nearly over and that Vessel’s order was so simple.
Shit, he hadn’t even asked whether he wanted it to eat in or takeaway. He picks a travel cup just to be safe and pauses with the marker tip hovering over the cardboard. He’s usually adamant about not flirting with customers, no matter how much they may flirt with him (which is often) or how cute they are. But II’s self control is suffering from his exhaustion. And even looking like death, this man is… alluring in a way that catches II off guard. Something about him rings an alarm bell in II’s brain. Nags at his brainstem.
Fuck it.
He grins as he labels Vessel’s coffee cup.
Vessel calms down a bit after a long while of people watching from the cafe window, letting the familiar taste of espresso ground him. Rich as the colors on the wall. Sharper than the paranoia. Familiar. As he finishes his cake, his focus is pulled to the jingling bell of the cafe’s front door. II is just walking out onto the sidewalk and turning to wave his goodbye to the other baristas. His gaze jumps to Vessel for just a split second before turning away.
His shift must be over. Vessel allows himself to sneak glances of the shorter man crossing the street. He feels something nagging at the back of his mind, some thought that won’t quite solidify. There’s something about that guy. Or maybe it’s just the jetlag.
As he mulls and absently turns the coffee cup in his hands, he spots a small marking on the cup and looks closer. Vessel's name is nowhere to be found. He thinks back to make sure he didn't grab someone else's order. No, the drink is right. II called out his name, clear as day. Vessel checks the cup again.
There's a heart on the side, carefully drawn in marker. Nothing else.
Vessel makes a decision. He has to see him again.