#ima writes

Rain isn’t a common thing on their home planet millions of light years away. The atmosphere has a similar buildup in elements so to not instantly harm them, but there are smaller differences that they have yet to fully understand.

The radio crackles and hums as the station is switched from AM to FM and back again, jumping between numbers as the dial twists in intervals. News, music, talk shows. Humans discover low, slow waves of electromagnetic energy, and the one of the first things they do is infuse it with music and the sound of their voice, broadcast for thousands to hear.

“…a seventy percent chance of rain, so be sure to bring your umbrella if you plan to go out. Looking ahead…”

On Earth, rain has a certain smell. Humans call it “petrichor”, and it’s strongest when rain hits dry soil and causes aerosols in small bubbles to stimulate their olfactory nerve. It’s a pleasant yet foreign scent. A reminder that they are but visitors.

They are welcome visitors, however. Their time on the planet has been well thus far. Humans like their music, bringing their hands up into triangles and not at all caring that they can’t understand the duo when they speak in their native language.

Of course, there are those who dislike their music. But annoyance is a foreign thing when one is devoid of all ability to feel it.

The radio prattles onto an advertisement, and it’s changed once again. AM to FM. It’s time for music instead.

The sound of tapping on the window alerts the other to roll the glass barrier down.

“Open the trunk.”

“Why?”

“I wish to sit in the trunk.”

“You do not want, as humans call it, shotgun?”

“Not today. I want the trunk of the van this time.”

Granted, they have room in the back for this part of the journey. Most of their equipment is in a different van that their photographer is already driving to their next destination, someone from their home planet that had arrived to Earth separately from them. Their arrival had been a bit earlier, yet they are younger than the duo. They had chalked it up to time dilation and the finicky nature of time travel, but their photographer has been helpful.

Khn pops the trunk open and waits for his brother to get himself settled. He rotates the dial of the radio again, switching from “Hits of today!” to “Best of the 80’s and 90’s!” He twists in his seat to watch Klek move into spacious trunk before his brother reaches out to grab the interior handle and pull the trunk shut.

It clicks closed.

A shuffle to get into a comfortable position.

Then, a muffled laugh, so quiet one can barely hear it.

“Khn.”

“Klek?”

“I am stuck.”

“How?”

“My robe is stuck in the trunk door.”

“How do you get stuck in the trunk door?”

“I do not wear coveralls like you do. I appreciate things that are looser and freer in movement.”

“Do you need my assistance to achieve freedom, then?”

“If you are willing.”

The absurdity of the entire situation causes Khn to burst into little giggles as he exits the van to free his brother. The gravel is dry and slightly rough beneath his bare polka-dotted feet, and the clouds get increasingly dark as time passes. He laughs louder as he finds a piece of Klek’s robe sticking out of the van’s trunk before pulling the trunk’s door up and open.

Klek sits there in a pose akin to a magazine cover: one leg is slightly up and bent at the knee while one hand holds up two fingers. The eyes in his mouth almost seem to shine with mirth while his other pair watches his brother carefully. With his other hand, he points at Khn. “Pew! Pew! Pew! Pew! Pew!”

Khn laughs. “Was this your plan the entire time?”

“No. But I can improvise.” Klek holds up his two fingers again. “Victory.”

“Peace sign.”

“Two.”

“Duo.”

Klek pulls the rest of his robe into the trunk of the van before Khn pushes it shut once again. The engine of the van rumbles to life soon after and they head on their way to their next destination.

“Why do you suppose humans divide their music into ‘80’s’,’90’s’, and ‘today’? What is considered ‘today’ has occurred for two decades now, and it is close to three.”

“Perhaps because there was something about music made in those time periods that humans wish to capture and call special.”

“Does that mean there is little to none of that specialness in music that falls into the category of ‘today’?”

“I doubt it. But humans enjoy their odd classifications.”

“Make the radio louder. I enjoy this song.”

The volume increases by two notches just as Klek pretends to hit the drums. The chorus rings out in the land vehicle: “I bless the rains down in Africa! Gonna take some time to do the things we never had.” As the percussion switches to mallets on a marimba, Klek wiggles his fingers.

“You enjoy that song a lot.”

“I do. It is a good song. It was our opening for one show.”

“Was it our opening because you enjoy it or because you know that humans enjoy it?”

“Can it not be both?”

“It can be both.”

Khn rolls down all the windows of the van to their halfway point as the sound of rain starts to hit the exterior, filling the air with the sound of millions of tiny drums and the smell of petrichor. Klek leans against the front passenger seat and deeply inhales. “Do you think we can bottle this up and send it back home?”

“It would be difficult. But maybe. We could figure it out.”

“It could be in a candle. And it could be burnt when we feel like it.”

“Are you melancholic for Earth back home?”

For beings devoid of the capacity to feel all forms of annoyance, it certainly doesn’t help that there seems to be many things occurring that a human would consider “an annoyance”. Of course, categorizing such is a difficult task due to said inability. But it doesn’t deter from the small itch that lingers just beneath the skin. It feels like a minor molt, something that’s easily picked off as the old layer flakes away.

Minor molts are unsubstantial things. The layers beneath are discolored for a few hours at most, and the atmosphere on Earth seems to increase the frequency at which they happen.

It doesn’t take away from the fact that they occur more often though.

Public rooftops are forbidden things in human culture for an odd reason. Their manager is gracious enough to schedule their tour with a few dates further apart to give them time to admire and explore humanity, but hotels making their rooftops prohibited is a step too far.

They manage to find a way. Nothing a little bit of time travel can’t fix if they get caught.

“Are those not bad for you?”

A shrug as some of the ashes are tapped off the burning end onto the rooftop ground. “I can read the warnings on the box.”

“Why do you continue?”

“I can reverse the damage.”

“That does not answer my questions.”

A pause as the lit cigarette is brought to the mouth, then a wordless exhale as the smoke puffs out in nauseating clouds. The scent clings to the older clothes that they wear, almost becoming embedded in the threads themselves. “Humans are fascinating creatures. They discover damaging properties in addictive substances. They market them and sell them. They become sick as a result.”

“Are you addicted to it?”

Another tap of ashes. “A little. It was a novel thing. The closest we have back home are what humans call incense sticks here, and even those do not rewire the brain’s synapses as strongly as nicotine.”

“But you can stop, correct?”

“It would require some help. Selective time travel to reverse the damage to the synapses and lungs. If you would provide assistance —”

“Of course I would.”

The evening air is cool, a hum coming from some hidden machinery somewhere on the roof. A tall fence curves inwards to deter falls to the parking lot below. Their parked van with all their supplies sits in front of the window of their assigned room.

“Hat off. Let me braid your hair.”

There’s no resistance, just a silent shuffle to the ground as the large hat is removed and knees are brought up to the torso.

He joins with crisscrossed legs, all eyes focused on the thick golden strands. There is nothing to tie it up, but he grabs several strands either way and twists them in threes. Over and twist, repeat the motion. When he grows bored, he frees the braid and detangles the strands before restarting.

“There were several technical issues tonight,” Khn finally says, cigarette still emitting smoke from the burning end. It remains trapped between two of his fingers, mimicking the images that the two see on the internet. “It feels like a minor molt.”

“But we did well,” Klek responds. “You managed to improvise. I remember when the change in gravity was still new to us. A drumstick slipped out of my grasp and threw off my rhythm.”

“I can accept one song, but two songs in the same show? The equipment is reliable, but it has shown its faults tonight.”

“And do you think a cigarette will help?”

“I know it will only make things worse, but it feels nice in a way. It reminds me of that candy we had back home, the long one that easily crumbles into powder.”

The fingers running through his hair pause. “I miss home,” Klek murmurs. “The beds here cannot compare to the ones at home. The human mattress is okay, but having divots in the walls to sleep is better.”

Khn twists some of his beard around his free hand, leaning backwards a little to give his brother a bit more hair to braid. “I do not think the gravity on Earth would allow for that.”

“I know. They do not have divots to sleep in, nor do they have the candy we used to consume.”

“Instead, they have mattresses and cigarettes.”

“One of which is better than the other.”

A sharp laugh breaks way into a warble before a vocalized click cuts through. “Will you assist in minor time travel then?”

“Will you stop if I do?”

“You already know the answer.” A drag. Smoke billows forth, the wind carrying it away from the other.

A sharp sound akin to the gnashing of teeth is the response. “As long as you stick around long enough to continue making music.”

“I will.”

Fingers deftly continue to mindlessly braid until he grows bored with the action and smoothens out the strands before Klek announces that he’s done. “Let us not disappoint the Golden Record gifted to us and rest now.”

Khn stands and stretches before dropping the cigarette on the ground and placing his hat back on. Klek swiftly stomps on it with his shoe, extinguishing the human-made thing before Khn picks it up to properly discard it. He taps the ground with his bare, polka-dotted foot before he asks, “Do you think that humans believe us when we say what we are?”

“No.”

“Does that make you feel like a minor molt?”

“Sometimes. But I think that our music is more important.”

“That is true. We are simply visiting and exploring what humanity has to offer.”

“I do enjoy the energy that they bring when they see us. It makes you want to keep doing it. They dance to an odd time signature.”

“What would you classify it as?”

“Humans ideally dance in five-four and seven-eight. As for classification, I am unsure.”

It’s clear that no one knows how to sit on the couch properly.

Then again, it’s also clear that no one particularly minds nor cares enough to correct the other. They are beings devoid void of the capacity to feel all forms of annoyance, after all. After spending only a few hours getting groceries and leaving the rest of their day free with no pre-planned activities, they have yet to stumble upon the type of boredom that itches at the body and mind with the need for any type of stimulation.

The shift of fabric on the couch’s exterior is the only indication that they are still awake. For one of them, the toes wiggle and fingers tap on the abdomen. A head adorned with thick yellow hair akin to yarn and a large hat turns towards the other.

“Klek,” a garbled voice says. “Klek. Klek. Klek.” The name of the other repeats until it fills the silence of the living space at a steady interval, akin to a metronome or an analog clock’s second hand.

A long moment passes.

“Khhhhhhhhhn,” the other lowly drones out, shifting a bit in position to stretch. “Khn.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Barely.”

“I apologize.”

“It is accepted.”

A hum of acknowledgment before silence fills the room once again. Then, the quiet noise of movement replaces the silence as Khn pulls himself up from laying upside down on the couch and curls his legs around the cylindrical head of his brother. Humans would call this a ‘piggyback’, yet the origin of the word seems quite unknown. Not to mention, it isn’t a true piggyback; Klek isn’t carrying Khn, merely supporting the other’s weight.

“What are you doing?” Klek asks.

“I am giving you an improvised hug,” Khn replies as he gives the golden pyramid atop Klek’s head a small tap. “I do not wish to join you on the floor with my legs crisscrossed like you, but I wish to engage in acknowledgment of you.”

“How kind.” Klek lets his brother shift a bit to find a comfortable position, most of his weight still on the couch itself. The television is off (the news is less desirable to learn about at the moment), though they could’ve turned on the radio to fill the room with some music. But, seeing as how he is currently trapped by the whims of his brother, the radio will have to wait.

“We should get more vinyls,” Khn says. “Our collection should grow. We could send some back home too, if we wish.”

“Would the players at home suffice for the records?”

“Some adjustments may have to be made, but we could add a message.”

“Then you have to get off me.”

“No.”

They exist there in comfortable stillness for a bit longer. Then, Khn removes his hat and sets it down in front of Klek. “The material these are made of is much better than before.”

“It still looks a bit worn down, but that could be because of the atmosphere and weather on Earth.”

“And our journey.”

“Get down here.”

This time Khn obeys, though he does it though returning to his previous position of laying upside down on the couch. Klek gives an exaggerated “Ahem” before he applies a bit of pressure to Khn’s nose, causing it to wiggle upon release and his brother to laugh at the action. “You look better. The molt you had recently made did you a lot of favors.”

“However, you got a bit shorter. And your upper eyes changed.”

“I do not think humans mind too much. They look at the ones in my mouth instead.”

“Because they look more similar to their own. That is a bit rude of them, but I do not think they know any better.”

“That is because their mouths are the source of their breathing and vocal communication. They cannot wordlessly vocalize like us.”

“A shame, but that would explain why their mouths are less rigid. Coming down,” Khn announces as he slides off the couch and sits up to match Klek’s seating position. Klek, on the other hand, shifts so his arms rest on his knees, which are pulled up and closer to his torso.

“You have arrived,” Klek says. “Welcome.”

Khn gives a nod back.

“Our manager called us recently. He said that we have sold out in several countries.” It doesn’t matter which set of eyes Klek uses to properly gauge Khn’s reaction. It’s clear even with the golden dollar signs that he has floating in front of them.

(“Made to mimic those silly human glasses with weird shapes.”

“It looks weird.“

“Eyes are weird.“)

“Human enjoy our music, even when they do not fully understand it.”

“Some of them understand parts of it. Human musicians seem to understand it more than anyone else.”

“Because they understand the art of it.”

“And the math.”

“The math is integral to the music.”

“Do you believe that humans think that math and art can be entwined?”

“I would like to hope so.”

“Have you seen the pictures from their most recent space exploration?”

“That I have. We have missed them up there.”

“I like it here for now. There are hot dogs. And sardines. And many triangular shapes.”

“We arrive in peace, and bring music with us.”

“And that is our focus. The music.”

“I think that is something that humans cannot fully understand. They frequently focus on appearances.”

“But we cannot do much about that.”

“That is true. We can only continue to make and play music for them.”

“At least that is achievable.”

A pause, then the two stretch. “I feel like having sardines for dinner,” Klek says as he wiggles his fingers and cracks his knuckles.

“There is a place that sells anchovies on pizza.”

“What are anchovies?”

“They are like sardines. I think.”

“You call them.”

“But I called our photographer last time.”

“I look at humans for you, and you talk to humans for me.”

Time travel, contrary to what most beings think, is a highly mathematical concept. It’s prone to error, each micro-mistake causing a shift in timing and reality. Each decimal — the beloved dot — and the numbers surrounding it an opportunity, akin to the beat of a butterfly’s wings on planet Earth.

Of course, time travel can’t be simplified to the concept of the butterfly effect. But it’s a good analogy when any of them need to explain a dumbed down version of their method of intergalactic travel to the beings on this planet. Really, they only had to explain it to Sebastian and Fabien, and even then they both knew that the concept went over the humans’ heads. Music is easier to explain: a common language of wordless notes made through particle vibration.

Then again, their music is more on the complex side: combining mathematically-complex rhythms with notes outside the western scale, falling in between the halves of sharps and flats with quarters, then inserting rests and quick notes to cause a playful stumble.

It’s a fun experiment for them, but it’s not just an experiment. If it was, then that wouldn’t be as fun. Music is an art meant to be shared as well. Music is art to the beings of planet Earth, one that causes infectious toe-tapping and head-banging. It’s a wonder that it was even brought it up when their planet had obtained the Golden Records.

So, music must be important for the beings of planet Earth.

Unfortunately, music can’t unite everything on this planet. Time zones seem to be something that remains elusive, messing with the aliens’ sense of time and balance. It’s foolish to imagine that they would even experience bad “jet lag”, as the humans described it. Even then, they’re used to it, being interdimensional time travelers.

Still, just because they’re used to it doesn’t mean that they’re above the disorientation that it gives them.

They arrive to the hotel room during a hot evening, a delay in their initial flight throwing off the transfer, forcing the alien musicians and their crew to rush to the closing gate just as they were announcing the final boarding.

“I think we should utilize our ships when we return to our earthen residence,” Klek says after the brothers all but collapse onto the small hotel beds. Someone’s joints pop as they stretch. “It would save us time through security and delays.”

“I know what you are referring to,” Khn replies, back arched backward over the edge of the bed. With how the top of his hat touches the carpet of the hotel room, it might be supporting him so he doesn’t end up falling onto the floor itself. It has happened before, in the earlier days when they were particularity homesick for their polka-dotted planet with shifting gravity. “But,” Khn continues, “I find airplanes to be an interesting form of travel.”

“While I agree, I have to wonder.” Klek reaches forward and wiggles his fingers before he turns from his back to his stomach on the hotel bed. He sits up and taps the mattress as he asks, “When security asks what you are carrying in the sleeping bag, at what point does it change from funny to something else?”

Khn bursts into laughter as he waves his hands around and accidentally bumps his nose. “I think it is always funny. My instrument in a sleeping bag being mistaken for a dead body will never not be funny.”

Klek shrugs. “I would like to not be late though.”

“We are intergalactic time travelers. I do not think we have the capacity to be late. We can always shift the strings of time and hit the right beats to propel ourselves forwards and backwards.”

“The jet lag is tiring however.”

“That is true. But humans have dealt with it for much longer during their shorter lifespans. We will be alright.”

Klek lets out a few clicks before he reaches over and nudges Khn’s hat with his bare foot. “Humans do not have to disguise themselves to not be questioned by airport security.”

“That is also tiring, yet. But airports are fun to explore. They are endless in things to see. And today, the airport was very quiet and empty.”

“Because it was late at night. I believe humans call that a liminal space.”

“A space of transition between one place and another. Would that be like time travel?”

“Perhaps if it was not so instantaneous.”

A flicker of movement draws the brothers’ attention to a small insect that lands on the lamp in between the beds. It scuttles around before it takes off and lands on the tip of Khn’s nose. “What is it? I cannot see.”

Klek slides off the bed and crouches to better look at the insect. It’s a small one with six legs and a red outer shell speckled with black dots. The drummer holds out a finger and lets the insect crawl onto it before bringing it down to Khn’s field of vision, who makes a noise of content upon satisfying his curiosity. “Coccinellidae.”

“Ladybug. Or ladybird.”

“They remind me of insects back home. We had a relative raise them in a terrarium, remember that?”

“I remember that someone accidentally spilled it open and we had to hunt down each insect because she got distressed.”

“I think she has forgiven us for that.”

The insect eventually flies off, disappearing elsewhere in the hotel room. Or maybe it left completely through a crack in the door or window. There isn’t a point in chasing it down. Exploring the hotel room (just in case, for curiosity’s sake) reveals an abandoned children’s book. The yellowing, well-loved cover features a child on a little planet, the title in looping script while the author’s name is in clear lettering.

“What is this doing here?”

“We could read it. I am curious about this little prince.”

“It looks familiar, for some reason.”

“A heart’s a heavy burden.”

- Sophie Hatter, Howl’s Moving Castle (2004)

------

Four

It started at breakfast.

In between bites of scrambled egg, Vessel suddenly stood up and bolted away, a hand covering his mouth as he did so. The door to the bathroom slammed open, then the faint sound of heaving echoed through the house.

IV sipped his coffee, eyeing Vessel’s abandoned plate from the corner of his eye. “The bread didn’t get moldy yet, right?”

“Why would I feed you moldy bread?” III playfully shot back, breaking off a piece of the aforementioned toast before tossing it at the guitarist’s face (it wasn’t very appreciated, but IV brushed his face free of the crumbs and ate the offering nonetheless). “I’m a brat according to II, but I’m not a murderer.”

“With how you dress, you might be,” IV replied. He turned his gaze to II, who was bouncing his leg while looking in the direction where Vessel had run off to. “II, it’s going to be okay,” he said.

“You don’t know that.” II avoided IV’s eyes as he bounced his leg a few more times before he got up to follow Vessel. “I’m checking on him.”

“Mother hen,” III murmured, only to be hit in the arm. “II! Your punches hurt like a motherfucker!”

IV snorted. His mouth opened to say something when a presence made itself known in the house, slow and stalking. It loomed over the table, picking at the crumbs and examining the utensils. Saltwater pricked at IV’s nose and with it, red liquid iron. He could taste it in the back of his throat, deeply settling in past the coffee aftertaste.

In the midst of it, Vessel tottered back to the table. IV didn’t remember hearing the toilet flush. The singer quietly pushed his breakfast around with a fork, leaning into II’s touch when the drummer placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s happening again,” Vessel whispered. His voice was hoarse, and from where IV was seated next to him, the guitarist could see faint bits of red mix with spit when he licked his lips. “Tonight.”

The presence rumbled deep in IV’s chest, running its limbs up his ribs like a xylophone and ringing out minute vibrations through his entire body. ‘Tonight,’ it whispered, ‘tonight.’

“And we’d been planning this visit all week too,” III groaned. “Is there really no other way to do it?”

“Not really. I mean…” Vessel played with his food a little bit longer before pushing the plate away from him. “At least it won’t leave physical scars on me. It’s how it happened, so Sleep can fix it.”

IV didn’t miss the hesitant pause. Hopefully fix it. There was no guarantee of anything working when one toyed with a god and its changing whims. He finished whatever was left in his mug, ignoring the churning in his stomach when he foolishly asked, “What color was it?”

“Like coffee grounds,” Vessel said. “Digested. Though, it slowly turned red near the end.”

“How’s your throat?” II asked, already leaving the singer’s side to find cough drops. Lemon and honey flavored with the texture of hard candy. “Feel like you can talk for long?”

Vessel shook his head, fingers playing with each other. “Really sore.”

III was already abandoning his breakfast to pull out some tea, letting out a disgruntled noise when Vessel slinked out of his chair to lean against him like a cat. “Think you can brush your teeth before we head out? Your breath smells like a vampire.”

IV ignored his bandmates for now, ducking behind them and managing to hear the bassist cry out against Vessel flicking his cheek. He reached into the freezer and pulled out a whole fish in an icy plastic bag they had been planning to bake. He then grabbed a cup, filled it up with water, then announced, “Heading to the small shrine.”

The small shrine wasn’t very far; just climb up into the attic and hope that he hadn’t left a trail of thawing fishy water behind him. IV set the main offering down as he lit the red candles, arranging them neatly. He pulled out the fish — its flesh still icy cold and stinging his hands with its chilly bite — and set it on the black plate of the shrine. He moved the cup just in front of the fish, knelt, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands together.

Vessel had been interested with the process by which the fish was gutted and cleaned, staying by the counter the entire time in silent fascination. There was the sharp knife to the fish’s gut, a hose blasting out water to clean it of its blood and innards, a sharp chop to the neck to rid the fish of its gills.

IV? Much less so. But as much as the process grossed him out, he pushed it down for Vessel. For Sleep. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Let us have a good day, please. Just for today.”

Water crashed in the back of his mind, drawing air up from his lungs. Coaxing it out to replace it with nothing but liquid. IV gasped, and a pressure formed behind his eyes, causing light reds and whites and many other colors to bloom. Something leaned against his back, cold and wet and heavy. It pushed him lower as it reached over him. Deepen his prayer, his devotion, his worship.

‘Until I wake, I dine.’

The pressure disappeared, leaving the guitarist panting for air. The fish was gone, bones and all, save for one eyeball that stared back at IV. The cup of water held the other eyeball, and as IV stared back at the submerged remains, something disturbed the water. Ripples formed outwards as the water turned a deep red color, hiding the eyeball completely.

‘Everything we touch turns water into blood.’

IV bowed once more before he blew out the candles, collected the cup and eyeball, and headed back down. II and III were missing, though he heard water running in the bathroom. Vessel remained in the kitchen, finishing up drying the dishes.

IV silently held the remains of the offering out to Vessel, who finished putting a plate away before he took them without another word. The guitarist thickly swallowed when the singer placed the raw fish eyeball into his mouth and appeared to chew on it, spitting something hard and round and small into his free palm before he swiftly drank the red concoction, not once coming up for air until every last drop was gone.

“On Sleep, your gag reflex is dead,” IV said, shivering at whatever their god just made Vessel ingest.

“It’s okay.” Vessel’s voice already sounded smoother as he up the small object to the kitchen light and grinned, pearly white teeth stained with red remains. “This is the lens of the eye. You can’t eat it.”

“Good, now brush your teeth– Vessel!” IV let out a curse when Vessel instead wrapped his arms around the shorter of the two and pressed his lips against the guitarist’s cheek. He tried to shove Vessel away from him, but it only resulted in the singer giving him a quick kiss on the lips. It tasted like blood and raw fish and salt, but it felt like a goodbye. “You’re disgusting, luv.”

“You love me still,” Vessel cooed, “so thank you for that.”

IV couldn’t argue with that, so he kissed Vessel back on the cheek. “Don’t pout at me, you’ll get a proper kiss when you taste like mint instead.”

“Who said you weren’t the one pouting?” Vessel teased, but he eventually left IV alone to exchange places with whoever was in the bathroom.

“Don’t forget to glamour up before we leave!” IV shouted, shaking his head at the endearing way that Vessel waved an affirmation to him. With that, a weight settled into the pit of his stomach, heavy and sloshing.

‘Tonight, tonight,’ the presence in the house crooned, ‘tonight, you have the answer.’

But it always said that.

IV could only hope that tonight would be the last night.

------

Three

The aquarium wasn’t too busy when they arrived, but there were still more people than they had anticipated. III saw at least two different groups of kids wandering around with parent chaperones and teachers who were doing their damn best to not raise their voices at someone who was at the most a single digit number in age.

III felt a set of eyes drilling into the back of his skull from a lower angle than what he would consider to be from IV or II. He turned around and locked gazes with one of the kids. They had a soft jellyfish hat on, the round bell snug on their head while two tentacles created attached hand warmers for them. III smiled to himself and waved his hand, chuckling when the kid blushed at being caught staring and scrambled off to congregate closer to their friends.

‘And when you think I don't notice,’ hummed the presence of all the water, washing over him and eliciting goosebumps all over his body. ‘But I am.’

“Don’t,” III hissed beneath his breath, “make this a trip we’re going to regret.”

The warbling sound of bubbles was his only answer.

III rolled his eyes at the cryptic response and adjusted his mask, wrinkling his nose when someone let out a hearty sneeze nearby. He swore he could feel it in his bones. Since it was flu season, everyone seemed to be sniffling and coughing and sneezing up a storm. Redirecting his internal annoyance externally, he leaned against the unlucky (or lucky, it really depended on how someone viewed his lanky presence) bandmate gracious enough to be nearby.

Which happened to be II. Curse his spine.

“Did you not drink enough milk when you were eight?” III asked. Not to really poke fun at the drummer, despite what someone might think. Just to keep him on his toes. Keep everyone on their toes. Loosen up the tension in II’s muscles and kneed his brain so he didn’t end up with a permanent furrow between his brows.

Prepare him for tonight, where he would always volunteer to have the hardest job out of all of them.

“Did you ever think about sharing the genes you borrowed from a tree with us?” II replied.

“Oh! Ouch! Paradiddle, you hurt me. No —!” III scrambled back from II when he raised a hand, letting out a huff of exasperation when he saw their drummer’s eyes twinkle with the knowledge that he could single-handedly command the bassist with a specific threat. “I just said this morning you hit shit like they owe you money.”

“It’s my job III.” II shrugged as he held out his hand and added, “Vessel and IV have already left us behind, asshole.”

III snorted and accepted the drummer’s offer, feeling a strong and steady grip encompass his own hand. “And whose fault would that be, hmm?” he questioned, not at all bothered when II didn’t answer him.

They didn't catch up with their melodists immediately; III found himself easily distracted by multiple exhibits despite this visit to the aquarium not being the band’s first, playing hide and seek with some of the aquatic creatures as they darted in between underwater flora. He stayed long enough to let II read the informational panels on each creature, tugging on the drummer’s jacket and meeting either resistance or compliance.

III abandoned II when the bassist found a pair of familiar backs, relishing at the yelp that Vessel let out when III wrapped his arms around the singer. “Boo,” he whispered directly into his ear, feeling the singer shiver slightly from the sensation.

“Fuck off prick,” IV lightly said as he tried to pull III off of Vessel. Tried being the word, seeing how III could’ve certainly let the guitarist, but there wasn’t any fun in that. “Where were you two?”

“Exploring.” III lazily adjusted IV’s mask and gave him a quick kiss — mask over mask, like the good old days — for good measure, feeling the guitarist’s lips perk up into a smile. “Where are we now, by the way? Never seen this part of the aquarium before.”

“That’s because this part,” II said as he took one of Vessel’s arms and hugged it, “is usually filled with people.” The drummer swiveled his head as he looked around the large room, much like an owl.

He wasn’t wrong. Currently, the band found themselves in the room housing the largest exhibit in the aquarium: a large tank that spanned two floors, filled with the most amount of aquatic fauna that III ever saw congregated in one room. Small sharks swam with fish, while starfish and sea urchins and other flora remained on the artificial sea floor. The lights were pleasantly dim, creating moving shadows as the water and its inhabitants moved.

The pavilion was Vessel’s favorite exhibit.

The presence made itself known again, an unknown shadow looming over the tank and swimming in between the creatures. Something heavy leaned against III before launching off, water sloshing in the bassist’s eardrums. His vision swam for a moment and he squeezed IV’s shoulder as he rapidly blinked in an attempt to regain stability.

The pre-recorded narration on the speakers that described the pavilion and all that it held stuttered to a close. Crackles burst forth like mild feedback or like water running over rocks, then a song started to play.

Vessel let out a joyous cry before he pulled IV away to dance in the middle of the empty room, Bruce Springsteen all the while singing about dancing in the dark. Somewhere in the middle of the song, III noticed that IV had pulled off his mask and had it stuffed away, public battle jacket flashing with the numerous gifted patches stitched on.

A dose of happiness condensed in the room, so palpable that III pulled his own mask off just to feel it better. No one was here; their identity wasn’t at risk of being exposed (although, based the way that the fish and sharks moved, as if coordinated with each other to display the perfect amount of dappled light onto the impromptu dance floor, III wasn’t so sure that the cameras were even recording).

As the song shifted from Bruce Springsteen to Whitney Houston belting her heart out about dancing with somebody who loves her, so did Vessel’s attention. He pranced around IV one more time, gave him a kiss on the head, then pulled III over.

III let himself be dragged under the whims of the singer, eyes drinking up every minute action that Vessel did. The way that he mouthed all the lyrics, the way that he threw in his own physical flourishes, the way that he let himself exist without boundaries. A far cry from when they had first joined together as a band, as acolytes, as… them, whatever they all were.

The bassist wanted to take Vessel far, far away from his impending fate forever.

The song switched once again from Whitney Houston to Peter Gabriel crooning about a book of love, and with it, Vessel became softer. II approached without being coaxed first, and III backed away to watch with IV at his side.

The way that the two danced was less energetic. Less a prance (at least on Vessel’s end) and more of a quiet closing to a chapter. Not once did the drummer and singer break eye contact, and the longest time that the two went without some form of physical contact was but a breath. The strings swelled and the fish danced alongside the founders of the band.

“This is going to hurt,” IV whispered, “isn’t it?”

III forcefully broke his gaze from the dance and took in a long breath. “It’s going to hurt him more than us. You know how II is with Vessel.”

“I know, but…”

“We can’t change his mind.”

As the song tapered off to a close, IV placed his head against III’s shoulder just as II does a similar action with Vessel. “I wish we could.”

The quiet admission faded as the the speakers crackled and the pre-recorded narration leapt to life once again. Water sloshed as the presence jumped, using III (and the others, based on their shouts of surprise) as stepping stones, pulling them to follow it outside as they all fumbled to place their masks back on.

Cold, fresh air was the first thing to hit III’s face once they left the aquarium. Large drops of rain were the second thing. “For fuck’s sake—!” he muttered as he pulled his hood over his head. “The forecast said it wouldn’t rain until tonight.”

“We didn’t have a god empty out the pavilion without payback.” IV was already trying to use his jacket to save himself from the worst of the downpour, but it was no use.

(Later, III would see a post by the aquarium: a massive infection spread through several of their exhibits. However, the infection didn’t spread to the pavilion. The fish were expected to survive, but the staff called it ‘mysterious’ and ‘unusual’.)

(III could hear a babbling brook echo through the house for weeks on end.)

‘For so long, I have waited,’ the god whispered. ‘So rain down on me.’

Vessel held his arms up, letting the rain soak him to the bone. Perhaps it was preparation. Perhaps it just because he wanted to. “I’m not going to be gone forever,” Vessel announced. His voice sounded hoarse again, but it was clear through the heavy rainfall. It was clear through the sound of waves crashing in III’s ears. When Vessel faced his bandmates once again, he looked tired. Accepting. “I’m ready… I’m ready. Let’s go.”

------

Two

There was the shrine in the attic.

It was small, quaint, and simple. It contained candles, a black plate for an offering, incense sticks if they wanted to feel fancy or official, and matches. II preferred going upstairs to the shrine for many reasons. It felt casual upstairs, the small plate implied smaller physical offerings, and it reminded him of Vessel.

The candles were picked out by the singer, as were the incense sticks. He built the shrine up from nothing as a devotion to their god. He showed just as much devotion to his bandmates, doing small tasks for them because that was how he showed his affection the best, especially when words failed him.

There was an altar in the basement.

It was large, grand, and exquisite. It lived in the depths of the house, deeper than the lowest floor where they practiced if they didn’t want to rent out a space in public. It was never the same shape, for it shifted to accommodate the needs of the god and of its acolytes. Vines and flowers bloomed around the edges, pinks and greens, golds and whites, reds and blues. Floating lights appeared above the structure, shifting and changing in numbers and intensity. An old radio sat on one of the corners, quiet and ancient save for when the god twisted its knobs to speak words that weren’t directly meant for it, when it borrowed from other songs and offerings. Today, the granite alter was deep enough to hold water while multiple small lights orbited around a larger one.

II loathed this.

He knew it was safe. Somewhat. III and IV were waiting just above in the room where they practiced. They had wanted to help, take some of the burden off of II’s shoulders. He wouldn’t let them. It was his burden to bear, and his alone. It had been his burden from the start, back when it had been just him and Vessel, and it would continue to be his burden until the end. It was what came with being one of the founding members of the band.

But as II stood there in nothing but his boxers, watching Vessel dip himself into the cold water of their smooth concave alter with a rough sigh, he wondered if III and IV were right. Perhaps the entire isolated ritual was nothing but a burden he placed on only himself.

Then, Vessel reached for him, a silent invitation to join him as if it were just a swim or a bath, and all the burden came crashing down on II’s shoulders.

The radio crackled to life as the god said, ‘I’m on the edge of my coffin, with a smile and some hope.’ Vessel’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh while II grimaced at the Sleep’s choice. It was a good song, don’t get him wrong, but it was too on the nose for the moment right now. The singer’s wet hands placed themselves on his shoulders and II’s self-imposed obligation became physical.

“Luv,” Vessel rasped out, “it’s okay.”

“You don’t know that.” But II joined him nonetheless, shivering as the cold water pulled the air out of his lungs. “What if you don’t come back?”

“I will.”

“My hands are not worthy.”

“I should be saying that.” Vessel reached out and held II’s face in his cold and wet hands as he whispered, “You’re worthy of everything II. You, and IV, and III.”

“They’re not worthy,” II breathed, “of what I’m about to do again.” He hits things for a living, coaxing to life music and rhythm, a heartbeat for the soul of Vessel. They’re not meant for causing prolonged, permanent suffering.

“Last time tonight,” Vessel reassured him.

“Sleep always says that.”

“Last time.”

II exhaled, inhaled, and gave Vessel a kiss on the forehead before he whispered, “If you don’t come back, I’ll rally the others up to find you.”

Vessel laughed. It sounded like he was going to choke on blood, yet it was a sweet sound. “I love you.”

“Tell us again when you come back,” II said as he breathed one more time to prepare himself.

‘Drag me under again,’ Sleep whispered deep in II’s bones, ‘hold me beneath the surface.’

Vessel slipped beneath the water, bubbles escaping his nose and mouth as his eyes blinked to adjust. The singer had once told II that the reason he had six eyes was so he could gaze upon all of the numerals at once. Right now, all of his eyes looked at II and only him. Willingly trapping himself beneath the surface, Vessel mouthed something unheard, the god translating it perfectly for II: ‘To merely behold you.’

II felt more like a speck of bacteria beneath a microscope, slowly being cooked alive by the heat of the light. He wrapped his hands around Vessel’s neck — feeling blood rush in a pulse beneath his calloused fingers, tendons and muscles relax under his palms — and applied pressure. His hearing dampened immediately, as if he were the one underwater instead of Vessel. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears, waves crashing against rocks, bubbles floating to the surface. He could feel the god’s presence in his bones and nerves, wrapping and settling down as the obligation of what he had always volunteered to do from the moment he knew about it nearly made him choke.

Despite it all, Vessel grasped at II’s hands. It wasn’t to pull them off, contrary to what II wished he could do; it was to encourage him. More pressure, more weight.

Drown him.

Something tightened around II’s arms and locked his elbows straight. It dug into his skin, carving new marks over his tattoos and threatening to cut off blood circulation. That same presence leaned on his back, silently encouraging him to put more weight. Cut off the singer’s oxygen, let carbon dioxide build up, acid in Vessel’s blood.

Something restrained Vessel’s limbs the second they started to thrash from the innate need to breathe, digging in deep enough to bruise. His eyes began to panic now as they frantically searched for oxygen.

But II continued his duty.

‘I ache for your eyes,’ Sleep hummed as Vessel fought against the god’s will, ‘and the way you breathe.’

II forced himself to watch as Vessel’s struggles slowly stopped, as the last bits of air left the singer’s lungs. He forced himself to watch as blood became the one to rise from Vessel’s mouth. As the light from his eyes faded out. As his limbs stopped fighting. As his pulse faded beneath II’s hands. As Vessel’s chest stopped moving.

His breathing was always the last thing to go.

The drummer waited for what felt like a long time before he slowly rose from the water, goosebumps immediately erupting on his skin. He pulled himself out of the pool of an altar, dripping water the entire way up the stairs as he entered the band’s practice room. II barely managed to get a word in when a large, warm towel enveloped him. He was unceremoniously dragged to the floor and sandwiched between stocky and lanky, whispers of reassurance flooding his ears until the torment of his responsibility was nothing but white noise.

“You did well,” IV whispered as he held II so tightly the drummer thought his ribs would break. “Rest now.”

III said nothing at first; instead, he pulled the towel away from II’s face and just planted a kiss in between the furrow of his brow before he murmured, “You good?”

“How many more times can we do this?” II asked. His voice betrayed him, already thickening up and rendering him unable to speak properly. It was a miracle that Vessel could talk, even sing, after sobbing. But II? Consider him mute if he ever started to cry.

Someone’s phone vibrated before a song exhaled a message, falling silent once the god finished: ’That is when you let them in. Let them in before they go.’

II knew that. But all he could do was wait while Sleep worked with Vessel. Until Vessel came back, II would wait with the others for however long this attempt would take.

------

One

A long time ago, before Vessel decided to make music to try and understand the depths of his mind, the expanses of how much he felt and hurt and wished to hurt, he had walked into the ocean and never expected to come back.

The water had been cold, stealing his breath when it had dragged him under. For a moment, he had wondered if taking a blade to his skin and dragging it deep enough to slice open his arteries would’ve been a better option.

Then, the need to entirely disappear had overtaken him. If he had picked blood loss, there would’ve been a body to try to revive and bring back to life. But the ocean swallowed all, even if it wouldn’t be quick.

Vessel had always loved the ocean. To die in the ocean then, had seemed like a proper end to his existence. To be killed by something he loved… how poetic. He had nearly died walking upright in the waking world: glass on the pavement, raised voices, red flags embedded in his eyes but he had sworn to himself that it would be better the next day.

At least the ocean would accept him in his entirety, fucked-up flaws and all. At least the ocean would love him. At least the ocean would take everything and never let go.

Between the carbonic acid that had been building up in his blood, the water that had entered his lungs and irritated the delicate tissues, and some small part of him that had begged to live (it had wanted, to want, to live), Vessel had found something in the depths of the water.

It had cradled him in its arms, cold and slippery with a tight grasp that had held him even when he had thrashed around. It had grasped him similar to how a child would have gripped a stuffed toy against the dark of the night. He had been held as if he were delicate, precious even.

Vessel didn’t remember anything beyond his numb, cold lips mouthing the words, Save me.

When he had awoken in a hospital bed, lights burning his retinas and chest simultaneously light yet heavy, something had been there next to him. It had existed in the corners of his mind, haunting his shadow and reflection like an apparition. He had left without being officially discharged, and no one had remembered his existence there.

The presence had stayed. It had whispered in the shower, in the rain, in the times where Vessel had enough energy to do some dishes and laundry. It had never spoken, but it had never let him forget it was there. It had only been when Vessel had penned lyrics to a song that had been spinning in his head ever since the attempt had the entity made itself known.

’We can spend the night in fascination,’ it had whispered at the stroke of midnight. ‘Come on and find out.’

They had met in dreams. Vague messages underwater that had left Vessel gasping for air as he was shot back to the land of the living. Something was missing, he had realized as he penned more lyrics and wrote more songs. He had lost something, he had realized as he slowly gathered his band, feeling his chest constrict as his thoughts wandered.

When Vessel had started to cough up blood, starting off dark like coffee grounds and ending up coagulated and fresh, water had flooded his eardrums. Beyond rational reason, he had longed for his lungs to fill with water.

He didn’t like to remember how many times he had drowned himself to sate the feeling, sometimes with Sleep’s help when his mind panicked over his nightmares of the ocean. To stop the abnormal blood from coming out of his throat as it started to shred itself. He hated the look in his bandmates’ eyes when he had to break the news: he has to drown again. He loathed the way that II always volunteered to do it himself, how III and IV helped prepare for the quiet slaughter of the singer.

Vessel awoke floating in dark water. It was cold, like it always was. His throat was soothed once again and the faint metallic taste in the back of his throat was absent. As he sat up and started to walk atop the surface, small lights flickered to life, illuminating the way like streetlights down a dark road. Piano echoed through the darkness, the notes gentle as if the player was apprehensive. Despite it, the singer could feel each note ripple through his bones. The water mirrored the notes, guiding Vessel alongside the lights.

“Is this the last time?” Vessel asked. His voice echoed out into a chorus, reverberating onto itself until he felt as if he were compelled to answer. Yes. Please.

‘You could stay alive,’ Sleep sang back, ‘just tell me that you notice.’

“What do I notice?”

The ground beneath his feet gave way, quickly pulling him under the surface of the water. The icy temperature stole air from his lungs as he gasped, liquid quickly replacing it. Vessel thrashed and kicked, reaching for the surface and the light. No, no no no —!

‘Nobody else can pull me out.’

Vessel continued to fight until his head broke through the surface. He gasped for air and coughed as he threaded water, head swiveling to try to see if he could find a physical indication of the god. “Sleep!” he yelled.

The water cupped him like two hands and he rose in midair. The singer wheezed as he tried to properly clear his lungs. A light drew his attention back, and he watched silently as it floated in front of him. He held out his hands and it softly settled, tickling his skin as it seemed to zip around the small space like a firefly.

“Did…” Vessel licked his chapped lips and tried again to coax the words out of his throat. “Did you find the last of it? The missing part that– You said that I lost a part of myself when I drowned the first time. Did you find it?”

Something poked at Vessel’s spine as lyrics chanted and water vibrated, ‘So if your wings won't find you heaven, I will bring it down like an ancient bygone.’

The singer held the light close to his chest, feeling it burrow beneath the skin. His chest still felt contradictory, light and heavy at the same time. But this time, he had words to name it.

‘Call me when you get the chance.’

And Vessel was shot back to the waking world.

The alter was flat and he was dry, but still devastatingly naked save for a pair of boxers. He slowly sat up and took a few steps towards the stairs before he broke off into a run. Out of the basement, past the place where they practiced. It was dark outside, and a quick glance at the clock said it was just past midnight. How many days have passed?

Vessel rushed upstairs and opened the door to the shared bedroom where they sometimes all slept together. His gaze flitted over each of his bandmates, who simultaneously looked up from what they were doing (in numerical order: mobile game, phone scrolling, and book).

No one moved at first.

‘Oh, you said you'd better believe it,’ the presence, the god, Sleep, proudly crooned. ‘I said you don't even know.’

Vessel found himself in a tangle of limbs on the bedroom floor as his bandmates — his wonderful makers of music, the reasons why his chest feels so light with affection and heavy with the weight of it all — showered him affection. “I told you it would be the last time,” the singer teased, only to find himself promptly shut up with a kiss.

“What would a die with infinite sides be?”

“A sphere.”

“Would it ever stop rolling then?”

“Perhaps not.”

A clatter of hard material rolls on the inside of the van. It’s cramped only if one thinks it is. However, the back is open and their instruments aren’t inside the vehicle yet. They aren’t trying to contort their bodies inside the storage area either. That was already done for the short video their manager had told them to film. An explanation of why they had come to Earth. If it was an explanation at all.

“I do not think that such dice would exist here then. But, a human gifted us these,” one of them says. A hand presents a white die with four sides in a pyramidal shape. The numbers carved on the surface are black, if chipped and imperfect. Small dark polka-dots litter the surface of the dice. “They said it was homemade.”

“They seem to think we enjoy them.”

“There are other shapes too.” This time, the die’s design reflect onto itself with a different set: the details are white while the surface is black. “There is the classic one we enjoy and are familiar with. Then, there are these.”

A clatter as the gifts are thrown once again. “The most interesting one is the regular icosahedron.”

“Yes, they had seemed to put a lot of emphasis on it. They had said they had ‘blessed it’, did they not?”

“That they did.”

“Superstition? Or a true blessing?”

“They could be one and the same.”

“Do you suppose it relates to our attempt to form a hypothesis about humans?”

“About how there is no pure free will?”

“Exactly that.”

“It could be. However, when compared to the wider norm, it could be a deviation.”

“Because of how some others reacted?”

“They may have ingested substances. The performance was at a place where such is legally distributed.”

“Do you think it was jealousy, then?”

“Humans are quite confusing.”

A clatter of dice once again. A hum as the dice are moved around, then a few more dice are thrown. “The dice say that we are the same age again.”

“That has occurred twice now.”

“Do you think that is true then?”

“I much prefer the change. Humans are very picky about ages and hierarchy.”

“The older is seen as more responsible, yes.”

“I do not think that either of us would enjoy the constant responsibility of a hierarchy that relies on maturity and chronological biology.”

“That would imply that one of our instruments and roles are more important than the other.”

“I would really not like that. The main reason why this works at all is because we work together. To remove one completely would leave the structure to crumble.”

“Geometry works because of the properties that remain the same even when transformed. There are certain parts of our music that must remain.”

“There is no band without either of us permanently out of the picture. That would be a different shape entirely.”

The two of them nod in approval, turning their attentions to the gifted dice for a moment longer. The country road behind them, where the front of the van is facing, is long and quiet. Not a lot of vehicles pass at this time of day, where the planet’s sun hides behind the clouds and gives the rural space a gray hue. Long green grass sway in a subtle wind. It’s calming, yet different from their home planet.

Things here don’t conform to the geometry or rules that they’re used to. Then again, it’s nice to not spend an average of 33 hours grocery shopping because everyone is a big fan of each other, especially considering the hours of shops on Earth.

But it’s good here too. There are hotdogs and pyramids after all.

The dice hit each other again, a combination of their standard ones and the gifted ones. One of them makes a click from their mouth. “What do you think about seven-four and seven-eight?”

“Sebastian,” the other sings. Though, it’s difficult to the Earthian ear to properly distinguish if that was what was actually being said.

Upon echoing the phrase, the question is asked again.

A pause. The regular icosahedron is rolled. “How about seventeen-four?”

“If I remember correctly, the biggest numerator that we composed was twelve.”

“Yes, twelve-eight. We transformed that into four-four. That was not entirely out of hand.”

“But what of seventeen-four?”

“We will need to compute the amount of energetic stimulation it might generate.”

“But it is possible.”

“It is possible.”

“Question.”

“Answer?”

“How much energetic stimulation would our music produce beyond our time?”

“I would guess —” a die is gently tossed to the other, who makes a small disgruntled noise at the action — “definitely until we are 400.”

“Would you say until we are 500?”

“Yes, but if you say 600, you may be pushing it. Humans evolve on a different timespan than we, after all.”

“Of course. I do not even believe that the humans here take our modest age of 333 seriously.”

“Even translating the age of when we had first started collaborating on this work is an estimate.”

“But humans live short lifespans. Thirteen makes more sense to them.”

“It is inaccurate, but it is all we can do.”

Another long pause. A bird chirps an unknown song from an unknown place. The grass whispers back.

“Our instruments and equipment.”

“We should clean them up.”

“And give our photographer a call.”

“You can do that. Your accent is tolerated better.”

A die is lightly tossed, not meant to harm, but just to jest. A click of disapproval precedes a triangular symbol of the hands as an apology.

The actual loading of instruments and equipment is quick and silent. Monotonous movement interlaced with small hums and clicks, shuffles in syncopated rhythm. When the gear is secured and the back of the van is shut, the engine starts.

“As long as the day has a date —”