#sk!ii

They're still new at this. New at touring together, new at sharing cramped spaces, and working around each other's idiosyncrasies. It's like any new flatmate or partner except they're not like that. Not really.

Mostly not.

Vessel and II are like that. On and off. He and IV aren't sure if it's convenience or feelings or familiarity, but it doesn't matter so much because it doesn't get in the way of work.

And it is work. This is the job they're being paid for, the coworkers they've gotta gel with, and the digs they've agreed to for the duration.

Stuffing four grown men into a single hotel room or a single travel van is going to cause some problems despite all that conviction. And they have to do it for six days in a row with shows--Vessel stubbornly calls them rituals--every night.

To top it all off, he's got a headache that hasn't abated since some time the previous week and it's fucking with him something fierce. It's a weird one, too. Neither paracetamol nor vicodin can make a dent in it and he's tried both. Luckily he can still sleep through it, but the pain has made him snappish and cruel in his waking hours. This, more than anything else, is likely the main source of tension among the lads right now.

They're managing it admirably, but his foul mood has rubbed off.

II in particular has snapped back at his grouchiness more than once. It's justified nine times out of ten. Shitty comments and complaints about their digs, "woe is me" statements every ten seconds with no awareness of his surroundings, and shoving work off on the others--all that deserves a bit of correction. But it grows pricklier with every instance.

At one point, the prickliness turns to outright vitriol, though, and it shocks them all. The rub is, he hadn't even earned it this time. The complaint he voiced was a genuine concern--a missing case of supplies and the probable person to blame--which needed to be addressed.

Vessel is pacing when it happens, treading a furrow between the full length mirror and the door of their tiny dressing room. He paces as often as he is anxious, which is all the time, so this is not a strange sight. IV is warming up on an electric plugged into nothing and watching. His attention has been wandering of late, mind far away in any moments of down time.

He and II are nearly done with their paint, minimal as it is. It's an exercise in care. Namely care for whoever will be in the dressing room next. The paint gets everywhere and it stains. II is glaring daggers at the speckis of black that go flying when too little care is taken.

In his defense, he's agitated by missing gear and headache alike. "Fucking pricks lost our shit already? Christ, if it's already been cocked up, we--"

"You miserable piece of shit," II interrupts him. "Can you quit assigning blame to anyone but yourself? God, why the fuck did we--"

"Bruv, shut the fuck up," he tells II with a glare. "I'm literally being serious here."

For half a moment, there is a stunned silence as the argument teeters between abating and continuing.

And then hell breaks loose as they all scramble to find the mask bag.

They do locate it in time. A tech for the headliner had grabbed it by accident, thinking it was spare towels.

About halfway to the asscrack of dawn, they make it back to the hotel.

Vessel had fucked off immediately after the show--ritual--but the other three stayed out a bit. Friends to see, beer to drink. IV slunk off at some point, sporting a bloody nose from a stray elbow, but II had stuck around.

He's surprised to have his little shadow. Not that he and II don't get along. They're actually quite good with each other as long as no one else is around. Fond, even. II likes to tuck himself under an arm and lean. The guy gets fatigued easIly, though he doesn't like to show it. Always worse if he and Vessel have been recording or writing. Puts his heart and soul into it. Runs himself absolutely ragged getting it all perfect.

All this means that the two of them get back to the hotel separately than the others and quite late.

He's examining his sleeves, trying to figure out where all of IV's blood went when II stops them just on the other side of the door to their room.

"Hey Three?"

He's only half paying attention to where he's going and nearly bowls II over. "Shit, sorry mate. You good?"

"Yeah, just..." II trails off. There's a furrow on his brow and he anxiously chews his lower lip between his teeth. "Sorry for earlier. I was a dick, calling you out like that. Even if I'd been right, it would have been a shitty thing to say--"

He stops what will become a tirade of explanations by putting a hand on II's head and fucking up his hair as thoroughly as possible.

"It's alright," he says amidst the yelping. "I've been a proper cunt, too." He sighs. He doesn't want to blame the headaches again, even if it's true.

But then he blinks.

Huh.

Headache is gone.

That might explain his good cheer. He can almost, but not quite, feel it lurking at the periphery of his awareness. Like as not he's imagining that though.

II leans against him in a small show of physical affection, trying to impress the genuine nature of his apology. Looking up at him, there's something in his eyes. Something that's only been there once or twice before.

He takes the risk and bends down, pressing his lips to II's in as gentle a way as he can.

II quits worrying at his lower lip and kisses him back. It is both an apology and an understanding, both new and not--whatever this is between them. They've not done anything other than a stray brush of lips, curled up all together to watch a movie in shitty hotels, but this is different. This slow and creeping warmth is nice. It's a connection that has the potential to lead elsewhere, yeah, but it's also just...

It's nice. It's theirs.

He presses in just a little more and then pulls back, smiling as II tries to follow. "Let's get some sleep, yeah?"