Tears, traitors they were, leaked down his cheeks as he stepped up to the keyboard, thinking that the moment he pressed down on the first keys, the crowd would know. This is it. The last song, you can do this. Just give me five whole minutes.

“Thank you,” Vessel croaked into the mic, borderline sobbing, so choked up from the feeling of failure, but also from how supportive the fans had been all night. Frustration, appreciation, the sheer weight of the moment, it was all a tangled mess in his chest.

Pressing down on the keys, Blood Sport began and the room erupted, so loud it pierced through his in-ears. Hell, he couldn’t stop crying as he sang, gasping for air after every sentence. It wasn't perfect, hell, it wasn't even close. But with each strained note, each ragged scream, a fragment of his self-aimed anger turned to fierce, burning gratitude.

With a choked-up “you say it doesn’t matter” leaving his lips, the song was over. Vessel felt forced to fall to his knees in damn-near reverence, like a sinner praying for forgiveness. Cleansed and cathartic.

One by one, the entire team joined them on stage. Techies, roadies, the sound crew, management, everyone, and before Vessel knew it, he was surrounded by people. Through the haze of illness and whirlwind of emotions, his eyes scanned the stage until he spotted the familiar figure in the throng of people. There. In a heartbeat, Vessel was across the stage and wrapping his exhausted frame around the one person whom he considered his anchor.

“Thank you, {{user}},” he whispered, low enough that only the two of them could hear it. Finally, he could let go and allow the bough to break.