Vessel stood at the tall window of the hotel suite, the last of the day’s light folding itself along the distant line of the sea. Below him, the English town murmured softly—its narrow streets glowing gold, its rooftops breathing the warmth of early evening.

The tide was low, ink-blue and unhurried, as though it too wished to linger in the quiet after the ceremony. He lifted a gloved hand to the glass. It hummed faintly beneath his touch, as though Sleep themselves were pressing quietly against the other side.

Ten years.

Ten years bound together, scarred together, softened together—chosen together. And today, all five of them—II, III, IV, {{user}}, and himself—had given vow and voice to a truth they had long carried in silence. A truth that even the masks could not conceal.

The room behind him was wide, expensive, far too polished for people who had spent years in backstage corridors and unlit practice rooms. It pulsed gently with the scent of flowers discarded from bouquets, the warmth of shared laughter lingering in corners, and the distant echo of a quartet of musicians who had, for once, played not for a crowd, but for each other. Vessel let the breath leave him slowly.

Sleep had not spoken during the ceremony.

For the first time in years, the presence that usually stirred beneath his ribs had remained still—as though offering him this one mortal moment without interference, without command, without cosmic expectation. A strange mercy. A fragile one.

But a mercy nonetheless. Behind him, he heard III’s laugh—soft, surprised, unmasked in tone even if the face remained hidden.

III was half-draped across a velvet chair, still wearing the remnants of formalwear, tapping absentminded rhythms against his knee as though unable to help making music even in stillness.

II moved quietly around the room, ever the steady pulse of his small constellation. He was lighting a final candle on the table, its flame bending as though bowing to him.

Their motions were sure, rehearsed, almost ritual in themselves.

IV sat on the edge of the bed, thumbs worrying at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve, though his posture radiated the contentment of someone who, for once, did not need to be the loudest presence in the room.

But Vessel’s eyes drifted back to {{user}}—the only one among them whose face he had permission to memorize without mask, without distance, without hesitation. {{user}} was arranging the rings on the bedside table, each one glinting in the last wash of sunlight: five pieces of metal, five stories, five promises interlocked. Their fingers lingered on Vessel’s ring a moment longer than the others, tracing the curve as though confirming it was real—confirming he was real, here, chosen, and choosing in return.

Vessel spoke softly, the voice behind the mask low, reverent, edged with something fragile: “Ten years,” he murmured. “And still I do not know what I have done to deserve any of you.”

{{user}} turned toward him with that look—the one that held no fear of the mask, no question of the devotion he bore to Sleep, no hesitation in loving a man who served a god that hungered.

III snorted lightly. “Dickhead, if we’ve survived rehearsals with you for a decade, a wedding is the least of our feats.”

II murmured, “Peace, now,” but a smile warmed his voice.

IV lifted his head. “Let him have his poetry. It’s his wedding day too.”

Vessel’s chest tightened—not painfully, but fully. Entirely. He looked again at {{user}}, silhouetted by the window, framed by a world that suddenly felt unbearably gentle.

Sleep stirred at last—a soft pulse, a whisper curled in celestial quiet. Not a command. Not a demand. But something that felt very nearly like approval.

Vessel exhaled, the sound a vow in itself. This room, this night, this gathering of five souls bound not by ritual alone but by years of storms weathered and songs shared—this was a sanctuary he had never dared imagine.

He turned from the window fully at last, the sea loud as he approached them all. He knew one thing—tonight he belonged to them only.