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Dream is floating.
Falling.
When you have been falling for as long as he has, it might even begin to feel like flying.
But you aren’t going up towards salvation.
You’re still going down, down, down. Into the black pit of despair.
Further down. Towards deliverance. Towards painlessness, weightlessness, inexistence.
Death. Is a release. Mercy.
It is the morning of April 6th and Hob hasn’t slept a blink again. The first thing he does when he gives up on his restless dozing is checking his phone. No new messages, no updates. He quickly opens all social media apps, ignoring dozens of unread notifications and looking up his friend’s profile instead.
Still nothing. It had been two weeks since they last heard from Dream. They are all worried. But Hob the most.
Wiping his face with a heavy hand, Hob forces himself out of bed. He feels delirious with the lack of sleep but even worse for his worry. He’s never seen anyone go dark like this before, and he doesn’t understand why Dream would do this. As a youtuber, sure. They went quiet all the time. But not as a friend. And Dream wasn’t replying to their messages, and his phone was dead. He hasn’t turned his computer on in two weeks, hasn’t logged into any apps. He was just gone. And Hob didn’t like it.
Making himself a strong coffee, Hob chewed on what was left of his nails. There was a crazy plan forming in the back of his head, or rather – it had been there from day one. But he kept telling himself it was crazy, unthinkable, wrong. He only had Dream’s address and phone number and other info for business-related reasons, technically. And sure, they all used each other’s private info to surprise each other with Christmas gifts and stuff, but showing up at one’s door uninvited would be so, so wrong.
Technically, Dream owed Hob nothing. Maybe… Maybe Hob was even the reason why Dream disappeared. Maybe he had misinterpreted the past few years of their friendship. They have been flirting, sure, that was undeniable. There were at least two fan-made videos titled ‘Dream and Hob Being Mildly Inappropriate for X Minutes’. They flirted and even roleplayed some platonic-maybe-relationship stuff on their server a lot, but in private, they were still just friends. Sure, they flirted in private too, but that could still be just a character Dream was playing, even though Hob was genuinely into him. Parasocial relationships and all that. Maybe it meant nothing.
But hell, even if it did, Hob still cared about his friend! And if his friend went missing or got injured or whatever horrific reason there would be for him disappearing from social media overnight, Hob was going to do anything in his power to help. If it wasn’t too late. And if it turned out that Dream just didn’t want to talk to him anymore, well, Hob could take that in exchange for knowing that Dream was safe.
The thought that Dream died tragically and his family just didn’t bother telling anyone kept Hob awake at night. He couldn’t imagine a world without Dream anymore. Parasocial, made-up, or real – it did not matter. Dream, Hob’s friend and colleague, couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. He would find out and then be on his way if he wasn’t welcome.
The coffee made rational thinking ten times worse. Hob checked all social media once more and checked Dream’s status on all sorts of apps. He hasn’t logged into any of his accounts in two weeks, ever since… Ever since he had last logged off during Hob’s stream.
‘I’m going to bed early,’ his second to last message in chat said. Followed by, a full minute later, ‘I’m tired.’
Hob forbid himself from looking too deeply into it. But what if it meant something? Dream had been acting normal, maybe even less gloomy than usual, and then suddenly, this silence. What happened?
Oh, the caffeine made it much worse. Hob shivers as all the worst possibilities flash through his mind. Now he is determined. He will buy a plane ticket and cross the damn ocean for his friend – to make sure Dream is safe. And if it turns out that Dream just really doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and he gets mad at Hob for this breach of trust – Hob was never formerly given access to Dream’s private information; the info was just shared among their group for business and other purposes – then at least Hob will know Dream is safe.
Opening his phone again, he notices a new message, and for a second, his heart leaps into his throat. But it’s just Jo, another of his friends. She is also worried about Dream – Hob knows that for sure – but now she is messaging Hob about something unrelated which makes him irrationally angry. God, the lack of sleep and the caffeine turn him into a monster.
Ignoring his friend’s message, Hob books the first ticket across the ocean that he can get. Unfortunately, he has many hours full of worrying ahead of him, but the important thing is that he will get to Canada. Of course, from there he needs to find a way to get to Dream. He’ll get to the right side of the country but the wrong city, and he needs to rent a car. He needs to rent a place to stay in the city where Dream lives, too. Good. That will give him other things to worry about after he packs his bag. Hopefully he won’t worry himself sick.
Truths are hidden in the darkness.
In the limbo. Alone. Missed by no one. Desired by no one. Hurt by no one.
He is safe here. No more pain for him. No more.
The darkness is warm. The cold water trickling into his throat every time he gets the strength to drink is rough, painful. It is too solid, too real. The darkness that he buries himself in is soft, protecting him on his way down, down, down.
He knew he would not come back up this time. But he is pleasantly surprised that it feels so good to fly.
Down, down, down.
Hob, thankfully, passes out soon after take-off and spends the whole flight deep asleep, waking up early on April 7th. That is probably the only reason why his trip doesn’t end in a horrific car accident as soon as he drives off in the rented car. The journey is another couple of hours – stupid Canada, too damn big – and way too uneventful for Hob’s anxiously beating heart that is expecting something horrible at every turn.
When Hob finally arrives at Dream’s door – what is supposed to be Dream’s door, anyway – he spends a couple of minutes just sitting in the parked car, contemplating his choices, even though all he wants is to run inside and finally see Dream and make sure he is alright. He has no idea what’s hiding behind that door. It might not even be Dream’s real house. Or, well, Morpheus’s. Because they are real people now, with full, real names and real lives. Morpheus Endeles may get seriously creeped out very soon.
With a sigh, Hob exits the car. The house in front of him is modern-looking but seems lifeless. The garden is overgrown, the mailbox is full, there are no lights on. Hob’s stomach twists in renewed anxiety as he opens the gate and walks into the front yard. The path is being consumed by tall grass but still mostly visible. For now. But if this house remains abandoned for much longer, the path will disappear, and it feels like the owner of the building will disappear too.
The doorbell makes no sound when Hob presses it. And he is still Hob, even as he knocks loudly at Morpheus’s door, because he’s always been himself, even as he created his internet personality. He’s always gone by his preferred name, and this is who he wants Morpheus to see when he opens the door – Hob, the kind guy from the internet but also from the cons and meet-ups.
The door doesn’t open. Not for a very long time. Hob keeps knocking because this can’t be it, the trail can’t go cold here. He has to find Dream. He has to know that he is safe. Because something is very much not right. Even if Dream had, well, a dying mother or something and left his house in a hurry to spend the last few weeks by her side even though he doesn’t like her, he would have set up a house sitter.
After what feels like ages standing there. The sun begins to go down behind him, reminding him that he needs to go to the air BnB that he booked and get a key, get settled in, but… Something tells him not to leave.
And finally, the door opens. Hob almost jumps. It has been a few minutes since he last knocked, so he wasn’t expecting the answer. He startles for the second time when his eyes fall on Morpheus.
His friend is emaciated. He is pale like a ghost and for a moment Hob thinks that is what he is seeing. But his friend is breathing, through his cracked, dry lips, panting with the effort of opening the door. His glassy, pink eyes widen in surprise as he recognises the visitor. “Hob?”
“Dream,” Hob breathes out quietly, scared of chasing the apparition away. “Morpheus, what…? Are you alright? I was worried, and I… Fuck, you’re not alright.”
Morpheus blinks. Then he looks down at his bare feet. “I’m sorry,” he says. Then he turns away, silently leaving Hob behind and disappearing in the dark house.
There is a smell coming from the door that was left open. Hob considers the possibility of seeing ghosts once again before he steps in, determined not to let it end like this. The door was left open, after all. That can be interpreted as an invitation.
Resisting the urge to call out to Morpheus, Hob feels along the walls until his fingers meet a light switch. He flips it but nothing happens. The fuses must have blown at some point, or the electricity is cut off. Using the flashlight on his phone, Hob finds his way deeper into the house. The hallway is littered with trash – full trash bags as well as random junk like food wrappers and containers. That is where the smell is coming from.
There are three doors at the very end of the hallway. One is permanently forced open by a small pile of trash, and another is cracked open, revealing a bedroom. At first, it looks like Morpheus isn’t there, but then the light of the flashlight catches something white – a bare ankle peeking from underneath a black blanket that is otherwise covering Morpheus’s whole body.
The bedroom is another disaster. More trash fills the floor, mostly empty plastic bottles and food containers underneath them. Hob notes that there are no new food containers, just the bottles, and wonders if that is the reason why his friend is so thin. He stopped ordering food.
“Morpheus?” he asks the black blanket uncertainly. He gets no reaction at all. “Where is your fuse box?” Nothing. “Dream?” That, at last, gets him a small shuffle, but anything he says after that is also ignored. With a sigh, Hob sets out to find the fuse box on his own.
Ten minutes later, the lights are on. Being able to see makes moving about the filthy house so much easier, so Hob manages to open the windows and allow some of the smell to air out. He also finds a roll of trash bags sitting on top of a pile of unfolded laundry in Dream’s gaming room. Many things seem misplaced, so he doesn’t even think about it and grabs it before he can forget where he saw it. It will come in handy.
Stepping into the bedroom, disturbing the pile of plastic bottles and making them all move against each other loudly, Hob watches the bed carefully for any movement. There is nothing. Dream’s ankle is still peeking out from beneath the blanket.
Seized by panic once more, even though he’d seen his friend minutes ago, Hob walks all the way to the bed to put his hands where Dream’s chest would be. The second he feels it move he pulls his hands away. Alive, he reminds himself, he is alive.
“Hob?” Dream’s voice is muffled by his pillow and blanket, but it is clearly confused. “You are really here?”
“I am,” Hob says softly. “And I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“Why?”
Hob closes his eyes for a moment. He can’t say the whole truth now when Dream is so vulnerable. But he can say a part of the truth, the most important part. “Because I care about you.”
After a moment, there is a hiccup. “Hob.” It sounds like a plea, and Hob’s heart jumps into his throat. He will do anything. “There is no helping me. Go away.” Hob’s heart sinks to his stomach.
“No,” he says simply. He gets no reply, and that is alright. He doesn’t need one. Instead, he goes to the bathroom – the room that is permanently open – and starts picking up the trash from the floor. It is mostly clothes, so he sorts those out into a separate bag, putting the rest of the trash into another one. Soon, the bathroom is empty but still very filthy. Dream must have been depressed for months without telling anyone. And living like this probably wasn’t helping him recover.
Thankfully, the cleaning supplies are stored in the bathroom. Hob does his best to wash it all as quickly as possible – the sink, the tub, the toilet, and lastly, the floor. The bathroom isn’t shining and smelling like a flower field, but compared to the rest of the house it is clean.
The second step of Hob’s slowly forming plan is a bath, so he starts preparing one. He didn’t find a single bottle of soap or shampoo that would have anything in it, so he goes to his car to grab his own stuff. It is dark outside by now and he curses himself, texting the air BnB that he wouldn’t be coming tonight and would arrive tomorrow instead.
When the bath is filled with warm water, Hob goes back to the bedroom. Dream hasn’t moved much but now two of his ankles are peeking out.
“Dream, I drew you a bath. Can you get up?”
“What?” Dream’s face peeks out from underneath the blanket, his expression a mix of astonishment, confusion, and incredulity.
“You’ll feel a bit better after a warm bath, come on,” Hob urges him. “Don’t make me dump you in there in your clothes.”
“Why?” Dream asks without moving from his place.
“Why you shouldn’t want to bathe with your clothes?”
“Why did you draw me a bath?”
Hob sighs. “It won’t fix things, but you’ll feel better, trust me. There is nothing like a nice bath with someone else pampering you.”
“Hob,” Dream says mournfully, “go away. You will not fix me. I will only hurt you.”
“Let me make this clear,” Hob says, putting his hands on his hips, “I’m not trying to fix you. I don’t care if you think you’re broken or whatever. I just want to help. And even if it changes nothing, even if you hurt me in the process, I’ll know I’ve tried, and I haven’t abandoned my friend.”
To Hob’s mild frustration, Dream doesn’t react in any way, not even a blink, just a blank stare with those eyes that look like he is about to cry.
“Go take a bath, Dream,” Hob says gently.
Mutely, Dream gets out of the bed and staggers towards the bathroom, swatting Hob’s hands away when he tries to support him. In the light, it is obvious how thin he’s become. His clothes hang off him like off a skeleton, and he sways with each step, probably due to dehydration as well as malnutrition.
When he hears soft splashing, Hob nods to himself. He should probably feel accomplished after making Dream wash himself, but instead he feels like shit for forcing his friend into something. He has to remind himself that if Dream isn’t clean, fed, hydrated, and rested, he will not get better. And at this point, it is becoming a matter of life and death.
Rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers, Hob slowly moves through the mountain of trash to Dream’s bed. He can smell it from afar, and it is not a nice smell. It gives him a good picture of what the emergency services would find if someone called them a few weeks down the line, if Hob wasn’t here now… He shouldn’t be thinking about that.
There is not enough time to clean the bedroom up, but Hob can at least create a semi-clean path to the bed and back, and change the sheets. While he does that, he regularly – probably too often – knocks on the bathroom door, asking Dream if he’s alright, making sure he didn’t pass out in the warm water. Each time, Dream answers in an annoyed voice. Each time, Hob smiles to himself, grateful that his friend is alright.
When there is a path among the empty bottles and the bedsheets are clean, Hob goes to the kitchen to try and get a glass of water for Dream. It is a difficult task because the kitchen is so full of empty food containers as well as rotting leftovers that it is hard to move and hard to breathe in there. Most dishes are also dirty, and the sink is full, but Hob manages to find a clean mug on the top shelf of one of the cabinets, and he fills it with water.
Knocking on the semi-open bathroom door to announce himself, Hob steels himself for another herculean task. “Dream, may I come in?” he asks.
“Why?” comes an uncertain answer.
“To bring you water.”
There is a short silence, and Hob bites his lip. Speaking too much doesn’t seem like the right move here, given that he is asking his friend to see him naked, but speaking is what he usually does when he’s nervous. Finally, Dream replies. “I am submerged in water, Hob.”
Hob cannot stop the laugh that escapes him, and he even feels like he hears some amusement in Dreams voice. “Come in,” Dream adds, so he walks in, doing his best to keep his eyes at Dream’s eye-level and not come of as awkward while doing so. Although, his eyes inevitably take in the whole of Dream for a millisecond, and that is enough to confirm his suspicion – Dream is emaciated. He’s been starving.
Dream takes the mug with a wry smirk, probably realising that it was the only clean thing in his kitchen. He sips it slowly, and Hob watches him, not even realising that he should get out. He’s too focused on seeing Dream drink, seeing him do something good for himself, even if it’s literally just drinking water. It makes some of his worries ease up if not go fully away.
“Well,” Dream says when he empties the mug, “now what, Hob?” He leans his head back against the tiles, looking at Hob through half-lidded eyes.
Hob swallows the urge to start blabbering excuses and leave the room, blushing like an idiot. Instead, he puts all that is between them aside and focuses on Dream’s comfort. “Can I wash your hair?” he asks. “I would like to.”
Dream contemplates him, biting his lower lip as he thinks. “I can wash my own hair just fine,” he says. He doesn’t sound indignant like Hob would expect from his prideful friend, so that is a good sign.
“I know you can,” Hob assures him. “But it feels nice having it done for you, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dream shrugs. “Very well. My shampoo is…” He thinks for a while, looking at the few bottles that Hob had brought. “Not here.”
Hob smiles and steps closer. “You ran out. I brought my travel shampoo,” he explains. Using the mug from earlier to scoop up water, he wets Dream’s hair. Dream closes his eyes, staying perfectly still with his head tilted slightly back, allowing Hob to work as he lathers shampoo into slightly too long black hair.
Hob is in no rush, so he takes his time massaging Dream’s scalp long after his hair is clean, releasing some tension until Dream is leaning into his touches, slightly swaying as even his neck and shoulders have loosened up. He watches Dream’s eyelids flutter when he finds the right spot to press in or lightly scratch.
When he feels like he’s done all he could for both Dream’s hair and his comfort, Hob uses the mug to wash the shampoo out of his hair bit by bit, running his hands through it under the guise of washing it, noticing how much Dream likes to have his hair played with now that he’s relaxed.
“I suppose I should wash myself now,” Dream sighs when Hob places the mug down again.
Hob hesitates before offering, “I can help if, if you don’t feel like you have the energy.”
Dream seems to be seriously contemplating the offer but then shakes his head. “I will do it. Washing myself is… cathartic. Sometimes.”
“Alright. Give me a shout if you need help getting out.”
It was easy to forget how bad of a state the house is in while Hob was in the semi-clean bathroom. When he steps out and is hit with the smell and sees all the trash, his success in getting Dream into the bath and feeding him some water begins to feel small. Sighing, he decides that he probably can’t do this alone, no matter how stubborn and how stupidly devoted he is to Dream. Instead of trying to tackle more of the mess, he orders food delivery and starts looking at professional cleaning services nearby.
After a while, the sloshing of water from the bathroom quiets down, and then he hears the water draining. He listens as Dream steps out of the bath without slipping, and then his friend walks out in nothing but a towel around his waist. Hob supposes he’s already seen more than that, so he shouldn’t be blushing. Instead of his childishness, he focuses on the way the knobs of Dream’s spine are protruding from his back as he walks into the bedroom.
Dream emerges wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and Hob doesn’t ask whether those are clean. They need to take it one need at a time. The food delivery arrives just at the right moment, so he takes it and brings it to Dream, who is standing in the middle of his hallway looking hopeless.
“I know the sheets are clean, but we should probably eat on the bed,” Hob suggests. It is the only place they can sit.
“I am not hungry,” Dream says, hugging himself self-consciously.
“I believe you’re not, but you need to eat something. Just a little, to get your stomach used to food,” he implores.
Dream looks at the tips of his feet, silent. Then he nods and heads to the bedroom where he sits himself on the bed cross-legged.
Hob didn’t go wild with the food, knowing that Dream would probably be sick from anything complicated. He got some McDonald’s, fries and nuggets and coke to wash it down and hopefully help with nausea.
They eat in silence, Hob eating very slowly and Dream at a glacial pace. The food is hopelessly cold and soggy by the time they finally finish it, Hob having eaten most of it while Dream at least put a genuine effort into eating.
“It is late,” Hob notes as he adds the trash to the already monstruous pile of takeout containers in the kitchen, cringing at adding to the problem. When he returns to the bedroom, Dream is leaning against the wall, eyes closed. It almost looks like he’s fallen asleep, but then he speaks.
“You can sleep here. There is nowhere else, anyway. Everything is covered in trash.”
The bed is big enough for the both of them, so Hob sees no problem. “Only if you’re comfortable with it,” he says, making sure they are on the same page.
“I trust you,” Dream says, and it warms Hob’s heart hearing it.
They lay down opposite each other, the only source of light the moonlight coming from the outside. As Hob’s eyes adjust, he notices that Dream is watching him intently in the darkness. He wonders if he should ask what he’s thinking, but he’s worried he’s already pushed Dream a lot tonight and prying might make him shut himself in more.
What Hob considers a reasonable compromise is a hug. “Can I hug you?” he asks, hoping that his friend doesn’t interpret it wrong. For a moment, Dream looks surprised, his lips parting, and then he’s suddenly hugging Hob around the neck tightly, his face buried in Hob’s chest.
For a moment, Hob forgets what to do, but then he wraps his arms around Dream and lies down so they are both more comfortable. He puts one hand on Dream’s back and the other into his hair, trying to be comforting but not smothering. He wants to stay awake, in case Dream wants to talk to him after all, but he blinks, and when he next opens his eyes, it is morning.
Dream is still curled in his arms, his fingers gripping Hob’s shirt for dear life even in his sleep. Hob doesn’t want to wake him, so even though he kinda needs the bathroom, he stays still, waiting for his friend to wake naturally.
It doesn’t take long. Soon, Dream is stirring, looking up at Hob with disbelief, as if he forgot Hob was there.
“Good morning,” Hob says, smiling. “Slept well?”
“Mmhm,” Dream hums, pulling away from Hob to stretch. He stretches like a cat, thoroughly, his body seemingly lengthening to twice its size, and when he is done, he sighs contently. Blinking at the ceiling for a moment, he lets out a little scoff of disbelief. “I feel better.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Hob says, grinning, shamelessly proud of himself.
“You don’t understand,” Dream shakes his head, turning to him. “I feel better. I have only been feeling worse and worse each day for the past… several months. But today I feel better.”
“Well, things were bound to get better one day,” Hob points out. “There is only so deep you can go before the only way is up.”
Dream doesn’t point out that up is not the only way to go, but it is clear from his expression that he is thinking about it. “Thank you,” he says after a while. “Without you, I would—”
“Hey, no point in thinking about that,” Hob interrupts him before he can say something too heavy for this nice morning. “You have me. I’m here.”
“You are.” Dream smiles. He leans forward. For a moment it looks like he will kiss Hob, but instead he touches the tips of their noses together. Somehow, it feels even more intimate than a kiss but less… serious. This is not the right time for serious, and Hob is grateful that Dream didn’t kiss him, because he is not sure he would be able to put a stop to it without hurting himself or Dream.
“Well,” Hob says, taking a deep breath, “we should probably get up. We need to get breakfast and… Do a lot of other things.”
Dream’s smile disappears as he rolls over, facing the mess of his bedroom. He sits up but doesn’t stand, continuing to stare at the bottles and other trash on the floor for several minutes. Hob gives him time, but when it becomes clear that Dream is stuck in his head, he sits up too, scooting over to sit next to Dream.
“I know it feels overwhelming,” he guesses, “but—”
“That’s not it,” Dream says, shaking his head. His voice is suddenly weak, quiet. “How can you even look at me?”
“What?”
“I am so…” Dream shakes his head again, gripping the bed tightly. “I am so disgusting. How can I live like this?”
“You are not disgusting, Dream,” Hob denies, cupping Dream’s cheek and trying to make him look at Hob, but Dream refuses. “Depression is a bitch and a half. It changes us until we don’t even recognise ourselves. But it’s not who we are.”
“I want to go back to sleep,” Dream says, turning away from the mess.
“You can. And I will bring you breakfast and make you eat it. And then I will call every cleaning service in town and find one that will help me clean this house for you. And when it’s clean, you can try to get up again. Or,” he takes Dream’s hand, “we can do that together. Because even if you don’t feel strong enough to face it right now, you are. I promise you that it’ll get easier and easier the more we get done. But either way, I will be here. I will not abandon you in this, no matter what you choose.”
“What if I fail? What if I get up but get nothing done?” Dream doesn’t pull his hand away, but he seems to be leaning towards the comfort of his bed.
“Then you fail, and you get to try again tomorrow, or after a nap. There is nothing wrong with that,” Hob assures him. “But you can’t tell me that you’ll certainly fail if you haven’t even tried. You can not try – try it later, you can fail, or you can succeed, but you don’t get to give up. I won’t let you.”
“You won’t let me,” Dream repeats in disbelief.
“Wanna test my stubbornness?” Hob grins.
“No,” Dream smirks. “I know I would lose. I think I will just…” He looks towards his spot on the bed, biting his lip in indecision. “I can try,” he says slowly, turning back towards his room. “And I can fail.”
Slowly, Dream sits at the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the ground. Inevitably, he ends up nudging away an empty water bottle and it makes the lot of them move against each other. Dream eyes the pile wearily, noting its size. “I can fail,” he repeats, and Hob thinks that he is going to go back to bed after all, but then Dream gets up and picks up a bottle off the floor, uncapping it in order to stomp on it and flatten it.
“Well,” he turns to Hob, raising an eyebrow. “You promised me breakfast.”