Chapter Text
“Why does this feel like an intervention?”
Five sets of eyes turn to Morpheus, who’s slouching so low in his seat he may just give into gravity and allow the table to suck him under.
It’s not an intervention, of course. It’s lunch, at some cafe Johanna picked out because when no one can agree on anything, she interjects and makes a decision. Morpheus likes that about her. He likes how strong willed, no nonsense she is and how she can bully her way past big wigs and execs and be a deciding factor. That’s why the band all collectively agreed on hiring her as their manager.
But Morpheus didn’t enjoy it when her stern gaze locked on his. Now with his bandmates eyes dogpiled on as well.
“You would call it that,” she closes her eyes in a way, Morpheus knows, to stave off a heavy eye roll incoming. “I’m not asking for much.”
“Or anything at all, really…” Dessi mumbles to themselves, taking a sip of their iced tea.
Morpheus slides his gaze over to them, in what he hopes conveys complete indifference, and back to Jo.
“What I have to say isn’t important.”
“Oh, you’re so full of shit,” Jo snaps, smiling impatiently. “Em, you need to start talking in interviews. Half of Endless’ fanbase thinks you’re a mute.” She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “It’s not cute.”
Morpheus pulls his lips in and says nothing, but manages to unwind an arm from around his sternum to play with a french fry on his plate.
Johanna went on, repeating the same story she’d said over and over, for the past couple years now: that he comes across as difficult to the press, and indifferent or even bored to Endless’ growing listeners. Which, of course, Morpheus would rather fans not assume. Can’t he enjoy making music without having to talk and talk and talk? And it isn’t like Morpheus doesn’t contribute to recorded conversations. He’ll nod or shake his head or shrug.
It’s not a suggestion anymore, it’s a demand; an expectation. Morpheus has heard it for years: “forget about the fans– people in the industry simply don’t like an artist who refuses to speak… it’s haughty, it’s smug, even if that’s not your intention… it’s all about perception… how people perceive you…”
Morpheus was in a losing battle and he knew it. His bandmates knew it. And if he was honest with himself, Morpheus had only continued avoiding the spotlight because he’d gotten away with it for so long.
“It’s good PR 101, Morpheus.” Johanna’s words filtered in Morpheus’ ears once more. “You can’t be difficult about this. And while Endless rises in popularity, your appearance will be scrutinized whether you like it or not.”
Morpheus manages to keep his eye roll in check. Who cares?
“Morph…”
Morpheus raised his brows just enough to see Leta across from him, next to Johanna.
“You can't be selfish about this. This is about Endless. Don’t you want us to succeed?”
“Are we not succeeding?” Morpheus deadpans to the table, his stare landing again on Johanna. “Our album continues to sell, ‘Collectors’ is number four on the Billboard, our Spotify listeners have doubled– these are things you have told us.”
Johanna sighs, sitting back in her chair.
“Yes, statistically Endless is doing great. But if you went online for a minute you’d see chatter among fans about the band’s chemistry, rumors floating around that Dream has lost interest. You can’t expect your band mates to carry your slack.”
That gets Morpheus’ attention.
“I’m not slacking.”
“By being the outlier and the only person who refuses to speak, you are distancing yourself from everyone else.” Johanna takes a long breath. “Do you want to quit the band?”
Morpheus’ brows narrow. “No, of course not.”
“Well, that’s the question fans are speculating online.” Johanna leans forward, her hands on the table. “This is what I mean by perception. We need to nip this in the bud now while Endless is still new.”
Morpheus tightens his hold around himself, glaring now at his untouched sandwich and fries.
“I’ve scheduled a radio interview once we arrive in Dallas,” Johanna switches gears so fast it makes Morpheus’ head spin. “And you’re gonna say something, mister.”
Morpheus clenches his jaw, rubbing his back molars together.
“And I’ve spoken with a journalist for Rolling Stones magazine,” Jo barrels on. “... who will be joining us in Chicago for a couple days. They want to write a piece on Endless!”
Everyone around the table brightens up at the news, Deliria shrieking under her breath, bouncing in her seat and turning heads in the cafe toward them.
Morpheus brings a hand up to rub at his temple.
“Morpheus,” Leta speaks again, voice soft. “This is good news.”
It is good. Morpheus sighs. The exposure is good. He just hates being ganged up on.
“I’ll need media training…” Morpheus concedes with a grumble, the very idea of a stranger instructing him how to speak is enough to bring forth a migraine.
“Way ahead of you, sunshine,” Johanna is already looking at her phone and tapping away.
The trip from Nashville to Memphis is quick, and Morpheus spends the entire duration of it sitting in the corner of their kitchen nook. The seating is an old fashioned booth from a 50s diner and has the most comfortable cushions in the entire tour bus. Dibs for this spot have been fought tooth and nail, and so Morpheus is grateful his bandmates have allowed him to ruminate here for the time being.
It takes a couple hours before Morpheus is disturbed by Leta sliding across the table from him. Morpheus watches her from the corner of his eyes, his head unmoved from its resting spot upon the glass.
“Little brother,” she greets with a grin. “What’s got you so preoccupied?”
Morpheus looks back out the window, inhaling deeply through his nose.
“I’m sure you can hazard a guess.”
Leta props her elbows on the table and rests her chin atop laced fingers. Somewhere at the back of the bus Dessi and Del are playing a video game and the occasional outburst ricochets off the walls and interrupts Morpheus’ train of thought.
A beat or two passes before Leta responds.
“What are you so afraid of?”
Morpheus frowns, tipping his head to give his sister his full attention. “I’m not afraid…”
Leta raises her brows in obvious disbelief, but her lips curl fondly.
Morpheus sighs and pulls his legs up, looking out the window once more, ignoring Leta until she sighs and leaves. He’s not sure what he’s afraid of. Maybe it’s rejection. Maybe it’s the attention. He’d been quiet for so long that their label had been using it as a marketing tactic. What’s going to happen once he opens his mouth?
Morpheus can’t help but continue the argument with Jo within the safety of his own head. Who cares if one fifth of a band keeps to themselves? Does Dessi not carry enough charisma for the whole of Endless? The entire reason Morpheus stepped down from frontman was because he couldn’t handle the attention. All the eyes on him. The pressure to be appealing and fire up a crowd wasn’t Morpheus' strong suit.
But Dessi seemed to thrive off the attention. They absorbed the lights and cheers like it sustained them. Fame looked good on Dessi. They were born for it. And with that much confidence leading Endless, drawing a crowd, Morpheus felt comfortable enough to take a step back… and another… and another…
Maybe he had gotten too comfortable. It felt easier, safer, to be in the shadows. Permitting his bandmates to outshine him. Though Morpheus loved creating music, playing with his friends, allowing them to slowly open him up and pull out his most authentic self…
Morpheus felt himself begin to relax as his reflections naturally came around to his bass tech, Hob.
Hob was almost the antithesis of Morpheus. Where Morpheus clung to the shadows, Hob seemed to fill them with light. Where Morpheus was quiet and reserved, Hob laughed and was carefree. It was almost annoying how easily Hob had slipped into his life even after a few short interactions. How he managed to encourage Morpheus to open up and become more and more honest.
Hob had a similar charisma to Dessi, where he seemed to attract those around him, like planets orbiting the sun. Unlike Des, however… Hob appeared unaware of it. Morpheus often wondered how Hob went about his day, his work, being the way he was. If the people gravitating around him distracted him at all. Morpheus would rehearse conversations in his head, asking Hob what made him so unafraid. So likable.
The resolutions to these made up scenarios gave Morpheus a familiar flicker of warmth in his chest. A burn that he kept to himself to dwell on later.
Though privacy was a luxury rarely given while on tour.
Hob Gadling’s attention was a heady thing to experience. It had struck Morpheus by surprise, the first time they met, keeping him on his toes with every interaction. Speaking more openly and candidly than he had with anyone else in his immediate circle. Asking him questions and keeping the conversation going when Morpheus never knew what to say.
Morpheus lowers his lashes and studies the edge of the window, the emergency exit latch, down the black and white checkered wall and onto a large hole in his jeans, exposing his knee. He picks at it distractedly, fraying the edges even more, remembering again why he was over here ignoring his bandmates in the first place.
Morpheus is overthinking this. He knows he is. He wonders what Hob would have to say about all this… the apparent issue of his silence. He wonders if Hob would agree with Johanna or attempt to understand Morpheus’ point of view. Though Morpheus knows he’s being difficult… it’s hard for him to put a real reason to actions… or inactions, as it were.
Maybe he’ll ask Hob for advice next time they see each other.
Morpheus is feeling marginally better once they arrive at the venue in Memphis. Deliria and Dessi’s energy helps; they hardly let Morpheus wallow in self pity for longer than a day. He allows himself to be dragged into a selfie once they settle into the green room. Everyone had been taking photos and video during the tour for their own personal social media accounts, as well as sending some to Johanna to keep their official band profile up to date.
It’s fun, Morpheus can’t deny that. Their experience is documented and it’s nice to interact with their fans in this small way, feeding off the excitement of visiting a new city and the anticipation behind all that (it also helps, if Morpheus is being completely honest, that all the interacting is happening behind a screen and not face-to-face). This is their first major tour, after all. And Morpheus has to remind himself that they are doing this for the fans. People like their music. The positive (and negative) feedback from critics has nothing on the cheers and applause from a sea of fans. Hearing people sing along to their lyrics– stories Morpheus had penned himself– is surreal. Certainly not something he had ever experienced in his life… it struck him, freezing him in place.
He was never sure exactly how to react to the swarm of affection and loyalty from listeners; strangers. It was a lot… a lot more than Morpheus had ever anticipated. It was almost… terrifying.
And it was all happening so fast. With every passing day, ticket sales for the tour went up. Their debut album was frighteningly close to a gold certification by the RIAA (about 100,000 more units, according to Johanna), and– although Morpheus himself had no online presence, he lived vicariously through his bandmates– they’d somehow accrued a million followers on Endless’ official Twitter page.
Morpheus didn’t want to complain, or offer up excuses, but he was trying. He was trying to be Dream, this member of a band that didn’t belong just to Leta and him anymore. Endless was shared not just with Mona, Dessi, and Del anymore; it had become co-opted with thousands of people— over a million, apparently. It didn’t feel real.
And one of the only people, who hadn’t treated him any differently because of all this, had agreed to come along on the tour as Dream’s guitar tech.
It was comforting… having Hob around. In a way that had taken Morpheus off-guard, but regardless he accepted and even enjoyed the company. So he wasn’t surprised to find himself wandering around Hob’s station before sound check, distracting his scattered thoughts by tapping his fingers along his workbox, the amps surrounding him– fiddling, as Leta had described it.
Morpheus hadn’t intended to put Hob on the spot, but chatter amongst stage hands about Hob learning bass had piqued Dessi’s interest, who in turn, informed Morpheus. It made sense that Hob would want to learn, and Morpheus truly admired the dedication to his new job. And if that were the case, Morpheus wanted to hear for himself. Immediately.
The sheer amazement that Hob not only could play the bass, but could do it marginally well, had inspired Morpheus into action… playing a song with Hob had released the stress and anxiety from the past 24 hours and afterwards, Morpheus felt like himself again. He’d allowed himself to fall into the music and found a brand new appreciation for his newly appointed tech. Morpheus wondered what other talents Hob hid underneath that unassuming demeanor.
It was more than enough to take the stage that night, feeding off the raucous cheers from the crowd, the vibrations under his feet from the heavy bass and drums, traveling up through his very bones. The thumping and buzzing resonating inside his chest like an echo chamber, it gets under his skin and… calms him. Grounds him, pulls him away from the overwhelming lights flashing and blinking.
On stage is chaos, so much so that these grounding techniques become second nature, and Morpheus is able to transform into Dream. His fingers press hard against the strings, playing songs he’s memorized 10 times over by now, able now to move a bit more, close his eyes, knock his head back and push his chest into the air.
No one else would probably notice the incremental changes in Morpheus’ on-stage presence… but he can feel it. How much he’s transformed; adapted. Even if he’s taken a step back from frontman, Morpheus feels more and more comfortable performing every night. Stepping onto the stage from the shadows for the first time, facing a new crowd, becomes exciting instead of intimidating. It’s almost involuntary by now, how a good crowd will ease Morpheus into his role.
Not to mention his bandmates, always so much more expressive than him, loud in their personalities and free with their smiles. Morpheus looks over to Dessi, who is screaming into the mic with a passion Morpheus could never translate. No matter what Mona, Del, Leta or even Dessi disagreed over in the tour bus or during (targeted) meetings, on stage they flew. And Morpheus felt free.
They had their placement and blocking, a routine they performed and played up every night. With room for error and improvisations, of course.
Tonight, Dessi marched up to Morpheus while they sang, reaching up with their free hand to comb fingers through his hair and pull, so Morpheus’ neck stretched out and his jaw dropped. The audience went wild, an eruption of cheers sneaking underneath his earpiece.
Dessi gave his head a little shake, something they hadn’t rehearsed, before letting go, throwing Morpheus a sharp smirk over their shoulder as they went over to bother Leta next.
Morpheus felt his hair sticking up and grumbled over the fact that he couldn’t fix it until the song ended. It was all in good fun. Morpheus had grown more used to Dessi’s antics, often sprawling over the other band members in interviews, kissing cheeks, or taking Morpheus or Mona’s hand and biting their fingers.
Dessi couldn’t take Morpheus’ hand while he performed, but they did occasionally surprise him with a bite to his ear, shoulder, or on one memorable occasion (where Morpheus had been so surprised he’d jerked his arm and nearly gave Dessi a black eye) his elbow.
Despite the shenanigans and the almost overwhelming energy on stage, or maybe in spite of it all… Morpheus truly felt like he belonged there. With his friends and sister, sharing this experience with them. Even to the detriment of his personal space. He felt himself changing and although it was terrifying, it was also exhilarating.
And throughout the performances… he always felt Hob’s eyes on him. But it wasn’t unpleasant.
Especially thinking about how he’d have Hob with him for the entire duration of the tour. That fact alone could sustain Morpheus more than the vigor of his band, more than the strength of their fans and the safety net of the crew.
Morpheus wondered if Hob was aware of how much his proximity alone had helped calm him down. How much, in general, he meant to Morpheus. He’d have to tell him soon. Even though that in itself was also terrifying… and exhilarating.
The song ends and Morpheus pulls the guitar over his head, walking over to Hob for a swap.
He laughs, his eyes directed up at the top of Morpheus’ head.
“God, Des did a number on you.” He takes Morpheus’ guitar and replaces it with Jessamy in the same motion.
It’s dark in this little corner of the stage, but Morpheus can see Hob’s eyes shine as the lights for the next song start to flicker. And before he can open his mouth to say something, Hob has reached up and is combing his fingers through Morpheus’ hair.
Morpheus sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening involuntarily around the neck of his bass. He can count on one hand how many times Hob has touched him (four. Four times, all of them cordial or accidental), but this feels too…
… much. And given the way Hob freezes, his gaze landing on Morpheus’, he seems to come to the same conclusion.
But, in typical Hob fashion, he pushes past it and laughs gently.
“Better,” his smile is small, apologetic, but he gives Morpheus’ scalp one more run through, his nails lightly scratching and causing Morpheus’ toes to curl.
Morpheus bites his tongue, manages a nod, and turns away just as his cue comes up.