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For someone who sleeps as much as he does, Noah doesn't dream often. He's never been one to turn down a nap, but they're always short bursts of dreamless sleeps. When he wakes up, it's like he's never fallen asleep in the first place – just a lapse in memory of where he'd been unconscious overnight. However, on the rare occasions that he does dream, they're vivid , and more often than not, they can be classified as nightmares.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He's standing in some sort of shallow ocean, the water merely lapping languidly at his ankles. The water's a crystal-clear blue, reflecting the bright sun above. When he looks around him, it seems to go on for eternity. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun only to confirm there is no shore in sight. The water is slowly rising about him, just barely inching above his socks.
Around him, the water is littered with bits and pieces of scrap metal. It's all vaguely reminiscent of their shitty cargo plane. The rational part of his mind tells him that this seems all too familiar to their time spent in Jamaica – bright blue water, broken plane, and all.
Noah frowns to himself, trying to piece it all together. Hadn't he been swimming with Owen just moments before? The memory is vague. He turns around to look for his friend before coming face-to-face with Alejandro. He nearly falls backwards in shock, catching himself just before he trips into the water. The ocean's up to his knees now.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Noah finds himself asking. His voice takes on that echoey, distorted tone that all dreams seem to do. The man hadn't been here seconds ago – just Noah and the wreckage, and wherever Owen ran off to-
"Like an eel dipped in grease," Dream Alejandro parrots, and Noah winces, hearing his own words thrown back at him yet again.
God, not this again. He can't even escape it in his own dreams, huh?
There's a frown on Dream Alejandro's face. It's weird because one, Alejandro's never been that expressive. He's been running on a facade this whole game. And two, it's oddly realistic. It's borderline of being uncanny valley because for once, Alejandro actually looks genuine.
Was this how he'd looked on the plane? Noah has to ask himself, struggling to find the memory. Did he look that genuine? That upset? That hurt?
He blinks, and the water's up to his waist. Alejandro's moved five feet away from him. Something's rippling under the surface.
"I thought we were friends, Noah," Alejandro says softly, but there's pain in his eyes, and his voice reverberates around the endless ocean.
He remembers nights spend strategizing their next move in the competition. Owen and Tyler were heavy sleepers, and Izzy was always off doing who knows what. They would plan out in the open, think of their next angle to play. And he loves Owen, but there's something different about being able to talk with someone that matches your intellect. He thinks of crooked smiles, hushed whispers, the way that Alejandro would bite his lip to hide his grin, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear-
"We were, we are- " Noah protests. He wades through the water, pushing back against the waves to try and reach the other. The water's rippling, and the waves are beginning to rise higher. Alejandro's form grows further and further out of reach. Something brushes his ankle under the water.
Alejandro's face darkens, and so does the sky around him. The sun has disappeared, and a mass of dark clouds are rolling in on the horizon. The wind picks up, and the waves begin to climb. The ocean meets his ribs.
"It hurts to see that you think so lowly of me," Alejandro murmurs, but his voice booms lile thunder, crackles like the storm around them. It begins to rain, and wet hair plasters itself against Noah's face.
His mouth has always run faster than his brain can keep up with – it's gotten him in trouble on more than a few occasions. This is no exception. Words are his weakness, and he's always been quick to give in to cynicism and sass. He should've just thought it through. It's a reality show, of course there were going to be cameras.
"I don't trust the guy ," he had so carelessly said. "He's like an eel dipped in grease, swimming in motor oil."
"Dirty?"
"Slippery."
He's almost to Alejandro. The waves keep creeping higher and higher, drenching him in cold salt water. There's no longer any ocean floor beneath him. The water's dark and cold, reflecting the stormy sky – an endless abyss. He spits out another mouthful of salt water, reaching for the man.
"I'm sorry-" he shrieks in between gasps of air. The water blurs his vision, and he struggles to make out Alejandro's bright red shirt. Just a few more feet. "I get it, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Please – just – please! "
There's something swarming underneath the water. He can feel them pass his ankles, brush against his skin. Alejandro's so close, he's nearly there. The sky sparks with lightning.
"Alejandro, please -" He makes one last-ditch effort, lunges for the man through the water. His hand grazes his wet shirt, unable to form a proper grasp.
Alejandro's eyes narrow. "An eel dipped in grease."
A wave crashes down on him and pulls him under. The current pulls him this way and that, and it feels like his body is going to be torn apart. He's pulled further and further under, the water gliding uselessly though his fingers. Small strips of dark creatures dart through the murky water, brushing against his skin. The last bit of air is torn out of his lungs.
He takes one last look at the plane before he jumps. "Beware of eels."
There's a loud sort of crackle, and then, every nerve in his body lights on fire.
_____________
He awakes in a panic. Every fiber of his body burns with a sharp ache. His skin is drenched in sweat. He raises a trembling hand to his chest to try and calm his rapid heart rate.
It takes him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize it was just a dream – nightmare – and come back to his senses. The room is dark, and the curtains are drawn over the windows. To his left comes the steady beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor, declining to a more stable pace as he gets control of his breathing. There are wires and bandages wrapped around his skin, and it takes an enormous amount of self-restraint to not just rip them off and run for the hills.
He lets out a sigh that sounds more like a shudder, flopping back against the bed. The guard rails rattle with the movement. Everything in the room smells strongly of antiseptic, and it makes his nose wrinkle.
London. Hospital. Lake. Eels. Right. It slowly begins to come back to him as he comes out of his post dream haze. He runs a hand through his greasy hair, letting out a shaky breathe.
In the dim light of the hospital machines gathered around his bed, he can see them: rounded red scars peeking out from the bandages. They litter his skin with small red disks. He stares numbly at them before letting his arms fall to his sides.
Maybe it's karma, but it seems a little excessive for just shit-talking on TV. Surely it wasn't enough to earn something of this caliber. No, someone with some sick and twisted sense of irony seems out to spite him.
He drags his hands down his face, exhaling. Beware of eels. God, what bullshit.