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Today was peculiar. He roamed through hazy dream-halls, foggy clouds of memoria bubbles sweeping across the corridors, and his shoes felt feather-light each time they pressed down against the luxurious red carpet. He passed dreamweavers flitting around like busy bees to attend to the fragile reflection of the Reverie, and they paid him no mind at all. Not that he was bothered. It was better to be ignored, he thought, than to be given those vaguely sympathetic stares by people who had heard the rumors. Just the thought of it made his rough hands curl up into clenched fists. He'd wanted something sentimental, a farewell to a lost love that would give him a sense of finality. Begrudgingly, he would admit that their reaction to him asking for a Bloodhound promotion for a man who didn't exist was...understandable, and even through the clouded irrationality of his anger...he could understand why they'd think he was unwell. But that didn't stop his heart from pining for it. Nor could it stop his temper flaring up whenever someone treated him like he was losing his mind. Was it truly possible to feel so bitterly lonely, when enveloped in a wondrous dream with thousands upon thousands all around him? He wished he didn't know the answer to that.
The photo he carried with him, of course, didn't serve as proper evidence of Gallagher's existence. If he tried to show it to people, anyone could just say that he'd created it using the dreamscape. He couldn't bear the thought of someone saying that to his face. It'd feel like severing the last thread tying him to this idea of Gallagher, the last and only memento of a time when he was happy. Instinctively, he runs his opposite hand over his scar, uncertainty and doubt lurking just behind his thoughts. Could he trust that he was real? Maybe he really was losing his grip on reality. It happened, sometimes, here in Penacony. When one spends so much time in waking dream, it can be hard to distinguish the real and the fantasy. He shook his head, cracked his knuckles, then returned his hands to his sides as he took a heavy breath. He was in the Dreamjolt bar, now, soothing blue light washing over him. He'd known about the place, of course, but he'd always preferred a rowdier crowd. Somewhere where he could stand tall and proud in a brightly lit corner, and still have the freedom to end a bar brawl if someone dared to cause a fight. And besides...Gallagher would always mix drinks for him without the need to go to a bar.
Now, though, the urge to drown all this sorrow creeping around his heart...he'd rather be in a quiet, empty place to do that. And just like he imagined, the place was empty, the bar stools looking just as forlorn as he felt. Placing himself on a seat, he'd shift his weight forward, leaning onto the counter, and there Siobhan was. Both her earring and halo sparkled faintly in the reflection of the dim blue light. With calm and practiced hands, she was in the middle of polishing a glass, sweeping a rag around the rim while she walked over to acknowledge Woolsey.
"Hey. First time I've seen you here."
He shuffled around in his seat, finding it hard to mask his uncertainty about being here to begin with, but eventually, he'd simply nod his head. Put on that 'confident Bloodhound' voice and make up an excuse that sounds reasonable.
"...Right. As you know, the Dreamweavers are doing restorations around here. So-"
She'd interject before he could even finish, decisively cutting him off, her emerald eyes staring down at him as if they were searching through his emotions. Cutting right through the brave act he was putting on. It might have come off as rude if it were anyone else, but Siobhan had a way with words. She could tell he needed a friend, not pity.
"-Gallagher isn't around anymore."
That stopped him right in his tracks, briefly fumbling with his words until whatever excuse he was going to offer up was entirely forgotten. Her stare wasn't like the others, the ones who thought he was crazy, who gave sympathetic smiles but shot him wary glances when they thought he wasn't looking. Like they thought he might explode at any second. No, this was different. First, there was the shock that someone else remembered his name. And second, the way she said it - her greeting had been so friendly, but now, she sounded solemn. A little homesick. But what could he even say? Where could he start to explain?
"He spoke about you, a couple times. Wanted to bring you here. But things happened so fast. Faster than any of us could have predicted."
She finished up polishing the glass, absentmindedly tossing the rag away. She'd pick it up later - she was focused on taking care of Woolsey, now. It was a drinksmith's honor to help folks untangle their emotional knots, after all. By the time Woolsey had figured out what to say in response, uncharacteristically struggling with his words, she'd already gotten a bottle of Classic Soulglad out, humming to herself while she poured it into a glass.
"I really can't believe that you...no one else remembers. Even my Bloodhound detectives, the very best, they have absolutely no idea. How can you?"
He feels the painfully familiar clench in his hands again, the anger at himself, for not being able to figure it out. He rests both on the bar counter, the cold marble surface sapping the warmth from his fingers. It helps, a little, to ground himself. To touch something real, even if it's in a dream. Slowly, he relaxes, while she mixes.
"I wish I had a good answer for you. Right now, I can feel there are bits and pieces missing, when I try to remember him. A jigsaw puzzle with a few missing pieces. But there IS one thing I recall with absolute clarity."
She punctuates her cliffhanger of a sentence with the finishing touches of that drink she's making. Before he was too overwhelmed with the knowledge that someone else remembered Gallagher, but now, one glance towards it makes his heart flutter. That weight on his shoulders doesn't feel as heavy. The way the color in the glass flows from dusky red, to an orange sunset at the top, and the rose adorning the rim...color only exists where there is light, and now, he can feel that light soothing his soul. Immediately, the urge to reach out and grip it, to feel the icy glass pressed against his palm...it takes over any rational thought he might have had about asking, or payment. The bloodhound takes what it wants. Siobhan tries her hardest to stifle a laugh at his reaction.
"I guess he was right. The one thing I remembered perfectly...Gallagher left a bottle behind, and told me to mix a drink with it. Just for you. He told me you'd go nuts for it, like a dog with a bone."
Now, she tries her best to remain professional, leaning back against the wall, wondering if this will truly help whatever's going on with Woolsey. He's just staring at the drink now, his brown eyes wide and dilated. The way pupils get when they're looking at something they love. Something beautiful. She's beginning to get an idea of just how much the two of them meant, to each other. Woolsey's holding onto that glass for dear life, the condensation seeping onto his fingers, while he hesitates to take a sip, let alone finish drinking this last gift, and have to come to terms with saying goodbye to it.
"...Thank you. How much do I owe you, Siobhan?"
Siobhan crosses her arms with a disapproving shake of her head, smiling casually.
"Oh, come on. It's on the house. Seeing the stress practically melt off you when you picked it up was payment enough, Woolsey."
Despite himself, despite everything that had happened, despite the dread crawling up his spine, a warning that this happy moment was only temporary...he decided to ignore it, and simply indulge in this moment. Allow himself to have this fleeting, uncertain happiness. It was okay.
"I'm happy, I think..."
The bar melts away, just like his stress did. He is vaguely aware of his conscious mind passing on to some deeper dream, but it feels comfortable. As real and reassuring as the firm, intimate grip of his strong body against Gallagher's, all those hours they'd spend huddled together for a sense of belonging. The sensation of his fingers brushing through his hair, or his palms pressing against his back. All those memories bubbled up to the surface, fighting for his attention, all wishing to remind him of the peace and joy he felt being entwined with his love. The dream starts to take a form, the void shaping itself, Gallagher's familiar haunt, the Dreamjolt bar, shimmering into view. Woolsey finds himself sitting atop the counter, muscled legs dangling in the air, a great expanse of darkness below him. Up above, the moon is silver bright, a resplendent figure against the backdrop of a shimmering night sky. Above, below, left, right, everywhere - the stars twinkle for him. He is alone, but he doesn't feel lonely.
"How'd it taste? Pretty good, right?"
Woolsey is shaken out of his reverie, the flurry of happy thoughts, by a familiar hand gripping him. He'd jolted so hard from the shock of another voice, that he'd almost fallen over the edge - but he's pulled back to safety. As he turns to look, he first recognizes the white glove clutching his wrist. Then, his eyes take in the warm, lit candle, the red ribbon snaking through the bar countertop, the rose and its petals. But most of all, he loses himself in the sight he'd longed for so long, of Gallagher, sitting there, as if he had never disappeared. Now that he'd finished saving Woolsey from tumbling into the starry abyss, he leans back with a lazy smile, bracing one hand against the countertop. A line of clocks are arranged on the back of the bar, all locked to the same moment in time, 5:01. They do not tick. They are frozen.
"Careful, don't get too lost in those sweet dreams. I know that you never wanted a goodbye at all. And I wish I could have stayed. Or done this a better way. Something more...magical. But this was the backup plan."
Gallagher's face invites him to touch it, as velvet beckons a finger's touch. Woolsey doesn't care anymore to hear explanations, or to understand why this is happening, or how - he just wants to enjoy it. And kissing this man was always an effective way of curtailing his speech. Their lips meet, again, in the glittering gloom of this dream's night. One of Woolsey's firm hands hugs the side of his face, finger brushing over the stubble on his cheek, while its opposite rests on his shoulder. Embracing him. All this affection was waiting for an outlet, and now he needs no words to deliver his love. Gallagher is just as content to let it happen. They stay like that, for a long while, sitting side by side beneath a pale moon. Overcome with heartsick passion.
"Can I talk for a second, now?"
"...Fine. If you insist."
Gallagher pecks him on the cheek, unceremoniously, a silent thank you for giving him that opportunity.
"I call that drink 'farewell, my lovely'. It's a miracle this place hasn't collapsed, yet. I just needed you to know...you were my rock. Time...is a picture in motion, going on for infinity. I was so tired. I started to feel like time was passing so fast. Surging past me, weeks, months, years gone in seconds. When you started being a part of it...everything slowed down. You made the movie stop. No more clocks tick, tick, ticking away. I wanted our scene to last forever. For once, I wasn't just going through the motions, waiting for my ending."
"How much longer do we have?"
"I don't know."
"Okay. Then there's no need to discuss it more. Let's just enjoy the time we have. I love you."
"I love you too."
There was no need to waste time stressing over how to make it last longer, or what to do, or what to say. He kept it simple. For a while that felt like forever, they spent these last few precious moments sitting with their legs pressed together, staring out at the stars, hands held tightly together. Woolsey was used to Gallagher being the one to be so tired, resting his head on his shoulder, but now, it was his turn for that. He had no idea how long it was. He was just grateful for one last moment, together. He found himself closing his eyes.
The clocks begin to tick again. The time is now 5:02. And the dream within a dream was over.