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"I used to ask myself if anyone was worth my attention in the dream. It was so rare that anyone could even be bothered to speak to me like a real person. Maybe to them I was just a side character in their crazy dream."
There is a pang in his heart, realizing how bitter he sounds. He doesn't like that harsh tone in his own voice. He runs his hands over that mark on Gallagher's opposite arm, his rough fingers remaining gentle. It's a mirror of his own, but lacks any real definition. Woolsey's scar has texture, and depth to it. History that you can feel. Gallagher's is more like the suggestion of an injury - there is no real scar tissue for Woolsey to glide his digits against. His hands can only desperately reach out to try to touch something that isn't really there. Just the act of it, the pantomime of affection...it makes him realize how tired he really is.
"It was always you."
That little phrase is full of so much romantic whimsy, as he tries too hard to compensate for his prior complaining. As if saying the right words will bring something back. The longing in his heart lurks in how he speaks, regardless, a wolf at the door, a sadness that snaps at his heels. Why does it have to be this way? Why isn't he saying anything? Say something. Just one thing. That's all he needed. Just one last conversation, and everything would be alright, surely. The sweet dream would let him have that. Wouldn't it? It pains him now, to realize how warm he is, to feel the heat radiating off his muscled body. That vibrant warmth he craves whenever his shift is over. It's too much.
"Please."
The single syllable catches in his throat, lingers there, like a sickening aftertaste he can't get out of his mouth. It came out more like a statement than a question, since he can't shake the feeling that asking wouldn't change anything. Gallagher's beautiful eyes keep staring straight ahead, piercing right through him. There's nothing in the way they shine, no venom, no frustration, no sadness, no happiness. The red irises catch the light just so, and reflect absolute void back at the universe. The love of his life is a blank canvas. Woolsey's own brown eyes gaze deep into that void, searching for who he remembers, the life of the party, the man he fell madly in love with.
A shaking in his hands that makes them clutch tighter to Gallagher's arms. Eventually, he has one hand pressed up against the man's white silk glove. He feels himself holding back tears while he goes through the motions of fitting their hands together. Just like they used to. One tear slides down his cheek as the full weight of how performative this all is crashes down on him. For a while, he'd buried this pain, buried it deep and abandoned it. But here it was, uncorked, all because he made one stupid, stupid decision to try and make a replica of him within the dreamscape.
He finally lets go. Turns as fast as he can manage, to get himself away from that thing, that imitation of the man he loved. Loves? He struggles to define his feelings, while the facsimile form of Gallagher vanishes into iridescent dream bubbles, ascending slowly towards the open sky. He was so stupid, he knew it was an awful, terrible idea, but...he needed him. So badly. He'd have tried anything, really, in his grief and anguish, to catch a fleeting memory of Gallagher. But he wouldn't do this again. Never. He feels so weak, now, forcing himself to walk to the railing, where he can look through rain-washed eyes at the Golden Hour in all its glitz and splendor. It feels wrong for a place to be so happy, right now. He mumbles something to himself, an old little song, his voice hoarse while he carries the tune.
"We're the Bloodhounds...the protectors of Penacony..."
His sturdy, dependable hands are shaking now, while he pulls the faded photograph from his vest. He smiles ruefully, blinking back more tears, recalling how he'd always put it here, to keep it close to his heart. This picture of them together, frozen in a moment of happiness, forever and always.
"Be it in dreams or reality...all dangers...dissipate like smoke before us..."
He keeps on running his fingers over the photo, just like he had run them over the false-scar on the replica of Gallagher. Pining for a life that feels gone. For a few terrible moments, his muscles ripple in anticipation, his fingers itching to rip the thing to shreds. To toss the fragments to the sea of dreams and be done with it. A hasty, rash action that his brain shouted for him to make in a fit of overwhelming emotion, much like the mood that had caused him to go through this terrible idea in the first place.
"The world would be-...would be a goner...without..."
With a shuddering sigh, he puts the photograph back where it belongs, back to the pocket, right above his heart. His heart which is still beating strong, full of life. Maybe he can figure something else out. Maybe he couldn't. But he wouldn't let himself completely forget Gallagher. And people still needed him.
"The Bloodhounds..."
Nothing has changed. But perhaps one day it will.