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Can people get sick in the Dreamscape?
Is a question Gallagher finds himself asking when he’s idle and needs a random thought to ponder about.
Surely not right? After all it's a dream and why would anyone want to dream about getting sick in a world filled with paradise and drunken joy? But thinking back to the random alleyways, people do vomit from either drinking too much or eating too much. People can also feel nausea from the intense speed of Bubble Pinball. Kicking back against his seat, Gallagher began to doubt his initial answer…maybe they can get sick? He shook his head in dismissal. But that’s not an illness, more like motion sickness or even a migraine. It's just a trick of the brain!
Perhaps Gallagher shouldn’t have ignored the signs. The way the back of his throat hurt when he woke up? Clearly he just needed some water. The way a pounding headache built up as the day went on? Clearly he was sleep deprived.
Gallagher woke up feeling like he got run over by several cars. His head felt heavy and exhaustion blanketed him from all around. Groggily, he opened his eyes to look up at the ceiling and wanted to immediately close them again. He gave a harsh cough and pulled the blanket over himself despite the burning temperature that was radiating off his body.
Can people get sick in the Dreamscape? Well seeing his own state, the answer is a solid yes.
Giving another cough, Gallagher felt his throat drier than Sunday’s jokes and it painfully scratched the back of his mouth. Fighting the heavy fog that occupied his head, Gallagher slowly sat up, his body protesting against his actions yelling at him to go back to sleep.
Standing up, Gallagher was hit with a wave of dizziness and nausea. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, breathing heavily through his nose. The dizziness and nausea subsided just a little bit and Gallagher took it as a sign to go. His limbs felt heavy, like treading through oncoming waves. He leaned against various furniture and walls as he made his way to the kitchen.
Just as Gallagher reached the entrance of the kitchen, black spots slowly grew, covering his sight. He paused panting, fully relying on the wall to stand up straight.
Taking one more step, Gallagher slipped, crashing heavily against the floor. He didn’t bother getting back up, the cool floor provided relief to the ever rising temperature of his body. Succumbing to exhibition, he let his body rest on the floor.
Feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket, Sunday fished it out and checked the screen. It seems someone from the Head of Security was trying to reach him. Believing it was an emergency, Sunday picked up the call. “Hello? May I ask who this is?”
On the other end a timid female voice stammered, “G-G-Good morning Mr. Oaks. I am terribly sorry for calling you this early. Or calling you at all.” she murmured the last part hesitantly. “I would like to know if you know where Gallagher is? He did not call out for today. He may be a slacker but he’s always diligent with his work.” She paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath before continuing, “We tried calling him several times but we were left on voicemail for all those attempts. We were wondering if you could reach out to him?”
Sunday frowned, his eyebrows furrowing and deepening with worry. It's true Gallagher may be an idler, but he always got the job done by the end of the day. He wouldn’t just skip a day without notifying anyone, especially Sunday. “Um Mr. Oaks are you still there?” the lady asked meekly, she was close to shrieking out in fear. He’s probably fuming because I’m calling for such a trivial matter she cried internally.
“Ah, I apologize for the silence. I was caught up in my own thoughts.” He said, his gentle voice putting the lady at ease. “Thank you for letting me know. I will try and reach out to him.” He thanked her before promptly ending the call.
Sunday immediately scrolled to Gallagher’s contact and called. His calls were left in voicemail. He tried again and was met with the same results. Uneased, Sunday stood up and ordered his assistance to clear the rest of his day.
Sunday arrived at Gallagher’s apartment and rang the doorbell. No one answered. He rang it against this time with more concern as he tapped his toes against the floor. Nothing again.
“Okay desperate times call for desperate measures.” He dug up the spare key Gallagher had given him and entered. It wasn’t that Sunday was hesitant to use the key, but he respected Gallagher’s privacy just as the other man had respected his.
Upon entry, Sunday was assaulted by the scent of cigarettes. Cigarette butts littered the ground and empty cans piled on top of each other in a small corner of the living room.
Sunday shook his head in disgust and disappointment at the mess of the living space. It seems he’s going to need to lecture Gallagher the importance of cleanliness. He called out Gallagher’s name, but was met with silence. Sighing, Sunday traveled further into the apartment.
Turning towards the kitchen, he saw Gallagher’s unconscious body slumped over the floor.
Eyes widening, he ran towards Gallagher’s side, shouting his name in shock. His knees slammed against the floor as he shook the man. The man on the ground groaned in protest at the sudden and loud noise, flimsy trying to push Sunday away. Sunday sighed heavily in relief at the man’s response, at least he was not dead. He allowed his body to relax, trying to find logic and ration at a time of irritation and unreasonableness.
Even with gloves on, Sunday felt the way Gallagher’s skin burned his. Antsy and clumsily, Sunday pulled his gloves off, resting the back of his hand to Gallagher’s sweaty forehead. It was significantly hotter than his and definitely significantly hotter than any normal human temperature.
“A fever” Sunday concluded. First things first, Sunday needed to get Gallagher off the ground and somewhere comfortable. He glanced at the ill man then at the bedroom down the hall.
“Okay, Okay.” Sunday mentally prepared himself. He strained to pull Gallagher up. In the end, Gallagher’s broad body was draped over Sunday’s thin body. Sunday struggled to stand up, huffing and puffing as he dragged Gallagher’s body down the hall to his bedroom. Along the way, Sunday stumbled, Gallagher’s weight teetered almost taking Sunday down with him. But Sunday found balance, using the wall to restabilize him and Gallagher.
Upon getting to the bedroom, Sunday practically threw Gallagher’s body down on the bed. Gallagher groaned at the impact, but slowly adjusted himself to a more comfortable position. Sunday was panting at his efforts, but now’s not the time to be dying from a small workout. He dialed his private physician, putting the phone down and on speaker as he went to the bathroom to fetch a bucket of cold water and towel.
As a voice spoke through, Sunday gave a quick debrief on Gallagher’s condition and gave the address to Gallagher’s apartment. The physician promptly agreed.
As he waited for the physician, Sunday discarded his white vest and gloves on a chair and pulled his sleeves to his elbow. He brought the bucket over to the nightstand and sat at the edge of the bed. “Gallagher, I’m going to wipe you down, okay?” He informed the sleeping man, who in return gave a noncommitted hum.
Sunday began unbuttoning the white vest… white vest? Looking over Gallagher’s attire, Sunday was horrified to see the man was in his usual outdoor attire. Either this man didn’t change his clothes last night or he was about to leave for work. Both which made Sunday reel back stunned. He continued to peel back the soaked dress shirt and began wiping away the sweat. Finishing the wipe with the cold towel resting against Gallagher’s forehead. Instead of redressing Gallagher in his sweat soaked attire, Sunday chose a random T-shirt and short pants that spotted the floor (praying it was clean) and changed Gallagher into it.
Sunday sighed at his efforts, but was pleased with himself at what he’s done. Gallagher gave a harsh cough, hacking away on air and Sunday jumped. A knock was heard from the door.
Upon opening the door, Sunday was greeted with the physician holding a brief case. Sunday led him to Gallagher’s room, where the doctor assessed the man through various tests and examinations. At the end, the physician presented his findings to Sunday.
“It would be getting worse then getting better.” The doctor said, “Here’s some prescriptions. Please give these three to him every five system hours.” Pointing to three multicolored bottles. “And give this to him if he feels any nausea.” Pointing to the last of the two medications. “Make sure he takes adequate amounts of water, seeing how much he is sweating. Also a light amount of food should be given after the medication is taken.” Sunday mentally jotted down all the physician's orders, profusely thanking the man as he escorted him out the door.
Sunday returned to Gallagher’s side and fiddled about himself in front of the resting man. Just then Sunday remembered how when he was sick, his mother and sister would make him chamomile tea for his throat and soup to nourish him when he has a low appetite. Finding himself a new task, Sunday set about himself to make these items for Gallagher.
When he opened the cupboards, Sunday was met with empty shelves or cabinets filled with beer cans and dry rations. Sunday once again found himself shaking his head in disapproval and disappointment. He would definitely need to educate Gallagher on how he can better take care of himself. He made a quick call to his assistants who promptly retrieved the items and delivered it to Sunday.
Just as 0500 system hour approached, Sunday prepared to give Gallagher his medications. Opening the pills and putting them into a small cup as well as pouring a large glass of water. He even slipped a small candy into his pocket in case Gallagher complained that the medicine was too bitter.
Sunday gently shook Gallagher, quietly calling his name. The muscular man stirred grunting through his drowsiness. His eyes slightly opened revealing glassy and unfocused red eyes. “Come come it’s time for medicine.” Sunday coaxed, helping Gallagher sit up. “You can go to sleep afterwards again okay my love?”
The ill man sat hunched over the bed head, he stared at the cups presented to him as if wondering what to do with them. Sunday guided the dazed man, instructing him to take sips of water and slowly swallowing the pills. Gallagher did as he was told, looking at Sunday as if expecting praise.
“Woww so obedient today.” Sunday teased, giving a small giggle. He patted Gallagher’s hair and gave a quick peck. “If only you were like this everyday.”
The next time Gallagher awoke he saw Sunday’s back towards him. His white suit has been discarded, leaving his navy inner shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbow. The Halovian was wringing out a towel.
Gallagher called out, his hoarse voice breaking through the splashes of the water. Startled, Sunday turned around and saw a disgruntled man struggling to sit up. Seeing Gallagher awake, Sunday flocked towards him a million questions leaving his lips.
“How are you feeling? Does anything hurt? How’s your head? Are you comfortable? Are you feeling too hot? Too cold? Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Do you need anything? Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?” First thing he wakes up and he’s being interrogated already.
He was going to answer but a cough left his mouth, and he turned around as a torrent of coughs continued to rapidly exit his mouth. Sunday lifted a small cup, ushering Gallagher, “Come drink. It's chamomile tea and it's warm. The doctor said that your throat was inflamed and red, so this should soothe it out a bit.” Gallagher accepted the drink, downing it in one go. He sighed in sweet relief, thanking that it wasn’t painful as he swallowed.
“Was it okay?” Gallagher managed a nod, he cleared his throat. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? What are you doing here taking care of an old hound?”
Sunday sighed, setting the empty tea cup down. “It is precisely because an old hound needed some tending that I am here.” Seeing Gallagher pout, Sunday cuddled against him laughing a bit “But I don’t mind. It was nice taking care of you.”
Gallagher leaned away at Sunday’s closeness. “Uh from what I know, aren’t illnesses contagious. You shouldn't be this close to me.” But Sunday brushed him off, “The doctor said it was probably a memory bubble that makes you experience the symptoms of the dreamer. It isn’t contagious.”
“Do you want soup? I made sure it isn’t heavily flavored or thick, so it should be easy on the stomach.” Sunday said standing up.
Not feeling much of an appetite, Gallagher was about to decline when Sunday added “I made it myself.”
“I’ll take a bowl.” Sunday fetched a bowl of warm soup. He set the bowl down on the table to which Gallagher stared with anticipation at him then the bowl.
“You want me to feed you?” Sunday concluded. Gallagher broke into a smile.
“Oh you- fine.” Sunday scooped a small spoon full, scraping off the excess liquid at the edge of the bowl and raising it to Gallagher.
The hound eagerly took it in his mouth. Giving an exaggerated satisfied sigh.
“So spoiled” Sunday said as he scooped another spoonful.
“And whose fault is that?” Gallagher replied smugly.
After drinking the bowl, Sunday felt Gallagher’s forehead. It was still a bit warm and medicine wasn’t ordered for a couple of hours later. “Do you want to sleep some more?” Sunday asked.
“I will if you come into bed with me.” He opened the covers and moved a bit down. Sunday grumbled, but accepted the invite regardless. Gallagher settled them both under the blanket, wrapping an arm over Sunday’s small frame. He pillowed his head against Sunday’s neck, the tips of his wings brushing past his head idly.
The two laid in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Sunday began to softly hum a song. Gallagher never heard the song before nor did he ask. He simply listened, feeling the vibrations through Sunday’s body. The song was light hearted as Sunday continued to hum, he began to brush against Gallagher’s head in a rhythm. Gallagher felt comfortable and as time went on fatigue caught up to him.
He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled to sleep in the arms and voice of his lover.