Chapter Text
Seattle, WA
Coming from Texas, Arizona, and California, the heat up in Washington really isn’t that bad. The sky is overcast and Hob doesn’t feel like a matchstick.
The crew has a few hours to kill before the show tonight, and they spend it walking along the waterfront, popping into souvenir shops and grabbing lunch at a seafood joint. Seattle is a city Hob had always wanted to visit, never gaining the opportunity to travel to the west coast. So he takes the opportunity to snap plenty of photos.
Seattle itself is bustling, keeping everyone entertained, even if Hob had been hoping for more time to explore outside the city… see the parks and– oh yes, the beach. But the Space Needle is pretty cool and walking through Pike Place Market on the way to the concert venue is a plus.
Despite the energy of his co-workers around him, Hob feels something niggling him… a persistent uneasy feeling at the back of his neck. There’s something ominous lurking in the city that Hob can’t pinpoint; can’t rationalize.
Hob isn’t a superstitious man… but he is a firm believer that things happen in threes. And once call time is met and he gets to work, the answers to Hob’s illogical concerns begin falling into place.
The venue’s AC is busted, which isn’t… good, obviously. And without windows to crack open, the meager half-dozen box fans that litter the front and back-of-house do nothing to cool the space down, but at least it keeps the air circulating.
Once ticket holders pile into the building, however, it becomes a cause of worry.
The temperature escalates like wildfire, the walls itself appearing to drip with sweat. Mervyn is handing out ice packs and additional water bottles to those that need it, and the venue as well is distributing free water to the concert goers. Hob takes constant peeks into the sea of people as he helps in setting up the stage after the openers finish, seeing the perspiration and tired faces even towards the back.
The venue also has the front doors open, but it doesn’t seem to help, even as the sun disappears and the outside temperature cools down significantly.
It’s grueling, and even Hob is panting by the time everything is set and he makes his way back to his station.
And despite the promise of speaking today, Hob hadn’t seen Morpheus until soundcheck.
Hob had been so stunned by the sight of him– feet shuffling, shoulders slumped– that he immediately stopped what he’s doing. He’d watched patiently, waiting to grab Morpheus’ attention while he’d been in conversation with Mervyn. The man looks exhausted, like he’d just run a marathon– his naturally thick hair falling flat and perspiration misted across his brow and down his neck. It makes Hob fidgety.
Soon enough, Morpheus had turned away from Mervyn and locked eyes with Hob, who’d already made his way over.
“Hey…” Hob crosses his arms.
“Hob.” Morpheus’ brows turn up. “I apologize I haven’t been available as I’ve promised.”
“That’s fine,” Hob insists, studying Morpheus’ sharp cheekbones and dark circles. “Been busy?”
Hob has a sinking feeling that Morpheus hasn’t been “busy,” but he wants to give him the excuse, to deny or take it. Hob is well aware by now how uncomfortable Morpheus becomes by offerings of comfort, even if he had accepted it last time. Hob has a suspicion that being vulnerable isn’t something Morpheus is used to.
There’s undeniable stress reflected in Morpheus’ eyes, dulling the color there. Some days he hides it well, or it’s overshadowed by something else. But at this moment…
Hob has never seen Morpheus look like this. Stressed isn’t a strong enough word for it; anxious, maybe. Wearied.
Morpheus sighs, and it’s like his whole body goes with it.
“I have not been feeling…” His gaze is low, sweeping sideways. “... Very inspired, today.”
“No one is,” Hob says, trying to relate, trying to keep the mood light. “I think it’s the heat.”
Hob wonders if Morpheus can hear the plea in his tone, the enticement to elaborate. But Morpheus only nods slowly.
“Certainly.”
His tone had been final, his gaze coming back up to rest on Hob for a beat before flicking away. Hob brought his lips in, noting how far off Morpheus’ gaze had been.
Lucienne and Mervyn beckoned Hob’s attention, and he reluctantly parted with Morpheus, leaving him with a lingering look before meeting with his managers.
Soundcheck goes as well as it can, but it’s clear no one wants to be here. The stage is hot, with the bright lights, and the staff is becoming irritable with the amount of attention each microphone, snare drum, and pedal needs. Hob wonders when the other shoe is going to drop– that uncomfortable sensation that something is about to happen.
Hob studies the back of Morpheus’ head while wondering if he’s allowed now, to express his concern more freely. If Hob can pull Morpheus off to the side and offer any kind of comfort or stability. He’d told Morpheus that he could tell Hob anything. Does Morpheus know that Hob would also do whatever he asked? That he would give him anything he needed?
“I still wish to speak with you,” Morpheus insists after check is concluded, handing over his guitar.
Hob holds on to the bass, unable to even waste a second turning around to put it away. Dessi prances past them, giving Morpheus’ shoulder a good shake and Hob a look as they pass.
“... Preferably alone.” Morpheus adds on, his gaze following Dessi.
The stage is being swarmed now with stagehands, swapping out Endless’ equipment, performing a soft breakdown to prepare for the openers.
Hob wracks his brain for the next time he’s available. He doesn’t exactly get a “break,” except for when catering comes around for lunch, but that’s past. Having time to kill is entirely based on circ*mstance, and is never the same. And though he had been looking forward to speaking alone with Morpheus– damn near silly about it– Hob plainly sees that perhaps the time for that could be rescheduled.
“I could find you when I’m free?” Hob offers, though his tone comes off as defeated. “But I think it can wait, I’d rather you get some rest.”
“I cannot rest in this heatwave,” Morpheus admits, his low voice strained.
“I understand…” Hob fingers the strings of the bass absentmindedly. “Could you rest in the bus? Turn it on for A.C.?”
Morpheus’ eyes lower, a little unfocused.
“Mm… I had not considered that.” He nods slowly. “Sage advice, Hob. I will ask.”
“Good.” Hob smiles. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I will try.”
Hob intercepts Morpheus on his way to the stage, unable to hide his unease now and intentionally seeking him out amongst the hustle and bustle before the lights fade and the band is scheduled to emerge.
He wonders what the hell happened in the past 24 hours to get Morpheus to this level. Though, Hob has an unsettling theory that whatever Morpheus is going through is the result of days of something unchecked, since before Oakland. Something about today, the heat or perhaps the argument with Despair, has tipped Morpheus over the edge, and now he’s suffering.
Morpheus doesn’t even startle when Hob pulls him off to the side, behind a curtain.
“Are you good to perform tonight?”
Morpheus appears the same as he had hours before, perhaps worse: his cheeks are flushed and his lips are chapped. Standing– slouched– before Hob now, he doesn't look like he achieved a wink of sleep. He coughs dryly.
“That’s not really a question,” Dream rasps.
A surge of frustration runs through Hob’s veins.
“Yes it is,” Hob whispers harshly, his ears only half-tuned to any cues that might come into his radio. “If you can’t perform, you need to be honest and say so.”
Morpheus sighs through his nose, his lips coming in as he stares at Hob. He pushes his shoulders back, standing taller, and rolls his neck so it pops.
“I’m alright.” His voice is stern, if not with an edge of assuredness. As if putting on a front would convince Hob.
“You promise?”
Hob watches Morpheus, waiting for him to concede. Yes, it’s minutes until curtain; yes, there are already ticket holders in the building, who had waited through the openers and are still here despite the heat. But Hob doesn’t care. And Morpheus should know, too, to prioritize his own health over his job.
Hob has a sinking feeling that Morpheus cares more about the performance, about his image and professionalism, than himself and his own well-being.
He is waiting for an answer, for Morpheus to perhaps lie to his face, the silence between them becoming tense… when Mervyn’s voice crackles through the little speaker by Hob’s ear, asking for lineup.
“Come on,” Morpheus says, breaking the staring contest and walking past Hob.
Hob nearly– nearly– grabs onto Morpheus’ arm to drag him back to the green room or the bus, and demand he get some food and water in him before going to sleep. But instead he squeezes his eyes shut, irritated, and stands firm, counting down from ten before turning and meeting Morpheus again at their post.
He is at least grateful that Morpheus isn’t wearing his usual leather jacket, but he can’t hide the disapproval from his face as he hands Morpheus’ first guitar over, his heart heavy.
Hob wonders if Morpheus can see how rigid he’s behaving, going on autopilot, viciously tamping down the urge to convince Morpheus– even now– to not do this. He glares at Morpheus, but neither of them say anything.
Endless approaches the stage one by one, Hob steps a little further back into the shadows, and the show begins.
The second omen that Hob had been unconsciously waiting for arrives two songs into the set.
Leta’s guitar stops working.
Hob hears the absence of it before he sees Mazikeen across the stage furiously setting up a replacement.
They swap mid performance, but still, no sound.
He watches Maze speak in Leta’s ear before she grabs the attention of the venue’s manager, meanwhile Leta continues playing, her face twisted in frustration as everything else on stage works properly.
Hob sees the fans at the barricade watching the spectacle and encouraging Death on.
Leta’s guitars had worked during soundcheck, so it’s a mystery what the problem could be. All Hob can do is watch as Mazikeen and the manager desperately tinker with the amps, attempting to figure out a solution.
Suddenly a string of notes crackle through the air, causing an eruption of cheers and applause as Leta’s guitar comes crashing back to life. But as soon as it erupts, the sound is gone again. Hob can see Leta shout something, her irritation lost in a sea of keys, drums, bass and vocals continuing to perform without her. Leta jams her foot at her pedal board, her guitar going in and out.
Hob figures it must be a problem with her board at the same time as Maze, who is there in a flash, on her knees. Her quick, skilled hands find the issue and work to remedy it.
By the time everything is fixed, the song is over and Leta rips off the guitar with barely contained annoyance.
Hob makes a mental note to ask Mazikeen what happened after the show.
Throughout the performance, Hob keeps a steady eye on Morpheus. With each bass swap, Hob can see how Morpheus becomes more and more taxed. His steps become less intentional and more sudden, trippy, and distracted.
Hob’s gaze sweeps across the stage every now and then, gauging how the other band members are reacting to this. It’s clear they are also aware of what’s going on, even Despair’s line of sight mimicking Hob’s.
It’s maybe halfway through the set, after Dessi’s stopped the show twice already to make sure people who wanted to leave the standing room were able to get out safely, and then for more water to be passed out, when Hob feels dread flood through his bloodstream.
He can’t hear the bass anymore. Hob takes a step towards the stage. Morpheus is standing, his hands on the instrument, but he’s not playing.
Hob takes another step, his fingers beginning to shake– he’s within eyesight of those at the barricade now. If he gets any closer, more than just a few fans will see him– officially disrupting the performance.
One of Morpheus’ hands comes up to his face as he sways, one foot coming back to stabilize himself, before his arm drops and his back leg collapses beneath him.
Panic steals Hob’s breath away, replaced in a second by adrenaline coursing through his body as he rushes onto the stage the instant he realizes Morpheus is falling.
“Dream–!”
Hob’s legs drop under him as he skids and just manages to reach Morpheus, who collapses onto Hob’s chest, sending them both to the floor.
The back of Hob’s head smacks against solid wood and his eyes see white momentarily. His ears are ringing, though that could also be the sound of screams all around him.
He shakes his head, barely acknowledging the pain in his skull, and sits up, the room spinning around him, and finds Morpheus completely limp on top of him.
“Morpheus–” Hob gasps, taking Morpheus’ head in his hands and looking at him upside down.
His head lolls heavily in Hob’s hold, eyes shut, lips parted. It’s a haunting look, and it nearly makes Hob lose his composure, an uncomfortable chill prickling the back of his neck.
Hob raises his head, finally taking in his surroundings and finding a sea of faces looking up at him, horrified and yelling indistinctly. He frantically sweeps his gaze sideways, finding Dessi frozen in place, their eyes wide and the blood gone from their face. The music obviously stopped, replaced by frantic, overlapping voices. Leta is just behind Dessi, moving towards Hob now.
Hob swallows, his heart beating erratically– painfully– in his chest, making him dizzy. His fingers shake as he reaches over Morpheus to detach the strap from the guitar, pulling the heavy instrument off to the side and opening his legs, scooting back, to let Morpheus slide down to lay flat on the floor.
“Morpheus, hey…” Hob tries again. He doesn’t recognize his own voice, scared and pitched. Underneath the continued commotion from the crowd, Hob can hear footsteps rapidly approaching.
He can’t make himself move, rubbing his thumbs over Morpheus’ cheek bones and desperately looking for any sign of stirring. His fingers slip to Morpheus’ throat, searching for a pulse point, and finds it racing under his touch.
Hob breathes out an audible sob of relief as Morpheus’ eyes flutter, squinting at the lights above.
“He’s okay,” Hob calls out towards Dessi, only taking a moment to meet their gaze before looking back down at Morpheus. He hears them repeat the words with a shaky voice into the mic.
The crowd cheers while Morpheus looks up at Hob, his brows pinched.
“Hob?”
“Hey,” Hob bends a little lower, blocking the lights from Morpheus’ eyes. His own pulse is still galloping, his fingers now frantically combing back Morpheus’ hair. “I got you. Can you sit up?”
Morpheus’s mouth is stuck open, looking side-to-side before he slowly bends his knees, getting his feet on the ground.
The crowd roars again, this time in encouraging waves. Hob slowly helps Morpheus up, one arm going around his middle and his other hand encouraging Morpheus’ arm around his shoulders.
He manages a couple steps, Morpheus hanging onto him and gripping Hob’s shirt, before he speaks.
“I’m passing out again…” His words are thick and garbled together, his head hitting Hob’s chest.
“Good thing you’re already in my arms,” Hob tries to joke as they make it off the stage and everyone around them gives them a wide berth.
Morpheus is getting heavier, his steps becoming uncoordinated to the point where Hob stops to allow Morpheus to take a breath.
“Don’t leave me…”
Hob’s chest cleaves at Morpheus’ words, spoken in a single breath, soft and urgent. He’s unable to articulate a response before Morpheus is unconscious.
Hysteria and determination rushes through his bones, encouraging him to bend his knees and heft Morpheus up, getting one arm under his knees and another to support his back. As he walks, Hob has a moment of alarm at how light Morpheus is.
Time passes in waves after that. Hob feels like a buoy at sea; submerged, drowning under the water, before breaking the surface every now and then, gasping for breath and taking in his surroundings in warbling images.
The white noise of the backstage passes by Hob’s ears as he carries Morpheus all the way to the green room, depositing him on the couch, laying him flat again. He blinks and the band is suddenly there, flooding into the room. Their voices overlap and make Hob’s head spin.
Hob doesn’t know what to do. He feels useless sitting here next to Morpheus, who’s so still it’s freaking him out.
Just then, Leta appears with a water bottle and a damp cloth, crouching on the floor by the couch and folding the small towel over Morpheus’ forehead.
Hob looks over his shoulder and finds Johanna bursting into the room, announcing in a loud voice for everyone who isn’t Endless to get out. Hob’s head, which feels like it’s going to float away, scans the space and finds a lot more people in here– stagehands and band members– watching him and Morpheus, than he had anticipated.
Hob rises, slowly backing away, torn at the idea of leaving Morpheus.
Lucienne and Merv enter the room now, the former announcing firmly that an ambulance is on its way and grabbing Dessi’s attention immediately.
Several people are still staring expectantly at Hob, waiting for him to leave, no doubt. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to find Mervyn looking at him.
“Hob, you gotta go. I’m sorry.”
He looks sincere, at least. Hob nods, swinging his gaze once more to Morpheus, so still on the couch, before finally walking past the threshold.
He vaguely hears Lucienne telling Dessi that they need to keep everyone in the building, something about swarming the ambulance, as he stumbles further and further from the commotion.
As he distances himself from Morpheus, Hob hears the growing sounds of the crowd getting restless, a chant slowly building for Dream.
Hob pulls a hand through his hair, turning halfway back towards the green room. Morpheus’ request to not leave him repeating over and over in his head.
“f*ck,” Hob swears through his teeth, falling against a wall and staring up at the exposed pipes and wires in the ceiling.
He takes a few deliberate breaths, his eyes falling shut as he attempts to calm himself. The heat is still stifling though, and it makes Hob’s head hurt– he viciously rubs his palms against his eyes.
Hob feels himself coming back to reality, his pulse calming minutely, deeming himself well enough to drift back towards the stage.
The crowd is getting louder, and Hob’s fellow crewmates surround him, asking about Dream, and Hob wracks his brain on what to say. Matthew looks like he’s seen a ghost, and Maze is looking at him with a stress he’s never seen on her before. It makes him antsy, in a way that renders Hob almost speechless.
He’s just offered the only information he knows, how an ambulance is coming, when suddenly Dessi’s voice echoes around them, causing Hob and everyone else to turn towards the stage.
They announce that Dream is awake and recuperating, to a resounding roar of applause. Hob looks back towards where he came from and wonders if Morpheus is in fact conscious again, or if Dessi is lying to keep everyone calm.
Dessi continues talking into the mic, empathizing with the crowd by saying, “that was scary, huh?” and ad-libbing. They’re buying time, Hob realizes.
The crew continues to stand just outside of the view of the stage. Hob has a rational part of his mind left that recommends not packing up yet, not to bring any attention to the fact that the show is in fact, over… keep everyone in the building, Lucienne had said.
Hob slips away from the stage, making his way to the back doors and finding the emergency vehicle already there, EMTs rushing out and the venue’s manager directing them where to go.
He hadn’t even heard them arrive. He swallows thickly, his nerves getting the better of him as he watches everyone work to quietly transport Morpheus out of the building, a gurney with him on it rolling out from the long corridor that leads to the green room.
Hob feels himself move, one foot in front of the other, trailing behind awkwardly, clasping his hands and wringing out his fingers.
No one seems to be paying him much attention, Mervyn talking with Johanna and Lucienne speaking with Leta, who is closest to Morpheus, following him out the doors.
Hob sprints into action, his focus only on what Morpheus had requested, knowing how crazy he must look. Hoping that someone will believe him.
Hob is outside, the night air cool against his sweat soaked skin, making him shiver.
Morpheus had just been loaded into the back of the ambulance, the back doors open wide enough for Hob to see the brightly lit space with two paramedics already working inside. While an EMT works to strap Morpheus to the stretcher, another is speaking with Leta now, who appears to be answering questions, her hands fidgeting, fingers lacing and unlacing.
“... Looks like we have enough space for one other person to ride along…” Someone is speaking, but Hob can’t process the words or the hospital name, his focus is on Leta, nodding and naturally moving to follow her brother.
“Leta…” Hob hesitates.
Leta looks back at him, one arm on a support rail to hoist herself into the vehicle.
Hob swallows again, nervous, but pushes through.
“He asked–” Hob takes a deep, steadying breath. “He asked me to stay with him.”
Hob doesn’t hear anyone protest behind him, he wonders if the rest of the band has joined Dessi on stage. But Leta’s brows pinch, sympathy in her eyes as she looks at Morpheus, then back at Hob.
She hops down and waves her arm insistently for Hob to get in.
“I’ll be right behind,” she tells Hob as much as the EMTs.
Hob moves on autopilot, sending Leta a look he hopes conveys his thanks, as a paramedic helps him into the back of the ambulance.
Once the doors slam shut, Hob is guided to sit on a small seat off to the side. Hob swallows, hands on his knees, as he fights to keep his focus on the present.
Morpheus is awake, which makes Hob exhale in relief. But he can’t help the, “Is he okay?” that tumbles past his lips.
He feels a little silly for asking, not wanting to distract or bother the medics while they’re working, but one answers anyway, their voice calm and patient.
"He's waking up, which is good. And right now he's exactly where he needs to be.” They shoot a smile over at Hob. “We're going to take care of him."
Hob nods, the sound of the sirens blaring now, not helping to ease his thoughts. He can feel the bumps in the road and when the vehicle turns. And yet the medic is unbothered, starting an IV with a surprisingly steady hand, working with singular focus over Morpheus.
Hob hears a sound like old receipt paper being printed out, rasping and clicking. Hob looks and sees another medic in the back, scribbling on a clipboard and speaking into a radio: “We have a 28-year old male who lost consciousness in a crowded venue, symptoms indicative of vasovagal syncope due to heat exposure. Low blood pressure initially that is responsive to IV fluids. GCS currently about 11 and improving…”
Hob shuts his eyes, bending over his knees and hanging his head in his hands, trying to control how his head is beginning to spin again. Every sense in his body is being infiltrated and Hob feels woozy. He opens his eyes to stare at the blue flooring, counting the specs in it until they finally arrive at the hospital.
Being inside the hospital awakens a different kind of assault on Hob’s senses. The bitter, antiseptic smell that all medical buildings carry, with undertones of an artificial fragrance like pine or lemon cleaners hit Hob like something physical. Hob breathes it in regardless, deeply through his nose and out his mouth, trailing behind Morpheus as he’s rolled into a room.
A medic continues asking Morpheus questions, which Hob can hear him mumble answers to, eyes squeezed shut under his hand, further attempting to block the harsh fluorescent lights they pass under.
An eternity later, they are finally stationed in a private room.
It’s alarmingly quiet in the small space, after the whirlwind of sound they had come from. The steady beeps of the heart monitor and a far off dinging sound are almost the only ambiance around them.
Hob is seated on a plastic chair, hands on his knees. The nurse had come and gone, taking Morpheus’ blood and asking him a few more questions. He’d been set up with an IV bag here as well– Hob couldn’t stop staring at the little tube stuck in his arm, going up the pole where the clear bag hung from.
Hob had not missed how, since he’d gotten into the ambulance, Morpheus had constantly sought him out. As if making sure he was still within eyesight, still there.
It helped Hob, too. Keeping him checked into the present, grounded, every time he found dull blue eyes swing over to him, wordless but conveying a sense of ease nonetheless.
Which was kind of funny, seeing as how Morpheus was the one strapped to a gurney.
“What happened?” Morpheus finally asks, ages after the nurse is gone and time seems to catch up to them.
His voice is weak, lower than usual, like talking is a chore.
Hob licks his lips, finding them chapped, and rolls his chair closer to the bed.
“You passed out…” Hob starts, unsure what else to say. His body is finally coming down from the adrenaline rush and Hob is so… so tired.
A moment of silence passes, Morpheus is staring up at the ceiling, his eyelids heavy.
Hob stops short of the edge of the thin mattress. The bars are pulled down and the bed is raised just high enough that he could rest his head there… The thought is tempting.
“You caught me.”
Hob looks over and finds Morpheus staring back, his head lolled to the side.
Hob can only nod, staring at Dream’s hand before him, palm almost flat against the cheap white linens.
Morpheus sighs, seeming to relax further into the bed. Hob looks up again at the movement and studies the details of Morpheus’ face.
The hospital lighting looks terrible on Morpheus. His eyes are placid, the dark circles there somehow more prominent here, and his skin almost appears gray, dry and textured. His cheekbones are sharp, aggressively so. It makes Hob desperately want to run his thumb over them, bring some color back to Morpheus’ cheeks.
“I seem to be developing a bad habit of falling on you.”
“That’s okay,” Hob says without thinking, aching suddenly to reach out and take Morpheus’ bony fingers. He ducks his gaze as he speaks again, his heart stuttering. “I’ll always catch you if you fall.”
Hob can feel Morpheus’ stare on him. Hob chances another look up and sees something defenseless in Morpheus’ gaze, feeble. Morpheus swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly.
Too much, Hob thinks. But he won’t take it back. He couldn’t.
“How are you feeling?” Hob diverts, bringing his arms up and crossing them onto the scant space between him and Morpheus.
After another pause, Morpheus sighs, long and low, his body melting further into the creaky bed.
“Done.”
Hob cracks a tiny smile, his brows lifting in understanding.
Morpheus sighs again, a groan coming out with it. His eyelids droop, like he can’t hold them open much longer.
“I am done.”
“Get some rest,” Hob speaks softly. “Leta will be here soon.”
“And you?” Morpheus’ gaze snaps up as he takes a breath, preparing to say more… but his breath hitches, cutting himself short. His voice is unbearably soft, it makes something warm bloom in Hob’s chest.
Hob smiles.
“Yeah, Dream. I’ll be here.”
Morpheus nods, lashes lowering. Hob follows his line of sight and sees their hands laying close together. Hob watches, his nerves singing, as Morpheus inches a finger out, then two, slowly walking them over to Hob’s hand.
Hob peeks back up and finds Morpheus already looking at him. He’s so still, as if Morpheus is holding his breath.
And Hob, his heart tripping over itself, stretches his pointer finger, meeting Morpheus’ halfway in a gentle touch.
He bites back a giddy smile, watching Morpheus’ fingers fan out to slip in between his, tying them together.
Feeling incredibly foolish, Hob squeezes, turning to lay his head on his folded arms upon the bed to look up at the other man.
Morpheus appears boneless, his head heavy against the papery hospital pillow, his cheek nearly touching his shoulder as he stares back at Hob.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Hob whispers, scared to break the stillness between them.
Morpheus hums, deep and melodious. “I’m okay.”
Nothing else is said, but Hob feels comforted by the silence, allowing himself to be transparent, captured as always by Morpheus' stare and now, by their fingers tangled together, calloused and dry and perfect.
Hob finally feels himself truly begin to relax, his eyelids drooping like heavy weights, the chaos from the past hour catching up to him at last. Hob feels sleep pulling him under, encouraged by Morpheus’ eyes slipping shut as well.
When Hob wakes, he almost forgets where he is.
He blinks, staring sideways down the length of the bed facing the wall, where Morpheus’ head is still tipped to the side, fast asleep. Hob hears the heart monitor again, smells the sterile sheets under his arms, and finds his hand still linked with Morpheus’.
Sitting up slowly, Hob feels stiff and weary. His arms– which had been crossed under him as a pillow– nearly creak in protest.
Hob continues staring at their hands, Hob’s sun-kissed skin is a stark contrast to Morpheus’ ghost-like complexion. He peeks at Morpheus’ sleeping face while caressing his thumb over those pointy knuckles.
He sighs, sweeping his gaze and finding Leta across from him, seated against the wall. Her elbows are on her knees, chin resting in the palm of a hand, staring back at Hob.
Hob’s heart leaps into his throat.
“Hey,” she says, tired but with gentle eyes. “I’m here to relieve you.”
Hob looks over at Morpheus again, at his chest rising and falling gently. Hob’s eyes flick down to his hand still enclosed over Morpheus’, and back up to Leta, who smiles softly.
“I’d like to stay… a little longer.” The words come out scratchy, Hob clears his throat. “If that’s alright… until he wakes up again?”
Hob won’t push it though, if Leta wants him gone. She is Morpheus’ sister, after all. Even if Hob is still feeling protective, here– where Morpheus is finally being cared for and watched over. He feels a little foolish, insisting on staying, he wonders what he must look like to Leta, who barely knows him.
Leta indeed seems to mull the request over, focusing on her brother. Her eye makeup is smudged, the highlights dulled and her skin shiny with sweat. She’s changed out of her stage clothes, though, replaced with a simple t-shirt and black jeans.
“I think he’d prefer that.”
Hob sighs in relief, his thumb swiping the back of Morpheus’ hand once more.
Hob wonders why he doesn’t feel so anxious with Leta here. Doesn’t feel like hiding himself, or offering up an excuse as to why he was holding her brother’s hand and resting his head so close to Morpheus.
Hob’s heart rate comes down as he speculates the answer… that Leta already knows. Perhaps just like Despair had known.
But perhaps not in the same way.
“He always does this, you know…” Leta speaks softly through a sigh. She looks over to Morpheus. “He forgets to eat or stretch or— just take care of himself.”
Hob only watches as Leta sits up, her eyes slipping shut as she pulls both hands through her hair.
“It’s never gotten this bad, though…”
Hob listens as Leta goes on a short tirade about how, while touring isn’t new for them, being headliners means setlists are more than double in length. And the last time they performed during the summer months was festivals, back in their early days. But again, the set lists were short and they had been constantly supervised not only by their team, but organizers and other artists they would meet…
Leta cuts herself off, looking at Hob and shaking her head with a gentle laugh.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to complain.”
Hob shakes his head. “It’s alright.”
She sighs again, exhaustion seeping through every pore.
“I’m just trying to figure out where we went wrong.”
Hob swallows the sudden lump in his throat at the way Leta’s voice cracks.
“It’s not your fault,” Hob starts in a whisper. “He… seems the type who thinks he has to endure difficulties alone.”
Leta huffs an unamused laugh, sniffling.
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
She stares at Hob, discerning, sincere. Hob wonders what Leta sees when she looks at him. Looks at a man who… she’d always been friendly towards, but maybe didn’t anticipate would become as involved as Hob had been; within the team, the band, and her brother. It’s enough to give Hob pause, wondering what else he could say, when he feels Morpheus begin to stir before him.
The air around them shifts as both Hob and Leta focus on Morpheus, his eyes moving behind his lids, making a little sound that comes from his throat, like a whine.
Before Hob wonders whether or not to let go of Morpheus’ hand, his eyes open right on Hob.
“Hob?”
“Hey.” Hob smiles, giving Morpheus’ hand a little shake. “Welcome back.”
Hob purposefully turns to look at Leta, who’s already up and at Morpheus’ side, drawing his attention.
“You…” Leta starts, hitting the call button near the bed. “Scared the sh*t out of me, little brother.”
Hob can’t help the smile that breaks through, especially as Morpheus all but grumbles at the retort.
“I apologize–”
“Nope. None of that now.”
She combs her fingers through Morpheus’ hair, pushing it back and also feeling his forehead, his cheeks, her eyes tender.
“Stop that,” Morpheus grunts, lifting his free hand to brush off Leta’s touch.
She looks at him with fond exasperation.
“You worry me.”
“I am aware.”
Hob watches them, thoughtful. He’d never actually seen Morpheus and Leta interact much, and despite not being blood related, they truly did behave like siblings.
He’s still holding onto Morpheus’ hand. It doesn’t feel right to let go yet, but maybe he should, while the man is in conversation with his sister. Maybe save an awkward situation when the inevitable silence falls again.
Hob casually sits up a bit straighter and moves to casually slip his hand free from atop of Morpheus’.
Only for Morpheus to make his heart stop by snatching Hob’s hand, keeping it in place, without even looking at him.
f*ck me, Hob was glad he was sitting because he could faint himself right now.
At that moment a short set of knocks announced the arrival of the nurse, who stepped through the door with a warm smile and a clipboard.
She introduced herself while Leta pulled up her chair to sit closer to Morpheus.
Hob tries paying attention to what she says, going on about the results of Morpheus’ bloodwork, something about low potassium and high creatinine… She helpfully translates that means low nutrition and an acute kidney injury.
Leta is staring at Morpheus again, her brows creased in both worry and frustration. Morpheus… appears unbothered– maybe some shame in the way his shoulders have tensed up and how he’s pinching Hob’s fingertips.
The nurse is speaking with both Leta and Morpheus now, going on about what they would do going forward and what his recovery would look like.
Morpheus is silent through the entire spiel, even when the nurse tries to grab his attention, counseling him on appropriate diet and hydration during the day. Hob squeezes Morpheus’ hand, hoping he was taking this seriously.
After several long, long minutes of that, the nurse announces she would be right back with another IV drip with necessary electrolytes.
The room falls into a contemplative silence once the door clicks shut behind the nurse.
Leta breaks the silence first by sighing, knocking her head back and rolling her neck with a groan. She slaps her thighs and stands up, stepping up to Morpheus.
“Are you good if I leave you alone for a moment?”
“Of course,” Morpheus says, his shoulders slumping.
Leta raises her eyebrows at his petulance.
“And I’m going to steal Robert as well.”
Hob looks up at her, his nerves getting the better of him once more.
She doesn’t wait for Morpheus to respond, stepping back, meeting Hob’s eyes, and nudging her head towards the door.
Hob looks at Morpheus, finding his gaze, expression unreadable. Hob smiles in a way he hopes is comforting, gives Morpheus’ fingers one last squeeze before slipping free.
Hob misses the contact immediately, his hand now feeling cold and clammy, after being surrounded by Morpheus’ touch for who knows how long.
Leta leads the way out the door, and Hob takes one more peek at Morpheus before following her out, his lips parted with something unspoken.
They walk down the white hallway, Hob trailing behind. The sound of their footsteps echo off the walls, almost eerily, before stopping at a water fountain.
Leta turns and leans sideways against the wall, crossing her arms over her front. The stance reflects how Despair looked before telling Hob to back off, and it makes fear bubble up in his chest, despite how relaxed Leta’s posture otherwise conveys.
“Do you care about him?”
Well, right to the point then. Hob’s heart is racing; he can feel it in his throat.
“I do.”
There’s no point in denying it… and it feels freeing, to finally admit it out loud. Hob nearly has to bite back a smile afterwards.
Leta tilts her head, her eyes soft, interested. Her voice is low, almost guarded when she speaks again.
“And how long do you think that will last?”
The smile that Hob had been holding back comes out like a sunrise, slow and wistful. He turns his head to look down the hall, back where they came from.
“As long as he’ll let me,” he answers with a voice just as soft as Leta’s. He turns back over to Leta with a helpless shrug. “And even after that.”
Leta is still for a long moment, her gaze unwavering while staring at Hob before her eyes shift to look towards Morpheus’ room as well.
“You must’ve heard about what happened with his old tech, a couple years ago.”
Hob’s heart gives a lurch in his chest, not anticipating this topic.
“Vaguely. I didn’t ask for details.”
“Mm…” Leta nods, her eyes downcast. “I’m sure he’ll tell you about it, in time.” Her voice has dropped lower, almost into a whisper.
“But despite whatever you’re thinking, Rob–” she takes a slow breath. “... You’re good for him.”
Hob huffs a breathless laugh, both alleviated and stunned. “I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true…” She shifts from the wall, standing taller and nodding towards the room. “He thinks so, too.”
Hob’s lips part, genuinely speechless.
Finally, Leta smiles, causing lines to appear at the corner of her eyes. She steps up to him and gently pats Hob’s arm.
“Go get some rest. I got it from here.”
A protest bubbles up within Hob; he doesn't want to leave. But Leta gives him a stern but gentle look that leaves no room for argument. So Hob only nods, smiling for her benefit before giving one more longing look down the hall, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets, and finally heading back towards the entrance. For the first time in a while, Hob feels… encouraged, his heart light.
