Chapter Text
It starts with dreams.
The first one, he stands in the middle of his living room. Everything is exactly where he left it, contrary to many of his previous dreams where reality constantly shifts. It's different this time, because it's so real, like he actually stood there with his socked feet on the carpet, lights and lamps on and the windows dark outside. He breathes, and he feels his lungs expand, and he speaks. He talks. There are people standing around him in a semi-circle. One by the stairs, one on the bottom step, a couple in front of the TV, and the others in front of the blinds. And they have distinctive colors and cadences, so vivid in their mannerisms. They argue, they debate, they laugh, they listen.
It starts with that first one, a dream yes, but for some inexplicable reason Thomas finds himself gasping awake in a cold sweat. He throws off his covers and sweeps around the room, unable to get past the nagging sensation that he is not alone.
More dreams persist, to lesser degrees. There is nothing to do about them but experience them. He dreams of horseback riding with a prince, riding fast through wind-swept lands. He lays under a starry night and points out constellations with someone who knows more than he ever could. He bakes cookies and hums 'Sweet Caroline' with another voice keeping harmony. There is wine and he shares a drink with a cloaked, dapper fellow. He falls into the ocean and meets what lurkes beneath, hears cackles beneath the waves. And he lets hands nestle protectively over his ears and tell him to breathe in and breathe out.
For weeks, the images of these- people? They haunt him in his sleep like wisps of smoke. So real in the moment, but fogged over when his eyes open. He tries to recall the things said, their exact expressions, who they remind him of. There has to be a reason they plague his nights. A connection he missed. Why it seems to matter, he doesn't know, only that it did. Incredibly so.
Thomas could write off the dreams. If it was just some really specific, lucid dreams he kept having, fine, he can deal. Maybe refer to a dream dictionary, see what might be bugging him in real life.
Then he starts to see the dream people in the waking world, and it suddenly becomes a lot harder to pretend everything is fine.
He's filling his thermos in the kitchen and out of the corner of his eye, he catches a black polo shirt and blue tie. When he looks at the sink, there's no one standing by it. He turns around, but Thomas is definitely alone in his house. He shakes it off. Rationalizes it. Moves on.
He stands in the store, contemplating the pros and cons of protein bars versus candy bars. A yellow hand flashes, and he swears he glimpses a hatted figure, but as Thomas spins around in the aisle, there's just a mom and her kid. No one dressed that formal or intriguing.
Thomas gets together with his friends. They're working on a new video, a music mash-up because those have done well in the past. For a second, he blinks and there's a figure dressed in white and red standing next to a hooded figure, and it's like they're a part of his friend group, just goofing off. But when Thomas blinks again, there's no one standing behind Quil, and Terrance is waving his hand in front of Thomas's face to get his attention.
He goes to bed, dozes and peeks the eyes that stare at him from the open closet door. There's a shine of sequins and jazz hands. Before his heart can start, there's a soothing weight at his side. It reminds Thomas of when he had nightmares as a kid, how his dad would sit at his bedside and tell him goofy stories with the most serious voice. The prescence remains even as he drifts to sleep. It follows him into his dreams.
For weeks, it goes on, and Thomas doesn't know how to bring it up to anybody or if he even should at this point. How does one say, "I think my imagination has dreamed up whacky characters who are now haunting me." They'd tell him he's working too hard, that he should get more sleep, or that he's always been so creative. Worse, they'll think it's more serious. It can't be that serious. It can't be actual hallucinations, right? He's not really interacting with them, and though it feels real for those half-a-seconds, it's not concrete. It's out of focus, and somehow not alarming. Should he be alarmed?
It's a whole mishmash of indecisiveness. It's the American way, to say, "Well I'm not dying, so I don't need to go to the hospital yet." He's just one Floridian man with a lot on his plate, and yeah, maybe he's working too hard, maybe his head had been hurting more lately from all the whiplash of trying to spot the men from his dreams. Maybe he's just going through a weird phase. If he waits long enough, surely...
He works himself to exhaustion. And his head really has been hurting more than usual. It pounds through the back of his head and erupts behind his eyeballs. He's starting to toss and turn more in bed until he gives up altogether. One day, he goes out to meet Joan and Talyn. They take one look at him and send him back home. The bags under his eyes have bags, and they claim they can hang out just fine with him resting at his apartment. And the crowd of colors follow, the ghosts hanging close but always in the peripheral.
He wants to tear his hair out in frustration at himself. He kind of does think he's going insane.
Then to no one's surprise, he gets sick. Really sick.
The headaches are insufferable. He's running a fever. He doesn't know how high. He lost his themometer at some point and told himself that he would eventually get around to buying another one. He can't leave the house to get another one. Hell, he can barely leave the bed. And he'd be damned if he calls anyone for help. The most he allows is a text to his mom letting her know that he needs to cancel coming over for lunch, that he's staying home to rest. She sends back a series of well wishes and love, and Thomas thinks of how lucky he is to be her son and wishes in spite of himself that she was here to take care of him.
He's never been that good at taking care of himself, and this latest illness brings it into perspective. He's got pills somewhere, Ibuprofen that could bring the fever down and ease the overwhelming ache, but it's like admitting defeat. They haven't been doing anything for his head lately anyway. There's definitely voices edging around him, reminding him of what he should do, how foolish he's being. How if he could only listen...
Thomas rebels and curls up into a shivering ball under his covers.
He doesn't keep track of time. The curtains hanging over his bedroom window are too thick to let much light in anyway. There's darkness, and there's pain. He comes out of another dream, half-awake and bleary-eyed. The pain in his head comes to a blinding, boiling point. It's far too much and Thomas full-out whimpers. Weakly, his body contorts to try to find some relief that he knows is not there.
"Medicine," he hears a voice. He doesn't know if it's one of them or himself begging. The fever has him in a death-grip and he questions if he ever truly woke up. "We've got to get him to take some medicine."
"I'm working on it!"
"I know this situation is worrying, but please try to remain calm. Let me try-"
Thomas gasps as a knife twists inside his skull. He sees little stars and fireworks, and it spins him so off-kilter he thinks he's about to faint or throw up. Belatedly, he realizes that he's crying. A dull panic envelopes him. He regrets not calling for help sooner. He thinks he's dying now. He wants his mom desperately.
"I don't like this."
"None of us like this!"
"He looks pale, like a corpse. Do you think he's dying?"
"Not at all. He's perfectly healthy, don't you see?"
"You're okay Thomas, we're here. I just wish-"
"Logan's got it! He managed to grab it, he's bringing it-"
"Okay, but how do we get him to take the medicine anyway? In case you forgot, we can't touch people!"
"Please don't yell, I'm trying to concentrate."
"Sorry."
It doesn't make sense, and Thomas isn't entirely convinced the chatter is outside of his head. It's so hot and so cold, and Thomas wishes he knew where he left his phone or how to make his muscles co-operate, or ya know just how to stop his head from exploding.
There's shuffling and the whisper of cloth moving. His bed dips? He swears someone is sitting on his bed right beside him. He hears the subtle swishing of a pill bottle, the cap opening. There's more words being said, but he can't concentrate past the ringing pitch in his ears.
He opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them again. There's something being pressed to his mouth, a pale wrist hanging above his face.
He doesn't think, just grabs the wrist.
Dimly, he's aware that the chatter muffles. Mostly though, his clammy hand has the wrist in a frantic clutch. It's cold, and he kinda wishes he could pull it to his forehead, a cooling balm.
He whines again in misery and a voice clears their throat. Hands touch at his shoulders. First one, hesitant, then more. He's being sat up, and it does nothing but wrench his equalibrium into a joyride. Moaning, he sits in a gasping slump and waits for whatever is to come.
There's a couple of pills forcing their way into his mouth. He doesn't fight it, a part of him realizing someone is trying to help him. They slide past his tongue, and then a water bottle presses to his lips. They tilt his head back to allow him to pull slow sips.
It's not magic. The pain doesn't disappear, and the fever doesn't sporadically abate. He's still a mess, but there are hands lending him strength. They ease him back down on the bed. They right his T-shirt where it's bunched up and shift the covers. They push back his hair, and Thomas wants to weep when a wet cloth settles over his forehead.
There are whispers, soft and sweet and awed.
Drained, he falls unconscious.
***
When he wakes next, the headache is still there. However, it's a low thrum in a way that Thomas hasn't experienced in days. That in and of itself is no small miracle in his eyes.
His fever must have abadated at some point in his rest as well. He finds the covers have been kicked off of him, the vent from the AC blowing against sweat-damp skin. He feels gross and tender, and he can't remember the last time he ate anything substatial or had a proper shower. All in all, he might as well have been a piece of wet laundry that had been beat over a railing and left out to dry.
Can insides be bruised just by sickness alone? he thinks as he blinks lazily. There's the ceiling, white above him. In his room, there's a hush, and he knows even before he sits up that there's a crowd.
His arms shake as he pushes himself up. He's too tired to do anything but stare at nothing in particular. There are six people around in his room. It's not the biggest bedroom, so they're rather sandwiched in where they can.
He recognizes them of course. Thomas first sees the bowler hat. The guy who wears it sits in his only chair in the corner, legs crossed. A man decked out in sparkly green sits on the floor beside him, hair fluffed with a shock of white in the bangs. Standing at the foot of the bed, arms mid-pinwheel, is the prince. He's staring down at Thomas like- well, Thomas isn't really looking at his face, so he's not really sure, but it's like he's cut himself off mid-sentence once Thomas sat up.
There's another figure standing to Thomas's immediate right. It's the black polo shirt and blue tie. Glasses. The man's wearing glasses. Somehow, Thomas never noticed and he doesn't understand why his brain is latching onto this fact as if it's ground-breaking information.
Beside him on the bed sitting criss-cross applesauce is another guy with glasses. It's the one he dreamt of baking cookies with. He's hovering to his left, a hand raised in the air towards him but not going any farther.
"Hey there, Thomathy. Feeling any better?" He's got a polo shirt on too, but light blue. It looks like very soft fabric. The cardigan tied around his neck even softer.
Thomas doesn't react. Doesn't know how he's supposed to react. He still doesn't look directly at any of them, and he's not all the way convinced this isn't another dream.
"Hey Colon Sanders!" the green guy hollers. "Hey! HEY!"
"You know those people who think they can get through language barriers simply by being louder?" Bowler Hat says. "That totally works is what I'm saying, do keep trying."
The green guy does nothing more than blows a raspberry. "Poop. And shit. Poop shit."
"I... suppose it was a little much to hope," the prince gives a little chuckle, but it's sad.
"Is he still sick?" a gruff voice asks below Thomas and to the right. Out of view and almost missed. Thomas focuses on the purple hoodie. He's crouched beside the bed, arms barely taking up any room on the mattress by Thomas's hip. His fists are clenching. "Maybe he's gonna hurl. Does he look like he's going to hurl?"
"He is undoubtably still sick," Blue-Tie announces. "It will take time for him to recover, and we managed... much more than we thought possible last night. There is victory in small successes."
"Has anyone tried touching him again though?" the prince asks hopefully.
In answer, Thomas twitches his hand until it lands on Purple Hoodie's fist. There is definitely a hand there under Thomas's own. The cuff of the sleeve slides against the side of his hand. It's real too.
Purple Hoodie gives a barely perceptible choking noise. He's gazing up at Thomas like he's sprouted wings and laid eggs. Thomas doesn't exactly meet the stricken stare, but it's close.
Around them, the others don't notice at first. They've started arguing, and wow is it weird to be able to hear all the words finally. He hears some of their names, and he hears their voices with crystal clarity. And all the while, the fist under his hand is beyond stiff and unmoving.
Cardigan, from Thomas's left, gasps. His hands fly up to his cheeks.
"Patton Pending?" Prince asks in response.
"Thomas is holding hands with Virgil, look!"
And everyone does.
Six pairs of eyes hone in on Thomas holding hands with a guy, and it's the least gay thing ever.
"I don't think I'm dreaming," Thomas declares. He picks up Virgil's hand for good measure, and the dude lets him. He's got this deer-in-the-headlights expression going on, and the eyeshadow he wears is impressive, but Thomas is more concerned with testing the weight of the hand. It feels like a hand and moves like a hand. Therefore, it must be a hand.
Thomas drops the hand. "Yeah, I don't think I'm dreaming." He grabs the water bottle left on his bedside table and calmly drinks some. He can't bear the tacky feeling in his mouth. He needs to brush his teeth at some point.
"Holy shit," Green Guy surmises. Bowler Hat has uncrossed his legs and sat forward with intent.
"Thomas?!" Prince and Cardigan and Blue Tie all say in varying stages of alarm.
"That's my name," Thomas agrees. He's so tired. He sits the bottle in his lap in favor of rubbing at his face. He thinks he remembers crying at some point. God, what a mess he must look like.
"You can see us?! Like you can actually see us?!" Prince exclaims. He staggers one knee onto the foot of the bed in his haste. His eyes are so bright they make Thomas's squint. "Thomas, please say you can see us. Don't let this be a dream."
"I've seen you guys in my dreams," Thomas murmurs. He doesn't know how else to answer. If he's matter of fact, maybe things will be easier to process.
To that, Prince is at a loss. An excited loss, but still a loss. He wears a half-cocked grin of question, glancing to Blue Tie and Cardigan and Virgil. And Bowler Hat is now standing beside him.
"Patton, do us all a favor and poke him," Bowler Hat commands.
Patton pokes Thomas's shoulder. It's gentle enough and sways Thomas minutely. With rapt attention, Patton pokes him again.
"I poked him," Patton says with wide eyes.
"You poked me," Thomas confirms.
And that's when the chaos erupts. They're all talking at once, some of them trying to get his attention again. Virgil's got a vice of a grip on the bedsheets. Prince tries crawling onto the bed, only held back by Bowler Hat. Green Guy grins at him in the most bewildered fashion. Blue Tie is gesturing for everyone not to talk over each other, and Patton keeps poking Thomas's shoulder while saying, "Poke, poke, poke."
It's a lot to take in for a guy who thought he was dying a few hours ago. With that same calm in place, Thomas drags his legs over the side of the bed onto the floor. Virgil scrambles back to give him room. Thomas wonders if he should apologize, and then reminds himself that this is his room and that dream people shouldn't exist.
"Thomas?" someone calls, he doesn't know who.
"I'm going to go get a shower," Thomas announces.
No one stops him. They get quiet again, and he can feel them watching him. His body is sore and his head won't shut up, but he manages well enough. Blue Tie steps out of his way so he can grab some clothes from his dresser. If anyone tries to say anything more to him, he ignores it completely. He's too busy barricading himself in the bathroom.