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Aesop dreams of Joseph often.
Such is expected- how could he not? When Joseph has made it a point to etch himself into Aesop’s mind. When Aesop blinks, in the darkness, Joseph is all he sees. He has made it so he occupies Aesop’s every waking thought, whether it be how to escape from his grasp or to sink further into it. So naturally, it only makes sense that he occupies Aesop’s mind in sleep as well.
Most often, they are fractals that don’t make much sense on their own. Glimpses, flashes. Pain. Spite.
Aesop doesn’t sleep well on his own, but he refuses sleeping medication because when he sleeps, really sleeps, his subconscious crafts dreams that are much more vivid, and that leave him feeling just as exhausted when he finally wakes from them.
Replays of torture. Of electrocution. Of drowning. Of claws digging into his skin, peeling him open, picking him apart and stitching him back up. Ugly, jagged scars. Joseph, Joseph, Joseph. He doesn’t like it.
That only matters half the time, of course, because since when has Joseph ever cared about what he likes? He forces the sleeping medication into Aesop’s maw, or worse yet, slips it into his food without telling.
Aesop prefers the violence. At least it is honest.
Tonight is different. He dreams. Doped up on something that’ll keep him unconscious, he dreams for eight straight hours and wakes with a new sort of longing that settles deep in his chest. Right where his heart is. Surprised he still has one, that Joseph hasn’t plucked it from him to keep in a glass jar yet.
He floats through breakfast and lunch in a daze, running on autopilot while he meets with his patients in secret. They can’t do much planning today, because they’re at an impasse, so all Aesop can hope to do is help them with the afflictions that trouble their mind on the daily. But it lacks a certain gratification when bits of his dream keep pushing past the surface, keeping him in a limbo between here and there.
At dinner time, Joseph slides in the seat across from him to ensure that he’s going to do more than push his food around with his spoon. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend it’s because Joseph cares about his wellbeing. And not because the man can’t afford to let his possession starve.
The gesture breaks him.
“Are you quite alright?” Joseph asks, snapping Aesop from his daze. “You have been staring at me with a peculiar look all day.”
“I. Had a dream about you.”
For a beat, Joseph stays silent, surely fighting back a sarcastic quip, but then he must think better of it. Must realize the sincerity of Aesop’s somber, haunted tone, so he turns toward Aesop more properly, setting aside his clipboard and folding his hands atop the table.
“Tell me about it.”
In moments like these, Aesop can mistake him for a doctor. A real one. One that cares for his patients, acts in their best interest. Sees the man he was supposed to be. Could have been. Expression unclouded by judgment, displaying only patience with an open mind. He looks so earnest. It makes Aesop’s heart ache.
“I had a dream,” he starts shakily, staring at the way Joseph’s hands rest on each other, staring at the wood grain of the table, because he cannot bear to see that face while he recalls this. “That we lived together. In a little house. And we were in love. You cooked and I cleaned and everything was perfect and there were no doctors, no patients. No medication or mind tricks or experiments. Just us. I dreamed we had a happy ending.”
Only when the words stop coming can Aesop bring himself to look up again. Joseph’s face no longer exhibits neutrality, and it is clear not even his cold cracked heart has prepared him for an answer like this, one he was not expecting, because something wounded flickers over his features. Something wounded, conflicted.
In the continued silence, one Aesop cannot stand, which is so unlike him, he moves to soothe the yearning that sharing his dream aloud did not. He reaches over the table, hesitantly at first, and then, when it’s obvious that Joseph will allow it, he lays his hand atop Joseph’s own.
But then, that’s not enough. So, Aesop sits up out of his chair, stretches across the small gap that separates them, and presses his lips against Joseph’s own.
A burst of longing explodes within his chest, and his eyelids flutter, but it is soon followed by disappointment. A realization that the fantastical, whimsical conjurings of his sleeping mind were only that- a dream.
“Yeah,” he sighs, pulling away from their kiss. “I’m definitely awake.”
Stunned into silence, Joseph still has no answer for him.
“It would have been nice, though,” Aesop murmurs, his eyes searching Joseph’s face for something. Anything. “Wouldn’t it?”
“It would have,” Joseph finally agrees. His own eyes are searching Aesop’s features in return. Unabashedly, his gaze lingers on Aesop’s lips before the corners of his mouth pull into a frown. “But it was just a dream. And it would do you well not to confuse such things for reality.”
“I’m not confused.” Aesop retracts his hands. “I know exactly what you are.”
How could he ever forget?
Standing from the table, Aesop sighs once more, pushing his picked over tray in Joseph’s direction. It’s not nearly enough to keep him full for the evening, but he hardly has the stomach for anything more, and it’s enough not to earn him a scolding.
On his tongue lays the taste of his meal. Buttered noodles, peas, and apple juice. There is no trace of Joseph that remains. He is too sterile to leave anything that matters.
“I’ll take your sleeping pills, if you give them to me tonight,” Aesop tells him, pulling his mask back up. “The closest thing to kindness you could show me would be to let me dream some more.”
He hopes that burns on the way down.