kore_logs | And every time you go to sleep...

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And every time you go to sleep...

Who: Meyer Lansky and all y'all
Where: ~Only in dreams
When: Day 83-88
What: Meyer is having some dreams. Perhaps you'd like to stumble into them.
Warnings: There is definitely disturbing imagery in here. There's copious amounts of murder and blood, kidnapping, drug dealing, and traumatic childhood memories that most definitely include murder and gore. There is also swearing, of course. More warnings will be added if more come up during the dreams.

[[This is an open dream log, to keep things tidy! I set up a couple specific threads for people, but other people can jump in as well, or they can make their own thread, or they can jump into the collective dream thread!

Please just note what day the dream is occurring on if you tag!]]

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Charlie can't make out their faces either, and he leans in closer, trying to make them out. He can feel the panic and fear coming off Meyer is waves, but he feels nothing but confusion.

"Meyer, what-" he turns to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. He looks frozen, like he can't move a muscle. All the while the men move closer, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees a gun raised.

He sees the gun raised, too, and instinctively wants to raise his hands to reach for a weapon, for anything that will defend them against the two men, but though he finds that he's no longer frozen in place, he's stopped short by something. Looking down, he's suddenly struck by the queasy realization that his wrists are now chained to the pool table. Even if there was something close, he couldn't get it.

"Run." He doesn't know what language he's speaking, but it doesn't matter. The intensity in his voice is enough to speak volumes, even if he's speaking a language Charlie doesn't or can't understand. He wants Charlie to get out of here, but even as he's saying it, he's aware of the sound of a shot ringing out, at once sounding very far away and very close. He tries to throw up his hands to protect himself, to protect Charlie, but the chains hold him back, and he struggles futilely.

He turns around to look at the two men, but it's like he's moving through molasses. Even lifting his arm feels like the hardest thing he's ever done. He wants to say something to Meyer, wants to tell him he's not leaving him again, but all that comes out of his mouth is a whispered croak.

And then the shot hits.

He staggers, hitting the pool table behind him. His movements are still slowed, the pain he must be feeling far away in his mind. The men are gone, just as soon as they came, and he knows this clear as day even though he can't see the door. Blood is pooling on the table as he falls backwards, seeming to take an eternity.

The noise that comes out of his mouth as Charlie falls back against the table is almost inhuman; no words, simply a sound, something between a shout and a wail, a noise he's never made before, a noise he didn't know he was capable of making until he sees Charlie there, bleeding.

He's suddenly unchained, as though he'd never been restrained at all, and he's immediately bent over Charlie, trying to sit him up, trying to put pressure on the wound, trying to put Charlie's blood back in his body. It's coming out too fast, staining the green table red, and there's blood coming out of Charlie's mouth, too.

"You'll be okay," he says, but he knows he won't. Neither of them will be. His hands are soaked with obscenely red blood, and they shake as he desperately tries to stop the bleeding.

It doesn't hurt, but that must be the shock. He can see the red spreading around him, staining the table and Meyer's hands, and all that comes out of his mouth is "You've got blood on your shirt." And then he's coughing, and more blood splatters Meyer's face. He hates seeing him with blood on him, because all he can think of is that tiny nine year old kid he used to throw his arm around, the one he promised Meyer's Ma he'd look out for.

"They'll be coming back for you."

"I don't care," he says, and it's true. He doesn't care about the blood on his shirt or on his face, doesn't care about the fact that the guys, whoever they were, will be coming back. "I'll kill them," he says, and he's already thinking of how he'll do it, of just how much he'll make them suffer, because it's easier than thinking about what's happening in front of his eyes.

His hands are still trying to find the bullet wound to stop the bleeding, but there's so much blood he can't seem to find the source of it to apply pressure, and Charlie's growing paler and paler, and he knows that look, knows the grey tone that people take in death, has seen it many times before and hasn't let it affect him, but this...

"You'll be okay," he says again. He's normally honest with Charlie, but he needs to lie now, for both of their sakes.

He can feel himself slipping, the world becoming fuzzy around the edges. He doesn't know if it's death or just passing out, but he knows what he wants his last moments of consciousness to be.

"Kiss me."

He's not one to resist a request like that; not normally, and especially not now, when he can see Charlie's consciousness (he doesn't want to think of it as being something more drastic than that, so he doesn't) slipping away slowly. Gingerly, he leans forward and kisses Charlie, not caring that Charlie's blood smears on his face, on his lips, not caring how he'll look after all of this is over. He can't even think about this being over. This isn't how it was supposed to end.

He can't tell if Charlie's breathing anymore, and it terrifies him. He pulls back from the kiss, desperately trying to see any sign of life.

He tangles his hand into the front of Meyer's shirt as they kiss, holding on tight. He feels like the moment he lets go will be the moment of giving up, of falling back into that black abyss of nothing, so he keeps clinging real fucking tight. His knuckles are turning white from it, nailing rending the cloth under them.

But he's still falling, no matter how hard he holds on. Meyer turns to vapor under his hands and he can't hold on any longer, slipping through him and down, down, down.

He starts to yell as soon as he sees that Charlie's falling away from him, that he's dying that this is real. No actual words are coming from him, no pleas for Charlie to be alive, no begging, no swearing, simply yelling, trying to cling to Charlie even though he knows there's no hope, that Charlie's gone.

He's still yelling as he wakes up with a start, his back aching terribly from the stitched up wounds, his heart pounding so hard he swears he can hear it nearly beating out of his chest. He's breathing as though he's just sprinted a mile, and he's still not sure what's a dream and what's reality.

Charlie is still sleeping in the spare room, not trusting himself not to roll onto Meyer in the middle of the night. But that dream wakes him with a start, trembling and sweating. The first thing he does is check his chest for a bullet wound, as dumb as it is to do so. Then he's throwing off his covers and padding into Meyer's room. He'll give it the context of checking up on him if he's awake. He'd never admit to needing to check on him after a particularly vivid nightmare. But his heart is hammering up a storm and he still feels he needs to anyway.

Though he's stopped yelling by the time Charlie comes into his room, he's still sitting bolt upright, despite the fact that it hurts his back unspeakably badly to do so, looking around frantically for Charlie. He's disoriented -- the various drugs he's been taking for the pain medication don't help that, nor does the horribly vivid dream -- and he's not quite sure where he is, but his eyes are wide, and he looks horrified.

"Meyer."

Why does that feel odd, just saying his name? Like he's done it a lot recently.

But he hasn't known Meyer this long without being able to read him like a book, and everything about the way he's sitting and breathing and holding himself tells him something's wrong. The idea of it being connected to his nightmare is too ridiculous to even contemplate, so his mind takes the more logical leap. "You're hurting."

"No," he says, brushing aside the concern with a shake of his head, although he is hurting. That's not what's bothering him. The pain has been a pretty constant thing these last few days, ebbing and flowing depending on how many drugs he's got in his system and how much sleep Charlie can coerce him into getting, but this is something different.

"I had a..." He sighs. It sounds ridiculous, juvenile, and although Charlie must know by now that Meyer has bad nightmares, they've never discussed it. "Bad dream, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"Yeah? Me too." Still nothing he's going to link together yet. The both had bed dreams, big deal. But he still comes over to perch on the side of Meyer's bed. "You was at that warehouse, when Nucky had yous tied up."

"Yeah," he says, not seeing a connection beyond that. Maybe it's a little strange that they'd both dreamt about the same situation in the same night, but they spend so much of their time together, it's only natural that their brains might work in similar ways.

"Yeah, I dreamt that, and then I dreamt that you were there, in this..." He shrugs, not knowing how to explain the room, how to describe the sense of dread it had given him. Saying it was a room empty except for a pool table doesn't ascribe nearly the fear to it that it had caused him. "A room," he says, "And you showed up in it. And these two guys were chasing us."

"And I got shot."

Okay, now this is verging onto the creepy. If he can make it out in the dark, Charlie's brows are furrowing hard.

"Right?"

"You got shot," he confirms, "And you..."

He swallows hard. He knows it wasn't true -- obviously it wasn't true; Charlie's sitting right here, and he'd woken up in his own bed -- but the fact that they'd apparently both dreamt the same thing, the fact that the dream had seemed so real, it all makes him feel uneasy.

"You died."

"Pretty fucked up." He may be referring to the dream itself or the fact that they apparently dreamed the exact same fucking thing.

He nudges Meyer as gently as he can, lifting the corner of the blanket so he can squeeze himself in. He doesn't care if he's lying right on the fucking edge of the mattress so as not to hurt Meyer, he just wants to be close by right now.

"I dreamed about the other part before. When Nucky had yous all tied up. Never like thats, though." It was so fucking vivid, all the details sharp and precise, like he was really there.

"Yeah," he says, scooting over slightly to give Charlie some room. He'd never admit it, but now that his heart has finally stopped pounding so hard and he doesn't feel sick to his stomach from the dream, having Charlie close by is a nice reassurance that this is real, not whatever they'd shared in the dream.

"What do you mean, never like that?" He didn't know Charlie dreamed about it at all. It had shown up in his own dreams many times, in slight variations, all of them equally disturbing, but Charlie had never been in those dreams. Even in this dream, if Charlie had been there, he hadn't known it.

"Y'know. Like detailed and shit. Usually it's like, you're there and a can't get to yous. Which was this one too but like, I says everything. The whole surroundings. Nucky, Darmondy, those D'Alessio guys. Everything."

He gives an audible sigh of relief when Meyer agrees and lets him crawl in. The thought of going back to their cold and unlived in second bedroom is pretty unappealing right now. He stays right at the edge for now, long limbs curled up close to him so there's no chance of him bumping Meyer by accident.

"How'd you dream about all of that if you weren't there?" It's not really a question he expects Charlie to answer, but he does wonder. They'd dreamt the same thing, clearly, but Charlie had apparently dreamt aspects of Meyer's memories that he couldn't possibly know. Did that mean Charlie had been inside his head somehow?

He yawns, muscles finally letting go of the tension they'd been holding ever since he'd woken up yelling.

"The fuck do I know? That's just what I saw." He leans up on the pillow a little more, trying to meet Meyer's eyes in the dark. "That what really happened?"

He looks back at him, nodding a tiny bit, the look in his eyes unreadable, and not just because it's dark in the room.

"Yeah. That's what really happened."

He can't fault his dream for accuracy during that part, at least, but what the dream had morphed into, that had been something else entirely.

Charlie reaches for his hand, under the covers. He thinks that's safe to touch.

"Remind me to deck Nucky Thompson one next time we sees him."

And every time you go to sleep...

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