Something is lingering beneath the surface far away, casting a black shadow underneath the furthest reaches of the horizon, waning echoes like a pendulum of worlds trapped in the confines of my cranium. The fog broaches ever-closer, the salty gust weighting on my skin. Creatures with the heads of hairless, pale women, sharp cheeks and dangerous eyes, with all the necessary features of a fish, dancing underneath the fiery moon, turbulent waves crash against jagged rocks and eroding stone.

Oh they're singing melodies that course through me like blood, looping, calling me ever-so-

I can see the surface, dark and exotic, like violets and bell-flowers, the most vivid of lavenders.

“You awake, buddy?” The moment I open my eyes, I'm immediately blinded by the sun, the blinds are wide as can be. Pascal is standing over me like a statue, just watching as I turn onto my side, groaning as I do every morning, my ankles clicking, joints cracking, why do I feel so old?

Suddenly, the aroma of freshly-cooked braised pork hits my nostrils, I must've slept in.

“What time is it?” I'm sitting bedside, staring at myself in the mirror. I don't know what I expected, a thirty-five year old man shouldn't be demoralized by his own reflection.

“Time to eat before I send you off. Be in the kitchen in ten.” Pascal walks out of the room, not before giving me a lazy wave, and an innocent smile. He must've been up since the crack of dawn, just cooking. It reminds me of our first date. I wanted it to be at his house – he lived with his parents at the time, and they were wealthy back then, loving and supportive of their only child, who was gay. I was dead-set on staying in the closet for as long as possible, not because my parents were bastards, but because I didn't want the attention. I was always fine with being alone, still am.

I feel pressure for the first time in decades, pressure to do good work, to be something different. I feel in control when I interview prostitutes and crooks, kids who've wandered down the alley and never came back, but this – Pascal is already pitching to big-wig executives, reaching out to long-lost connections who are actually giving him a time and date now that he has something of interest.

I know he cares about me, that's an understatement. But he's holding back on me for the first time in our relationship, and it makes me feel like a sacrificial lamb propped on an altar for the glory of the crops, villagers hoping for an abundant season of harvest.

No. I've went to places much more dangerous than this one, Cartel grow-farms in Shasta-Trinity National Forest, this is child's-play in comparison. The difference is that I've been dreaming about this place for the last three years, and despite my position at DespotsandDaemons, I hardly believe in Daemons.

Pascal finds me at the twelfth minute, staring at the mirror, the opposite of pale and flushed, pulsing with hot blood and lucid. “Are you okay?” He puts a hand on my shoulder and sits besides me.

I make a conscious decision to stay silent.

“I'll bring it to you, then. Lunch in bed is underrated.” A foot away from turning the corner, he stops and looks at me. “I was thinking tequila would make a good pairing.”

We lock eyes, he's trying to figure me out.

“Tequila.” I say, and then go back to ogling the mirror.

“Am I talking to Dean or Deacon?” Pascal closes the door, and leans against the frame, barricading me inside the room with him as the newly-crowned warden.

“You're talking to me.”

“Come to the dining table when you're ready.” He says like I'm a child.

I simmer for another five, unsure about everything, but an urge to find that boat that's going to fulfill my destiny, the urge is becoming stronger and stronger, near-irresistible, my eyelids began to flicker, my vision blurry, gone. The door swings open, Pascal was standing behind it the entire time, rushing in when he heard a thud, cuffing the back of my head, staring into my soul with opal eyes.

Lying on a flower pedal, floating in the sea with the temperament of a bath-tub with a turned faucet, the sky is vibrant with no clouds or sun, lit by an invisible source, shifting with a thousand different colors and all of their hues. I feel tranquil, and at the same time, Pascal is contemplating whether to call an ambulance. No. Don't. I feel better than I ever have, I want to scream it, but my tongue hangs down my cheek, and he's yelling for me to stay with him, stay awake. I love you, stay with me, my sun and moon, stay with me, I need you. I wanted to laugh. Pascal has always been the slimy romantic, like an ogre presenting a bed of flowers atop bottles of red wine from obscure French chateau's. I always imagine the wine he lauds, fancy and gaudy, cranking into a veteran sky-scraper sized drum, eventually pumped into fancy bottles that make up every-bit of the price, names that are so foreign they make you feel gross, the work of a hack suit, along with a graphic designer that specializes in harvesting naive American's too good to buy stateside.

“We can push the story off for a couple months.” It's the first thing I heard, before the beeps and buzzers, before that sterile white glow burned my eyes, taking me out of my naive slumber, the prospect of losing this story filled me with more trepidation than the fact I was lying in a hospital bed for reasons I'm still unsure of. “No.” I replied adamantly.

Pascal replies by sitting and burying his face into his palms, groaning.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Grand Mal seizure. They don't know what's wrong with you. It could be nothing, or a brain tumor.” Pascal says bluntly. “Either way, you're out of the story for the time being. Sofía just graduated from Columbia and would like nothing more than to work for her Uncle, and explore the island she visited so much as a child.”

“No. God fucking damn-it. No.”

Before Pascal has the time to respond, Doctor Micaela walks into the room.

“We're going to do a couple more brain-scans, and would like three days of medical observation. If that's okay with you, Mr Lamper.”

“No. I have a story to write. I need to leave, now.”

Pascal steps forward. “The answer is yes. He'll say yes.”

“I'll give you two some time to discuss this.” She turns towards the door.

Pascal walks with her. “Is there really nothing wrong with him?”

They stop in the hallway.

“Does he have any history of sleep-walking, sleep-talking? Unconscious behavior that may seem out of the ordinary to the average person?”

“Never. He hardly turns to his side. He sleeps like a rock.”

“Not to worry you. But we couldn't find anything in his medical records indicating such.. which leads us to believe the seizure was a red herring for something a bit more serious.”

“Anything that you have to do, do it. I'll sign off immediately.”

“You have conservator rights over Mr. Lamper, correct?”

“Yes. I do. If you can just keep that between us.” Pascal looks at the door. “He's exhausted.”

“Of-course. Apologies for stepping out of my boundaries. Should we begin the brain-scans immediately?”

“As soon as possible.”