Hypnos left through the closet as he had come.
He had put the coat rack in the corner of the closet as an oh-shit-handle, because when he crawls through the split in the wallpaper, he comes in at an odd antigravity-twisted angle and falls into the wall with the dragonhide shoes. So, the coat rack was something to grab onto in order to realign his center of gravity, and Loki moved it.
Nobody respects what he does for them, except maybe Eros.
Eros doesn’t remember why, but Hypnos is okay with that.
He left a little trail behind for Eros to find.
He and Loki had a lot to talk about.
Dream didn’t mind helping, as long as no one realized that was what he was doing.
He slipped through the corners of the Realm of Dream, taking a shortcut through the labyrinths, and avoiding the forest of spiders.
Dream didn’t really like spiders. They gave him the heebies with their sprawling legs, like New Mexico highways and endless eyes, like black diamonds of wisdom.
He sank through the open grave he had dug for a nightmare.
He always buried the people he loved alive.
And the scariest part was…
The grave is empty.
It was his nightmare.
He stepped out of an oil painting of an open grave into an art studio.
His twin’s art studio.
Death was sitting on a paint-splattered stool. He was in his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. The studio’s walls were covered with grayscale anatomical oil paintings.
Death loves life.
But that was a secret, and so was this art studio.
Be very quiet, lest Death hears your breath, and takes it away...
His violin sat over by the window that looked out into his world, the world that Death hath made. He had an infinite amount of personal worlds, most of which had a mansion, but all of which had this art studio.
Infinite, infinite, endless, in fine night.
“What do you want, Hypnos?” came Death’s whispering voice.
Dream snickered, “I have to have a reason to come visit my lesser half?”
“I’m not buying your drugs. I’m not bailing you out, and if you have a problem, I don’t care.”
The paintings on the wall begin to turn and come alive. The heart pulses, the lungs-
Death didn’t turn to face Hypnos. He dipped his horse hair brush into the dark red pigment on his palette in a smooth rotating motion.
The lungs expand and collapse. The eyes blink and gaze around frantically. The still-lifes of flowers and fruit wither and decay.
“I don’t need your money. I have my own... somewhere in me pocket. Listen, me best mate’s in trouble-”
“I don’t care,” said Death, moving his paint brush, which had become a scalpel, to the painting of an open chest cavity, the muscles inside wriggling.
“See, I think you should, because the thing is he’s y-”
“I still don’t care.” Death painted a line of dripping blood with his scalpel brush.
“Okay, fine. Be a putz. A prick, actually. A selfish, cocky shit.”
Death moved his brush back down to his palette.
The paintings in the studio begin to melt like wax. They puddle to the floor, and Dream hopped around the scalding, bleeding, congealing paint up to his twin.
“Thanny-”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Thanatos. Brother of mine. Opposite side to me coin,” Hypnos grimaced as he said it. “He’s in Tartarus, and-”
Death stood, casting the blackest pall around the room. His nostrils flared as he said, “Hypnos, listen to me very carefully. You are not allowed back down there after what you did the last time. I am tired of cleaning up your messes-”
“My messes? You see this? Blood and paint and bleeding guts everywhere!”
Throbbing organs, hot stinking blood, pulsing paintings, slicing scalpel, twisting white canvas, dancing and singing gummy bears-
Thanatos pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re tripping. You’re high. Of course you’re high. Hypnos, you can’t keep helping your buddies out of Tartarus. Things right now are very delicate with the Fates, and if I am ever going to outdo them, I cannot be constantly convincing them not to put you in there with your friends!”
“I think Tartarus would be fun, actually! I hear he’s a great poker player!”
Death snarled, and grabbed Dream by his coat. “Do you hear what I am saying to you? Do not go back down there! Do not help anyone escape. Look what your help did to Eros.” Hypnos pushed Death away, and his boot slipped in paint that had coagulated into organs on the floor, while the canvases on the walls remained completely white.
“You fucking saying he’d be better off down in Tartarus?”
“I’m saying, they almost threw him back down there after his vacation in the Mortalworld. The shit I had to do to keep him from ending up back down there would unsettle even you, and now fucking Loki is dragging him back into it. So, I’d appreciate it if all of you would do me a favor, and not help me!”
Thanatos sat back down in front of his masterpiece in-progress.
Living, moving, breathing masterpiece.
Hypnos nearly turned to leave, but instead snarled, “You can’t do it all yourself.”
“Yes. I can. It’s better and more efficient that way. Why do you think I separated from you to begin with?”
“Psht. You didn’t kick me out. I kicked you out! Fuck you! You and I, being in the same body, the same head-space, was fucking maddening. So happy I’m not you anymore, because being you sucks!”
“Yes. It’s a thankless job. Anything else?”
“Naw. I’m out, and you can go to hell, except you won’t, because you’re chicken shit.”
Hypnos vanished the way he had come in, through the oil painting of an open grave. Thanatos leaned back to appreciate his work. It was the best one he had painted in a while. It was missing something, though. Scars. He mixed some dark fleshy tones together, and painted on the collar bone a magickal symbol for regeneration, a brand. You’d have to look for it in order to see it, but Thanatos would know it was there, like a secret between an artist and his creation.
