⟪ you might find you like it… yeah. and it’s a problem. stir the embers, fan the flames, and burn. he should be tugging at her hand to halt her steps, to anchor them in the same invariability he suffers. there’s a certain sense of comfort in stability, but there’s also a terrible lack of excitement — essential, among other things, to create dreams and nightmares. daisy is the embodiment of an eagerness that dream does his very best to quench on his worst days, but sometimes it just flares up and…
well. he burns.
her memory is phenomenal. everything that surrounds them is crystal clear, a perfect replica of a place that once thrived. and it’s gorgeous. from the stone stairway edged with classical balusters to the pathway bordered by lush potted plants and flowering bushes in the near distance — the settlement, aesthetically eastern-inspired. he sees all of it… and he also doesn’t, because his gaze is riveted on her as they walk, amused, curious, and then just a hair's breadth from spellbound, an itch stuck in his throat as he feels the entirety of his beating heart in the palm of her hand.
dreamers often conjure crooked or blurred memories, jumbled or just outright bizarre. this is seamless, and dream is positively impressed, but it’s her he’s looking at and the word that forms on his tongue isn’t what he means to say. ⟫
Morpheus. ⟪ instead of acknowledgement, a compliment, or even just a question, he tells her his name, no context. like a secret finally earned, a crack through his shell, his eyes lethal-tender. ⟫
[ The first time she came to Afterlife, it was only for a short while, a handful of days during which she struggled to learn about her new powers and grappled with the realization that she had her parents back. They were far from perfect, but they wanted her — and they'd wanted this to be her home. So yes, she remembers it all, every little detail engraved in her memory, and relived in bitter nightmares of it all crashing down around her.
But this isn't one of those nightmares. This is a dream, and she can make it beautiful if she wants to. They're almost to their destination, the building not very far into the settlement, and she can feel him watching her, see his face turned to her from the corner of his eye when he—
Morpheus. It's a name, one she's only heard before in movies, but she vaguely recalls it being attached to the god of dreams. A name for someone who controls dreams. He'd told her to call him Dream, so for him to offer something else now... Her steps falter as she turns to look at him, taking in that tenderness in his eyes, and her chest tightens like he's wrapped his hand around her heart and squeezed. She doesn't even have to think about how to respond. ]
Thank you for telling me. [ A smile blooms across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and she squeezes his hand before tugging him forward again. Both her hands are occupied, the other holding the blue stone he'd gifted her, so she carefully tucks it into the pocket of her jeans as they reach the old painted doors, opening them and moving down the elaborately decorated hallway. Jewel tones in terracotta, green, and gold are everywhere, and she stops them at an open set of green double doors.
There's a table inside set for three, with fine china, a floral centerpiece, and an array of gold-rimmed stem glasses. And there at one of the places is a simple bouquet of daisies. ]
⟪ wisps of memories flicker around the table, ghost-like silhouettes that once gathered there. it’s blurry at best, barely visible, and dream doesn’t do anything to fine-tune them; it is daisy’s pocket-realm to shape the way she wishes to, and so he’ll wait, allow her to reclaim every nook and cranny at her own pace. her smile still shines with gratitude, and her hand withholds his still; he notes, not without a little chill whispering down his spine, that she deliberately chose to sacrifice her other hand in order to push open the doors.
somewhere in the distance, mervyn is probably shaking his head.
and lucienne is most likely rolling her eyes.
groaning, both of them.
no matter. ⟫
Our final destination, I assume. ⟪ a cozy room, a table for three. and daisies, which dream spots with a hint of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth. he tilts his head towards her, aware of her fingers still laced around his and barely loosening his grip. ⟫ Was this your favourite room?
[ It feels right to hold on to him as if she needs him to anchor her to this place when really she just wants to be anchored to him. Somehow, he's worked his way under her skin in the short time since he and his bird waltzed into her life, and the longer he's there, the less she minds. The imaginary weight of him there is even comforting in a way. ]
I don't think I really had a favorite. [ She admits this fact without hesitation or regret; too many years have passed for those sorts of feelings. After all this time, she is able to approach these memories with only the lingering echoes of the grief that followed these events. ] I wasn't here for that long. But it is the one that meant the most. This is where we had our first family dinner.
[ Her voice quiets and the grief is a little more pronounced now. ] Our only family dinner.
⧼ the one that meant the most. and she willingly brings him here, with her grief and her vulnerability, even after berating him for spying on her dreams, for intruding where she claimed he didn’t belong. it was just hours ago — and she wasn’t entirely wrong, despite his trespass being another part of his purpose. but he’s no longer a voyeur. he’s welcome, not as a king but as a guest, and it hits him in all the right ways; he hears the shift in her voice, shell cracked, and doesn’t fight the cold warmth that splits his chest open.
she wants him here. beyond the nostalgia, the pain. and it’s one of the most intimate invitation he’s ever received.
there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, to soothe her sorrow. but he doesn’t say anything. she knew the impact it would have on her, to be here — and she didn’t bring him along for sorries. but he can soothe her in different ways, maybe; first, by giving her hand a light squeeze, a slow stretch of fingers to lace them a little tighter. and then he leans closer, no trace of pity in his eyes; there’s warmth, mostly, and a good dose of gratitude. ⧽ Thank you. ⧼ for allowing him here at all. he’s touched in weird ways — it doesn’t happen often. ⧽
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
⟪ you might find you like it… yeah. and it’s a problem. stir the embers, fan the flames, and burn. he should be tugging at her hand to halt her steps, to anchor them in the same invariability he suffers. there’s a certain sense of comfort in stability, but there’s also a terrible lack of excitement — essential, among other things, to create dreams and nightmares. daisy is the embodiment of an eagerness that dream does his very best to quench on his worst days, but sometimes it just flares up and…
well. he burns.
her memory is phenomenal. everything that surrounds them is crystal clear, a perfect replica of a place that once thrived. and it’s gorgeous. from the stone stairway edged with classical balusters to the pathway bordered by lush potted plants and flowering bushes in the near distance — the settlement, aesthetically eastern-inspired. he sees all of it… and he also doesn’t, because his gaze is riveted on her as they walk, amused, curious, and then just a hair's breadth from spellbound, an itch stuck in his throat as he feels the entirety of his beating heart in the palm of her hand.
dreamers often conjure crooked or blurred memories, jumbled or just outright bizarre. this is seamless, and dream is positively impressed, but it’s her he’s looking at and the word that forms on his tongue isn’t what he means to say. ⟫
Morpheus. ⟪ instead of acknowledgement, a compliment, or even just a question, he tells her his name, no context. like a secret finally earned, a crack through his shell, his eyes lethal-tender. ⟫
no subject
But this isn't one of those nightmares. This is a dream, and she can make it beautiful if she wants to. They're almost to their destination, the building not very far into the settlement, and she can feel him watching her, see his face turned to her from the corner of his eye when he—
Morpheus. It's a name, one she's only heard before in movies, but she vaguely recalls it being attached to the god of dreams. A name for someone who controls dreams. He'd told her to call him Dream, so for him to offer something else now... Her steps falter as she turns to look at him, taking in that tenderness in his eyes, and her chest tightens like he's wrapped his hand around her heart and squeezed. She doesn't even have to think about how to respond. ]
Thank you for telling me. [ A smile blooms across her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and she squeezes his hand before tugging him forward again. Both her hands are occupied, the other holding the blue stone he'd gifted her, so she carefully tucks it into the pocket of her jeans as they reach the old painted doors, opening them and moving down the elaborately decorated hallway. Jewel tones in terracotta, green, and gold are everywhere, and she stops them at an open set of green double doors.
There's a table inside set for three, with fine china, a floral centerpiece, and an array of gold-rimmed stem glasses. And there at one of the places is a simple bouquet of daisies. ]
no subject
⟪ wisps of memories flicker around the table, ghost-like silhouettes that once gathered there. it’s blurry at best, barely visible, and dream doesn’t do anything to fine-tune them; it is daisy’s pocket-realm to shape the way she wishes to, and so he’ll wait, allow her to reclaim every nook and cranny at her own pace. her smile still shines with gratitude, and her hand withholds his still; he notes, not without a little chill whispering down his spine, that she deliberately chose to sacrifice her other hand in order to push open the doors.
somewhere in the distance, mervyn is probably shaking his head.
and lucienne is most likely rolling her eyes.
groaning, both of them.
no matter. ⟫
Our final destination, I assume. ⟪ a cozy room, a table for three. and daisies, which dream spots with a hint of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth. he tilts his head towards her, aware of her fingers still laced around his and barely loosening his grip. ⟫ Was this your favourite room?
no subject
I don't think I really had a favorite. [ She admits this fact without hesitation or regret; too many years have passed for those sorts of feelings. After all this time, she is able to approach these memories with only the lingering echoes of the grief that followed these events. ] I wasn't here for that long. But it is the one that meant the most. This is where we had our first family dinner.
[ Her voice quiets and the grief is a little more pronounced now. ] Our only family dinner.
an era later
she wants him here. beyond the nostalgia, the pain. and it’s one of the most intimate invitation he’s ever received.
there’s an apology on the tip of his tongue, to soothe her sorrow. but he doesn’t say anything. she knew the impact it would have on her, to be here — and she didn’t bring him along for sorries. but he can soothe her in different ways, maybe; first, by giving her hand a light squeeze, a slow stretch of fingers to lace them a little tighter. and then he leans closer, no trace of pity in his eyes; there’s warmth, mostly, and a good dose of gratitude. ⧽ Thank you. ⧼ for allowing him here at all. he’s touched in weird ways — it doesn’t happen often. ⧽