...we sleeping wake, and waking sleep... Who: Mischa & Cam (NPCs), Elpis suspicious mistletoe. What: Dreams and beds and ballrooms, an sleepwalking of the not-quite voluntary persuasion. Where: Mischa's "safe house" ==> Cam's room/bed (by way of Dream Country) When: TBD Why:A dream is a wish your heart makes...
Mischa dreamed.
She walks through a gilded alley of velvet portraits, her gown dragging languidly behind. She passes a snow-wrapped garden, pushes a silver door to find an amber hothouse; stray marigold petals on her sleeve melt into golden embroidery, into freckles when she exits onto a beach, bare shoulders catching the sun. The fine sand shifts, warps, freezes into blue marble. Dancers spin around her.
Dream or memory, she wonders.
"The differences between is vastly overrated." Sato takes the frosted flute from her hand, sipping casually. "An echo and a reflection, which is more necessary? That's a lovely color on you, by the way. Order something in that shade for the January arrangements."
"Maybe." Mischa reclaims her flute. Drinks. It tastes like summer light and violets. "I'm going to be so pissed with you later."
Sato nods, leaning in to brush a cool, familial kiss on her cheek. "No doubt. Until then, do enjoy the sights."
She does, a bit. The Winter Palace window are flaming with rich, safe brilliance. The galley is a long, deep stretch of polished columns and gleaming floors. The candlelight reflecting in the marble is a near match for her dress. There are green-and-red vines twining around the columns. Bunches of green, green, green tied with scarlet. How--odd.
Stumbled out of bed, slow and heavy, to put on shoes. A jacket. The plait of her hair was an anchor down her back.
Dresses billow in the whirlwind of the waltz. The nets of diamonds and gold threads elongate into serpentine flashes, like the wink of a storm. Every delicate hand is gloved, sheathed, camellia-pale on their partner's shoulder.
The heavy door unlocks at a single push. Which would be odd, should be odd, except she was already out the door and away, walking sure and numb down the street.
Music taps her shoulder and pulls at the gown's hem. Violins croon temptingly. The mistletoe swings gently in defiance to the beat.
A car blasted as she crossed the street; the wind of its passage ruffled her skirt. Hands tugged at her elbow, tried to pull. She lazily shoved away from the tugs and warnings, and moved on.
Perfumed fireworks tattoo the ceiling. Some clap, some smile behind the painted fans, most continue dancing. She looks down at her own bright fan...only to see the mistletoe, a pearl-and-gold, twine around her bare wrist.
Stairs, then. One floor, two, three, four--there. The doorknob turned obediently in her hand. Almost there, now. Past the kitchen and through the living room--shedding shoes and jacket, letting them drop--until the next door, the final door.
The ballroom is dazzling; the dancers too many, too close. She can't dig the jeweled greenery off her list. There are mirror shards trapped in her damn dress and diamonds burning in her hair and this isn't isn't her dream, isn't what she wants, isn't what she was hoping for--
Eyes closed, Mischa entered Cam Harper's bed like a woman sinking.