Re: [Dreams: Tristan & Misha]
Too often, Tristan wasn't warm. He was rarely cold, either, but his shop was drafty and a little darker than it could be, and the mansion... it was too big to offer the sort of coziness that chased away a chill. So the heat of the dream was welcomed as it sank into his skin and the sun soaked into the dark shade of his clothing. He couldn't bring to mind a day nearly as perfect.
The boy's eyes were exactly what he'd expected, that pale blue that was almost clear, the way his own were dark enough to be nearly black. He didn't shrink back from the appraisal, even though he often hid from the owners of the dreams. Not this one. There was something... different. It lingered like the scent of the flowers through the entire dream, changing his usual habits.
The call brought him closer - not with steps, but with thought. Far, and then instantly near, the bare soles of his feet crushing new grass, scent green as the blades between his toes. "Only piano." His voice was quiet, rough, the sort made for the blues in a smoky bar.