[Reaction]
The thing with being cursed by whatever it is that keeps him from his own sleep and his own dreams, is that when a nightmare is destroyed, apparently the dreams of the past (memories, they're memories) are sticky and magnetic and find their way to him. Tristan's been flat on his back in his bedroom for hours as the memories traipse by, one after another, like some twisted form of pageantry. He's seen people abused, people get eaten, people sick and people in the midst of a party. He's been a woman giving birth and watched some sort of ritual in the forest and locked in cages. He's learned things about Repose that he never wanted to know.
It doesn't pay to keep his eyes open, because while he's nowhere near being able to sleep, he's barely able to see his room either. He knows the ceiling is above him and the bed below, can even sometimes feel it when he's in someone's memory, but there's no moment to see it.
Red fills his mind and makes his mouth water. It's cherries and plums and blood and smoldering embers, and he knows he'll never be able to put it into words or into music or onto canvas. It's a red that can't be defined, and he finds himself wanting. There've been other memories that spiked a second-hand desire low in his belly, but this one seems more familiar than those. He wants to press his palm to dark skin, wants to taste. He shivers once his clothing is gone, his own dick hard as he's alone in his own room. But his feet are warm where they're tangled with this boy's. He knows, even as he's thrown into the next memory, that he'll know that almost-smile and the scent of that pillow long past this second-hand memory.