[Without hesitation, without the self-awareness inherent in a young man born of royal blood and polite obligation, Dimitri reaches out to link his fingers with Oz’s. The connection feels solid and real, as though this were not a dream at all, a warmth where their bodies touch that makes him feel—
Secure, safe. Present and clear, in a way so very rarely granted to him.
He smiles, sincere and his eyes bright.]
Would it be selfish of me to hope that this dream doesn’t fade quite yet? That it might last an age.
[It cannot, he knows. Perhaps even as he says it, the edges of this place begin to haze and blur, like the brushstrokes of a watercolor painting.]
no subject
Secure, safe. Present and clear, in a way so very rarely granted to him.
He smiles, sincere and his eyes bright.]
Would it be selfish of me to hope that this dream doesn’t fade quite yet? That it might last an age.
[It cannot, he knows. Perhaps even as he says it, the edges of this place begin to haze and blur, like the brushstrokes of a watercolor painting.]