Author's Note:
WHAT AM I DOING???? It looks like I haven't learned my lesson from the god-knows-how-many unfinished stories yet, I'm starting a new one. Pah - my brain must be suffering a bad case of mussification. Thankfully, this will be a short piece. Like, hopefully under one page. And hopefully, world peace will be attained tomorrow. Must remind self to make appoinment with local health Nazi.

Anyways, time for the semi-legal protocols. Fic is based on two dolls, Ruka ("Sweet Dreams Lucas") from Tangled Web and Chris ("Montparnasse Chris") from Domuya (which means I am in a fucking shitload of trouble because Domuya is a fucking shop with fucking copyrights). Fic is based on an actual photostory (Cool txt-y stuff at start of fic is also actually from photostory). Fic is actually rewrite of said photostory.

Hence, fic proves that author has no sense of imagination whatsoever. (Author is saved by the fact that no one bothers to read this shit at the start of the before the story. Yaayz.)

even if you are a dream...
...be the dream within my sleep...
...the living world holds not my life - your hand, it holds my heart.
...even if you are a drug...
...be the poison at my lips...
...I'll taste your poison with a kiss...
...and dream in sleep eternally...
...for to wake and part my eyes will mean you must depart
            - Dream of Poison, Tangled Web (http://tangled.silentragedy.net)

It was never so much a change in perception as it was a change in light. Light is infinite, pure, and in eternal fluctuation. To him, light was the soft soothing noises of the trees so accustomed to sheltering young hearts, the bustle of bodies moving in thousands of shades as lives intertwined and seperated, and quiet moments where his world was steadied by a calm touch and an assured hand.

Now, was one such moment.

He was a dreamer - his world was light.

Soft this time, soft after the harsh kindness of men who healed in lab coats, downy like pillows stuffed with cotton and fluff, made comforting by his dreams. Light is in all perception, but now that he could only percieve light everything was in millions of shades, a fluctuating sense of grey - no colour. Colour was - it - was not -

- had been -

Him.

The expanse was the favourite blanket, the unique texture called skin that lay against his own porcelain dreaming self - that was the thumb he sucked for comfort. It was so heartachingly compassionate he wanted to sleep, to dream within a dream within a dream and then, there would be light and shadows against the light, and then, maybe, he would see..

Red

- PAIN -

Colour had ended that day.

He would not remember it, lacked the capabilty, even. He was no longer a being a form but one of perception, and light was his medium, his brush, his parchment and infintely more. Deeply dreaming, his self - as percieved by others with its physical features and body - was very far for that state of total meaninglessness.

Heart pounding in a slow, throbbing rhythm, he was dimly aware with all of his deeply-wide-asleep body that he was being somehow touched. He pulsed gently like the slow play of sunlight on water at dawn along the line of an extension of kindness, a branch that fell on a still pond to create small ripples of circular lightplay. Was his face being carressed? Was his hair being touched, perhaps smoothed away from the sweeping shadow of eyelash upon alabaster cheek?

This would be how sleepers experience affection.

No matter how fleeting or small, light bursts in a world that has no colour and therefore no darkness. That is the kind gesture, the compassionate word. It can be flourescent, a white neon streak, or soft and muted - but when eyelids shut and mind roams a world known only to the heart, everything attains its own absolute purity. It is warmth.

"You'll see me when you wake up."

While you wait for someone, you sleep. No matter if your eyes or open or shut, you are in suspension, your world hanging on a balance that can be tipped by a feather's weight. The world can carry on in chaotic colour, for you, you can touch marble and feather, snow and blank paper, all the varying textures of white in a glass snowglobe called Dreams. It is a form of stasis that makes everything suddenly so very precious, so very fragile. Even life itself, when defined in slumber, is like that.

"He said I would see when I woke up. He's never lied to me yet."

Waiting there, holding the door to your heart tight shut until the person you've been waiting for comes, and then you smile and let him into the warmth... That is the truest kind of faith that exists.

To have such faith, a court Fool might say, one must be blind. Or at least dreaming.

He bedded down into the embrace. The light had always been around him, it made his world, but now it had gained a homely feel - a big, warm hug, or a downy blanket. He felt the textures of many kindnesses cocoon him, a white, warm patchwork quilt, and the marbled form of the dreamer was warm as he rested.

The light rippled suddenly, forming threads of grey lines like smoke in a black-and-white photograph. His chest constricted, his sleeping form lurched, he tried to keep track of the dancing shadow streaks but they fluttered against him like small waves. It was a scent - poisonous, entrancing. It spoke of intimacy, and intimacy is the province of darkness. A shadow had brushed across his lips and he knew it as a stolen kiss.

No - you... He never -

But the doll that he was in the waking world did not move, its face remained carved out of the purest snow.

You....are not - him. Not -

MINE....

Had he hoped? He, who was sleeping? Entraptured by the light, so much the same compassion and nostalgia as before, the sleeping doll had almost become wide awake, had nearly opened eyes made to be shut. But no light would give such poisonous dreams of hope - a dreamer's heart is waiting, steadfast and faithful, for that one bright moment that can only be percieved, never seen.

Waiting for the world to be light even in the waking, suspended, as a single dewdrop made crystal by its reflection in sunlight (or could you say the proverbial fool who walks of the cliff even as the faithful dog barks at his heels?) , that inescapable fragment of ultimate eternity - that light is like sleep. That is the essence of his dream.

But the doll was being held, its head cradled.

And the dreamer rested in the light.