In his dreams, it is the same. Every night he sees black hair, all tangled and caked with mud and blood and ashes, but there is pulse fluttering beneath the sweat-slicked skin, a heart that beats loud inside perfectly-toned chest, heat that flushes down from the ears hidden beneath the black hair travelling south, far south. Gerris eyes follow the motion in fascination, interest, long until the owner of the black hair squirms uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze.
In his dreams, Gerris always smirks, always tugs at the thick strands of hair between clever-deft fingers and kisses the chapped bloody lips until he is breathless and the raven-haired boy is panting, lips red and swollen and oh so sinful it makes his heart ache.
"Quent," he whispers, rough, longing, desperate even as he chokes for air. Then it turns into a soft prayer of "Quent, Quent," between his lips, hands clawing at the front of Quentyn's shirt before everything burns to ashes.
When he wakes, there is an empty spot on the mattress beside him, tears-streak across his cheeks, and living hell in the place where his heart once was. Gerris thinks he might not survive another day.