And the world is made of soft things.
The sky is blue like the flashes of the humans' world they glimpsed through Trollian viewports over the others' shoulders, in the hours that felt like years before everything fell apart and was painfully, brick by brick, rebuilt.
He sits in a contrivance that the odd pink-skinned children call a lawn chair, facing towards the horizon, sprawled back staring at the heavens with their sun that will not burn anyone's eyes, his whimsical mop of hair pendulous, reaching for the long dewy grass and the rich earth underneath it, all the possibility it holds. Those thick black curls have always waxed unruly, but lately they are also getting rather overlong.
She comes to him over the grass, bobbing softly on the wind, barefoot. Her toes kiss the silky wet strands of green on the downward wave of the breeze until her skin is quite damp and drops of moisture bead against the gold of her toenails. Even when she reaches him, she does not touch down; she simply beats her wings lazily and waits for him to open his eyes and gaze up at her before she spreads her fingers along his cheeks.
(his skin is a little drier than her own, chapped and vulnerable from the newness of exposure to the elements-and he looks almost naked without that old familiar layer of paint exaggerating his features into an all-blessing grin that so befit his name)
His lips part, and when he speaks his voice is rough and soft like human velvet.
"JuSt BeInG hErE iS lIkE a MoThErFuCkInG mIrAcLe, AnD i DoN't KnOw As I dEsErVe AnY oF tHoSe MoThErFuCkErS aNyMoRe."
She plays the very tips of her fingers over the contours of his face and then through his hair, as though seeking the right gears in her old music boxes from the days she still needed those to travel. Wonders if it would be worth it to dig them up again, just for the sake of the tactile sensation she couldn't enjoy in the soulbot Equius and Vriska had built for her.
And she wonders with a strange little melancholy if she could just fix it with one more death, if she could turn the clock back to a point where their innocence might still have been preserved. Time and its inevitabilities have a weightiness and a delicacy to them and anyway she could never pinpoint the right moment anyway.
Instead, she smiles. It does not feel as foreign against her painted lips as once it did, but she cannot make the gesture without feeling a little self-conscious.
"you deserve it," she says; "dont ever believe that because it just isnt true"
And she leans down and closes her eyes, drinking in the sensations of this dreamlike pastel world, feeling her lips and the tip of her nose bump lightly against the broad curved plane of his forehead.