Colour of a Dream
He sleeps rarely, only when his powers wane and he can barely think, reactions slow and his eyes droop. He sleeps curled around his wooden pack, away from towns and lights and villages, because they cannot be trusted. Sometimes near a fox den, sometimes leaning against an ancient tree. So long as it isn't near humans. Humans cannot be trusted.
The cradle of bamboo trees is warm and soft in the airy spring weather, and he closes his eyes and breathes deeply to accept the small comfort of sleep, oblivion, a good sort of darkness. The feeling of a warm hand passes over his face, to his chest, pushing him into his bed of fallen leaves urging him on.
He dreams often, with his eyes open, wide awake. Those dreams are all the same. Predictable and dull. But when he sleeps he dreams different dreams. Colourful and wondrous. Memories, sometimes. Blinding lights and colours and the feeling of horror crawling down his spine. But when he dreams, there is always a warm (almost burning hot) hand against his eyes, and he feels no fear.
His dreams are golden, blazing bright. Hot and aching, overflowing with a feeling he can't really describe, a taste left on his tongue, a sound ringing in his ears, the faint scent of something like spices. And if he thinks about it longer than he must, he thinks he sees obsidian, scarlet eyes, gold dancing across his vision in a flurry of fire works.
There's touch, like red claws raking over sweat slicked skin, dancing, scalding, a memory of another time of both soul and body being breached. Of that scalding golden heat reaching all the way inside, not painful so much as overwhelming, consuming, almost good, if it weren't so much, too much. And he would cry out, were there not a warm hand pressed against his mouth, locking the sounds inside.
When he wakes early, eyes slyly watching the dew slide from the emerald bamboo leaves, there is still a hand pressing at his shoulder, sliding down his arm, landing on his thigh, burning hot and comforting. He smiles coyly, and waits for the touch to fade completely as the sun seeps into the bamboo forest, shining through watery green.
His dreams, when he has them, are golden.