Love. Warmth. The whisper of skin on skin.
Cold eyes meet lover's eyes, willing to take and give and be given to and be taken from.
Cool hands touch his narrow chest, pressing him into the bed - warm lips whisper into his ear with such intensity that it narrows his world to one moment, one being; and he cannot believe that there is room in the world for so much kindness, nor so much love...
Vladimir jerks awake in the darkness, his cold eyes brimming with tears. "That...dream...again..." he mouths into the night. "Always that dream..."
Loss and longing hang heavily in the air, crushing his weary heart in his chest. The way it is in his dream is the way it should be - the way it must be if he is to retain even his version of sanity.
The half-ghost untangles his thin legs from the sheets and rolls onto his back, feeling the tears still trickling from his eyes. To be loved - his deepest, most desperate desire; beyond his hatreds, his desire for revenge, and his ghost-self's machinations...
To be warmed...truth be told, he has nearly forgotten warmth - and, half-dead as he is, love is but a foregone conclusion. Still, though, is it too much to ask...?
The man rolls onto his side, curling into the fetal position, and his unbound, starkly white hair snakes over his face.
He is beginning to think that love is too much to ask, even if there were anyone to ask. Still, he has no choice but to ask it, or go mad. If only he could destroy that dream, he could be content, if not happy.
A dreamless sleep - at the moment, that seems as unattainable as love itself.
He bites his lip as loneliness threatens to consume him.
"It had to be him," Vladimir whispers, his voice choked. "It had to be...Daniel..."
And as the half-ghost stares out into his dark bedroom, he can see nothing but pain ahead of him, glaring back through the night with its terrible, red eyes.