#back at it again with the skull kid contentttttt babyyyyyyyyyyyy

[randomwriteronline]

Skull Kid dreams sometimes.

It's weird, because they don't usually do that.

Usually they dream of black nothingness that smells and sounds of nothing, and when they do dream it feels more like having nightmares even when they aren't necessarily scary, because the things they see hurt, hurt, hurt.

They dream of things that their friends' scents and warmth remind them of.

When they fall asleep sitting on Bird's shoulders they dream that he is taking them on a flight on his bird. They imagine it, all bright colors and wide wings, a long beak cutting through the clouds, eyes dark and beady; they feel the wind rushing across their face and its body, grasping gently at the hair soft like down feathers in which their nose digs deep, soft and shiny and velvety, making their hands slip away as soon as they lay on them. Bird is warm and soft, sitting behind them, and never lets them fall as they fly higher and farther.

When they fall asleep wrapped around Mouse they dream of the little helpful mice, of chasing them around together like cats, of being as tall as them and playing tag under the leaves and mushroom caps, of taking part in festivals and dancing with them. They imagine them differently in each dream, ears larger or smaller, snout longer or shorter, with the only consistent detail remaining the shape of their white and red feather tail - the same that hangs from Mouse's ear.

When they fall asleep against Cave's back they dream of dark, damp places, of long hallways and dry ground that turns humid as they walk deeper into the entrails of the earth. He holds their hand, and his palm feels fluttery, like lightning in the making, like little wings. When they feel the latter they let go hurriedly before it hurts too much; it feels like ferns when they hold it again, and that is much, much better. Being led through the dark feels safe, feels sweet, feels comforting. Cave hums as they go and the caves hum back.

When they fall asleep in Goats' arms they dream from the outside - they see themself, their body, as if it wasn't theirs. They dream of sleeping next to laying goats, or balls of hay, or inside a barn with a strong warm smell while the rain falls in long bead curtains outside. Sometimes Goats is there too, sitting with their head on his thigh, caressing it lightly with his large rough hands, muttering about how the rain isn't letting up in a low tone that feels like a lullaby, with a lone stalk of wheat hanging limply from his lip.

When they fall asleep on Moss they dream of a place overgrown with plants and ghosts talking about him, and they try to imagine them: one has big broad shoulders, another long gentle fingers; one a large proud mane, another strong stubby legs. Sometimes they dream of vast, endless fields. They don't like that. The tree is always in vast, endless fields. The child is always under the tree, in vast, endless fields. They don't want to play bad guys and good guys. They don't want to run. Moss wakes them up just enough to drag them away from there, like he can tell their fear.

When they fall asleep in Bell's grip they dream of a large calm graveyard with bluebells and sweet peas. The gravestones are old and green, shaped like the sorts of canopies that shield cradles; the ground before them is dug into beds, a thousand beds, with each with a kid sleeping soundly. They make their rounds to check on them, make sure they're napping safely, with a strange kind of peace. They know who they are. It's a happy dream, somehow. Maybe it will be okay when they're awake too. Not now. Later. One day.

When they fall asleep next to Gold they dream strangely, with colors flowing out of rabbit burrows like fabric bursting from a box, with shouts of warm bright lava and an orchestra swinging, robes and mermaids singing together. Gold comes to drag them somewhere a little quieter, and they know it's Gold because who else would it be? He indulges them in their dreams: he plays with them and dances with them and helps them navigate through it all, and guides them into sleep within sleep, to get some proper rest.

When they fall asleep near Sea they dream of titanic hands gently cupping around them to make pools of saltwater that they lift a little over the surface of the ocean and then slowly letting it all drain from between enormous fingers, watching them slip through with happy shrieks, and it hurts so much that sometimes it makes them wake up and stay awake for hours on end. So when they feel the water enveloping them they force themself to dream of Sea, of his face and body and voice, of him teaching them to swim; they dream of grabbing his head and hair and kissing him in a way they can't quite describe right there, in the middle of the ocean, holding him as tight as they can, letting him breathe through their mouth when the waves wash over his face to drown him; they dream of laying down with him somewhere on the sand under a tree with large leaves, while the water keeps lapping at their legs in gentle motions, and they hold his hand while he sleeps as he caresses their fingers with his thumb.

When they fall asleep embraced by their friend they force themself to dream from the outside. They force their dreams to be a colorful nothing that smells and sounds like their friend asleep. They have to, because if they don't then they'll dream of their friend as he was: as tall as them, with a sweet smile, with two bright blue eyes so sad and quiet, with two small scarred hands of pale dirty pink so very rough and so very kind.

They cry, when they dream of their friend as he was; they cry like they're dying, like they're being burned. He kisses their mouth and thumbs their tears away slowly as they fall without rest, one after the other, sliding down their cheeks with all the bitter sadness in the world as they look at their friend as he was and ask sobbing quietly, why can't it be like this? Why can't it be like this again? Why can't it be like this anymore? Why can't I have this anymore? They kiss their friend as he once was kindly in their dreams, they kiss his mouth when they manage to stop crying long enough, and they hide their head in his arms because they know they can't do this anymore.

They watch him grow before their eyes, they watch him change until he's become completely unrecognizable, until he's taller, until he's older, until he's grown far too much to not appear so horribly frightening. He kisses their temple with all the love in the world, but it's not the love they miss so much, and they retreat in his chest, deeper, deeper, blindly searching for their friend as he was. His voice as it was reaches them with all the sweetness in the world, enveloping them like a feather mantle, and whispers over and over: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Sometimes it hurts to wake up and hear his kind voice call them Sweet-heart-that-you-are in a way and tone that is so completely, utterly different from how it used to be, from how they so badly miss, from how they would love to hear again. Sometimes it makes them want to cry, or stop talking forever. Sometimes it makes them want to run as far away as possible, into the darkness.

Eyes and ears have betrayed them enough for them to know that one can only trust the smells.

So they dream from the outside, wrapped around their friend who looks nothing like he used to but is still undoubtedly himself; they dream of sleeping in his embrace somewhere bright and quiet, familiar, with a sweet scent that slowly combs through the feathers they no longer have.