(no subject)
Judas dreams.
It is a house he’s never been to before and he doubts exists outside of the dreamscape but it’s a simple and impressive, and home. It feels like Jordan Place did, pretty and unassuming, full of family even if there is a slight austereness in the mood of the place. A formality you do not find in the house of Potters or Weasleys. It isn’t class, not quite, it’s…removed like someone snipped it from the pages of magazines or Heaven and put against the English countryside. It has many bedrooms and though he tries every time he’s there, he can never find a proper count. There’s a large kitchen, decorated with shiny copper pots hanging from the ceilings like Isaiah use to have, and cats that roll their backs and jump off furniture and dart playfully from between the Sakura trees. If Cherry trees could survive in England that is, but he doesn’t question it, because this is his dream and his comfort.
He walks the wood floors barefoot, looking at how the sun catches the rice paper doors and bathes the rooms in warm light.
He stands in front of the dance studio, staring not at the mirror or the man it shows but at the room and feeling her. He wonders if she’s ever been to this house. He wonders how it looks like for her. He walks into the room and can swear he hears her humming from just beyond the door. He wonders if he will have to find a seat here, so he can watch her dance. He could spend lifetimes watching her dance.
But that’s not what he seeks, so he moves away from here and to where he pictures the children’s bedrooms.
He wonders what his sons will do.
He wonders who his sons will be.
Daughters, he think, will be theirs solely. They will be lovely and joyful, and look like their mother. He can see them now, running wild and free in these rooms. He hears them yelling, childish and certain. He can see his sons, proud, pure and with a name that no longer bears shame from their grandfathers. He sees his sons standing there with their mother’s brilliant, kind eyes and delicate features but perhaps his dark hair.
He dreams and pictures them by their mother under the fading petals and it’s such a silly little dream. But it always ends the same way, with him and her ushering the troupe off to bed, and then retiring.
She falls asleep first, in his arms. He stays up, to watch her in the pale moonlight, with the twilight kissing her pale skin. He kisses her twice on the forehead to make sure she’s real and there and he thinks vaguely, this is dream. It can’t be real. It’s too prefect.
But are you really going to tell him otherwise?