feel the moon hit the blacktop; any

[Firen]

The warmth of a whispered sigh washes over his shoulder, and it leaves a trail of light in its wake. There is no pain or cold here, but he tries not to think of it, afraid that will be enough to bring them roaring back. 

You're beautiful, the dream girl says, and he knows this is no ordinary dream.

That she is no ordinary girl.

His broad, wolfish head turns towards her slowly as she descends to him, and he takes in the dreamscape which surrounds them. The air is thick with starlight, firelight and fireflies - light, light, light - but he doesn't fight it. Having woke to find himself in the exact opposite of the cold, damp woodland he left behind, he would be an idiot to resit. Even if he knows it isn't real.

Firen breathes deep the perfumed air, too lovely to be apart of the world he knows, lifting his eyes, the color of the burning wings which stretch high above him, to lock onto hers.

"You are beautiful too," his voice is youthful yet firm; in his dreams, he was never the omega. The wolf's eyes leave hers only to sweep across her fire-and-snow pelt, but he knows that is more than her shape which makes her beautiful. That he should want her, be spellbound by her.

So why doesn't he feel anything?

"I'm Firen," he answers her, hoping his name is enough for now. He doesn't want to leave this dream. On padded paws he steps forward, even if in life he would never be so bold, reaching out to touch her shoulder in the place where her whisper had touched his.

"Are you real?"