He does not often dream so vividly.

For someone as task oriented and driven as Nathaniel Parrish, most of the time when he falls asleep, his dreams are quiet, muted, tangled threads of nothing in particular. He almost never remembers them when he wakes, and hasn't ever concerned himself with them, because he's never really been a dreamer before. He's never put stock in things like dream interpretation or the zodiac or Tarot cards or things like that, though they've remained somewhat of a curiosity of him anyway. He admires those that find comfort in things like the placement of the stars or the shifting of the moons, even if he himself can't quite wrap his mind around the fact that they mean something more than just what they are.

Still, Nathaniel is a curious sort, and he is hungry for knowledge, and always has been. Even if he doesn't believe it, he still looks it up, researches it, learns the most he can about it because that's what he does. He is a fount of useless information, a library of unread books, a gallery of portraits all painted in similar colors.

The small apartment that Nathaniel inhabits is hardly more than a singular room, and can't even really be called a studio. It consists of a single, full-sized bed (a twin-sized was cheaper, but his feet hung off the end, because Nathaniel is too tall), a dresser with minimal clothes, and a desk with a lamp on it. The only other decorations besides a picture of himself and his parents on the desk (he can't throw it away, as much as he's tried to) is the multitude of plants that are spread across the small space. They line the walls and the corners, sprouting lush and green in spite of a distinct lack of sunlight. On the sill of the singular window are a line of succulents of all different kinds, carefully and meticulously taken care of. Each plant, in spite of Nathaniel's limited time, is clearly well-loved and cared for with a precision and a dedication that speaks volumes.

Nathaniel sometimes dreams of his plants too, and these dreams are soothing, even if he doesn't think of them when he wakes.

For the first time, however, Nathaniel's dream is intense.

It overtakes him while he sleeps; a veritable cacophony of sound and light and color that spreads across his mind. Thick, vibrant vines that curl around his arms, the color of emeralds and with blossoming flowers the color of sunrise and sunset. When he walks, plants are left in his wake, tiny buds of purple and blue, leaving behind the scent of lavender and fresh air. When he speaks, rosebuds fall from his tongue, and when he blinks, he feels tears of bluebells track their way down his flushed, freckled cheeks. His hands are covered in moss; he rubs them together and from his fingers burst tiny explosions of lilies and daisies and baby's breath.

He's never seen so much color in his life. It wraps around him, encases him, surrounds him in sweet fragrances and the taste of fresh air and grass. It's like Nathaniel himself is a garden, and the sun beats down upon him, warm, golden light across the few inches of skin that are visible under everything that encompasses him.

And then it's gone, falling away, and Nathaniel wakes in his bed.

[ WORD COUNT: 567 ]