Between the Roots and Branches [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

Don't worry, dreamers of Manhattan. There will be no humiliating episodes of sudden-onset-clumsiness tonight - at least, nothing more severe than what you might experience naturally. Your physical and mental faculties will be left perfectly intact. What a treat! And what luck, because if you do lose your footing, it's a long way down to the forest floor.

But hey, who wants to be on the boring old ground when there are so many wonderful treehouses to explore? There are dozens of them spread throughout the surrounding forest, connected by a series of bridges and catwalks (some, admittedly, a bit more stable than others). It's easy to forget - or fail to notice - that there really is no easy or conventional way down to the ground when you're surrounded by such splendor.

The houses' styles range from charming and rustic to modern and sleek, with many falling somewhere in between. There are viewing platforms for bird-watching or simply taking in the scenery (trees, mostly, though if you venture high enough, you'll be treated the sight of the forest canopy stretched across a valley far below). But the insides of the treehouses are comfortably furnished to varying degrees as well, so there's no need to immerse yourself in nature if you'd really rather not. Some are complete houses in their own right, with all the amenities of a Manhattan apartment and then some.

Go for a climb, or kick back and relax. The only enemies you'll find here are other dreamers... and, potentially, gravity.

Comments

[postictal]

"Manhattan? Couple weeks. Here?" He shrugs, rolling one shoulder stiffly. "Who knows."

He eyes the empty chair dubiously, eyes flickering darkly to either side, to the boy and back. He can't think of anything less relaxing than sitting still at this place, but it's not like dendrophobia is especially common. The deceptively pleasant atmosphere almost makes it even worse; it's the sensation that there's something incredibly off-kilter and wrong suspended in the space between tree trunks.

Or maybe he's just paranoid.

Which is the more likely option.

He turns his thoughts back to contemplating the chair with a disproportionate level of suspicion.

[peeta_mellark]

"I've been here a few months. Manhattan, not the dream." Peeta pauses, tilting his head slightly as he studies the stranger. There's a fear in him that doesn't match up to their surroundings. Maybe there's something here that reminds him of unpleasant things. He doesn't seem bothered by the height, so it must be something else.

"Have you been in any of the shared dreams before?" Peeta asks. "The ones were the rift pulls a bunch of people in to a place? This is one of the nice ones." At least so far. The rift has never changed a nice dream into a bad one, but that doesn't mean it couldn't. No need to tell his anxious companion that, though. "The rift gives us one every once in a while. A dream where nothing bad happens."

He adds the last part casually, like a comment on the weather. It's a true description, but given the stranger's obvious suspicion, any overt claims about their safety might backfire.

[postictal]

"Yeah." He nods shortly, expression hardening briefly into a dark, frustrated look. "Had 'em a couple times now." Which isn't really conducive to his entire goal here, which is to try and stay away from people. So far it's been working out badly. Really badly.

"Pretty sure they can't get any worse than my normal ones." Not that he wants to issue a challenge. So far his shared dreams have been fairly harmless, or at least as far as everyone else is concerned; as far as Tim is concerned, any dreams where he's launched into the middle of them are just going to open doors to waking world dangers, something he's been desperately trying - and failing - to avoid.

One hand opens and closes once, a nervous muscular spasm, and he stops teetering on the precipice of whatever he's been teetering on, dropping into the chair beside the guy with a mild air of exhausted defeat.

[peeta_mellark]

Maybe it's dreaming itself that makes the man uneasy. His comment about normal dreams seems to support that line of thought. Peeta's expression goes momentarily grim at the comment, but he manages to hold back the derisive laugh that's stuck somewhere in his chest, almost as if his lungs are too relaxed to cough it up. He doesn't want the man to worry any more than he already is, but oh, if he only knew. His fingertips tingle faintly with the memory of clawing at the ground, and he flexes the hand not holding the wine glass, unknowingly mirroring the other man's gesture.

Peeta's peaceful countenance has returned by the time the man flops down beside him. Strangely, it seems less like he wanted to sit and more like he was giving in to the inevitable. His own past echoing far away in the back of his mind, Peeta feels a strong tug of sympathy for this stranger, so clearly haunted by something of his own.

"I'm Peeta," he says, tipping his glass in greeting. "Would you like something to drink? The bar inside is pretty well stocked."

[postictal]

"Tim," he says, only just managing to make the word not sound like a grunt. Peeta. Daine. Yuri. What is with the names here? It feels like his name stands out by virtue of being one of the few remotely normal-sounding ones he's heard since he got here. His hand unconsciously plunges into his pocket, thumbnail tracing the rim of a tiny orange bottle, before it withdraws.

"I dunno. Can't drink in the real world," he says, earnest confusion rippling over his clouded expression before it closes on skepticism. "D'you think that matters?"

[peeta_mellark]

"I can drink in my world, but not in Manhattan, and I can drink here." He shrugs lazily. "It's only if you want it. I just thought I'd offer in case you did. You look like you could use a drink." He gives Tim a small smile and takes a sip of his wine.

[postictal]

Can't drink as in - underage? He kinda looks it. Tim arches one eyebrow, a tiny, slightly more good-natured movement.

"Medication doesn't always go real great with alcohol."

[peeta_mellark]

Peeta's eyebrows raise slightly. Medication? That's something he's never come across before, different things meant to make you feel better going against one another. It makes sense, though.

"Ah, well, it's up to you if you want to risk it. Sometimes things act normally in dreams and sometimes they don't." He frowns faintly, looking down into his wine. "I'm not feeling much from this, but that doesn't mean anything." He pauses, then looks back up at Tim, the faint smile on his face again. "And I saw some sodas, too."

He sinks more deeply into his chair, takes another sip, and sighs. "You ever seen houses in trees before? It's a new one for me."

[postictal]

"Mm, yeah, not quite sure I'm ready to risk it." Any potential risks just aren't worth it. He's edgy, but that's nothing new. Trees haven't sat right with him since he was a kid, which is great, because right now they seem to be fucking everywhere.

He's just gonna thank whatever forces are at work here that he hasn't started coughing yet, because that would be the last thing he needs. He gives the surrounding houses a cursory sweep with a chronically nervous gaze but his eyes are drawn to the dark spaces between them, the gaps in the homogenous layout of trunks.

There's nothing there. He mentally kicks himself. Stop looking for trouble where there isn't.

"Uh. No. Well. Yes." That's not an answer. He scowls briefly, one corner of his mouth contorting indecisively. "I mean, I've heard of them. Treehouses, kind of a thing. Never been in one." And, if he gets his way, he never will again.

[peeta_mellark]

Peeta makes a non-committal humming noise and takes another sip of wine. Treehouses. Not something he would ever have thought of himself, but he likes it. He stares out over the porch railing into the misty green of the surrounding foliage. From the corner of his eye he can still see Tim's reaction, and he wonders.

"Do you not like trees?" he asks, somewhat bluntly. He's heard of stranger things. He keeps his eyes on their surroundings, but keeps watching Tim from the corner of his eye. "To be fair, I probably wouldn't be as comfortable down on the ground. Too many memories of forests and jungles."

[postictal]

It was either gonna be heights or trees. Those seem to be the two contenders here. Tim closes his eyes briefly, inhales, and huffs out a short breath that's meant to be more calming than it actually is.

"Yeah," he says. "Trees in general. Spent a little too much time around them to be, y'know."

There's no straightforward decoupling of the back-clad visual from the prickling, crawling sensation of being watched by something that doesn't have eyes, that cannot and should not and does not exist except in burning periphery.

"It's probably nothing." The sentiment sounds forced. It is forced. He can't press his mind into believing it. He tamps down the childish urge to simply close his eyes, succumb to the if you can't see it it's not really there mentality. Because there is nothing there and he shouldn't need to pretend. This isn't his head, it's some collective group consciousness. This isn't something brushing the edges of his nightmares. It's treehouses. It's nice. He should be fucking grateful.