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

[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.