#i can just picture Dream sitting in a corner with fat headphones

[valeriianz]

A playlist just filled to the brim with vibes and vibrations for Endless in my Dreamling Band AU. I've never made a playlist for a fanfic, but found myself cataloging all the music I'd been listening to while figuring out what Endless in my story might sound like. It's fun too, because every single song here could have been picked by each of the members (Dream, Desire, Death, Despair, and Delirium). Associating which tracks belong to which member of Endless is up to interpretation!

Here's a YouTube playlist if you prefer that :)

[maybe-i-like-the-misery]

I, had a dream, once... or twice

Soo..... reoccurring dreams. Those are fun. Especially when you can remember odd details about them you prooobably shouldn't be able to remember about a dream. Anyway, here's a little "story" about my most consistent reoccurring dream. (If anyone was to ask me questions about this dream I'd be more than happy to oblige)

Tw: just creepy stuff in general — specifics are rotten food, kind-of corpses (it makes more sense if you read it ig).

@poison-lyra

________

It starts when I wake up. I am in a car that is not my own, looking out the window at a landscape that feels so much more familiar than it looks.

I'm in the back seat, with my brother next to me. My sister has taken her place by the other window, but she is looking straight ahead. Our parents are in the front driving. There is silence, all over.

Someone says we're running out of food. My father nods, like he's expected it, or planned it, and drives for what feels like a handful of seconds, but I know must be more, before taking a turn left. Or right. I recognise the place, places I've been melded together to form it.

I can see a red brick house with one floor, but looks like it could have two. The ground is made of gravel, pebbles and dirt sticking together. There is a thin line of trees someway to our left.

Next to the house is a beaten-down camper van. It's tilted sideways, but I don't feel like I am standing on a hill. My family starts to walk towards it, and I follow. They go inside. I follow.

The first thing i see is an old woman — the oldest I've ever seen — sitting in the drivers seat and looking out of the front window. Her hands are on the arm rests by her sides, and she is sitting on her hair. Her hair is so long, solid silver in colour, that it would be impossible not to.

Her eyes are a strange mix between glassy and fogged over, like they cannot decide between living and dying, or are stuck in some place in between. She is not breathing. She is not dead.

I hear a call from further inside the van. I go inside, and see it is much bigger on the inside than it should be. There is carpet on everything. The floor. The edges of furniture. Pieces of the walls. No one else seems to notice. They are too busy collecting food to take.

There are two people sitting in a booth across from eachother with a table in between. The closest to me is a large man, who looks like he is not fat, but rather has had himself stretched out in each direction and pumped with something thick and puffy. There is a plate in front of him, piled to the top with rotted food, mold contorting it to be unrecognizable. He is frozen in the position of leaning forwards and down, his mouth open, his spoon filled with rot an inch from his face. His eyes are just like the woman in the front's. Something in me says she is his mother.

Across from him is a woman. She looks like the complete opposite of him — unnaturally thin, with sharp bones prominent and poking out under her skin. Her hair is short and dark, her posture perfect, her expression more clean. She also has a plate, and her fork is being held more loosely than his. She doesn't look like she was planning on lifting it any time soon.

They are not breathing. They are not dead.

Looking around the van I see my family opening drawers, cupboards and containers. They are taking the food. It is still molded, but only slightly so. They don't seem to mind.

Instead of helping, I look around. In a corner to the side, I remember seeing a little girl. She had a skipping rope, and hair like her mother's in style but lighter. She's not around anymore. I vaguely wonder where she went.

I turn away from the corner. There is a door set into the wall, it's outskirts covered in carpet like wallpaper. The door is open slightly, and a strip of golden light is coming out from the opening. I open the door.

If there is a stereotypical teenager's bedroom, I think, this would be it. The walls are covered in magazine clippings and posters I cannot remember the pictures of, so many that it looks like their sole purpose is to hide the carpet beneath them. As if they were put there by the only person in the house that thought it was as strange as I do. There is a vanity on the wall across from the door. It has books strewn across it, pens and pencils laying on the paper. I can see the pages are of some unfinished homework. It will not be completed any time soon.

The next thing I see is the bed. In such a small room, it looks like there is almost nothing else there, but it is not the bed that interests me. It is what is on it.

A teenage boy is lying on the bed with his eyes closed. His feet are propped up against the headboard, and his head is just grazing the bottom edge of the mattress. He has a large set of black headphones over his ears, the wire tucked into the fabric of his jacket, and a tiny smile on his lips. His hands are folded over his stomach tightly. I stare at him. I cannot see his eyes, and can't tell if he is breathing. I stare at him some more. Was that a breath there? Or just a shuffle of my sister's feet in the next room? It's so hard to tell. It's always so hard to tell. He doesn't look as cold as his family. I feel like I should say something, like he's important, and at any second I could lose my chance to.

I take a breath. I open my mouth to speak, and....

My sister calls me from the other room. I leave, and let her pile boxes of eggs into my hands. It's almost as if they're fresh ones. We get into the car. I am careful not to break the eggs. We drive away in silence, and My head falls against the window again. I close my eyes.

I wake up.