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He hates that sometimes he misses the warmth.
It was one of the first things he noticed when he escaped the nightmare realm with Bill hot on his trail. When he would sleep in cold caverns or old alien rooms with climates barely accommodating for a human.
The warmth of a cup of coffee with his old mug. The warmth of the sun shining through the windows of the shack.
And... sometimes... the warmth of him. In the thrall of his dreams. When times were different, when he was foolish enough to believe a fantasy like a fact.
When he came back to Gravity Falls everything felt alien to him. The shack, the rooms, and worst of all, the windows. Those felt dreadful; every time he looked at them, just one glance made his blood run cold and made him walk a little faster, talk a little faster. They would make him remember what he was up against, what has been chasing him all this time. What would break free soon enough.
But staying in the basement near the portal helped. So, he did. He did until everything happened, and then all of it was gone.
Then he left the shack and traveled with Stanley across the sea. Almost surprised by how easy it was to move out. But then again, when you've spent most of your life running away, it gets easier to let go of things. At least that is what he tells himself.
But then there were these days. When he came back to the shack with almost the fear of looking at anything triangular. With only the strange sense of wrongness, and the relief that came afterwards when he remembered it was all burned away.
The feeling of wrongness, the strange feeling of checking for eyes where they weren't, was strange. It scared him. Even in his dreams he expected it. He expected the nightmare, the shrill sound of laughter very far away; he expected eyes and tongues and snarky remarks.
He didn't expect the warmth.
And he didn't expect how much he craved it too.
It was during one morning, when he was sleeping, that he felt warmth around his chest and in his arm. He expected it to be the sun through the windows, and when his eyes peeled open, he knew it was by the rays of the sun outside.
But then he looked down at his sweater riding out his stomach, rolled up on his forearm. A small yellow triangle with arms and legs that coiled like vines on his body.
He felt then the warmth around his arms and his shoulders. He felt them around his belly, squeezing his chest, resting on his thighs.
And it was because it was a dream; it was because he was just waking up. It was the only explanation in his mind as to why he didn't take that thing and break it in half, why he didn't tear him apart and kick him as hard as he could.
Instead he pressed more into him, with a sigh on his lips. He reached his fingers into the shape, with a fascination of someone decades younger than him. Someone foolish. He held it in his arms, like it wasn't more than just a heat pad or a warm pillow, like it wasn't someone that made him feel dread every time he saw something yellow.
Then he heard a whisper, and then he woke up.
He took a shower.
The dreams continued, and while it disgusts him and scares him to even sleep, finding ways and excuses to stay up late. A part of him always finds himself easily dozing off. Almost craving it.
He carved a small triangle in the wood of the wall of the boat. Just beside his bed. One that can only be found when he searches for it.
And if Stanley did notice, he made no comment about it.
It was a reminder.
It was an omen.
A bitter sense of remembrance.
Someone needed to keep an eye on him.