It's raining on the day they're meant to go to Disney.

Gentle thrumming on the roof gutter, a slight chill to the morning air; Dream's eyes slowly open to the sight of a pale window marred only by faded, white curtains. The sound of rain trickles down his spine, and settles low in his lungs with a contented sigh.

He lightly nudges the cloth away from the windowsill to study drops rolling down the glass. The sky beyond is a muted gray. Downpour continues in a steady rhythm.

He smiles, and sinks back into his pillows. The house is entirely quiet. Patches seems to be the only warm, breathing thing besides himself, curled up to his side restfully.

Careful to not disturb her, he reaches for the nightstand and pulls his phone from the drawer. The time says eleven, and he guesses it means morning. The tiredness heavy on his eyelids and dryness in his throat does argue that perhaps, maybe, he slept all day and woke during wet nightfall.

Several notifications lay bright on his cold screen.

Weather is shit, man, Sapnap sent a few hours prior, with a preview of the day's forecast attached. Can we try for tomorrow?

Dream studies it with a frown. Busy thunderstorms, nothing too serious, but likely not ideal for his friend's return to the theme park. It's rained at Disney before when he was a kid, and though most of the magic of the place is often lost on him, something about the colored lights reflected in puddles and slick metal on coaster seats can feel dreamlike. He's not sure Sapnap would agree.

He glances at the other series of messages waiting for him, all from George.

His phone flattens against his chest immediately.

George.

He stares at the ceiling with wide eyes, tracing over white paint and slices of the fan as though he can see George's face in the moonlight beyond it. His thick, sleep-ridden brain works through its stupor to relive the kitchen, the hands on his back, and the feel of George's breath on his throat.

Right.

His eyes flutter shut. Fingernails on his spine, the soft declaration of a wordless kiss—he could have left them in ruin. He'd passed out promptly after returning to his room, and didn't dream again for the rest of the night. It's as though he put everything he had into the confession of his nightmare; the tenderness of that embrace. Still drained, he nervously tilts his phone back into view.

Shortly after Sapnap's text, George sent: Not sure if you're up yet, but I think our plans are tanked. Any ideas?

From what Dream can tell, the tone is casual. Casualty is a yellow light, with George, and Dream happens to be quite fond of that color. His eyes fall to the blue messages beneath it, that suddenly become much more indecipherable.

You're still not up so I hope you're sleeping well, it says. I know I didn't.

He sits up in bed. White fluff of covers on his chest accidentally fall over Patches' head, and he quickly hushes an apology while he pulls them off.

He reads it, and rereads it, and draws in a light inhale. Easy, and careful, he muses to himself. Be easy, be careful, be more...

Dream dares to type back, Why is that?

The response is immediate.

You kissed me, George texts. Then, he adds, Dumbass.

A surprised smile leaps across Dream's face, eyebrows raising with a flush to his cheeks. Against the cold sheath of outside rain, nestled under the cocoon of covers, his heart begins to pound.

His expression softens as he realizes how normal it feels to be texting George first thing in the morning, again.

I didn't KISS kiss you, he corrects boldly. Even the sight of George's quick bubble appearing and reappearing makes Dream's head slightly dizzy.

He half expects his phone to remain dormant, and grins when it buzzes again.

Ok and?

He laughs, gently. His mind slips back to the careful worry in George's voice that soothed him, the secure feeling of holding him in privacy, and faint relief spreads through his core. He hoped and prayed he didn't overstep, and for once, he's actually right.

And you're a wuss, Dream replies.

Stop texting and come downstairs.

Dream relaxes further into his pillows and blankets. No. Don't feel like it.

He definitely wakes Patches when he nearly jumps out of his skin, because his phone starts to ring unexpectedly. The vibrations cut across the sweet silence that had settled in his room, and he stares at George's contact like he's never seen it before.

That's not true, though. He has seen it before. In fact, the last time he truly saw it in the solitude of his room, with the promise of unfiltered, one-on-one conversation, was the call that had ended in them swearing to never talk about it again. The memory of it rushes him regrettably.

He lets the phone ring in his hesitation.

Patches lifts her head to look at him, as though she can feel the jumpy change in his chest; in the entire house.

He picks up.

"Dream," George says, "you're not being a very good host."

"Good morning to you too," he greets calmly. He lays a palm on his chest, to soothe the nerves bundled there. George's voice is amicable, readable—signs of heading for clear water. He's missed the rain.

I missed you, his mind echoes George's words back to him, I still miss you.

A sigh passes through the phone. "We want to watch a movie and can't find the remote."

Dream stretches out his back languidly, and rubs his eyes. "I sometimes leave it on the top of the fridge," he muses. "Get a stool and check there."

There's a stiff pause. He smiles.

"All right," George says, accompanied by faint shuffling on his end of the line.

Dream frowns in suspicion, and pulls the screen away from the side of his face. He strains his ears to listen to his creaky house. After a few seconds, he catches it—faint footsteps from below.

"Are you coming up the stairs?" he asks.

"No." The footsteps grow louder, then Dream deciphers that it is two pairs, one much lighter and the other quite obvious after a week of hearing their stomping around.

"What the hell are you two doing?" he mumbles. A knock raps happily on his door not a moment later.

"Room service," Sapnap's voice muffles from the hall.

Dream rolls his eyes, and tips the phone towards his mouth. "Let me put some pants on." He disconnects the call.

He swings his legs over the bed, slipping his feet from the cozy burrow of covers to the cold air. Lazy fingertips connect with a pair of sweats he'd discarded to the floor. Just as he's seated on the edge of the bed, tugging them halfway up to his knees, the door swings open.

He doesn't need to look up as he finishes getting dressed, shuffling the waistband against the cloth of his boxers. "You could've waited like, two more seconds, Sap."

"But then I'd miss those sexy, sexy thighs."

Dream huffs in amusement at his response, and glances up. Behind Sapnap is George, waiting in the hall, who gives him a light wave the second their eyes meet. His heart skips.

Go back to sleep, George.

Why are you in Florida, George?

Are you asking me to kiss you, George?

Goodnight, he'd said, lips on his forehead, exhales on his jaw. Goodnight, George.

"Is he acting like this because of the rain?" Dream asks, studying his face.

George nods. "More or less. He's very sad."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here," Sapnap says. He begins to walk forward into the room, and Dream shifts back to rest on his bed. "It's raining on Disney day, Clay."

He raises his eyebrows. "We can still go, you know. A little water never hurt anybody."

"I know." Sapnap sighs, as he flops down onto Dream's blankets. "But we should wait for when it's sunny—oh, hi Patches. Did you know she was in here?"

Dream shrugs.

"I think I agree with waiting for sun," George says, as he leans against the doorframe. Only the tips of his toes seem to enter Dream's room.

That's strange. He wasn't so hesitant, before.

"Your socks don't match," Dream observes.

George glances down at them, and sways on his feet idly. "They don't."

He looks away, then stretches a leg beneath the covers to kick Sapnap lightly. "So why are you here? To complain?"

"We need you to reach the top of the fridge," Sapnap says from the covers, an arm stretched out to pet the purring kitty between them.

Dream stares at them. "That's not going to make me get out of bed." He tugs open the curtains, then falls back against his headboard with a satisfied huff. "Do you see this? This is lazy day weather."

"Good weather for a movie," George contests.

"What is it you guys want to watch?"

Sapnap points to George accusingly. "D'you know he's never seen any Ghibli films?"

"I know," Dream says, at the same moment George answers, "He knows."

Dream smiles at him. George smiles back, softly.

"Great," Sapnap continues, "so we're in agreement, then. Downstairs?" George nods, and Sapnap turns towards Dream. "Downstairs?"

He groans. "The TV is so far away, and my bed is so warm," he complains tiredly. "Can we think of something else?"

Sapnap sits up. "Well what do you suggest?"

Dream shrugs, then mindlessly gestures to his setup across the room. "My monitors are right there, I guess. Sometimes I watch stuff from bed." He glances down at the space Sapnap takes up. "Should be enough room."

Sapnap grins. "Are you asking us to cuddle, bro?"

Dream kicks him again. "I'm just saying we have better options. I could...use my VPN to stream it, probably, and then we'd all get what we want."

Sapnap clears his throat contemplatively, then turns to George. The moment of silence that falls over Dream's pale, rain-washed room is timid. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feels looming trickles of exhaustion, and sighs.

"I feel like," he starts slowly, "we've been going nonstop since George got here. I think it's been a lot, and I had a rough night's sleep, so I just want to relax, today. I can leave bed if you'd like, but I really, really don't want to." He looks up, earnestly. "How do you guys feel?"

"I feel like you've had too much therapy," Sapnap says.

"Are you trying to get kicked again?"

Sapnap raises his hands in defense. The air once again returns to tense quiet, as Dream waits, and listens to the rain. He passes over George; he's wearing the same pajamas he had on the night before. Did he really not sleep much?

George's eyes slowly lift off the carpet to gaze back, and he blinks. "...Should we bring extra blankets?"

Dream nods in relief.

"And pillows?" Sapnap asks.

He nods again, comforted by their easy-going smiles and wordless change of manner. They're quick to spring to action and chatter about what they need. They dip out of his room while he's in the middle of directing them, and he's cut off by their bickering of the worst kind of snacks to spill on his bed.

He lets out a huff, and turns to the remaining company. Settling a gentle hand on Patches' back, he murmurs, "You might have to move, sweetheart."

She stays put. His bed is a decent size for a guy his height, but doubled with two more guests and an easily startled cat may be pushing the limits. Still, he holds her to his chest lovingly until Sapnap returns.

A brown, folded blanket is thrown at his face. Dream bats it away to protect Patches.

"Gimme," Sapnap says.

Dream scowls, but slowly extends her out for Sapnap to hold. He begins to coo 'good-mornings' at her immediately while clambering into Dream's bed.

"Things seem better today," Sapnap notes offhandedly, settling against the wall beneath the window. He tugs lightly on the curtains, and tosses Dream a look.

"Things are better today," Dream says quietly. Sort of, he thinks, so he adds, "Sort of."

"How come?"

Dream leans to lightly scratch Patches' head, and glances at the wariness on Sapnap's face. "It's alright, Sapnap," he says carefully. "You can relax. It's...it's not yours, okay?" He sinks back away from him. "It's mine, and his."

"Oh," Sapnap says. He sounds relieved. "Okay."

Before Dream can comment further, George enters with a large armful of pillows and blankets that nearly swallow him whole. It's considerably more than Sapnap had bothered to grab.

"I have to ask, once again," George says, dumping the pile before them. "Why is it so cold in this house?"

Dream reaches to grasp at a new quilt. "Keeps my brain sharp, I dunno."

George stands at the foot of his bed, watching them spread out and rearrange the added comfort. Pillows are slotted behind their backs, thin blankets unfolded, far more than necessary but Dream appreciates the effort.

"Where'd you get half of these?" Sapnap questions.

"Um, the linen closet by the washroom." George looks at them hesitantly. "Should I not have?"

"You're fine," Dream says, then pauses. "Well? You want us to pat the space so you know where to sit, George?"

Sapnap gestures to the blankets between them enthusiastically. "C'mere Gogy! C'mon!"

Dream laughs, mimicking, "It's an easy jump, you can make it!"

"I will go downstairs and watch by myself," George says flatly. Their laughter continues as they pat the bed, and he turns to go.

"Hey, hey," Dream says quickly, bending forward to grasp his elbow. "I don't think so."

George's wide eyes shoot back to stare at him, and he shakes his head in warning. "Don't," he says gravely, "don't—"

Dream grins, and pulls him backwards onto the bed with ease. George falls between him and Sapnap on a mound of fluffy blankets, fraying his hair, as a light huff escapes his lungs upon landing.

He peers up at Dream stubbornly through the staticky, brunet mess. "You happy, now?"

Dream's fingers are slow to unwrap from his arm. He realizes, faintly, he'd tugged George onto his bed, and now George's back is on his mattress, and George's dark eyes are gazing up at him softly, as the sound of rain slowly closes in around them.

"Very," he says.

"Now who's gonna put the stuff on the computer?" Sapnap asks, helpfully.

Dream's eyes jump to his setup, then to Sapnap, who shares a look in the brief beat of silence.

Immediately, they push George away again.

"Atta boy, there you go," Dream encourages.

Sapnap chuckles, insincerely. "Sorry."

"What happened to me being privileged as a guest?" George grumbles, as sock-covered feet push on his back until he's standing off the bed.

"That only lasts for two business days," Dream says. As George approaches his setup that he'd left running, he directs, "You should be able to just—" George's quick fingers fly over his keyboard, and the dark monitors blink to his desktop backgrounds. "Did you just guess my computer passcode? I know for a fact I didn't give you that one."

George straightens up, and looks back at him. "How is your memory this bad? I literally was on call when I told you what to set it as."

It takes Dream a moment, but then he remembers. "Oh god, you're right."

"You seriously never changed it?" George asks, amused.

"Oh wait, wait," Sapnap says, laughing lightly. "Is it still the—"

"Pissbaby ninety-seven," George recites. He and Sapnap delve into a fit of soft giggles, while Dream rolls his eyes.

"I don't even think about it, it's just muscle memory," he defends. "Plus, if I remember correctly, that was your passcode before it was mine, George."

George stops laughing immediately. "Shut up."

"You had matching passwords?" Sapnap forces out.

They're quick to turn on Sapnap when given the opportunity, and between Dream's haphazard directions of George setting up the movie, the banter makes him feel a bit better. He finally slides out of bed, and excuses himself to the restroom.

The smell of rain washes in from the window screen. He doesn't bother to turn on the light, finding comfort in the cold blues and whites that cover himself and the mirror. He eyes the outside storm; it seems calm, and nourishing, a heavy fall that is sure to leave large puddles on the road and dark mud lapping the back patio.

He breathes it in. He brushes his teeth, spits into the sink, idly ruffles his hair—and breathes it out.

Once back in his room, he hears Sapnap saying, "—Should be good? Check the sound."  

Faint noises float through his speakers. George is standing at his setup still, crouching as his eyes flit over the screens.

"Is it working?" Dream asks.

George frowns at the monitors. "Yeah, but it's still pretty quiet."

"Let me see." Dream takes a step closer, and mindlessly rests a hand on George's lower back as he politely moves him out of the way. "Oh, it's outputting in the wrong place. Deselect the first option and go for the second."

He's not aware of his own touch, the shift of George's spine beneath his light palm, until George murmurs, "This one?"

The sound begins to play.

"Yeah." Dream glances back to Sapnap, who is candidly staring right at the hand lingering on George's back.

His eyes lift to Dream with a bright, happy question in the raise of his dark brows.

Dream glares back. "Can you hear it alright?" he asks, words firm and pointedly spaced to make him stop beaming like that.

"Loud and clear," Sapnap says.

Dream carefully removes his fingers and pushes his gaming chair out of the way. "So which one did you pick?"

George clicks the full screen option, and his idle monitors flick into the swirling screensaver. The cartoon of a young child atop a jellyfish, drifting in the ocean, appears with delight. Dream smiles fondly at the sight of her reddish hair.

"Oh, good," he says. "This one is—"

"Perfect for rainy days," George finishes. He gives Dream a quiet glance, and somehow, it feels like his hand is still on his back. "I remember."

His tired, loving heart glows in the silence of that glance and the weight of that reminder. It's hard to believe sometimes when looking at George just how much of his life has been tangled up with him, even though it hasn't been long. Even though it could've been yesterday when he first saw George's username on his blocky, pixelated screen.

As they resettle to watch the film, Dream feels that he's going to love the rain, and the story, and the feel of reclining back in his bed with his best friends nearby even more than he thought he would before.

The movie starts, familiar scenes and bright colors cross his screen. Breathing oceans and sea life and a house on a hill; he wishes he could make it his own. Characters appear with strange magic, and the three are quick to make pointed 'that's you's or 'that's us's at whatever amusing creatures they see. George's thin arms are pressed between Dream and Sapnap, his knees occasionally nudge theirs while adjusting blankets, but the space doesn't feel crowded. It's nice to be so close, though it does tire Dream to keep glancing to his right.

Between comforters, drumming rainfall, and Patches' purring, the movie continues with matching ease. Dream leans further into the pillows.

He yawns. After a moment, he yawns again.

George glances at him. "You gonna sleep?" he asks, amused.

"No," Dream defends poorly.

Blankets warm up to his chest; he slips down deeper into their embrace. He blinks at the comforting animations as musing comments are made to his right. The sight of steaming drinks, and noodles with ham, make his eyes grow heavy.

As his back sinks into the mattress, his mind slowly drifts up and away from the plot all together. A sigh escapes his lips.

He can feel Sapnap and George looking at him, with light snickers.

"Shuddup," he mutters, before finally giving in and closing his eyes for good.

He falls asleep, around noon on the day he should be scared half to death on a rollercoaster, feeling safer than he has for a long, long time.

-

Dream stirs back into consciousness twice; once while the low hum of the movie is still playing through the room, and once when all noise is gone.

His face shifts against the pillows beneath him, relaxed exhales gliding from his nose over his mouth and soft cotton. Eyes still shut, he leans into the feeling of something dragging over his scalp, massaging and assuaging his sleepiness.

He comes to gradually. After a moment, he realizes fingers are soothing him to the peaceful inbetween. They graze through his hair, dipping into locks, to draw light circles and repeat again. Cozied in darkness, he focuses on their gentle rhythm.

Warmth slips down his spine. Comforted, like a content child, he lets the light petting continue with closed eyes. Over the low hum of the movie, he gains the awareness that Sapnap and George are talking.

"—Nightmare," George's faraway voice says. More mumbling ensues. "...Alright, though."

The fingertips in his hair drag down to the base of his neck, combing gently. Nails scratch through blondish locks, spreading light tingles over his scalp. He gets lost in the softness of their caressing.

"I mean I'm sure...and then..." Sapnap's reply is hard to catch, and Dream's half-mind strains to follow along. "—If that makes sense."

"Yeah."

Dream adjusts his head slightly to try and hear better, and the touch on his scalp quickly recedes. He forces his face to not frown at the loss, keeping his features still. After a silent period of breathing calm and even, he feels the fingers return. They rake tentatively through his hair, and twirl every so often.

"—had a good cry," George is whispering, softly. "I mean, it hurt, and it sucked, but it was a good one."

"Those are always nice, in a weird way," Sapnap says.

George hums, then says something Dream can't hear. Whether their conversation is caught in silence, or abandoned for observation of the colorful film that flashes faintly beyond Dream's eyelids, he doesn't know.

Sapnap's voice, low and stern, falls quietly. "—Lucky he's so kind, George."

"I know."

Dream's mind is slowly lowered back to peaceful mush. The hand in his hair slows, but doesn't leave, and he finds a comforting peace in its presence. Words slip by him as he fades once more.

"You know that..." Sapnap says, the middles all lost to his sleepiness. "—With you, and he's not going to stop."

Too quiet to remember, he hears George say, "Neither will I."

He doesn't dream the second time he sleeps, either. Only darkness, and a hint of murmured voices, and the feel of a warm palm pulling away from his skull.

It is still raining when he wakes. He's alone in his room, the monitors are blank, and the door to the hall is yawning wide open. All the extra blankets have been neatly folded on his bed, and Patches is nowhere in sight. He feels a pang once he realizes he missed most of the movie.

He's sluggish when he sways to his feet. He smacks his tongue slowly at the feel of its weighted dryness, and opens the low mini-fridge across the room, to see an array of empty glass bottles.

A warm sigh escapes him at the reminder. He had to guzzle water from the kitchen sink the night before precisely because he forgot to refill his supply.

Noisily clacking the bottles together in his hands, Dream makes his way downstairs. Again, George and Sapnap are nowhere in sight once he reaches the cold floor. Late afternoon looks the same as morning had been, perhaps with a deeper shade of gray.

Dream busies himself with refilling a few bottles, storing them in the kitchen fridge, frowning at residue left inside the base of others. He hesitantly approaches the sink, and cleans the glass with water gliding over sudsy fingers.

He hears faint laughter, and lifts his eyes towards the backyard. In the open jacuzzi he can scarcely view from the sliding window, a head of dark hair peeks out of the side.

Oh.

He tugs the glass open, and faint mist floats through the screen. "Hello?"

Sapnap glances over his shoulder, squinting, until he sees the window and smiles. "Goodmorning! It's fine if we use this in the rain, right?"

We, he thinks, even though he can't see George from the limited kitchen view. So they're both out there.

Dream gives him a thumbs up, and Sapnap returns it. It's been a while since anyone has used it besides him, and he wonders if they'd found the right beach towels before getting in.

His hands stall when he shuts off the faucet. Wait.

"You coming?" Sapnap asks from the yard.

In my hot tub, in a swimsuit. His mind short circuits. George.

"Uh—I'll be out in a second," he calls, hoping his voice doesn't fracture on delivery. He slides the window shut with a bang.

Oh god.

His mind can't seem to conjure anything else as he hurries back to his room, changes into board shorts, and briefly fusses over himself in the mirror. He's practically skipping when he returns back downstairs with towels he'd grabbed from the hall.

He takes in a calming breath, and slides open the backdoor. The drizzle outside is light, falling in spatters in warm air, but the drops themselves feel cold as he steps out from beneath the overhang. Humid green and marshy browns stand out as he swipes his eyes over the yard.

He makes his way to the hot tub, stepping on stone slats and avoiding muddy puddles. Flowers his sisters had planted wilt beautifully beneath weighted raindrops.

"Ayo," Sapnap greets. "Oh cool, I was wondering where you kept those."

Dream lowers the towels to rest on the rising steps, the wood drenched dark with hours of downpour.

"How is it?" Dream asks, fixed on the light blue water. He dips his hand in, and his fingertips immediately jump.

"Eh."

"It's nice," George answers, and Dream finally lets himself look at him. His smile is soft like his voice, seemingly at ease with damp hair resting against his forehead, and drops of rainwater on his bare skin.

Dream's chest grows tight. He doesn't let himself linger, and is quick to glance away.

"We couldn't figure out how to turn the jets on," Sapnap says dejectedly.

"Oh." Dream frowns, stepping up onto the platform to crouch by the controls. He absently tugs off his shirt, and wipes down the buttons. "Shit, these are so annoying." After a moment of pressing, a light beep chimes, and bubbles break the surface. "Ah. There we go."

"Bless," Sapnap says, relaxing neck-deep with his back towards Dream.

Dream surveys the flowing jets, then follows the pull of George's stare on him. His wide eyes flit up to Dream's face slowly, then drop away at the realization of being recognized.

A subtle pink rests on George's cheeks that definitely wasn't there before.

Oh god. Dream's heart pounds as he slowly moves next to Sapnap, and lowers himself into the frothy water. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

If it's easy to bait away in the lonely warmth of his showers, it should be fine to dismiss here, with heat stinging his skin and a grey sky hanging above them. Water licks up to his chest as he sinks into the deepest corner of the tub. The bubbly surface rises, and spills over the edges slightly to splash the concrete slab below.

"Your legs are so annoying," Sapnap grumbles, as Dream stretches out into the middle.

"Sorry," he says, absently nudging calves and ankles beneath the swirling foam. He hooks his arms over the edge, careful to keep his fingertips dangling close to himself in the water. "Have you been out here for long?"

Bubbles slip and glide over his torso. Raindrops disappear in the turbulent surface.

"About fifteen minutes, or so," George says, and he glances to his left.

Slim collarbones rising from glimmering water, a pale throat misted by rain. His hair is darkened by the storm, eyes enough to match, hanging at the corner of Dream's vision until he blinks sharply. Dream's attention dances back to palm trees; the leaves glistening beneath heavy clouds.

"You missed the movie," Sapnap notes.

Dream looks at him. "I know, sorry 'bout that. I feel bad for sleeping the entire day away."

Sapnap waves a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. We got our Ghibli and you got some rest." His voice is easy, leaves no room for doubt, and it helps Dream ease further into the tub.

"It was a really cute film," George says. "I liked it."

A warm smile passes over Dream's face. "Good, that's good. We'll have to watch some more of them, then."

"Anyway." Sapnap clears his throat, and turns towards George in a quick slide to what seems like a previous conversation. "I'd only try it if you made it from scratch."

George pulls a face. "You're acting like it's so complicated."

"It seems complicated," Sapnap insists. "'Honey-milk?' Sure."

Dream cups and pours bubbles into the tub as they talk. He idly reaches to switch on the low, illuminating lights on the floor of the jacuzzi and interior walls. Red gleams from the water on his chest, then fades to orange, then green. He looks to his left, again. George is pretty in green.

"You're abominable," George says flatly.

"I'm not a snowman."

"What?" George's voice is sharp, and Dream glances up to Sapnap's face. He knows too well the twinge in tone that means they are, at last, getting annoyed with each other.

"I'm not," Sapnap repeats, "a snowman."

"Okay!" Dream sits up. "Did you guys think of any plans for later? Post-hot tub?"

A pause settles, where they simmer in a silence filled with hissing jets. Steam floats from the surface into the humid air; Dream can feel it in his nose on every inhale.

"George was thinking about streaming," Sapnap says finally.

"From my setup like you did?" Dream asks, and he nods. "Probably for the best. They've been hounding us for content."

"Certainly hope they don't expect a facecam," George mutters.

Dream smiles. "Something wrong with my face, George?"

He gets a huff in return, and nothing more. George doesn't seem to be looking at him either.

"They died at the thing I tweeted earlier," Sapnap says, and George laughs immediately.

"Oh no." Dream worries his wet fingertips on the side of his cheek, pressing beneath bone. "What was it?"

"You making out with your pillow."

His jaw falls open. "Dude."

"Don't listen to him. It was actually just you all—" George mimics him sleeping, hands pressed to his cheek. "Y'know. Napping next to Patches. We made sure your face wasn't in it, though."

"Good," Dream mutters in relief as they laugh at him. "So you stole my hair reveal?"

"Sorta."

He can only imagine what he'd looked like, half buried in mounds of blankets and pillows, only his shoulders and back of his head in view. Maybe it would've been nice if someone else captured his face, and presented it for the world to see. Then he'd be free from the responsibility—the impossibility—of doing it. Even staring at a blatant reflection, he can't reach his own face and remove the mask.

His jaw tightens at the thought of the nightmare.

Sapnap nudges him. "You look weird. Did that actually bother you?"

He quickly clears his head, and lets his expression relax. "No, no, I'm fine." His voice is low enough to match the way he'd spoken of the dream in the kitchen, last night.

George's eyes meet his quickly enough to be mistaken for worry. Strong, and dark, his gaze lingers when Dream fails to let it hold.

"If you want to see it I can get my phone," George offers.

"See what?"

"The tweet."

Dream tips his head dismissively. "I can look at it later."

He trusts Sapnap enough, after laying out some guidelines his first week here of what can and can't be posted. He also has ammunition from ajar bathroom doors and unfortunate timing, if push comes to shove. Just in case.

George rises and begins to move across the hot tub anyway.

"George, don't. I told you not to get your—" Dream leans back quickly as he draws closer.

"Calm down, I'm just going to the toilet." He steps on the seat between Sapnap and Dream, and carefully gets out. Water races down the slope of his bare spine, trickling over soaked shorts, and drops holes in the jacuzzi foam below. "Crybaby."

Dream lets his eyes slide recklessly, until George's pale skin and lean arms disappear beneath a colorful towel.

He gets a faceful of water as George walks away. "God—what the—" His spluttering is cut off by another wave stinging his nose. He shoves a cupped palm Sapnap's way in retaliation. "What the hell? Screw you."

"I don't wanna see that," Sapnap whispers, shrill.

Dream sends a smack of chlorinated wash to him again. "See what?"

"Don't check him out in front of me, you fucking moron."

"I wasn't—" His wide eyes snap up to Sapnap, who wipes the water from his cheeks like it has the plague. "Was I?"

Sapnap groans. "Oh my god. I hate you, I really hate you. I will go home early—"

"Sapnap."

"He didn't notice! He didn't notice," he rushes, and Dream visibly relaxes. "You're fine, take a breath, count to ten, or whatever." He sends another light splash to assault Dream's nose.

Dream glares at him, heart still pounding, and sneezes.

"Good," Sapnap says, triumphantly. He sneezes again. "Okay I get it, you can shut up now."

"Sorry," Dream forces out nasally, and clears his throat. "I'm sensitive to chlorine."

"Of course you are."

They briefly pause in the dripping of tub water from already damp hair, and the wind picks up. Speckles of rain bring chills to Dream's shoulders, and he slowly drops his arms in. Magenta lights dance between them.

"So," Sapnap says. "You feeling up for a stream, later?"

A sigh escapes him. "Yeah. It'll be nice to share this with them." He sinks until his neck is gently lapped by gurgling water. "But honestly...sometimes I don't want to. They pick up on the smallest stuff, you know? Down to the changes in my voice and—" He frowns. "I don't know."

"It's like it hits too close to home," Sapnap muses.

"Yeah, that's a good way to put it."

After a moment, Sapnap asks, "Did I tell you the other day I saw a drawing that looked exactly like you?"

Dream grins. "No, seriously?"

"Yeah, if I remember to, I'll send it later."

"Crazy," he says.

"Crazy," Sapnap agrees. He pulls his hands from the water, and studies them. "Jesus, I'm getting all pruney." He splays his hands out to show Dream his wrinkled fingertips.

"Gross. Have you really been in here that long?"

Sapnap wipes his palms together. "Yeah. George took his time joining me."

"What?" Dream sits up, slowly, the top of his chest rising above the surface and resting on the cool plastic behind. "What was he doing?"

Sapnap shrugs. "Cleaning, I think. I'm surprised he didn't wake you up. Seemed like he wanted to."

It's embarrassing to consider how he'd probably looked, snoring and drooling on his pillows. His face warms at the thought of George sticking around, folding blankets on the bed; carefully drawing the blinds. He imagines George's hand, cautiously wrapping over his shoulder despite Sapnap's warnings, and nudging him lightly to see if he'll stir.

It's far too domestic. He ducks his head, and rapidly studies the moving water.

"Alright," Sapnap says, sitting up straight. "I'm getting a headache."

Dream peers up at him as he clambers out. "Oh, hey, could you fix up some pasta while you're in there? Pretty please?"

Beyond a face-full of a towel, Sapnap muffles, "What? Why?"

"Because I'm hungry and you love me," he tries.

Sapnap pulls down the fuzzy cloth, and stares at him.

"Because I'm hungry," Dream attempts again, "and I know you're gonna join a call with someone who has a good meat sauce recipe." He smiles, sickly sweet.

The towel bunched at Sapnap's chest is tugged over his head, a multicolored cape to combat the rain. He scowls at Dream from beneath it, and mutters, "I'll think about it."

"Thank you!" he calls, as Sapnap leaves him behind in the jacuzzi with an obscene parting gesture.

He relaxes back into solitude happily at the thought of buttered noodles and steaming sauce. Water rushes over his skin from the steady stream of jets, unwinding tension left in his gut and shoulders. Tiny bubbles cling to his knees below the surface.

It must be calm below, free from the darkening sky, and instead submerged in neon colors. Dream glances around his empty yard, then begins to sink down slowly.

His eyes screw shut as water rises over his lips, and nose, until he's submerged his entire head beneath the foam. The drowning roar of the jets fills his ears immediately. Heat stings his nostrils and flushes over his cheekbones.

He leans into the weightlessness, hair floating amidst crossing purples and blues.

I could stay for a while, he thinks. Stay, stay, stay. 

Dizziness begins to grow in his lungs, and he can feel the chlorine seeping damage to his sinuses. A sharp tap raps on top of his skull.

He breaches the surface immediately, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

"What are you doing?" George's voice asks him, and as Dream blinks droplets away, he sees him slowly sitting on the edge of the hot tub. He's only slightly unreadable, features drawn together in a light frown.

Dream's face still buzzes from where the bubbles had grazed him. He reaches to shut off the jets, and the water slowly calms down with a hiss. "You've never done that before?"

George raises his eyebrows. "Tried to drown?"

"That's not what I—" He pauses once he identifies the slight smirk on George's face. "Okay. Stop making fun of me."

George leans off of the exterior, away from Dream. "Where's Sap?"

Making pasta, hopefully. "He tapped out."

"Ah," George says.

Dream pushes his wet hair off of his forehead. He tries not to think about the details of their attire, or their new seclusion, and instead squeezes droplets from his scalp.

A breeze shifts over them, and George shivers slightly.

"You can get back in, you know," Dream says casually.

"I know."

A beat passes. He stares at George, while George stares at the water. "What's the hesitation for?"

"My hands and feet are freezing," George mutters. "It's gonna burn so bad when I get back in."

Dream rolls his eyes. "And I'm the crybaby. They can't be that bad." He immediately jumps at the feel of ice cold knuckles pressing to his jaw. "Oh my—you—you feel like a dead person." Once it leaves, his cheek burns where the touch had been. "God, okay. I can see why you're worried."

George seems satisfied at that. "Told you."

Dream politely relocates himself to the other corner of the tub, and George carefully gets back in. He's thoroughly amused by the series of dramatic winces that cross his face.

Eventually, George relaxes with a light sigh, and Dream has to look away. Although being alone with him feels better after last night, he isn't sure how to talk without being noticed. Darkness creeps above them, the glowing lights continue to shine beneath unobstructed water.

He brushes a few sudden, large raindrops off his shoulder, and glances at the sky.

"Did it sound like a storm?" George asks suddenly.

He glances back down. "Did what?"

"The jets, under the water," he clarifies. "Did it sound like thunder?"

Dream pauses, then holds a hand over a steady geyser on the surface, feeling it push against his palm. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." He isn't sure how to feel about the expression he keeps seeing on George's face, one of study, or learning, or searching. "Why?"

"It just...reminds me of covering your ears under the shower stream, and listening to it. Sounds a lot like thunder and rain."

Dream presses his lips together in a light smile. "I used to do that as a kid all the time."

"Me too." A comfortable silence settles, until George muses, "It was heavier before you woke up. I think I saw lightning, too."

Dream leans his head back to chase after the spots of light marbled in the moving clouds. "That's a shame. I would've liked to see it." He continues to look up, and murmurs, "You...should've used your camera for me."

He hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. Knowing that it's held somewhere in George's room upstairs, with a gallery full of photos from his world, carves him with endless curiosity. He asked what George takes pictures of, and watched him pause, lift his eyes carefully, and say; Things that matter.

George huffs. "No way. Sapnap doesn't know about that."

Dream's brows knit together. "How come?"

"Are you kidding?" The amused disbelief in George's voice makes him tip his head back down. "He'd roast the shit out of me."

Dream tsks. "No he wouldn't."

"Oh, I promise you," George insists, laughing lightly, "I'm very careful about what I do and don't tell him. He definitely would."

Rain patters lightly on Dream's skull, solace from the hot steam that rises off his upper body. "Were you...worried I would?" he asks.

"Of course not," George says easily. His fingertips glide lightly on the surface, creating small swirls and bubbles. "You're you."

Dream carefully follows the motion of his hands, the idle grace of slender bone, wrists saturated blue from the changing lights below. His heart begins to pound, and he swears if the drizzle disappeared, George would be able to hear it.

"Were you touching my hair earlier?" he asks quietly.

George's startled eyes jump to meet him. From the opposite corner of the too wide tub, Dream expects him to flinch or look away. His lips part, the seconds grow, but his gaze doesn't leave.

"A little," George says.

A faint exhale escapes Dream. He hadn't imagined it after all; George's gentle touch, fingers drifting over his scalp, swaying him in and out of a sleepy daze. Softly, he asks, "Why?"

"You...you had this look on your face when you were sleeping. Like you were hurt," George explains, and his voice sounds far away. "I was worried you might be having a bad dream again, or something." His hands trail in the water before him. "It went away when I started, so I just...kept."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Dream lightly drags his fingers through his wet hair, elbow lifting from the water, and George watches him. "It felt...nice," he confesses. "I've always found it really peaceful when people play with my hair. I don't know why."

"Something about trust, probably," George offers.

Dream looks at him. "Yeah."

He briefly studies George's hair, how the dark ends are curling slightly from the moisture. It's a funny thing to trust someone with, a head in their hands, vulnerable to their pain or benevolence.

I've thought about his hair before, he considers, then bites the inside of his cheek. Not now, not now.

"Did you hear what we were talking about?" George asks timidly.

"Not really. Just voices." Dream pauses. "Why? What were you talking about?" He's immediately confused by the guilt that assumes George's features; eyes falling away, lips drawing thin.

"Last night, and stuff."

Oh.

George glances at him, then begins to rush, "It's just that he kept asking so I figured—"

"It's uh, it's alright." Dream clears his throat uneasily. "It's not like it was a secret, or anything."

George nods; they fall silent. The heavy weight of their gaze begs to differ. Why does it feel like one?

"Look, about that," Dream says, slowly. "I'm not the best at picking up on these things, so please correct me, but I...I feel like it's safe to assume stuff is okay, today. After last night." Dream studies his face, carefully. "I hope I didn't scare you."

"Oh, you did," George says bluntly.

Dream's stomach flips with unease. "Shit. Um, I'm really sorry I—"

"No, no, Dream, it's a good thing," George corrects quickly. "Sorry, I should've explained—"

"How is that a good thing?" he asks, winded. He can feel his pulse fluttering fearfully on his throat.

George lets out a huff, and sinks back into the corner of the tub. "Sometimes I need to be scared. It knocks me out of my own head, a bit."

Dream leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Cold air graces his collarbones as the rest of him glows turquoise in the water. "I get that," he says firmly, "I get that, I do. But it's happened before where I scare you, and—and everything changes."

George looks up at him. Refracted shreds of light dance under his chin and cheekbones. "Are you talking about the..." He doesn't finish. The text.

Dream mutters out a quiet, 'yeah.' In the tense pause that follows, the jacuzzi feels like it's losing heat. He wishes for rain, more rain, enough to slip off his face and spatter the surface of the tub and force him to reach for something else for warmth.

"I...have something to say about that, if you want to hear it," George speaks up, quietly.

Dream's face hardens. "I'm not really in the mood to get told off, again."

"No, it's not that I—" George's sincere tone retreats, and he's back to avoiding Dream's gaze and tracing the water. "Right. You're right. Not a good day for it, nevermind."

Shit. Dream's eyes flutter shut with immediate regret, so he doesn't have to see the guarded look that undoubtedly raises across George's face. He was just about to talk to me.

He hopes he doesn't further regret when he rubs at his temples, and says, "Actually. Just, lay it on me."

"...Are you sure?"

Dream almost smiles at the timidness in his voice. "I can take it," he assures, eyeing George with a sigh. "I'm sure."

"Okay. If you're sure," George says. His gaze cuts to Dream briefly, then darts away. "I know this is stupid. Can you not look at me?"

"You want me to...look away?" Dream questions, and George gives him a nervous nod.

He wants to know if George's eyes are often closed when they're on the phone together, if he asks this of anyone when he wants to speak, or if it's unique to them only—like most things.

Instead, he says, "Okay." He tips his head back against the cushion dramatically, and squints up at the light raindrops falling from the sky. "Tell me again why you hate me, George."

He's immediately scolded. "Stop that, you know I don't."

Dream focuses on the droplets illuminated faintly by the faraway patio lights. Mist collects on his skin, and he wonders if it's all in his head, or if George's voice has always been softer in the rain. "I know," he says quietly. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier if you did."

"That's never going to happen." George's sternness fades, and he draws in a light breath. They both seem to brace themselves for impact, when he says, "You know I...I got that text when I was in the car, with my family."

Dream exhales, but says nothing. Guilt coats him with familiarity.

"I didn't know how to process it. As I reread it over the past few weeks, the rest of our summer, I think...I wasn't able to understand it at the time. Or understand you." His voice is slow, each word seemingly chosen with care. "It feels wrong to keep talking about old things that we've already—" George cuts himself off unexpectedly, with a sigh. "The most recent time I reread it was probably, I don't know, the day before I came here."

"So that's why you brought it up," Dream says, face on fire. He'd meant it as a question, but it comes out too low to be lifted.

"I guess it was still on my mind," George admits. "I didn't realize I was still angry that...that you'd wanted to throw everything away, just because we couldn't have this."

This. Dream's eyes widen. His ears ring, and his heart pounds. This, this, this.

He wants to celebrate the acknowledgement of such a simple word, but knows his hope is rash, and short-sighted. George said it so quietly, tacked it on like he knew it'd have meaning, and couldn't give it more than a soft breath.

George's voice grows low. "I felt like less of a person, Dream."

His throat tightens. "George—"

"Just, listen," he says; quick, but not cruel. "That wasn't because of you. I made myself less of a person. I...I do that, a lot. Let people make me small, and sometimes they don't even know that it's happening." He hears the smile that settles in George's words, and knows it is sad. "You didn't know. You never did, and that's not your fault."

Dream tilts his head back down, but keeps his vision closed in darkness. The pain in his chest slowly takes his breath away. "I wasn't..." he trails off shakily. His brows slowly draw together. "I wasn't going to toss it all away. As much as I thought I wanted to, I didn't have it in me."

Believe me, he wants to say. Please, believe me.

"I'm learning that, now," George replies softly. Dream's eyes slowly open; George is already looking at him. "My bad habit might be worse than we thought."

Dream's heart yearns as he searches the gentle sorrow on George's face. Rain on his hair, the downward slope of his shoulders, light ripples in the water between them. No one else gets to see this side of him, do they?

"Underestimating me?" Dream teases, lightly.

"Misunderstanding you," George corrects. His words are warm, but rest on the curve of his mouth with meaning. "You know...I'm still surprised by how much you've changed, Clay. I'm really, really proud of you."

Dream's face melts into an overwhelming blush. His brows raise and draw together, eyes wide and soft as he gazes at George candidly. "You...are?"

The longer their contact holds, the more the heat in him spreads from his cheeks to his neck to his chest. Oh, he thinks, god.

"Of course I am," George says gently. He huffs. "It...it kind of reminds me of how you were six years ago. So cautious before you really knew me."

He's heard those words leave George's mouth in this manner before, 'six years,' like a definitive timestamp that implies a 'before' and an 'after.' Six years since the first time they exchanged contacts, six years since Dream heard his voice for the first time; six years since his life changed for good with George finally in it.

"Because you're intimidating," Dream answers honestly.

George stares at him. "You're like, a foot taller than me. And annoyingly nice, and way too perceptive, and way too smart." His stare eases into a gaze unexpectedly, and Dream's breath locks in his chest. "You...you used to message me constantly, you know? All the time."

All the time, until terribly hot weather and terribly warm thoughts, and radio silence that has been good for them, but hurts. Hearing George's light laughter in a call and knowing he wasn't the one to have caused it, seeing him chat on other's streams and avoiding game nights entirely. Messaging him about stupid things, meaningless things, just to appreciate the read receipts that showed he is still real, still watching.

This is going to hurt, isn't it?

It has, he wants to tell his former self. It does. It will.

His voice is hollow. "I just wanted to be close to you, George. That's all I've ever wanted."

George's expression becomes complicated; unreadable. Yet when he speaks, Dream can hear the exhaustion, lack of sleep, and hatred of their distance. "I'm tired of this, Dream. I really am. Even when we weren't talking, that felt like fighting, too."

He doesn't know what to do, or feel, or say—so he gives George a small smile. "I like fighting with you."

George lets out a long exhale. "Oh, I know you do."

Dream's expression briefly lifts into a grin. A contemplative pause passes over them, where George's eyes tip up to the dark sky, and Dream's trace where his dark brows give way to curved lashes.

"There has to be something about this weather," George muses suddenly.

"Hm?"

"It always makes me—" He glances back at Dream, and pauses. "Feel more like myself, I guess." He lingers a moment longer, before the thoughtfulness in his manner is quickly exchanged for panic. "God, okay, I just said a lot of things and am now beginning to realize that. Could you like, I don't know, change the subject or say something—"

Dream laughs immediately, and it swiftly eases any of their remaining discomfort. "Aww," he says, "Georgie." The eye roll he receives makes him sweeten his voice even more. "George, George, thank you so much for talking to me, I really appreciate it—"

Water sloshes against the sides as Dream moves to sit by him, and George leans away. "Stop. Stop it."

"You have such a way with words when you're all gooey," Dream gushes, stretching an arm over the side and to pull him close. "So poetic and heartfelt, my hero—"

The base of George's palms bat as his bare chest defensively. "I will—" George laughs, fighting for breath and space. "Leave your soggy arse out here if you don't—"

Dream blocks his attack in an easy grasp, and their words suddenly fall short. His fingers slowly leave George's knuckles, as their hands fall back into the surface, centimeters away in tepid water.

"Really," Dream says, earnest and warm. "You have no idea how much of a relief it is to—to talk to you again. To have you here. I know I can be..." He glances down at the distance he'd somehow closed between them, then back up. "A lot. And I know it's not easy. But I'm glad to see you're trying."

His shoulder and forearm are warm where they rest against George's upper back. When he exhales, the proximity makes George's dark lashes shudder. It reminds him of their closeness in the kitchen; the feel of his jaw tipping up.

Breathlessly, Dream murmurs, "Thank you for trying."

"It's the least I can do," George whispers.

Even though it's only a drizzle, even though it's hardly collecting on their hair and rolling down their skin, Dream says, "You look so at home in the rain."

"Really?"

He can feel where George's thigh presses into his own, where their calves brush in stagnant water. He nods, unable to form words at the size of George's eyes as they gaze up at him.

"So do you," George says. Then, he squints in overt analysis. "Minus the hair."

A breath of fake offense leaves Dream's chest. "What's wrong with my hair?" He reaches up to push at his damp locks, probably leaving them worse off and poking out at odd angles.

George laughs gently. "It looks kind of funny, like that," he says apologetically, but his eyes are bright.

"Like this?" Dream runs both hands through his hair, leaving it a messy scramble, just to hear George laugh again. He returns to rest an arm on the edge around George, and neither of them move to take it away.

"Yeah. Exactly." George pauses, sweeping over his hairline, then continues to giggle. His shoulder lightly bumps Dream's chest.

Dream raises his eyebrows. "You really think it's that funny?" He only gets a nod in return; George's smile squeezing his eyes in quiet laughs. "Okay, then."

He cups a palm below the surface, and quickly dumps it over George's head. Water splats on his nearly dried hair, flattening it against his skull as it races over his face. Dream laughs at the way his shoulders bunch up defensively because of it.

"Much better," he says gleefully. "You look like Patches after a bath."

George blows out of his mouth, and drops of water spray across Dream's face. "You suck. Fix it."

"Okay, okay, fine." Dream reaches up, and pushes the wet hair off of George's forehead. "You're lucky I'm good at this, just have to..." The backs of his fingernails dip into his hairline, and rake over his scalp gratuitously. Slick hair rises with a bold, dark style that he's never seen on George before. His breath catches, and his hand lingers, combing gently with restraint.  

He clears his throat. "There," he says, weakly.

"Does it look stupid?" George asks. His voice sounds different. 

Dream's hand brushes the hair behind his ear, and withdraws. The back of his knuckles accidentally brush George's neck.

"Do you want me to tell you the truth?" he questions.

If there is any danger in the low hint to his voice, George notices it, and doesn't say a word. "Sure," he breathes.

Dream takes it in, the pushed-up frenzy of his incredibly soft hair, the faint glow on his cheekbones and dark contrast of his eyes. Dream's heart beats heavily in his ribcage, he could be so close to skimming fingertips over George's own. His chest is warm, too warm, and his jaw grows slack.

"I think it looks good," he murmurs, meeting George's eyes. "Really, really good."

George's reaction is minuscule, easy for anyone to miss, but Dream prepared himself to detect it. His lashes flick up in a subtle, surprised jump, lips parting aimlessly, and a slight raise of his collarbones that could mean he's held his breath.

"Thank you," George says.

Dream's favorite sight once again blooms across George's face, and he smiles. "You're blushing," he comments. 

George raises his hand to press fingertips lightly to his cheek. "Am I?" he asks, dazedly.

Dream looks down at him through lidded eyes, his voice a warm rumble. "Mhm."

George stares back defensively, but his lips are pressed together in a poor attempt to hide a smile. "I am warm," he says flatly.

Dream grins. His heart pounds. "Uh-huh."

"I am going to get out," George insists, pointedly slow to try and knock away Dream's happiness.

"Okay," Dream says simply. He lets George lean away from him and start to rise out of the hot tub. A light, sweet laugh escapes his lips.

George splashes him, the motion sudden but gentle, before exiting the tub for good and hauling a towel in tow. Dream watches him leave, water drips down his brows and from the tip of his nose, but he makes no effort to wipe it away.

His smile continues, and he raises a warm hand to cover it. He hopes it keeps raining for a while, washing over his house and filling up gutters and making a mess of his uneven lawn. It's strange to have the feeling, a persistent glow in his chest, that tells him he'll never be able to watch the movie or sit in his tub or listen to thunder without thinking of George in the same, fond heartbeat.

He hears a heavy tap on glass, and lifts his eyes to the light spilling from the kitchen window. Sapnap is wearing an apron he didn't even know he owned, holding up a bowl of the promised pasta, and threatening to tip it into the sink.

"Alright!" he yells with a dismissive wave, breaking off into laughter. "Alright, I'll be right in."