Helium By Tbhyourelame (a continuation from heat waves)

Water

Summary:

A change in weather means a change of plans.

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.