behind the streams | dnf

thirty five | secrets

SAPNAP 

The sun's bright today. 

Very, very bright. It's awful. 

It's hardly 8 am and the stuffy heat is already musking up the room from the inside. Paleish light fuzzes up against the off-white walls, slanting from blinds and curtains I could have drawn all the way, but the sheer hour we even got back to Dream's home last night promptly excuses my carelessness. 

5, 6 hours of sleep isn't anything new, of course. 

Sometimes it'll feel like any other night. And I'll just drag my way through the day with less pep in my step, because other than that it's fine. 

Now is just the universe's harsh reminder, in this less-than-kind awakening... it's not fine. 

It's winter. Yet the glare of the windows promises a return of Florida's audacious sunshine. I catch a beam cutting right across my forearm, drawing it to my chest to avoid the soon build-up of warmth. 

Fucking winter. There's even snow back home, the most Texas has seen in years. And I'd never thought I'd miss the dreary skies and colorless earth, but the sweat beading along my hairline practically salivates at the thought of frosty air. 

I wipe it away with the back of my hand, an extra layer of grime over the grossness I woke up with. The heat, the sleep, the combination puts me in what has to be in the worst mood for a while now.

Then I stub my toe on the edge of the bedframe on my way out the room, and god, the universe is just bitchy today, isn't it-

I bite back a string of obscenities, resorting to a last-ditch effort to assuage this particularly difficult morning. 

Go downstairs. Get one of George's shitty coffees- the thought makes me grimace, at having to choose between the bitter drink or leaving the morning breath in my mouth alone. 

I nearly lose my balance from the change in elevation, the shift from the bottom stair to the wooden tiling of the first floor. At least it's cooler down here. 

I yawn, making a half-hearted effort to cover it. The taste in my mouth is foul, groggy just like everything else. 

My features scrunch up. Where does he keep the mixes? 

The corner to turn draws closer. I can see a countertop's pale edge peeking out past the arches. In that dumb gray bag, right, but where-

Arms throw themselves around my shoulders, snapping my thoughts into non-existence. 

I cough, dry and startled, caught mid-yawn. 

"The fuck?" 

George?

My hands hover for half a second before awkwardly thumping on his back. 

George?

Giggles rattle against my shoulder. And despite being dazed into the next world over, despite the rotton morning mood, in the moment it recedes I can feel myself begin to smile. 

The fact that what gets me, of all things, is a hug -nothing less, nothing more- I feel the silliness bubble up warmly in my chest. 

"...good morning!" He's not letting go so I give him a few more tentative pats before my eyes lift up and only now, notice Dream.

Sitting at the countertop, clasping George's cup of coffee with other hand over his mouth, and covering a smile I'd love to question. 

There's a dumbed confusion on my face, I'm sure, but George's hugging me, something he's done a number of times I can count with one hand and still have some left over.