Waltzes and Waterfalls

Chapter 3

When George roused the next morning, he was glad to see that the sun had risen before him this time; light streamed through the gaps in the curtains, a blustering wind tossing them around as they clung for dear life to the railings. The steady beating of fat raindrops on the roof above them had been a welcome presence while he was sleeping but, as he wrestled from the grasps of rest, it became more of an annoyance, closer to a throbbing headache that makes a home in the corner of your mind—never agonising, but an irritating constant.

You see, usually when George usually it would be with an empty mind. He wasn't ever much of a dreamer, having the occasional one here and there, but not often were they anything notable.

But this day had been an outlier.

Dream had consumed the day before, constantly by his side, in his field of vision, and it had seemed that that had carried over into his dreams as well. Where real life had ended with them stumbling up to their room, falling asleep in silence on their respective sides of the bed, in his dream...

Well.

In his dream, it didn't quite end there.

In his dream, they'd kissed in the pool. Slow and languid, sweet and heartfelt, seeped with unspoken vows and unfiltered emotion. In his dream, Clay had held him close, whispered amorous words into his ears, pressed little pecks to his lips, his temples, his nose. In his dream, he'd had the confidence to accept the feelings that he had been suppressing for so long.

In his dream, Clay had felt the same way.

He knew he couldn't push his feelings away any longer. No more was there any joy in being untruthful.

Quite simply, he had a crush on Dream.

He tossed around the phrase in his head feeling how the way it moulded around thoughts, the taste of it on his tongue. It should have been bitter. He wished it had felt bitter. But instead it was saccharine—syrupy and thick with all the feelings he'd pushed down for so long. If it was bitter, then he could have convinced himself it was wrong.

If it was wrong, then why did it feel so fucking good?

Perhaps he could pretend that Dream liked him back while they made a mockery of his emotions, acted a pantomime out of what he longed for. But he was terrified—now that he'd had a taste for what being with Dream would be like, he would only want it more. Perhaps a week of it would be enough to sate him for the time being: perhaps it would just add fuel to the fire.

Either way, George knew that he was well and truly screwed.

*

Breakfast was filled with irate grumbles over bacon and waffles.

They had planned to go on a hike today, a hike that, according to Sienna, George wasn't allowed to leave without having done. But the wind howled as it shook the trees and the rain was so heavy he could barely see a few metres into the garden.

All the weather talk reminded him of home.

He couldn't help but to chuckle at that. Perhaps the world had gotten one of the stereotypes about Brits correct.

And so with begrudging sighs they let the storm win this time, insisting that if the weather was better by tomorrow they would complete it then instead.

George was expecting to be allowed to retreat back to Dream's room and waste away the day within the confines of lime-green walls, quite like how they had the day before.

What he hadn't anticipated was Sarah's List of Rainy Day Activities.

"What's that?" George asked with a frown.