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The rain barrels down with malicious intent. Bullets too soft to piece skin, but frigid enough to freeze blood. Dream sits by the window in the downstairs living room, watching waves of water sweep in over the roads and flood the sidewalks. Suffocating the drains until they’re spewing filthy water back up, sewage and freshwater swirling together above the grate. Thunder growls deeper than an animal in captivity. Lightning flashes somewhere in the distance, and Dream counts the seconds between the two like he’s done since he was little. Predicting the distance of a storm right above his head. It makes that known, in the way that the rain batters against his window with a desperation only found in the sick and wounded. Clawing at the glass, leaving wet trails in their wake as if their faux distress would appeal to his open heart. It goes ignored, and he continues to watch for a silhouette.
George went out earlier. That’s the only reason that he’s sitting here, watching the clouds move along and grimacing at the way they rumble. Ravenous wildebeests starved too long. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to the nervousness stirring in his gut, because the storm is not shy about how it hungers for blood. He worries for the casualties, for the trees ripped from their trunks and the telephone wires snapped in twine. He worries for George the most. Hoping that he has not gotten himself stranded somewhere while the storm pursues its violent hunt.
He will wait here all night if necessary. Lacing his fingers together and tracing over his knuckles to ease his nerves, while he squints through blurred glass to try and catch someone approaching. Even if he found it within himself to leave and do something else, Dream doubts he would manage to string together enough focus when the majority of his mind begs for George’s safety. The minutes pass and his brows pinch together a little closer with every shift of the clock hands. He leans against the window as if it’d let him see around the corner, down the far end of the street. There’s nothing to be seen. Nothing but deep puddles gathering into small ponds and the flora outside being beaten into the soil.
Maybe it’s worth calling him. It’s always possible that George couldn’t make it through the storm, stopped to seek refuge in some stable building. That would be the most likely situation – why else wouldn’t he be home yet?
Hesitant, Dream rises from his place on the couch, quick to move into the kitchen and pick up his phone from where it lays on the counter. Scrolling through his list of contacts, but hurried knocking at the front door interrupts him. It could be George. All thoughts of his phone are abandoned, discarding it in the same place it rested before, swinging the front door open instead.
George is shivering violently on his doorstep. He pushes his way inside as soon as Dream makes space for him, trailing water into the house from his soaked shoes and dripping coat. Even his face is wet and icy to the touch. The rain was not apprehended by the cotton of his gloves, so his fingertips tint just as blue as his lips. The steady drip, drip, drip of water from the ends of his hair spill onto his shoulder and roll down the warmth of his back. Dream has sympathy written all over his face.
“I told you it was going to rain,” he starts, though it doesn’t quite mimic the ‘I told you so’ kind of attitude. His relief outweighs his sense of righteousness, in this moment. Cupping George’s cheek in his hand and turning his head to face him, smiling as he presses into his palm for warmth. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, well, you failed to mention that it’d be a full-on fucking thunderstorm.”
Dream has to bite back the little snicker that nearly escapes him, listening to George’s teeth chatter between his frosted words. He sounds so cold, sympathy isn’t hard to extend. As if the rain itself had settled on his skin for long enough to seep into his flesh. Flood his veins until his blood runs cold and diluted, a conscious vessel for a borderline blizzard. Annoyance melts quickly in spite of his constant shuddering, glaring at Dream with a whined, “it’s so cold, I need a shower.”
“The weather app said it wasn’t likely. How is that my fault? Here, let me help you.”
Offering his assistance with his soaked jacket off of his shoulders to grant him a little release. Let the warmer air of the house hit exposed skin and thaw him from his rigid stance. But George stops him.
“Wait,” he says, stepping back for extra measure. “I have something with me.”
Struggling to pinch at the tips of his gloves when his fingers are twitching so viciously. Reluctantly, he accepts Dream’s help. Letting him tug off the sodden wool wrapped around his hands so he can grasp his zipper between his thumb and index. George tugs it down only a little bit. Enough to expose the neckline of the hoodie underneath, the jut of his collarbones with a thin chain caught in the dip, and– ears.
Cat ears, Dream realises as he leans a little closer, followed by big, curious eyes and bent whiskers. Despite his trembling, George manages to keep himself still enough to scoop a kitten from beneath his coat into his hands. It’s small enough for him to hold in one palm, but he cups it in between both hands and keeps it close to his frozen chest. At a second glance, the kitten is not in good condition. It shivers just as frequently as George does, though it seems that his hoodie did a fine job of soaking up the water from its fur. Patches of fur are missing here and there, where little black pests gather in groups, and its eyes are sewn shut with Gods know what kind of infection.
George strokes a thumb over its head, between its ears. Distress is evident in the way it meows constantly, soft claws embedded into his skin to keep it from falling from such a height.
“She was just wandering around in the storm,” he says quietly. “I don’t even wanna think about how long she’s been surviving alone. I would’ve taken her to a vet, but this stupid storm is just unbearable.”
Wet, dripping gloves are folded over each other and placed on the island countertop, before Dream offers his hands out to hold her. Little paws meet the creases of his palms and larger hands can safely cage her in.
“Why don’t you go and take a shower, and I’ll clean her up a bit,” he suggests, stepping close enough to press a kiss into the mess of his boyfriend’s humid, soaked hair. The affection is welcomed. But George seems more absorbed in the vulnerable ball of dappled fur, gentle when strokes over her back with a single finger. If Dream weren’t so enamoured by his soft expression, maybe he’d be a little jealous of a new addition to the house stealing the attention so quickly. But while the title is sweet, she’ll be kept by a vet. Someone who can properly care for her after what she’s been through. That is what weighs on George’s mind, after all.
“Okay, yeah.”
His response is delayed a while. Still not entirely aware.
“George,” Dream mumbles into his hair. “Go. I’ll be careful, you know I will. And once the storm finally dies down, we’ll take her to someone who can give her proper treatment. Okay?”
“..Fine, okay, yeah. Sorry, I’m just– yeah, you do that.”
“Warm yourself up, princess. You’re shivering like crazy.”
George waves him off. Trailing ice water the entire way up the stairs and to their shared room. He’s sure a puddle will gather beneath the hook where the coat will hang, but rainwater doesn’t matter too much.
A frail meow is stifled against his thumb. No longer attacking the bend in his fingers with her blunt, brittle canines, and instead making herself comfortable in his hands. At least, as comfortable as possible when there are fleas gnawing at her skin and her eyes will not open. Dream pauses and almost gives her a name, to call her something other than the kitten every time her presence is in their thoughts. But they know better than to get attached to something that won’t be staying particularly long. She is sick, better suited for someone who can provide a more efficient remedy than soap bars and flea combs.
“You’ll feel a lot better soon,” he assures the kitten nevertheless. While their bathroom is occupied, he’ll have to use Sapnap’s. Distantly thinking of George thawing beneath torrid, hot water until his blue-tinted flesh cracks and splits open.
Sapnap is in his room when Dream barges in without warning. He doesn’t startle easily, though, hardly bothering to look up from his phone screen when Dream hastily says something along the lines of, “need to use your bathtub. It’s an emergency.”
Not even listening for a response, anyway. The kitten is held in one hand, up by his shoulder so she has something easy to cling to if she happens to sway too far to one side, while Dream reaches for one of the knobs beside the tap and tilts it clockwise. Warm water spills into the bathtub, filling it up slowly. And Dream mutters another, “I know, I know,” every time the sweet thing cupped between his palms cries out.
“No wonder George picked you up and took you home,” he teases. “You two have a lot in common, don’t you?” Not a sliver of patience.
“Why’d you need my bathtub?” Sapnap’s voice comes from the other room. “Did you shit yourself or something, or is George taking his sweet ass time in your bathroom?”
Dream deadpans, setting the kitten into the water. It doesn’t reach too far beyond her paws and the valve is twisted back into a stationary position. “Very funny. No, George found this hurt kitten out in the middle of the storm and brought it back. It’s too chaotic outside to take her to a vet right now, so… I guess we’re looking after her until everything dies down a little.”
“Oh. Are we keeping her?”
“I haven’t really thought much on it,” Dream admits. Cupping water in his palms and letting it spill over her fur. She takes it all kindly, eased into silence and flexing her paws in the water as if she could mould it into something. “I mean, we aren’t keeping her right now, that’s for sure. Who knows what kind of things she’s carrying with all these fleas attached to her. If you mean later on, then… maybe? But I think it depends on Patches. Where is she, by the way?”
Sapnap perches on the edge of the bathtub, watching. Picking at his nails and grinning fondly at the little cat indulging in warm water, something she probably hasn’t seen a lot of. “She’s been sleeping in your room all day, dude, you haven’t seen her?”
“Not really, I haven’t been in my room much today.”
“You think she’d get jealous if we got another cat?”
Dream shrugs. Rubbing soap between his fingers and soon after massaging it into stippled, unhealthy fur. For something so small, the kitten’s purring resonates deeply against the bones in his fingers, while they ease bubbles and foam into a thin coat. Dirt and grime come off easily. Sticking to his fingers and clambering beneath his fingernails; her fur is dark, nearly black, and the filth isn’t easy to see. Chunks of it crumble into browning water when Dream rubs underneath her chin and around her neck. Sheepishly picking at the corners of her eyes, finding sickening strings of something green and screaming infection.
Eventually rinsing off his hands and scooping more water over her head. Dream throws a glance over at his friend, pursing his lips, “Sapnap, could you put some cat food out of her? And water.”
With the caked dirt removed, the poor thing looks slimmer than she did originally. Sapnap doesn’t need any further convincing. He offers a quick nod before he’s disappearing into his room and down the hallway. Meanwhile, Dream fetches a flea comb out of the bathroom cupboard, pausing before use. The kitten’s fur is so thin. So short that he isn’t sure how well the comb will feed through it and catch the pests on their blades. Gently, he tries anyway. Pressing the comb into brittle black hairs and hoping for the best.
Soiled water littered with dead fleas rushes to the open drain. Slipping into the depths below while Dream pays it no mind, lifting a dripping feline from the bathtub and wrapping her up in a towel much too big for her. She doesn’t mind. Her purring doesn’t stop for a second, bundled up in a warmth she most likely hasn’t been exposed to before.
“Hey,” a voice greets behind him. It’s George this time. Dressed in loose, comfortable clothes, eyeing the rolled-up towel with a weary smile. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s clean now, at least,” he answers. “Mostly, anyway. Her eyes must be infected or something. The vet can sort it out tomorrow when we take her there, but it looks like she’ll be spending the night here. Sapnap put something to eat and drink out for her downstairs, I think.”
George sighs, relieved. Dream finds one of his hands and brushes his thumb over his knuckles, no longer trembling and ice cold to the touch.
“Get some rest, George. I’ll make sure she’s fed and then I’ll come and join you.”
“Okay. Don’t take too long.”
—----
This morning has been the same as any other. George wakes up miserable, buried his face into Dream’s chest and hopes that the fabric of his shirt and the thickness of the duvet will block out the echoing, cries meows that circulate his mind. Ultimately it doesn’t. Dream asks him what’s wrong like he does every morning if George is not sliding into his seat with even an ounce of enjoyment. Every time he answers with the same response. Confessing that he is haunted by the memory of the kitten they were foolishly generous enough to scoop out of the storm and stuff away into his coat to shield her from the rain.
Two weeks have passed since the storm. He shouldn’t care anymore.
Yet there isn’t a single passing moment that his thoughts don’t flicker back to the cat he brought home with him. His fingers haven’t yet forgotten the morbid feeling of short, wilted fur. Dry patches of skin beneath it all and congregations of filthy fleas. Each memory imprinted onto the pad of their fingers, forcing him to feel it at random. He needs to know that the kitten is okay, to ease the guilt he felt for leaving her to strangers while she was in such a vulnerable state.
Acting as though he himself was not a stranger to her at the time. It’s funny how attachment works, and how quickly it can worm its way into people’s lives. George is sitting in the living room with Patches curled up on his lap. He knows that being overly affectionate with her is just his way of trying to ease his mind, but she seems to appreciate it either way.
Someone rattles against the front door. George frowns. Trying to subtly lean over and peer out the window, but the slightest shift in his position is enough to shoo Patches away, prying herself out from underneath his fingers where they were sifting through her fur. Great. But outside, he notices Dream standing by the door with some sort of box held underneath his arm. He must’ve left the house while George was still in bed, mourning the loss of something that didn’t even belong to him. Begrudgingly pulling himself to his feet and opening the door to greet him.
It’s not a box that he’s holding, George realises. Eyes darting down to the wire windows. It’s a pet carrier. His mouth falls open but not a word falls from it, eyes flickering up to meet Dream’s to ask, silently. He reads his dumb expression easily, and answers with a nod.
“Dream.” George’s disbelief is pure and honest. Ushering him inside so they can close the door and set the carrier on the floor. His voice is barely above a whisper. “You went back for her?”
Dream shrugs as if it’s no important matter.
“I mean, I had to. I wasn’t gonna let you be miserable over it for any longer than you already have been.”
The cage door is pulled open. It is her, George confirms. A healthier version of the kitten that had spun around his ankles and pawed at his boots in the middle of a damning thunderstorm, that left strands of black fur in one of Sapnap’s towels and swimming around the drain of his bathtub. She isn’t worryingly thin and her eyes are open. Big and brown and heartbreakingly curious.
Patches might have a little competition.