I'll put it under a cut, but this is just so cute I and I hope it's okay to put it here, I wrote you a little drabble 🫶
Dew shuffles into the kitchen at half past nine, hair still damp, and reaches past Cumulus for the coffee pot.
"Morning," he says, voice gravel-rough.
Cumulus doesn't answer. Cumulus is staring.
So is Mountain. So is Aether, who has frozen with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth.
Dew, who has not yet had caffeine, blinks at them. "What."
Cumulus inhales through her nose. "Dewdrop. Sweetheart. What happened to you?"
Dew lifts a hand to his throat. Pauses. Lifts the collar of his shirt and looks down.
He's been decorated. There's no other word for it.
Perfect pink circles, dozens of them, ringing his collarbone and trailing under the fabric -- a path he doesn't need to inspect to remember. There are some near his pulse. There's one behind his ear, where he can still feel the skin going tender. He pushes up his sleeves and sees them on his arms. Doesn't need a mirror to know they're all over his face.
Behind him, the kitchen door swings open and Rain strolls in.
Rain's hair is doing the slow drowsy thing, tentacles shifting lazily, one of them curled around the back of his own neck in idle satisfaction. His tail starts up the moment he sees Dew. Not the polite swish, either. The full helicopter, drumming against the doorframe.
"Morning," Rain says, beaming.
"Rain," Dew says, with the flat affect of a man approaching the gallows.
Aether sets down his spoon very carefully. Mountain has a hand over his mouth. Cumulus is vibrating.
"Did you," Dew says, "did you have to --"
"Yes," Rain says cheerfully, without waiting to hear more. He crosses to the counter, plants a kiss on Dew's temple, and reaches around him for the coffee pot. One of the tentacles, the helpful one, tugs Dew's collar a half-inch wider in passing. "Sorry, what was the question?"
"We have fittings," Dew hisses.
Rain takes a long, considering sip of coffee. His tail does not stop. "Sure do."
Aether picks his spoon back up like none of this is happening. Mountain mutters something that sounds suspiciously like good luck, brother and returns to his toast. And Rain leans against the counter next to Dew, hip-to-hip, with the air of a ghoul who has won something and isn't particularly invested in pretending otherwise.
His tentacle hair brushes Dew's shoulder. Soft. Possessive. Marking territory it already, very thoroughly, marked.
Anyone watching closely would note that he doesn't move away.
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