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The desert can't be less than boiling under layers of iron and cotton. His water supply leaves only half a bottle to spare and it should be enough to get out of this beige wasteland— it should, if he conserves it.
It's hot with a dark cloak on; a fact Dream tends to forget. He's used to playing manhunt with his signature outfit, a dark green cloak and full-face mask, even through past deserts and mesa biomes he’s come across. This one is different on a fault of his own— running close to ending up with a set of empty water bottles.
His friends-turned-hunters per manhunt circumstances wouldn't mind if he played without it, but it's somewhat of a confidence boost. With the mask he’s Dream, the persona of stealth and wit. Someone who could survive a few hours in the desert.
George and Sapnap are somewhere close behind. He killed Bad earlier and sent him to respawn wherever his bed was set. One less hunter to go, still two prominent fighters, and that's enough to stop him from setting camp until he gets to the edge of the desert.
His boot sinks into sand with another step— he should be staring at a forest biome by now, even in the distance. He can feel a sweat form behind the cloak and his mask. The lack of any weather besides thick, dry heat makes the world’s bias against him clear.
It would be nice to stop by a river and cool off, refresh his water bottles, if there was one. Maybe it all just… evaporated, and the thought cracks away at any hope he might have.
The sun sinks in hazy oranges and blues before he inevitably drinks the last of his water. It keeps him going through the night and he takes a short nap so he doesn't pass out.
His steps are fast, heat still pounding against his skin and the now blazing ceramic of his mask. He can feel a headache growing and he finds himself checking his bag over and over for a spare water bottle, each time more disappointing than the last.
It's just on the wrong side of tolerable but he wouldn't end a manhunt that's been going on for a week just for a little discomfort. He can see a peek of dark oak forest in the very far distance, and he keeps his legs moving on gritty sand, a struggling fight to stay afloat in what feels like a pit of lead lurching onto his boots.
Except it wasn't that hard to walk when he first approached the desert biome, and his head spins a bit with an attempt to fight against it. He can make it— a river might be over this hill.
A few steps prove him wrong. Too hot, too dizzy, he can practically hear each breath rattling in his ears in a pound. He's— not okay, definitely not, and he fumbles with his backpack before tugging off the cloak and taking his communicator. He sinks to his knees and tries everything to stay awake.
The mask is still on but he can't think enough to remove it, his huffed breaths audible through it anyway and his head swims— the keypad is there in his hand, and all he thinks is please press something before you regret it.
help, he types, head swimming and for once in manhunt history he hopes that they're close by. The tracker will let them reach him anyway, but he doesn't know if he can be conscious for that long. Heat exhaustion isn't really his expertise.
His eyes unfocus as he sifts through the contents of his bag— nothing useful, nothing except empty bottles and the broken pieces of a tent. George would scold him for not bringing enough water and that scenario sounds better than passing out in a desert.
“Dream!” He recognizes the voice from over a sand dune, more concerned than a usual intimidating shout. It sounds like Sapnap. “Dream?”
He should be trying to run from them or hold his ground in a fight. Not sitting on his knees with a terrible lightness in his head and unable to tell between a cactus and one of his hunters.
“Dream,” George calls when they both make it down the hill, grits of sand kicking up behind their shoes. He can hear the edge of concern. “You okay?”
“No,” He mutters, and a wave of nausea hits him. “Really dizzy, shit— I'm—” The pressuring heat lifts when Sapnap unbuttons his cloak, just now registering that he's kneeling right in front of him.
It's shrugged off his shoulders, a puff of breeze cooling against the sweat on his arms, and without hesitation George hands him a water bottle. “Drink.” He almost shakes his head in response but takes it instinctively.
The mask falls with a harsh tug to its buckle, and he can feel eyes on him immediately. He's tempted to slip it back on from the sheer insecurity and because water doesn't seem that necessary but Sapnap is already unscrewing the cap and pushing it towards him. He takes a sip before fixating on a patch of sand below him— the black fog growing over his eyes makes it hard to focus on anything without feeling nauseous.
Someone rubs his shoulder and Sapnap says, “You okay, dude?”
“I don't know,” Dream manages. The lukewarm water cools his throat and the heat building in his core but he still can't focus, a heavy pressure over his vision.
“There's a dark oak forest over there.” George points somewhere towards the forest he saw earlier and continues, “You need shade. I'll call an end to the manhunt.”
“No, I'm— I'm fine, It’d be a waste of the game.”
“Your pupils are wide as fuck, that's obviously heat exhaustion. We're not going to continue this,” Sapnap says, and a hand cards through his hair, drops of comfort mixing with the swirling lightness. “Can you walk?”
He thinks about it for a second, long enough for a wave to crash through his brain. “Uhm, maybe. I— I don't know.” He winces.
“That’s okay.” George's tone gets softer, and that's when he knows it's not okay, if the lightheadedness wasn't a good enough clue. “You'll be fine, we just need to get you in some shade.”
“Does Bad… know?”
“We'll tell him,” George says pointedly to Sapnap. Fingers thread through the hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, and the whiplash from them hunting him down to offering him comfort and aid only makes his brain hurt more.
George sighs. “You're an idiot.”
Dream leans against the motions in defeat and it sparks a static against his scalp. “No, I'm…” The words trip when he focuses too hard on his friends, the familiar faces glancing over him and blocking sun from his eyes.
Sapnap gives a little pat to his cheek and says, “Come on, we can reschedule another manhunt whenever. Shade, now.” An arm slides behind him and attempts to pull him up from the sand, knees buckling as a response and he thinks of cool trees, damp grass underfoot.
It only feels like a few steps until they reach verdant green mixed between pinches of sand, probably because of the two supporting his walk. George whispers something to Sapnap when they set him against a broad dark oak tree, and he focuses on the warmth seeping from his skin.
Another water gets passed to him and Sapnap crouches beside him. “Is this better?”
“You don't need to… coddle me,” He casts weaky.
Sapnap leans back on his heels as if to give him space, sneakers digging into the ground. “It's making sure you don't pass out during a manhunt. Dumbass.”
“We made the signal stuff for that reason,” George adds. It should sound scolding but it's more sympathetic. “Answer Sapnap's question.”
“Oh, uhm…” His head spins a bit, but the aching cloud of darkness over his eyes is mostly gone. His breaths come out in steady pants. “Feels okay. I'm still hot.”
“Well, you're… hot. Always.” He playfully slaps Sapnap on the shoulder for it, getting a chuckle and a half-amused, half-disappointed eye roll from George. A wave of genuine happiness hits him— the comfort of dumb jokes soaks in easily with the shade.
Sapnap types on the communicator for a few seconds and hesitates before saying, “Okay, I told Bad it's over and he'll be here in a few minutes.” Dream only catches the last half of the sentence and settles back against the tree, bringing his hand down his face.
“Thanks for the…” Dream gestures around them in a sort of everything. “You don't have to stay. I can get myself home.” He sets the water bottle down and cringes when it sloshes out of the top.
“We were gonna watch movies at George’s anyway, come with us,” Sapnap urges, lifting his eyebrows in a sort of plea.
The implication that always comes with movie night is falling asleep on George's living room couch with the blue fleece blanket he never bothers to replace— an invitation to comfort with his three favorite people.
“Okay,” He agrees without much resistance. He tries giving them a thumbs up, and the weakness in his arm makes it wobble for a few seconds.
When Bad gets there already with their horses saddled to ride home, he sees them sitting leaned on each other, sleeping under the tree’s shade.