of all your fever dreams

It'd been spring when you left, nothing but cold, endless drizzle. Your clothes are still damp. That's the only thing you can find to hold onto and convince yourself this isn't just a dream you'll have to wake up from soon. But there's streaks of smudged ash and soot in your hair, the warmth of sunlight on your skin that you never manage to imitate in dreams, dull sting of pain when you scratch yourself; this is real, this is yours.  Willow and Maxwell go their separate ways. They don't manage to stay apart for very long.