Blue sighs. The torrent is unending, like a hurricane: she's cold and her whole body just feels tired. Defeated, drowned out. She doesn't want to be fighting with Ronan: she came looking for him because she missed him. Because she missed them all being a them.

"No, asshole," she says, but asshole sounds a lot like something more affectionate, and she clomps past him in squelchy boots, plus or minus an inch of water, to crouch next to the guitar where it sits sadly at the bottom of a tree. See what damage has been done.

Blue runs a hand back through her hair, slicking it back out of her face, and squints through the rain. "You don't want a dream Adam, you want the real one," she points out. "You make yourself on your own, a little at a time. That's the only way anyone can do it."

It's not easy. Blue knows it's easier said than done, or she wouldn't be standing here stubbornly shivering through a rain of Ronan's imagining. But it isn't supposed to be easy. "Don't dream it, be it," she mutters to the guitar sarcastically, pretty sure Ronan has never in his life deigned to watch the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

She plucks across the strings; it echoes, melancholy. "If you're gonna dream anything, you could dream up some sun."