It could not last forever. Even in dreams, even in the infinite cream, there comes a time to wake.
Socket felt it first, a gentle tugging at her consciousness, like a human hand scratching just the right spot behind her ears. She opened her eyes, her real eyes, her waking eyes, and found herself in her sunbeam, in her house, in her world.
Beside her, Pixie stirred, her calico fur ruffled from sleep, her green-gold eyes blinking with confusion and, slowly, with recognition.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, as one, they reached up with their paws and touched the collars around their necks.
Socket's was soft as cloud, warm as sunbeam. Pixie's was sharp as starlight, bright as moonbeam.
Real, Socket thought. It was real. Or real enough.
"Pixie," she said aloud, her voice rough with disuse, "do you remember?"
Pixie's whiskers twitched. Her tail lashed once, her old gesture of impatience, of energy barely contained. But then she looked at Socket, really looked at her, and the tail stilled.
"Every moment," Pixie said. "The ship. The storm. The Old Tom. The... the balance."
They spent the day in their usual ways, because that was the gift of the dream: not to change who they were, but to affirm it. Socket napped in her sunbeam, but her dreams were not escapes now, they were voyages, memories of cream and catnip, plans for future adventures in the sleeping mind. Pixie plotted and schemed, but her restlessness was channeled now, she wanted to explore the house, yes, but she also wanted to make sure Socket had company, had comfort, had the peace she needed to dream well.
That evening, as the real sun set and the real house grew quiet, they found themselves together on the windowsill, watching the stars emerge one by one in the darkening sky.
"Do you think we'll go back?" Pixie asked, her small body pressed against Socket's substantial side for warmth.
"Every time we sleep," Socket rumbled, her purr vibrating through both their bodies. "Every time we dream. The Milky Ocean is always there, Pixie. It was there before we knew to sail it. It will be there when we're old and our paws are too slow for chasing. And we'll sail it together, balanced, whole, exactly as we are."
Pixie purred in response, a sound like tiny bells, like catnip treats chiming, like the S.S. Neapolitan cutting through infinite cream.
"Socket?" she said, after a while.
"Mm?"
"You're still lazy."
"You're still ornery."
"Good."
"Good."
They watched the stars together, two cats in a house that contained infinite oceans, two friends who had learned the secret of balance, two dreamers who would sail again when sleep claimed them, and who would wake again to share the memory.
The S.S. Neapolitan waited, its ice cream hull gleaming, its catnip treats glittering, its cream sails ready to catch the wind of any dream that called.
And somewhere, in the heart of the Milky Ocean, the Old Tom smiled, and the First Mate prowled the rigging, and the cheese whales breached, and the voyage continued, forever and always, for any cat brave enough to seek comfort and curious enough to find it.