Ianto is drifting, laying sideways in his boat, legs hanging off one edge from the knee and head leaning off the other, pillowed on his folded sweater, to watch the stars. He's got a travel mug of hot cocoa balanced on his chest, steaming into the night, because it's a dream, okay, and he can have whatever improbably warm drink he wants in his picnic basket. He can have a fresh-baked pie in there if he wants, you can't judge.

If he ignores the dark water beneath him - which he can, quite easily, if he just stares up at the sky - then it's almost serene. It's not, but. Almost.