Archive of Our Own

“Dude,” Mark says as soon as Renjun sits down. “You look terrible.”

Renjun pauses long enough from where he’s digging out his lunch to muster up a tired half-glare, half-scowl. Wow. He literally just got here. “Gee, thanks, Mark.”

“I mean ‒ ” Mark valiantly tries to backpedal. “I meant that in a concerned way!”

“And that makes it better how, exactly?”

Mark struggles for a second before letting his shoulders slump forward. “Okay, I guess it doesn’t. Sorry.”

He drums his fingers on the table, a nervous tic, as Renjun starts to dig into his bento box. A few seconds of silence pass, and Renjun thinks that’s the end of it, but then Mark blurts out, “But seriously ‒ and I mean this in the most concerned way possible ‒ you don’t look so good. Are you getting enough sleep?”

Renjun sighs and puts down his chopsticks. The muted reflection of his phone screen, set face-up on the table beside him, does nothing to hide the exhaustion evident on his face, or the size of his eyebags. They’ve become such a permanent fixture that just the other night, Donghyuck had named one Gucci, and the other Chanel.

“No,” Renjun says. “Not really.”

Mark, a far better human being than their mutual devil of a friend, makes a sympathetic noise. “Those nightmares keeping you up again?”

Those nightmares. Renjun suppresses a shudder, and lets his eyes fall close. “Yes.”

They had started out sporadically, at first. Random bad dreams that happened every once in a while. Things that Renjun put down to the scary movies he occasionally watched against his will, or the rabbit hole of isekai anime he had fallen into, the ones that had spurred him to create artwork which had eventually landed him a spot in their university’s coveted Fine Arts programme.

But as he started to create more, as he started to really lean into his own art direction and style, the dreams had gotten more frequent, and a lot worse. Maybe it was all the books he had checked out at the library for Gothic Art in Northern Europe. Maybe it was his sudden, unquenchable thirst for true crime documentaries, the only genre that didn’t bore him anymore. Or maybe it was just the way his mind worked ‒ running a million miles a minute, thinking three or four or five things at once, always anticipating the worst.

Well, his mother had said the last time he had gone home to visit and woken up the entire household with his screaming. You’ve always had a vivid imagination.

Who knew that his biggest asset would turn out to be his biggest liability?

When Renjun opens his eyes, Mark is staring at him thoughtfully, chewing his lip.

“You know,” he says. “I might know someone that could help you.”

“You do?”

“I might,” Mark corrects hastily. “So, like, you know Ten ‒ ”

“Yes, I know your boyfriend well.”

“He’s not ‒ ” Mark stutters, the tips of his ears turning pink. “We’re not ‒ not yet, okay, it was just one date, which wasn’t even a date, not really. More ‒ more of a hang out, and ‒ and look, now you made me forget what I was going to say!”

Renjun’s so tired, and he’s starting to feel the beginnings of a headache from having stayed awake for too long, but seeing Mark flustered is highly entertaining. “Ten,” Renjun supplies, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “You were mentioning Ten.”

Mark’s flush has spread all the way to his face and neck. Seriously, how did he even get up to go on that date with Ten in the first place? “Right ‒ well ‒ what I’ve been trying to say is that Ten’s been having nightmares, too, and insomnia a lot lately, what with his final year project and all, so he went to see this specialist, and ‒ ”

Renjun frowns. “Specialist? You know I can’t afford a specialist.”

“Dude, will you let me finish,” Mark says, an edge of exasperation to his voice, so Renjun shuts up. “Ten went to see a specialist, who charges low ‒ like, really low ‒ and now he sleeps, like, eight hours a day and goes to bed even earlier than I do!”

Renjun hasn’t properly spent time with Ten in ages ‒ the consequences of being art students in different years with conflicting deadlines and projects ‒ but the times he has seen him, Ten was always hunched over his tablet, an iced Americano off to the side and a dazed, perpetually stressed-out look on his face, caught somewhere in the twilight zone of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

So Renjun’s pretty (a lot) sceptical when he asks, “Are you for real?”

“Dude,” Mark says, nodding emphatically. “I’m telling you, this specialist is the shit.”

Mark Lee does not dub a lot of people ‘the shit’ ‒ so far, and on Renjun’s last count, it’s been his creative writing professor, Johnny Suh, and the delivery guy who somehow always manages to make what is a thirty minute trip from the pizza shop to Mark’s apartment in half that time.

And now, apparently, this supposed sleep specialist. For better or for worse, Renjun’s interest is piqued.

“Okay,” Renjun says. “Does this guy have a business card, or a website, or something?”

“He was handing out flyers on campus, actually. Oh, hang on, I was with Ten when he gave one to us, I think I might still have it here ‒ ”

Mark hefts his backpack up onto the picnic table they’re sitting at and starts digging through its contents. After tossing out a dog-eared book, a frisbee and a ziploc baggie of sadly squashed watermelon, he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, triumphant.

“Here it is!” Mark slaps the flyer on the table, smoothing out the creases, and Renjun leans forward to take a closer look.

Renjun looks up. “‘Dream-cleaning’? What’s that?”

“Um.” For the tiniest of moments, Mark hesitates. “I can’t exactly describe it to you, but let’s just say that it’s… unorthodox.”

Renjun raises an eyebrow at that, but Mark doesn’t seem to be keen on disclosing anything further, so he looks back down at the flyer. Whoever designed it certainly had a flair for the dramatics ‒ was the all-bold font really necessary? ‒ but he has to admit the little snoozing sheep logo is cute.

As if sensing Renjun’s hesitation, Mark bounces his leg against Renjun’s underneath the table. “So? What do you think?”

“I don’t know…” Renjun bites his lip. He wants to remain cautiously optimistic, he does, but it’s difficult when literally nothing has helped to stave off the nightmares ‒ not all the Diptyque candles he could afford, meditation, or even sleeping pills. He doesn’t want to get disappointed again for what might be nothing. Hope is the scariest emotion, after all. “I’ve tried everything. Do you really think it’ll work for me?”

“Well, if you never try, you’ll never know,” Mark says, encouraging. He unzips the baggie of watermelon, produces a fork from somewhere, and starts chowing down on his fruit. “And anyway, what have you got to lose?”

Renjun glances down at the flyer again. He supposes Mark’s right. Really ‒ what has he got to lose?

😴

The answer is time.

Time, apparently, is what Renjun has to lose, because the sleep specialist is late.

“Hey,” he frowns at the third student who’s tried to put their bag down in the vacant seat across from him. “Can’t you see that seat’s taken? I’m waiting for someone.”

The student, who has to be a first year judging by the general lack of despair hanging around her, glares at him. “Wow,” she sniffs. “No wonder you’ve been stood up by your date.”

Renjun can only gape at her as she flounces off to find another seat. He thinks about calling after her to tell her that, no, he’s not been stood up, he’s just waiting for his sleep specialist to arrive and cure him of his nightmares, but realises that sounds a lot more pathetic. So Renjun grumbles inwardly and glares down at the email open on his phone.

Liu Yangyang, he reads off the email signature. Where the fuck are you?

After he and Mark had finished lunch, Renjun had sent an inquiry to the email on the flyer, and was promptly given an appointment and an address. He had shown up fifteen minutes ago at the allotted time to a rude shock: the address he was given turned out not to be a doctor’s office, like he expected, but a coffee shop popular with students from his university. Not only did Renjun have to humiliate himself by asking every patron (even the ones with headphones on, dear god) if they were his sleep specialist (they were not), but much to his chagrin, the staff wouldn’t even seat him if he didn’t buy one of their overpriced coffees.

So now Renjun is out $8, waiting like an idiot, and a sitting duck for overly sassy freshmen.

He’s halfway through crafting a passive-aggressive email (Hi Dr. Liu, is what he’s typed up so far. I am unable to locate you at the given address. I was wondering if I had mistaken the appointment time?) when someone taps his shoulder and says, in a remarkably young voice, “Yo.”

Renjun spins around. There’s a boy around his age hovering behind his seat. He looks, to put it lightly, eye-catching: his outfit is all-black, skinny jeans with too-large rips at the knees paired with an oversized hoodie, a stark contrast to the bright bubblegum pink of his hair. Silver jewellery drips from his ears and neck and fingers, glittering metallic in the late afternoon sun, and he’s practically teetering on artfully distressed platform sneakers. He’s kind of hot, in an e-boy, scrawny kind of way.

Then he shifts, and Renjun sees that he’s got a skateboard tucked under his arm. Instantly, Renjun is overcome with a wave of dislike. Who even skateboards anymore?

“Yes?” Renjun says, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Are you Renjun?”

“Yes,” Renjun answers automatically, then mentally kicks himself. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“Yeah, you do,” the stranger says, then plops down on the seat across from him.

Renjun looks on, alarmed. “Um, sorry, that seat’s taken. I’m actually waiting for someone ‒ ”

“Yeah. Me.”

“ ‒ and he’ll probably be here any minute ‒ wait.” Renjun blinks, taking him in. “You’re Dr. Liu Yangyang?”

“Doctor?” The corners of Dr. Liu’s ‒ Yangyang’s ‒ mouth curl up into a smile. “What? Who told you that?”

“I thought ‒ ” For some reason, Renjun can’t reconcile the mental image he’s crafted of the famed sleep specialist that his friends can’t shut up about with the literal embodiment of TikTok’s finest (or worst, depending on who you’re asking) sitting before him. “The flyer said you were a sleep specialist ‒ ”

“Yeah,” Yangyang interrupts. “Which I am. But nowhere on my flyer does it say that I’m a doctor.”

Renjun fumbles in his pocket for the flyer to check and ‒ Yangyang’s right. When he looks back up, Yangyang is still smiling that strange little half-smile of his.

Renjun distinctly gets the feeling that he’s secretly laughing at him.

“I just,” Renjun says, feeling very infuriated and very stupid. “Um.”

And then, because he is stupid: “You’re fifteen minutes late.”

This doesn’t faze Yangyang in the slightest. Instead, his smile widens, lazy and unbothered, revealing rows of perfect, pearly, sharp-looking teeth. “So we had better get started, then, huh?”

Renjun watches, nonplussed, as Yangyang reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a battered notebook and a pen. Interesting ‒ Renjun had taken him for a voice memo kind of guy.

“So, tell me,” Yangyang says conversationally, flipping to a fresh page. “What kind of sleep-related problems do you have?”

Later, Renjun will blame his voluntary continuation of this conversation on the fact that he’s still reeling from the shock of realising that The Sleepy Sheep is just another college-aged boy. That, and the fact that he had trekked half an hour across campus for this meeting. He’s come all this way, and this is supposed to be a free trial, right? He might as well see it to the end.

“Well ‒ I have nightmares.”

“Mmhm,” Yangyang nods to indicate he’s listening, and starts to write. “Go on.”

“They wake me up, and I can never go back to sleep after.” It’s not like Renjun has kept the fact that he has debilitating nightmares a secret from his friends and family, but it had always been disclosed under cover of darkness, or two shots past his drinking limit, or something. It feels weird, talking about it in broad daylight, to a guy he met not five minutes ago. Renjun feels oddly displaced. “And ‒ and they’re bad. Like. Really, really bad.”

Yangyang stops writing, and looks up. “Oh?”

Renjun’s skin prickles under Yangyang’s gaze. “Yeah.”

“Can you describe them to me?”

Renjun physically feels his skin crawl. “Do I really have to?”

“I mean,” Yangyang shrugs. “It’d be helpful to know exactly what you’re experiencing so I can help you.”

Is Renjun really going to spill his deepest, darkest secrets to the male equivalent of Avril Lavigne circa early-2000s? Except that Yangyang is looking at him expectantly, patient, the tip of his pen poised on the page. And Mark had said that he solved all of Ten’s problems, so…

Renjun decides to throw caution to the wind.

“They don’t repeat a lot,” he says. “As in, the nightmares aren’t the same ones. Sometimes it’ll be the same situation ‒ like, I’m falling, or I’m suffocating in a fire, or I’m trapped ‒ but the way they end is always different. There’ll be times I get away, or get to safety. There’ll be times I don’t. And the times I don’t ‒ ” Renjun’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, embarrassed. “The times I don’t ‒ I see how it ends. I feel it, too. I can feel… everything.”

He used to jerk awake before anything terrible happened in his dreamscape. Not anymore ‒ now, he feels everything acutely: how his bones shatter like glass when he hits the pavement. The intense heat of flames inching closer and closer towards him as he’s backed into a corner, choking on acrid smoke and his own tears. Walls closing in on him as he tries to find a way out, to escape, until he’s running out of air, and the walls are squeezing him, crushing him to pieces, blood and bone painting them red ‒

“Sweet.”

Renjun stops mid-description. “Excuse me?” he asks delicately, unsure if he’s misheard.

“I said, sweet,” Yangyang repeats loudly, frantically scrawling in his notebook, as if the problem was that Renjun is deaf in one ear and not that his response was entirely inappropriate. “Damn, your dreams are terrifying and vivid. I’ve never come across anyone with nightmares like yours, that’s so cool ‒ ”

Renjun tries and fails not to let his offence show.

“Well,” he says. “I can’t say I agree. They’re ‒ ”

“And how often would you say you have these nightmares?”

The glare Renjun shoots Yangyang for interrupting goes unnoticed. “Regularly,” Renjun concedes after a beat. “Almost every night.”

That seems to please Yangyang. “Awesome,” he says.

And then he honest-to-god smacks his lips.

Renjun’s mouth falls open. What is going on?

Yangyang, oblivious, continues, “And where did you say you lived again?”

Seriously, who is this guy, and what voodoo had he done to Ten and Mark that had them believing that he was god’s gift to insomniacs and nightmare sufferers? Renjun is going to have to have a word ‒ several words ‒ with them.

“I didn’t,” he says stiffly. “And I hardly think my address is relevant to my sleeping problems.”

Again, this doesn’t appear to bother Yangyang at all. “Ah, it’s fine, I’ll be able to find you anyway,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Renjun’s still mulling over the implications of that sentence ‒ one: creepy as fuck, and two: how? ‒ when Yangyang snaps his notebook shut and snags Renjun’s frappuccino, taking a giant slurp from it.

“Okay, well, I think I got all I need,” he says around the straw. “Gotta run!”

“Wait ‒ ” In the moments that Renjun takes to say that one word, Yangyang has stuffed his notebook back into his hoodie, picked up his skateboard, and is halfway out the door. “Wait, that’s it? That’s the free trial?”

Yangyang throws him a bemused look over his shoulder. “I mean, yeah? I’ll still see you tonight!”

“Tonight? Who said anything about ‒ ”

It’s too late. Yangyang either doesn’t hear him or pretends not to ‒ with a jaunty wave, he exits the cafe and rolls away on his skateboard (okay, Renjun thinks begrudgingly, so it wasn’t just for show), disappearing from view.

Renjun is left extremely confused, highly vexed, and very much alone.

“What the fuck,” he says to himself. He reaches for his drink, only realising at the last second that Yangyang has drunk all of it, and feels his blood pressure skyrocket. “What the actual fuck.”

Renjun is still cursing and grumbling to himself when he gets ready for bed that night. He’s lit one of his candles, hoping that it’ll lull him into a dreamless, peaceful sleep, but the scent of lavender does nothing to relax him.

“Free trial, my ass,” he mutters under his breath. He fluffs up his favourite pillow with more force than necessary. “What a weirdo ‒ just asked a bunch of random questions ‒ what a scam ‒ god, Renjun, you’re so stupid ‒ ”

It takes a lot more cursing, tossing and turning before Renjun finally settles down into a comfortable position in bed. It takes even longer for his eyelids to grow heavy, and for his breathing to even out. As on most nights, Renjun says a little prayer that he’ll have decent, uninterrupted sleep, and does his best to clear his mind so that nothing can invade his dreamscape.

He succeeds, for the most part. Just as Renjun’s drifting off, a thought pops up in his mind, unbidden. Just a wisp of it, so fleeting that it was barely there at all, appearing then dissolving into nothingness just as quickly:

What exactly had Yangyang meant when he said he’d see him tonight?

😴

Renjun is running.

There's sweat beading at his temple. His thighs are burning. The only sounds that he can hear as he flees down the corridor are the slaps of his bare feet against the cool tile, and his own ragged breathing.

He doesn't know where he is. The hallway he's found himself in is long and narrow, fluorescent lights overhead flickering on and off in tandem with his own heartbeat. The walls press in on him from both sides, stretching out to a vanishing point and disappearing into darkness, no end in sight. There are doors set into the walls, doors he runs past because ‒ somehow ‒ he knows innately that they're locked.

Just like he knows that, the moment he slows or stops, it'll be upon him in seconds.

So Renjun runs. The air, cold and sterile, whips past him, his sleeping robe billowing out behind him, cloth nipping sharply at his heels with every step. Some distant, tiny part of his brain, the one that isn't consumed by terror and the primal instinct to just move, knows that it's weighing him down, that he should get rid of it, but the burn in his legs is starting to morph into screams of exertion, of exhaustion, and his body is feeling so heavy, so slow.

Just a little farther, he thinks desperately. Just a bit more, and ‒

Renjun’s foot catches on nothing, and he stumbles.

He manages to plant a hand on the floor to break his fall, but it's not the graceful landing he had hoped for. Renjun cries out as a jolt of pain shoots up through to his shoulder, his arm buckling under his weight and sending him crashing to the ground. The side of his face meets the hard surface of the flooring with a smack, and his world instantly goes murky and blurry as his glasses are knocked off his face and skitter away into the darkness.

"No," Renjun gasps, head spinning and ringing from the impact of his fall. He reaches out blindly, pawing the ground for his glasses. He can't see! "No, no ‒ ”

And then he hears something that causes his heart to cascade from his chest all the way down to his toes.

From somewhere behind him, there comes a low, menacing snarl.

Renjun freezes. Against his better judgement, against all of his instincts screaming at him, he turns.

The path behind him is now shrouded in darkness. All of the lights have gone out, save for a single bulb hanging directly above where he's fallen, shining weakly and casting a small circle of light around him.

He should get up, run, go before it’s too late, but he can't move; he can't breathe. Renjun's fear is a paralysing weight, and he remains rooted to the spot, eyes wide and unseeing and wild as he parses the shadows for his predator.

Then the lightbulb flickers, once, twice, and the hallway plunges into darkness.

He's seen the movies. He knows how this goes. Dread and terror solidify like twin stones in Renjun’s chest, and he lets his eyes fall shut so that he doesn’t have to see his own end. He just hopes that it’s quick, and painless, and ‒

"Take that!"

Renjun's eyes snap open. He still can't see for shit, but from the shadows comes this: the pained groans of the monstrous thing that’s been chasing him; the whacks of wood hitting skin; someone shouting haiyah!!! over and over again; and then what sounds like wheels, rolling, rolling, rolling ‒

The lightbulb above him bursts back into life, and Renjun instinctively throws an arm up to shield himself from the sudden brightness. A few moments pass before he's able to lower his hand, and when he does, he manages to make out a white, circular object careening towards him, getting closer and closer.

Hang on. Renjun squints. Is that a sheep?

Said sheep screeches to a stop in front of where he’s sprawled out on the ground. "Hop on!"

Hop on? Hop on what?

The sheep shifts a little, and when Renjun looks down, he catches sight of a skateboard beneath its hooves.

Okay. This entire situation has officially just gotten a whole lot weirder.

"Dude," the sheep says. "What are you waiting for? A formal invitation, or something?"

Something about this sheep grates on Renjun's nerves. He's about to ask just why he would trust some random, skateboard-riding, talking sheep, when an inhumane roar cuts through the hallway, so deafening and guttural Renjun can feel his eyeballs shake in their sockets.

"Seriously, Renjun," the sheep says. "Hurry up!"

Maybe it's the note of urgency in the sheep's voice. Maybe it's the fact that, somehow, it knows his name.

Or maybe it's the unmistakable sound of something shuffling along the floor towards them, its deep, rattling breaths growing louder and louder with each second.

Whatever it is, Renjun doesn't hesitate ‒ he jumps onto the skateboard behind the sheep, sinks his fingers into its (surprisingly soft) fleece coat, and yells, "Go! Go, go, go!"

He doesn’t have to tell the sheep twice (or thrice, or four times) ‒ the moment Renjun has both feet on the skateboard, the sheep kicks off the ground, and then they're flying.

Renjun hangs onto the sheep for dear life as they speed down the hallway. His heart is in his throat, and the lights overhead are flickering erratically, a low hum filling the air and mingling with the pounding footsteps behind them, the predator in hot pursuit. The sheep doesn't say a word, doesn't look back, just determinedly powers down the hallway, which has started to twist and turn, taking the corners like a pro. They skid once or twice, and Renjun lurches forward each time, but the sheep simply shoves Renjun behind it and keeps them upright and going, going, going, until they take what seems like the hundredth corner to find ‒

The sight of a solid wall at the end of the corridor fills Renjun with horror. “It’s a dead end!”

The sheep scoffs. “No, it isn’t,” it says with an authority Renjun doesn’t think it should possess.

And then, in what seems like the worst move ever, the skateboard speeds up.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Renjun screams as they careen at a hundred kilometres an hour towards what is literally a brick wall. “Stop ‒ oh my god, we’re going to die ‒ ”

“We are not!”

They most certainly are, but Renjun is powerless to do anything. There’s a roaring in his ears, from the wind or the monster chasing them, he’s not sure, but all he can see is the very solid, very real brick wall they’re hurtling towards, and he is absolutely going to throw up ‒

“Hang on!” the sheep yells.

Renjun does as he’s told. He squeezes his eyes shut, squeezes his arms around the sheep’s midsection, and braces himself for a crash which ‒

‒ never comes.

They’re still moving, but slowing down. Renjun cracks open an eye warily, certain that they’ve met their demise, only to find that they’re no longer in the hallway. No ‒ what he sees instead is so shocking that he falls off the skateboard.

The best way he can describe it is vast, empty space. Everything is pure white ‒ the ceiling, the ground, the walls, probably, if there are any ‒ and blank, like someone has rendered brand new copier paper into a physical space.

“What ‒ ” Renjun spins around in circles, manic, half-expecting his pursuer to jump out and rip him to shreds. There’s nothing but blank space all around him. “What just happened?”

He turns to the sheep, which is coasting around the space lazily. When the sheep catches him looking, it hops off its skateboard and approaches him on foot. As it gets closer, Renjun sees that it’s smiling smugly, revealing rows of teeth that are perfect, pearly, and ‒ Renjun realises with a jolt ‒ all too familiar.

“What just happened?” Yangyang grins, teeth glinting sharply in the light. “I did.”

😴

Waking up this morning, unlike so many others, is a gradual process. Renjun's consciousness doesn’t zap through him like a lightning bolt; instead, it creeps up on him slowly, spreading through his head like tendrils of tea steeping in lukewarm water. By the time his eyes flutter open, daylight has coloured his room daisy yellow; dawn has come and long gone.

It's late, he realises, much later than he's accustomed to. A quick look at his phone confirms his suspicions ‒ it's already eleven in the morning.

Holy shit. He's slept for ten hours straight.

Renjun is stunned. He can't remember the last time he had woken up so late, or gotten so much uninterrupted sleep. It makes a noticeable difference ‒ his head is clear of his usual morning grogginess, and he feels inexplicably lighter. His eyes don't even ache like they usually do.

God. Is this what normal people feel like? No wonder Mark is so cheerful all the damn time.

Renjun flops back into bed, still pleasantly reeling from the shock. Outside his bedroom window, birds are chirping cheerily. His curtains flap softly in an invisible breeze, and the late morning sunlight streams through them to fall into rectangles on the opposite wall. He doesn’t even have class today ‒ it’s the perfect morning, after a perfect night’s sleep.

Renjun closes his eyes, sinking deeper into his pillows, revelling in the peace and quiet ‒

‒ which is immediately shattered by the sound of someone knocking incessantly at his front door.

When Renjun answers it, he's greeted by the last person he expects.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Yangyang grins.

Renjun stares. Rubs his eyes. Rubs his eyes again, and when he realises that, no, this isn’t an apparition: "What are you doing here?"

"To check up on you after last night, silly. Now, aren't you going to let me in? I've been sitting out here for hours, and my butt is freezing.”

Yangyang doesn't bother waiting for a response before he shoulders his way past Renjun. He gives the studio apartment a barely concealed once-over ‒ kitchenette (hardly used), bed (still unmade), dining-slash-study table (a mess) ‒ then unceremoniously drops his skateboard to the floor with a clatter, sending flakes of paint and dirt flying across the parquet.

Renjun winces ‒ he had just mopped the floors last week. At least Yangyang had kicked off his shoes before entering.

"Last night?" Renjun watches as Yangyang zips around the apartment, nosy. He unabashedly peers at Renjun’s half-finished sketches on the table, his overflowing recycling bin, the rows of manga stacked on his bookshelf. "What are you talking about?"

Yangyang spins around from where he's examining Renjun's succulent and cacti collection (fake and dead, in that order). "Your free trial. You don't remember?"

It feels like he’s going at lightspeed and Renjun's standing still, mind still foggy with sleep. "Free trial?" Renjun responds, confused. “What do you mean, free ‒ ”

His eyes land on the skateboard, and, in a rush, the events of the previous night come flooding back.

The hallway. The monster. The perfect, pristine blankness that followed.

And a walking, talking, skateboard-toting sheep.

"Oh my god," Renjun says.

Yangyang looks pleased. "So you do remember!"

"Oh my god," Renjun says again, then goes to lie down.

After a beat, a weight settles beside him on the mattress. Yangwang's face appears in Renjun’s line of sight, upside down and anticipatory.

"I'll give you a minute," Yangyang says. "I expect you have some questions."

That, Renjun thinks faintly, is the understatement of the year.

So he takes the minute, and then another, and then one more for the road. When he's sure he's not going to throw up, or have a major freak out, Renjun sits up and demands, without preamble, "Who are you, and how the fuck did you get into my nightmare?"

With an air of self-importance, Yangyang straightens his clothes, puffs out his chest, and draws himself up to his full height. Renjun is satisfied to see that he’s not that much taller than him.

“I,” Yangyang proudly proclaims with all the grandeur of a town crier announcing the arrival of royalty. “Am a baku.”

Renjun’s brow furrows. Huh?

"A bak-what?"

"A baku," Yangyang corrects. “Meng mo. Otherwise known as a dream-eater. An ancient, mythological creature that’s been a friend to children and nightmare sufferers since the dawn of time."

Renjun takes the opportunity to scan him up and down. Yangyang's hair is an absolute mess, almost like he spent the night outdoors sleeping on Renjun's doorstep, which Renjun supposes he did. He's dressed in baggy, tie-dyed jeans today, paired with a bleached denim jacket, and is wearing a ratty university-brand hoodie underneath it. There's orange potato chip dust down his front.

"Right," Renjun deadpans.

Yangyang deflates a little. "I'm telling you the truth!"

“I never said you weren’t.”

Yangyang brightens. “So you believe me, then?”

Renjun mulls it over. He's never had a nightmare like the one he had last night ‒ for one, none of them have ever fizzled out like that, like they’d been erased from existence. Neither has he ever continued to sleep after the end of a nightmare; he’s lost count of the number of times he’s woken up in cold sweat, clock showing an ungodly hour, unable to go back to bed after. And while he's generally imaginative, he doesn't think he’s consumed enough alcohol or drugs in his lifetime to conjure up a fast-talking, fluffy, skateboarding sheep.

From a purely objective standpoint (which does not include the tiny part of him that’s a diehard Buzzfeed Unsolved stan), all the evidence does seem to lead to one answer: the one that Yangyang had provided. So ‒ does he believe Yangyang?

The question is, how could he not?

“I mean,” Renjun realises. “Yeah? I guess I do.”

"Because you could just have another nightmare, and I would just prove that ‒ oh." Yangyang blinks, surprised and gratified all at once. "Sorry, I was expecting a lot more scepticism. You're taking this a lot better than my last client."

"Do you mean Ten?"

“Yeah, man.”

“How did he react?”

Yangyang grimaces. “With a lot of cursing, swearing, and a flying plate aimed right at my head."

In spite of himself, Renjun's mouth twitches at the image. "Sounds about right.”

They sit in silence ‒ well, Renjun sits; Yangyang stands, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot ‒ for a couple of minutes more. Renjun’s still processing that, one, mythical creatures are real, and two, Yangyang, of all people, is one of them, when the mythical being in question clears his throat and tentatively asks, "Do you wanna know anything else?"

Of course he does. Renjun’s brain buzzes, stuffed with cotton and a million and one questions. Though he isn’t entirely sure what the rules of etiquette are, when asking members of the supernatural stuff ‒ like, would it be rude to ask about the mechanics of how he enters nightmares? Or whether Yangyang is like one of the lizard aliens he’s read about, wearing human skin to conceal his true form?

"I mean." Renjun wracks his brain for something halfway intelligent. "How ‒ how?"

"How what? How I got here, or how I got into your nightmare?"

"Both."

Yangyang looks, for lack of a better word, slightly sheepish. "Well, I may have kind of, sort of, perhaps… tracked you."

Renjun stares. "You ‒ "

"I only needed to meet you the one time, it's not that hard." Yangyang pauses, thinking. "Actually, nah, it kind of was ‒ sorry about that, by the way, I would've come a lot sooner, maybe saved you the trouble of having to run from whatever was chasing you, but I got the wrong apartment at first. My bad.”

Renjun does not know what tracking entails, and at this point he isn’t sure if he wants to know. So he just settles for nodding mutely, and Yangyang takes that as encouragement to continue.

"And, um, as for how I got into your nightmare... I just have to be asleep when you are. So I can, like, I don't know." Yangyang crooks his fingers, drawing quotation marks in the air. “'Traverse the dreamscape', as my mum used to say."

“Your mum ‒ ?"

"Oh, it's hereditary. Our forms are all of the ovine variety.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement. Renjun decides to let it slide for now, lest his head explode from the influx of information.

"And ‒ the nightmare,” Renjun presses. “It just ‒ just ended. That’s never happened to me before. How did you do that?”

"Oh, that, yeah,” Yangyang says. “I ate it.”

“Ate it?!”

“Yeah, man.” Yangyang looks unruffled, like they’re discussing something as mundane as the weather, and not the fact that he swallows nightmares whole like they’re M&Ms. "Dream-eater, remember? Thanks for the food, by the way. It was delicious!"

He pats his stomach, and Renjun’s eyes follow the action. Even with the oversized hoodie, Renjun can tell Yangyang’s tummy is a little rounded, like he’d just eaten a particularly filling meal.

Right. Okay. This is entirely normal.

Renjun takes a deep, steadying breath. “And if I wanted to, um, engage your services ‒ how would it work, exactly? Do you have to be here, physically, or…?”

“Well,” Yangyang says, visibly lighting up at the mention of business. “We can do it one of two ways. Either you summon me in the middle of your nightmare ‒ ”

“I what?”

Yangyang looks amused. “Summon me,” he says. “Just, like, say my name in your nightmare, and poof! I’ll be there.”

“And how am I supposed to do that if I’m asleep?”

“Oh,” Yangyang says vaguely, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll figure it out.”

That is utterly unhelpful. Renjun takes another deep breath, and reminds himself that punching people ‒ especially those of the mythological variety ‒ is frowned upon in most modern societies.

“You said there were two ways. What’s the other one?”

For some reason, Yangyang blushes a little. “Well, the other option is for us to prevent the nightmare entirely. And in order to do that, I, uh, typically have to fall asleep around the same time as my clients, and be somewhere nearby…”

Yangyang’s gaze drifts over to where Renjun’s sitting, and Renjun realises where this is going.

“... like in their bed.”

Yeah, no ‒ this guy might be an ancient spirit who can devour night terrors, and he might have been quite literally in Renjun’s head, but Renjun draws the line at inviting someone who is essentially a stranger into his bed. “Um, thanks, but hard pass.”

“Are you sure? Cause, like, I might not be asleep when you are, and even if you summon me, I might not get through right away. My clients say that it’s more effective ‒ ”

“Thanks,” Renjun interrupts loudly, flushing. “But no thanks.”

They lapse into silence once again, more awkward than the last. Renjun glances down at his bed, a super single. Yep, he decides. He’ll figure out the summoning thing, come hell or high water. He isn’t going to let just anyone sleep in his precious, six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets (purchased on sale, because Renjun loves being bougie on a budget), no matter how good they may look in double denim. Renjun tugs at the neck of his sleep shirt, distracted. God. Has his room always been this hot?

"It's a lot, I know,” Yangyang says gently, taking Renjun's silence for a mental breakdown (he’s not wrong). "But, like, all this craziness and supernatural shit aside, everyone deserves a good night’s sleep, Renjun. I do want to help you, if you'll let me.”

Renjun wants to point out that Yangyang benefits from this arrangement as much as he does ‒ Yangyang gets to eat; Renjun gets to sleep ‒ but he finds himself stopping short. Yangyang is looking at him earnestly, round eyes shining with sincerity. Even though by now he knows Yangyang's true form is a sheep, Renjun is abruptly reminded of a puppy begging for treats.

And so, even though there's a vague, foreboding feeling in his chest, Renjun finds himself asking, “It’s $5 a session, right?"

Yangyang's face splits into a wide grin. Renjun can't help but zero in on his mouth. Wow, he thinks distantly. That's a lot of teeth.

"Yeah. And there’s a subscription plan, too, if you’re interested!"

😴

The thing is, Renjun kind of sucks at summoning.

Yangyang drags him up the bank where the water won’t get to them, then collapses into a pile next to Renjun. “We have got to stop meeting like this,” Yangyang says, but the way he shivers, fleece matted and weighed down by water, betrays his lighthearted tone.

Renjun’s too busy coughing his lungs out to reply straight away, throat burning from choking on pond water. Once he finishes hacking up what must be half the contents of the (imaginary) lake behind them, he wipes his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. “Like I do it on purpose,” he whines, then winces at the hoarseness of his voice.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to call for Yangyang. Often, Renjun doesn’t even realise he’s in a nightmare until it’s too late, when whatever bad thing is going to happen, well, happens. His distress must be like a fucking bat signal, or something, though, because somehow, Yangyang always appears out of nowhere to swoop in and save the day.

Except for those times Renjun was mauled/burned/drowned/crushed/etcetera before Yangyang could get to him. Those times, Renjun had woken up from his nightmare in the real world with his bedsheets drenched in his own sweat and his phone ringing with an incoming call from a frantic Yangyang.

“I’m serious, Renjun.” Yangyang’s small black face is pinched with worry. “We have to figure this out. This is, what, the fifth time this month I’ve had to save you in the middle of a nightmare?”

“Uh.” Guilt churns in the pit of Renjun’s stomach. “It’s actually the sixth.”

“Ugh. And that’s not even counting all the times I didn’t get to you in time.”

Yangyang leaps up onto four legs, then shakes the water from his body, just like a dog. As if by magic, his fleece coat springs back to its normal state, dry and fluffy. Renjun, still cold and wet, looks on in envy.

“It’s really not as bad as you think it is,” Renjun says as he wrings the water from his clothes, and, honestly? Trying to soothe his dream-eating sleep specialist was not on his bingo card for this semester. “I’m used to waking up at all hours because of a bad dream.”

Yangyang frowns. Or, at least Renjun thinks he does ‒ it’s hard to tell, with the shaggy fleece that covers half his face. “Well, you shouldn’t be.”

He turns away sharply, and Renjun realises that he’s upset. Before he can call after him, Yangyang fishes out his skateboard from somewhere and leaps onto it to start the dream-cleansing process.

This part, at least, is familiar and safe. Yangyang coasts across the landscape of Renjun’s dream leisurely, the dark, ominous lake and bank overgrown with weeds disappearing beneath the wheels of his skateboard. Like on the other five occasions, Renjun can’t help but watch, fascinated; it’s like someone has taken a giant paintbrush dipped in white and painted all over the colours of his nightmare, leaving nothing but a blank canvas behind.

When he’s done, Yangyang skates back over to where Renjun’s sitting. He leans over, as if to sniff Renjun’s hair, but when he draws back, Renjun sees that he’s holding a piece of duckweed gently between his teeth. Yangyang spits it out onto the floor, where it dissolves into nothingness.

“Look,” he says. “I’m saying this as your sleep specialist and a dedicated service provider ‒ and not just cause I wanna get in your bed, hahahaha ‒ but, like, it makes no sense for you to keep having these dreams when there’s a viable solution. So are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you so I can end your nightmares before they begin?”

Renjun looks into Yangyang’s beady little sheep eyes, darkened with concern. Deep down, he knows that Yangyang’s right. The nightmares would stop if he just let Yangyang crash with him. He isn’t a stranger anymore, not really ‒ they have an ongoing WeChat thread, where Renjun makes appointments and Yangyang sends him funny memes and Douyins. They make small talk and complain about assignments and professors once the dream-cleansing is over and there’s nothing to do in infinite blankness (it turns out Yangyang is getting his bachelor’s in clinical psychology, which is surprisingly befitting of a baku). Yangyang’s seen the worst nightmares that Renjun’s mind has created, and braved them every time.

Still, Renjun has his suspicions. “You’re not just saying this because you’re secretly homeless and need a place to crash, are you?”

“Dude,” Yangyang snorts. “My bed is a king. I bet it’s even more comfortable than yours.”

Which university kid has a bedroom big enough for a king? Renjun wonders, not for the first time, exactly who Yangyang is outside of this dream-cleaning job, and he wavers. “Well, okay, then. I guess you could stay over tomorrow night.”

And that’s how, post-nighttime skincare routine, Renjun finds Yangyang in his bed.

Renjun pulls up short. “What’re you doing in my bed?”

“What?” Yangyang asks, looking around from where he’s laying a teddy bear on the mattress. “You don’t expect me to sleep on the floor, do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do, actually.”

Yangyang stops fussing with his teddy. His mouth pushes outwards in the beginnings of a pout. “Ten doesn’t make me sleep on the floor.”

And this is relevant how, exactly? Renjun thinks. “Okay, well, I’m not Ten.”

“Bro,” Yangyang whines. Oh, he’s definitely pouting now. “C’mon, man. I have a bad back, I wouldn’t survive a night on your hard floors with its terrible, stained carpeting.”

“I’ve heard sleeping on floors is good for your back, actually,” Renjun retorts, but he peers at the carpet and: yeah. He wouldn’t want to sleep on it either.

Yangyang cries out triumphantly at the look on Renjun’s face. “See! You can’t possibly make little ol’ me slum it out on the floor while you get the bed alllll to yourself, can you?”

Teddy in his arms, Yangyang sticks out his lower lip, exaggerated, and bats his eyelashes for emphasis. It’s so ‒ so childish. And yet, he doesn’t look it: Yangyang lounges in Renjun’s bed like he belongs in it, in his striped matching pyjamas, the collar dipping low to reveal a silver chain and a flash of skin. His hair is mussed up from where he’d been leaning against the headboard, and his eyes are big and pleading and dark in the glow of Renjun’s bedside lamp.

The contrast sends him reeling. Renjun is left feeling fifty percent irritated, fifty percent endeared, and a hundred percent flustered.

“I just ‒ look.” Renjun swallows. “You have to understand that I haven’t had anyone in my bed in a really long time ‒ ”

“Oh, really?”

“What do you mean ‒ oh my god.” It takes a second for Yangyang’s meaning to register, but when it does, Renjun’s irritation swells; simultaneously, a blush bloom across his cheeks. “Shut up! I didn’t mean it like that.”

Yangyang grins, delighted and diabolical. “You kind of did, though.”

“No, this is about needing physical space ‒ Ugh, you know what? Forget it. You can sleep on the floor, I don’t care ‒ ”

“Nooooo!” Yangyang’s attitude flips like a switch at the threat. He hurls himself across the bed and grabs Renjun. “I’m sorry, man, my back really is fucked, I promise I’ll give you all the space you need. Are you a kicker? ’Cause you can kick me, I won’t complain, just let me sleep on the bed, pleaseee ‒ ”

Yangyang’s grip is tight on his arms, and his face ‒ with that calculated, kicked puppy expression ‒ is way too fucking close. So much for personal boundaries.

“Oh my god,” Renjun says loudly, hoping it’ll drown out Yangyang’s whining and the sudden heat that thrums along his skin. “Fine, but the minute you hog the blankets, or take up more than half the space, I won’t hesitate to kick you out of bed.”

Yangyang squeals in excitement. He squeezes Renjun’s biceps one last time and scooches over to give him some room. “I won’t, Scout’s honour!”

He even does a little three-fingered salute. Renjun seriously doubts that Yangyang was ever in Scouts, or whatever the equivalent is on this side of the planet, but he just sighs, resigned, and crawls into bed. He has enough pillows for both of them, thank god, so it’s just a matter of rearranging the bedding until they’re both lying side by side in the dark.

Except Renjun’s standard issue bed is tiny. It’s not made for two grown men, even if they’re both on the smaller side. Renjun can feel Yangyang’s body heat through the sliver of space that separates them, and is keenly aware of how the duvet rises and falls with a breath that’s not his own. Every time Renjun shifts, trying to get comfortable, some part of his body accidentally grazes the fabric of Yangyang’s pyjamas, sending something a lot like static through him.

“Hey.” Yangyang’s whisper cuts through the dark, knife-like. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re just, like, really tense.”

“What?” Renjun turns so that he’s on his side facing Yangyang. The bed shakes with his abrupt movement. “How can you tell?”

“Um, by that. Also, you’re holding yourself as stiff as a board.”

Renjun realises as soon as Yangyang says it that his hands are in fists. He unclenches them. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Yangyang says genially. “You just gotta, like, chill out.”

“I’m trying.”

Yangyang hums, thinking. “If you want, I have something that could help you relax? My grandma used to do this to me all the time when I was a kid and she was trying to get me to take a nap.”

“What is it?”

“Well ‒ ”

Renjun feels something brush, featherlight, across his arm, and jumps.

“Hey, hey, relax, it’s just me.” Yangyang’s voice is soothing, velvet-soft in the night. His hand settles on Renjun’s shoulder, warm and steadying. “Here. Can you turn around for me? So you’re facing out, not in.”

“You better not do anything weird,” Renjun warns, but he flips over as asked.

“I won’t,” Yangyang promises, and then proceeds to do so anyway.

His hand falls along the dip of Renjun’s waist, slow in motion but deliberate. It takes several repeats of this for Renjun to realise that Yangyang isn’t groping him, or something equally weird. No ‒ Yangyang is patting him.

The thing is, it’s not like Renjun hasn’t been patted before. Mark does it all the time, usually on his head, and his other friends have been known to pat him on the cheek, or shoulder, quick, affectionate taps that he usually squirms out of when he’s done tolerating all of their attention.

This, though ‒ this is different. Yangyang’s hand on his waist, coupled with their positions on the bed, feels intimate in a way that his interactions with his other friends are not. With the night light off, the room is pitch-black, and all of Renjun’s other senses are heightened. He can hear Yangyang’s steady breathing behind him; feel warmth bleeding through his shirt every time Yangyang’s hand settles along his waist. When Renjun’s shirt rides up slightly and Yangyang’s fingers brush across exposed skin, heat flashes through Renjun’s entire body.

“What ‒ ”

“Dude,” Yangyang whispers. “Trust me.”

And despite Yangyang’s flightiness, despite the absurdity of their situation, a baku and his nighttime snack, Renjun finds that ‒ astonishingly, implicitly, truly ‒ he does.

So he nods even though he knows Yangyang can’t see it, and wills himself to release all the tension that’s built up in his body. It takes a couple of minutes for the warmth in his body to fade, but eventually, Renjun manages to tune out all the nighttime sensations to focus on the steady movement of Yangyang’s hand on his waist. His breathing unconsciously syncs up with the rhythm of the pats ‒ one, two; one, two ‒ and Renjun starts to sag into the mattress. Behind him, Yangyang shuffles a little closer, which is warm, and nice, and it might be Renjun’s imagination, but it sounds like Yangyang is humming a familiar childhood tune under his breath.

I get why Yangyang’s grandmother did this, is Renjun’s last waking thought, and then he passes out into a dreamless sleep.

😴

When he wakes, it’s to warmth and a general feeling of suffocation. The first, Renjun attributes to the sunshine streaming through the windows, signalling the start of a brand new day. And as for the second ‒

Sometime in the middle of the night, Yangyang had gravitated towards Renjun’s side of the bed. He’s carelessly slung an arm and a leg around Renjun, like a particularly clingy octopus, and for someone not very large, his limbs are dead weight. As if that wasn’t close enough, Yangyang has buried his face in the hollow of Renjun’s neck and shoulder, and each exhale, warm and steady, tickles the column of Renjun’s neck.

Alarm bells ring in Renjun’s head. So much for Yangyang keeping his distance. Renjun should shove him off ‒ there’s a patch of Yangyang’s drool on his shirt, and his arm is growing numb from where Yangyang’s lying on top of it.

But seeing someone who’s constantly in a state of motion, now so still, gives Renjun pause. In the handful of seconds since he’s woken up, all Renjun can do is stare, mesmerised, at the way Yangyang’s eyelashes flutter every time his eyelids twitch in his sleep; at the tiny mole dotting the curve of his left cheekbone. Asleep, Yangyang looks painfully young and peaceful, nothing at all like the cheeky, wise-cracking guy Renjun’s come to know, and Renjun finds himself hoping that he'll stay that way for a little bit longer.

The thought startles him. Renjun forces himself to look away, up to the ceiling. Yangyang, still fast asleep, makes a noise like a mewl and snuggles even closer.

Okay, Renjun says to himself. Okay.

Maybe he can deal with his personal boundaries being breached, just for a while longer.

😴

“There you are!”

Renjun spins around on his stool at the sudden intrusion. It takes some time for his eyes to refocus on something that’s not his canvas, but when they do, his mouth falls open in surprise. “Yangyang? What are you doing here?”

Here is the art studio that Renjun has holed himself up in for the last two days. He’s got a painting due in approximately twelve hours, and has started ‒ and restarted ‒ his submission three times. His latest attempt is some ghastly mix of blues and greens, and he isn’t quite sure what to make of it yet. He’s just hoping inspiration will strike before the deadline does.

“You missed your appointment last night,” Yangyang says, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I got worried.”

“Last night?”

Renjun fumbles for his phone. His hands are flecked with paint, both dried and wet, and some of it smears on his screen as he checks the time.

Shit. His twelve hours have just been reduced to a measly five.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I ‒ I must have just worked right through it.”

“Have you been here all night?”

Renjun pockets his phone, and looks up guiltily. “Um. The past two nights, actually.”

“The past two ‒ !” Yangyang’s eyebrows shoot up, incredulous, before his expression turns stern. “Alright, that’s it. Nap time. Now.”

“What?” Renjun says, panicking. “No, not now, this piece is due by the end of today and I’m barely halfway done!”

“You’re making good progress, though!” Yangyang walks over until he’s right by Renjun’s stool, tilting his head as he appraises the half-finished painting. “I think it looks just like the sea!”

“... It’s meant to be a butterfly.”

An awkward silence follows.

“Well.” Yangyang clears his throat. “Maybe we both need to get some rest, then.”

Renjun does not need rest. Renjun needs Yangyang to leave, so he can get shit done.

In an attempt to distract Yangyang, he changes the subject. “How did you even get in?” Renjun says, suspicious. “This building’s accessible to art students only.”

“I ran into Ten outside.” Yangyang pulls an access card from his pocket and wiggles it between his fingers. “Convinced him to let me in, and then it was just a matter of looking into every room to see if you were around.”

“Oh,” Renjun says, dumbfounded. How long had Yangyang taken? This building is huge. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Yangyang shrugs. “It’s no biggie. Now, seriously, stop, I know what you’re trying to do. Time to get some sleep, babe.”

It’s not the first time Yangyang has called him that. It’s also not the first time that heat blossoms across Renjun’s cheeks ‒ ugh! ‒ at the endearment. He slumps down on his stool in an effort to hide it. “Yangyang, I really can’t. This painting is due in five hours. And I just ‒ I can’t seem to get it quite right, you know? Everytime I think of an idea it just doesn’t translate well on paper.”

“That’s because you’re tired,” Yangyang insists. “Burned out. Fatigued.”

“Did you swallow a thesaurus?” Renjun wants to know, combative. “Look, you don’t get it. I just ‒ I just can’t stop thinking about this painting, when it should have been finished, like, a week ago, except I kept procrastinating, and now that it’s not done and literally due tonight, it makes me feel like ants are crawling all over my brain, and I just know I’d never forgive myself if I used the time I have left on something else instead of finishing this ‒ oof!”

All the wind is knocked out of him when Yangyang steps between his legs mid-spiral and envelopes him in a tight, secure hug. Renjun’s so taken aback by this that his brain stalls, just for a second, and with his face smushed into the juncture of Yangyang’s shoulder and neck, he makes the mistake of taking in a deep breath.

Yangyang smells like laundry detergent. Not the cheap shit available in their campus supermarket ‒ the expensive kind, with lavender and organic ingredients and who knows what else. And mixed in with that is Yangyang’s cologne, something light and floral, and beneath that, the barest hint of sweat and natural musk. It’s faint but present, honey wrapped up in spun sugar, and Renjun doesn’t think he would have detected it at all if not for the fact that he’s been smelling it for weeks: on mornings Yangyang is draped over him, on the pillow that they’ve silently agreed is Yangyang’s, on the collar of his shirt as he pulls it over his head to step into the morning shower ‒

‒ and that is so not what Renjun should be thinking of right now.

“What are you doing? Let go of me!”

“Nu-uh.”

“Yangyang, I’m serious. Let me go!”

“Nope,” Yangyang says, as Renjun struggles to no avail. “Not until you stop talking.”

Renjun shuts up immediately, and Yangyang shakes with silent laughter.

“C’mon, dude. Just relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” Renjun says into Yangyang’s jacket. “I’m so relaxed that I’m going to punch you in the face after this, and sleep like a baby after.”

“Aw,” Yangyang coos. “You’re always so cranky when you don’t get enough sleep.”

His snicker breaks off into a groan when Renjun elbows him in the ribs and wiggles out of his grasp. “Shut up,” Renjun growls, sliding off the stool for the first time in hours. “Why do you always have to be so ‒ ”

He doesn’t remember how he was going to finish that sentence. Vertigo hits him with the full force of a train just as his feet touch the ground, and Renjun stumbles. He blindly reaches out, but before he can find something to hold on to, an arm shoots out to steady him.

“Shit, are you okay?”

The room spins. Renjun, light-headed, can only squeeze his eyes shut. He pitches forward, Yangyang’s grip on his elbows tightening, until his forehead touches Yangyang’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Just ‒ hang on.”

Yangyang keeps quiet without any further prompting, which Renjun is grateful for. He holds himself as still as possible, battling the dizziness and blinking the black spots from his vision. Again, the smell of Yangyang’s clothes and cologne and scent fill his nose, and Renjun inhales it greedily, breathing in and out in long, even counts. When the worst of it is over, he grunts, and Yangyang guides him back to the stool.

“Does this happen a lot?” Yangyang asks, voice tinged with worry.

“Yeah,” Renjun admits, still a little woozy. “When I don’t get enough ‒ um.”

He pauses, caught. Yangyang catches the slip-up. “When you don’t get enough sleep,” he finishes.

Renjun ducks his head, cheeks flaming. “Yeah.”

Yangyang doesn’t say anything to that. When Renjun dares to glance back up, vision crystal clear, he sees that Yangyang’s biting his lip, looking upon him with a mixture of concern and frustration.

“Renjun,” Yangyang says, more serious than Renjun’s ever heard him. “Come on. This ‒ this not-prioritising-sleep thing. It isn’t good for you.”

Embarrassment and guilt course through Renjun. “I know.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

“I don’t know.” He truly doesn’t. If Renjun had to guess, though, maybe it’s because, for such a long time, sleep had been an impediment, not an escape. A baku-for-hire at his disposal isn’t going to change that overnight. Old habits die hard, and all that jazz. “I guess ‒ I guess I’m not very good at taking care of myself.”

Yangyang smiles wryly. “It’s a good thing that I’m here, then.”

He offers it up so easily, like it’s nothing. And maybe it is nothing ‒ this is just part and parcel of his job, isn’t it? To make sure his clients get enough rest?

Except the way Yangyang says it makes something hot and cold bloom in Renjun’s veins, across his skin. It’s just like stepping out into summer sunshine after spending days hunched over an easel, air-conditioning on full blast and the smell of turpentine clinging to his clothes. Yangyang’s expression is gentle, patient, open, and little by little, Renjun’s resolve begins to thaw.

It’s not a familiar feeling. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, either.

“I don’t want to leave campus,” Renjun says weakly.

“It’s okay. We can sleep right here.”

“The floor is hard and cold.”

“Then I’ll lay my jacket down and we can sleep on it.”

“It’ll take too long.”

“Nah, you’ll only need thirty minutes to rest, tops.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Ten.”

“Twenty.”

They stare at each other, at an impasse, but Yangyang’s eyes are bright and steely and just too much. It’s almost like staring directly into the sun.

Renjun looks away. “Okay, fine. Twenty minutes.”

Yangyang smiles at that, victorious. “Alright. Let’s make this count.”

They turn off the lights, leaving the one furthest away from them on, and move the stools and easels so there’s enough room on the ground for the two of them. As promised, Yangyang gallantly lays his jacket down, letting Renjun use it as a makeshift pillow, and in perfect unison, they proceed to lie down on their backs, side by side, on the art studio’s paint-flecked floors.

“You know,” Renjun says. “I’ve never taken a nap in school before.”

“Never?”

“No. It’s not exactly a relaxing environment, is it?”

“It can be a boring environment, though, which I find just as conducive.”

Renjun huffs out a laugh, which quickly morphs into a yawn. “I bet you were the kind to pick a seat in the back, and nap through all the classes you hated.”

“Hey,” Yangyang says, mock-offended, but his smile is evident in his voice. “I’ll have you know I was a star student. I was even on the basketball team. One time, I got, like, the MVP award for the season, and as a treat my parents brought me and my jie to the beach. It was late when we got there, ’cause mum took a wrong turn, but we managed to catch the sunset. And there was this dope snack shack that had a surfboard bitten by a real shark as a store sign ‒ ”

Yangyang continues to speak, words running over each other the way a stream runs over stones. Somewhere along the line, Yangyang switches to Mandarin, his accent melodic, soft, comforting, and it’s easy for Renjun to let the current of Yangyang’s voice carry him.

It’s nice, Renjun thinks drowsily. Especially when I don’t have to look at the person it belongs to. No, hang on ‒ Renjun blinks, eyelids growing heavy, trying to think of the reason why. Yangyang’s fine. A little annoying, sure, and he teases a little too much but he’s ‒ he’s nice, right? Yeah ‒ Renjun yawns. Yeah. It’s just that Yangyang is so… The way he looks, sometimes, is so…

Something brushes across his forehead, warm and soft. “Sleep well, Renjunnie,” Renjun hears, and then he goes under.

😴

When he resurfaces, Yangyang is already there.

“Oh, wow,” Yangyang blinks, bobbing alongside him. “This is a nice one.”

They’re at the seaside, waist-deep in the water. Seagulls, their cries haunting and hungry, swoop overhead and out into the open sea, chasing the sun as it dips beneath the horizon. The skies are coloured cotton candy pink and burnt caramel orange, and when Renjun inhales, it smells, inexplicably, like lavender.

Buffeted by the waves and the sea breeze, Renjun turns around to find a beach. Despite the various signs of life ‒ plastic toys and towels strewn across the sand; the strains of an old Mayday song playing from a portable radio; cars still parked over by the pier ‒ it’s totally empty. Even the lone stand on the waterfront is unmanned ‒ Renjun has to squint to read the words SNACK SHACK written across what looks like a chewed-up surfboard, and it’s then that he realises where they are.

“Is this ‒ ”

“From my trip,” Yangyang says, eyes roving around the beach, the sea, the sky, then back to Renjun. “Oh my god. This is literally from the trip I was just telling you about. How did you do it?”

Renjun shakes his head, equally stunned. “I have no idea. I didn’t even hear half of what you were saying ‒ ”

“You must have! It seeped into your subconscious, or something ‒ ”

“Maybe,” Renjun says. It might be in his head, but it seems like their surroundings are adjusting the longer they stand there ‒ it smells more like brine, now, and the humidity has rocketed up a few notches. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always had a vivid imagination.”

“You can say that again. It’s almost ‒ it’s almost exactly how I described it to you.”

Something about Yangyang’s tone makes Renjun tear his eyes away from his dreamscape to look at him. In his sheep form, Yangyang’s so short that only the very top of his fleece coat and his head are above the water. Ordinarily, Renjun might have cooed at the cuteness of it all, but he doesn’t think now is the right time. Yangyang is looking wistfully at the shore, silently mouthing the words to the Mayday song, and it might be a trick of the light, but Renjun swears his eyes are a little misty.

“Yangyang ‒ are you okay?”

“What?” Yangyang croaks, and oh, Renjun thinks, I was right. “Yeah, yeah. I just, um.” He sniffs, the sound loud and clogged, before his voice takes on its usual breeziness. “I just ‒ I haven’t seen this place since I was little. And I don’t get to see my folks much, so. It holds a lot of good memories, you know?”

It suddenly occurs to Renjun that, in spite of all the time they’ve spent together, despite Yangyang being privy to all of his innermost thoughts and fears, Renjun hardly knows anything about him. Yangyang knew where to find Renjun when he didn’t show up for his appointment; Renjun didn’t even know Yangyang had a sister until today. The knowledge feels like tiny tenterhooks digging their way into the flesh of Renjun’s chest and tugging ‒ gently, but firmly enough to announce their presence.

Hoping for a distraction from that uncomfortable feeling, Renjun asks, “At least you can visit this place in your dreamscape, right?”

“Actually, no. Bakus don’t dream.”

Renjun didn’t know that. Why didn’t he know that? A lump rises in his throat, and he looks back at the shore. “I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Yangyang frowns. “What’s there to be sorry for? It is what it is. I have my memories, at least. And now ‒ this!”

Yangyang gestures at their surroundings. Or tries to, anyway. The moment he lifts a hoof off the sandy beach floor, he stumbles, and Renjun has to dive forwards to catch him. They both go under for a second or two, and it isn’t until they’ve come up for air, spluttering and sopping wet, that Renjun realises that they’re laughing.

“Well,” he says, once he’s caught Yangyang and his breath. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you got to see it again.”

Yangyang squirms in his grasp as he turns to face Renjun. “And I’m glad that you were with me when I did.”

He smiles, then, and it’s like Renjun’s been struck by lightning. It isn’t smug or cheeky, the way his grins are when he’s teasing Renjun for his messy bed hair, or his overcomplicated skincare routine. No ‒ this one is radiant and sincere and directed right at him, so startlingly different that Renjun barely reacts when a seagull swoops dangerously close to them, squawking loudly.

“Renjun?”

Yangyang’s expression is slowly turning quizzical. Renjun knows that he’s taking too long; he should say something, or let Yangyang go, but all he can do is look at him, really look at him. So they stand there, gilded by the golden hour, waves gently lapping at their bodies, remaining perfectly still even as something seismic within Renjun shifts and clicks into place. He should know what it is, what it means, except all he can see is Yangyang’s little face, the way he’s shivering slightly in his arms now, and they should probably go, but he can’t think, because that seagull is back, and it’s so fucking loud ‒

Renjun’s eyes snap open, still smelling salt and feeling sunshine. He’s back in the art studio, Yangyang’s jacket soft beneath his nape and tiles hard against his shoulder. Next to him, Yangyang jabs at his phone screen, and the alarm they’d set abruptly stops.

“That was ‒ ” Renjun gasps. “That was amazing.”

Yangyang rolls over. “Wasn’t it?”

He sounds a little breathless himself. Even in the semi-darkness, Renjun sees the way his eyes shine. It strikes Renjun, there and then, that this is the first time in ages that he’s had a pleasant dream; a meaningful dream.

And it’s all because of Yangyang.

“Thank you,” Yangyang says softly. “For that.”

I should be thanking you instead, Renjun thinks. Instead, he says, “You’re welcome.”

They’re lying next to each other, face to face. This, too, is new ‒ Renjun’s eyes trace Yangyang’s mouth, his full upper lip slightly dry and chapped; his eyes, still droopy with sleep, crust forming in the corners; the faint scars leftover from an acne breakout a couple of weeks back. Small, imperfect parts, but parts of Yangyang all the same.

All the times they’d been together, Renjun had turned away or had his eyes shut tight. Now he’s finally looking, finally seeing, and he wonders just why it’s taken him so long.

“Renjun?” Yangyang’s voice ghosts between them, quiet as a whisper and loud as a gunshot. He huffs out a laugh, high-pitched and nervous. “Everything okay?”

Renjun’s woken up to Yangyang draped over him and curled around his back more times than he can count. He’s had him in his bed and in his head for months. And yet, this ‒ staring Yangyang down on a dirty studio floor, their breaths mingling, filling the space between them ‒ feels far more invasive and intimate than anything they’ve ever done before. With the tips of their noses nearly touching, with the slight widening of Yangyang’s eyes at whatever is showing on Renjun’s face, all Renjun can think is: This is ‒ this is ‒

“Yeah,” Renjun says, surprising himself. “Everything’s okay.”

He sits up quickly before his own face can betray him any further. Rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, looks around. Anything to distract him from the quickening of his heartbeat. Anything to distract him from the abandoned moment between them.

Then Renjun’s eyes land on his unfinished painting and inspiration strikes. Already, he can see where he can blend pinks with greys. Where the image of a sun setting can go. Where he can place two small dots, one white and the other beige, caught in the current of painted waves. Yangyang’s favourite childhood memory, come to life.

Renjun looks over his shoulder. Yangyang is still sprawled across the floor, hair as pink and soft as the clouds in his dream fanning out across the tiles. His eyes twinkle like he knows what Renjun’s thinking about, the fading light of a sunset smile playing across his lips.

Renjun’s heart skips a beat at the sight, and he knows that he’s done for.

“And you know what? I think I know what I’m going to paint now.”

😴

Okay, so Renjun, maybe, sort of, almost definitely, has feelings for his baku-slash-sleep specialist.

Now he just has to find out whether Yangyang feels the same way.

An opportunity arises a couple of nights later when they’re squished together in bed, laptop balanced on their laps. Yangyang is a big movie buff, it turns out, and they’ve been spending the evenings before bed watching movies. They’re on their Marvel binge now ‒ there are too many storylines and characters, and Renjun can’t recall what happened in Phase One even if his life depended on it, but everytime he looks over, Yangyang has a big, goofy grin on his face, and, well. That’s enough.

An idea starts to take shape in Renjun’s mind as the credits begin to roll. Something to test the waters, to see if Yangyang takes the hint and reciprocates, or acts dumb. He’ll have to do it with some finesse, of course, so he isn’t caught out at the first instance. Either way, though, he hopes that he’ll have his answer.

“Hey,” Renjun says casually. Or as casually as one can, when one is attempting to orchestrate a romantic moment between one and one’s crush. “On your flyer ‒ you said you provide additional services, right?”

Yangyang puts his laptop away, then climbs over Renjun to slip back under the covers. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Like, lullabies, right? Songs?”

“Yeah…” Yangyang says slowly. “Why are you asking?”

In his romcom-influenced brain, Yangyang had readily offered up his repertoire; maybe asked Renjun if he had any song requests. In reality, Yangyang’s eyes narrow with suspicion, and Renjun feels heat creep across his face. He rolls over to face the ceiling, slightly annoyed, and, god. There really is no subtle way of asking this, is there?

“Do you… do you think you can sing one for me?” Renjun pauses. “Please?”

There’s a short, astonished silence.

“Wait, really?” Yangyang asks, clearly surprised. “You actually want me to sing you to sleep?”

“Why? What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing!” Yangyang says quickly, in a tone that clearly implies that there is, in fact, something. “Nothing’s wrong!”

Renjun, already feeling self-conscious, bristles.

“Is your voice complete shit, or something?”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that I was in the choir in primary school.”

“Okay, smartass, then prove it.”

“Hmph!” The covers shift as Yangyang turns away, petulant. “I’m not gonna sing for someone who just called me a smartass!”

“Is it because you won’t, or because you can’t?”

That strikes a nerve. “Oh my god,” Yangyang says, flipping back over. “I can and I will! I’ll show you.”

“Do it, then!”

“I already said I would, just give me a second to think ‒ ”

Renjun crosses his arms beneath the blanket, waiting expectantly. Beside him, Yangyang huffs, loud and put out, then lapses into thoughtful silence.

The seconds stretch by without so much as a peep from him. Renjun resists the urge to fidget. After a minute or two of nothing, though, Renjun wonders if Yangyang’s accidentally fallen asleep, and is debating whether to poke him in the side to check when ‒

“I don’t wanna keep you up,” Yangyang sings softly, and all of Renjun’s annoyance vanishes. “But show me can you keep it up? ’Cause then I’ll have to keep you up, shit, maybe I’ma keep you up, boy.”

Renjun is floored. Yangyang’s no Eric Chou, that’s for sure, but there’s a breathy, raspy quality to his voice that sounds so raw and intimate in the dark. And he can certainly carry a tune ‒ he hits every note perfectly, like this isn’t the first time he’s sung this song, and if Renjun’s being perfectly honest, it’s… it’s kind of lovely, actually.

He wonders just how many more times Yangyang can keep surprising him.

“I’ve been drinking coffee, and I’ve been eating healthy. Know I keep it squeaky, yeah, saving up my energy.”

Renjun furrows his brow at the lyrics. Hang on. Is this ‒

“Can you stay up all night,” Yangyang croons. “Fuck me til the daylight. 34, 35 ‒ ”

“Oh my god, Yangyang!”

The singing cuts off immediately. “What?” Yangyang says, affronted. “You said you wanted me to sing for you!”

Renjun is mortified. “Not a song about ‒ about 69-ing, I didn’t!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

God. Yangyang is such a boy.

“It’s not appropriate!”

“Excuse you, it’s a great song!”

Renjun makes a strangled noise, then gives up. So much for his fantasy of being serenaded sweetly to sleep. Why does he even like Yangyang, again?

“Alright, alright.” Yangyang makes a noise ‒ jkjkjkjzzwippp ‒ that sounds like a tape being rewound. His phone screen lights up in the darkness, and Renjun sees that he’s scrolling through his Spotify app. “How about this one?”

He hits play, and the beginning notes of a Bruno Mars song waft out of his tinny phone speaker. Yangyang shuffles up into a sitting position and turns on Renjun’s lamp.

“C’mon,” Yangyang says, tugging at Renjun’s sleeve. “Sing with me!”

Renjun snatches his arm back, but sits up as well. “I thought you were the one who was going to sing me to sleep.”

“It’s free of charge if you sing along, too. C’mon, I know you like this one!”

Renjun watches in half-disbelief, half-amusement as Yangyang grabs a hairbrush off the nightstand and holds it to his mouth, theatrically writhing on the bed through the first verse of the song. It’s so ridiculous and over-the-top that Renjun can’t help but crack up.

“You’re so,” he tries in between giggles, but then the lead-up to the chorus builds, and Yangyang is thrusting the makeshift microphone at him.

“Your turn!”

“What?” Renjun says, still laughing. “I don’t think so ‒ ”

“C’mon!” Yangyang urges. “You can do it!”

He nudges the hairbrush towards Renjun again, and Renjun’s hand instinctively wraps around the handle. When he looks back up, Yangyang looks at him with a face-splitting grin, eyes crinkling into crescents, and Renjun just falls.

Renjun takes a deep breath, newfound confidence welling up deep within him, and with everything that he has ‒

“I’d catch a grenaaaaaaaade for ya ‒ ”

“Whoooooo!” Yangyang cheers, far too loudly for one a.m. at night. “Let’s fucking go, babe!”

And the funny thing is, they do have fun. Lots of it. They belt their way through Versace on the Floor and Talking to the Moon, getting a few cool harmonies in (how does Yangyang even know how to do that?) and even dancing a little in bed. Then Renjun’s laughing so much from Yangyang’s rendition of The Lazy Song that his face hurts and his sides are in stitches, and he’s about to ask if Yangyang knows any Jay Chou songs when there’s a loud thump from the wall closest to them, making them jump.

“Yah!” Renjun’s neighbour yells. “Can you please keep it down?!”

For a moment, they stare at the wall, then each other, wide-eyed, before bursting into laughter. “Sorry!” Yangyang yells back, even as Renjun tries to shush him. “But thanks for coming to our show!”

“Oh my god, stop ‒ “

“We love you guys!” Yangyang continues, relentless, like he’s a rockstar bidding thousands of fans goodbye and not a university kid in Pokemon pyjamas. “Stay safe, everybody, and we hope you had a good night!”

Renjun isn’t sure about that, but later that night, he goes to sleep with a smile on his face, and, well.

He knows that he definitely did.

😴

“I’ll see you later?” Yangyang asks, moving to get up when he spots Mark walking over.

Renjun looks up. “Oh. Are you sure you don’t want to ‒ ”

“Nah, this is your guys’ thing. I’ve gotta do something in the library anyway.” Yangyang pulls a face. “I’ll swing by around ten, okay?”

He leans in, and for one heartstopping moment, Renjun thinks he might kiss him. But Yangyang just pats him on the back and rides away on his skateboard, exchanging high-fives with Mark as they pass each other.

“Yangyang didn’t wanna stay?” Mark asks once he reaches the table.

Renjun shakes his head, and pushes the bag of McDonald’s he’d picked up on the way over towards Mark. “He doesn’t want to intrude, I think.”

“Aw, tell him to join us next time,” Mark says, reaching for a fry. “So what did your professor say about your painting? The one of the beach?”

Only good things, Renjun proudly tells Mark. They talk about school after that, the latest horror release (Yangyang had practically dragged Renjun to the cinema), and Mark’s burgeoning success with Ten (“I even met his cats!” Mark says giddily). It’s only towards the end of their weekly lunch catch-up that the conversation inevitably turns towards Yangyang.

“So…” Mark starts slyly, balling up his trash. “You and him have been spending a lot of time together lately. Is there anything I should know, or…?”

Renjun wishes. “No,” he sighs. “Nothing.”

“Dude, don’t even lie. This guy’s got you watching horror movies now? When we went to see It, you screamed so loudly they had to turn the lights on because they thought someone was getting murdered.”

Renjun can’t exactly tell him that Yangyang had mentioned once, offhandedly, that his nightmares tasted better after watching the original Thai version of Shutter, and that he’s made it a point to pick horror movies for them to watch since then. So he just shrugs, and settles for saying, “I’m trying to broaden my horizons.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Sure you are.”

“We’re just friends, Mark,” Renjun says, even if he desperately wishes the opposite were true.

“Right,” Mark says in that same unconvinced tone. “And when’s your next appointment with him, again?”

Damn it. Renjun’s shoulders slump. “Tonight.”

“Dang,” Mark says, awed. “That’s, like, every night this week. You got it bad.”

Renjun covers his face. He does. He does, and the fact that Mark Lee is looking at him with something akin to pity is so bad that he almost wishes he didn’t. “Mark,” he says into his hands. “Please stop.”

Mark, the angel that he is, lets him stay like that for a solid minute. Eventually, though, and probably because they’re attracting weird looks from other students, he does pry Renjun’s hands away from his face.

“Hey, c’mon,” Mark says. “If you do like Yangyang ‒ and I’m not saying you do, but if you did ‒ there’s nothing embarrassing about it. He’s a decent guy, right?”

“I guess,” Renjun says miserably.

“And he’s funny?”

“That’s debatable.”

“He takes care of you?”

Renjun doesn’t even have to think twice. “He does.”

“Then what is it? What’s the problem?”

There are several. “What if he’s being so nice to me only because I’m paying him to?” he asks. “What happens when the nightmares stop, or become manageable ‒ is he going to leave, then, and I’ll never see him again? And what if I tell him how I feel, and he doesn’t feel the same way? I’d lose both a friend and my sleep specialist.”

He looks at Mark beseechingly. Mark, whose eyes had grown larger and larger the more Renjun had poured out his soul, can only blink.

“I mean,” he ventures. “You could… try and see how he feels about you?”

“You think I haven’t tried? He’s so oblivious, oh my god, he wouldn’t know a hint even if it smacked him in the face.”

After that disastrous attempt at getting a serenade, Renjun has done everything within his power to signal his interest, and to get Yangyang to make a move on him (within reason, of course; he’s not a whore). Paraded through the apartment with only a towel slung around his hips after a shower. Clung to Yangyang’s arm and buried his face in his shoulder during the scary bits in movies. Batted his eyelashes coquettishly over breakfast, even.

Nothing had worked. Yangyang treats him the same as ever, just another client, except for that last time, when he had actually stopped his mobile game to ask Renjun seriously if there was something wrong with his eye.

It’s been humiliating.

“Oof,” Mark says, looking increasingly sympathetic as Renjun lists it all out. “You know, I think with him, you might just have to grab the bull by the horns and go for it, man.”

“But what if ‒ ”

“No what ifs,” Mark says firmly. “Just be straightforward and direct. It worked for me!”

So, armed with that little bit of knowledge and an encouraging hug from Mark, Renjun sets off for his next class, and then home, determined to find out, once and for all, exactly where he and Yangyang stand with each other.

That is, until he answers his door to find a sweetly-smiling Yangyang, holding out a takeaway cup.

Renjun takes it gingerly. “What’s this for?”

“Hm?” Yangyang looks up from where he’s shucking off his shoes. “Oh, I just noticed it’s been taking you a while to sleep the past few nights, so I brought you some chamomile tea. It’s supposed to be, like, calming and stuff. I was thinking it could help?”

Renjun thought he had been discreet about it. Falling asleep has been, ironically, both easier and harder with Yangyang right beside him. Renjun’s been so keyed up lately, though, thinking about his dilemma while the source of his problems literally lies less than an arm’s length away, and Yangyang is a fast and heavy sleeper, often drifting off before Renjun does. So he didn’t think that Yangyang had noticed.

Except that he had. He had, and gotten Renjun some chamomile tea, still hot and fragrant when he takes a sip from the cup.

The gesture is incredibly thoughtful. Yangyang is incredibly thoughtful.

Yangyang catches the look on his face. “What is it?”

Renjun’s palms are sweating. He’s going to do this. He’s going to be straightforward and direct, just like Mark said, and grab the bull by the horns.

“Do you ‒ do you ‒ ”

Except Yangyang is looking at him, confused and concerned with what looks like fear in his eyes, and right as their gazes meet, Renjun’s mind kicks into overdrive and supplies him with the Worst Case Scenario: Yangyang looking away, embarrassed on behalf of Renjun. Telling him he doesn’t feel the same way, saying he’ll find him another baku, another sleep specialist. Hurrying to put on his shoes and grab his skateboard, the door slamming shut behind him when he leaves. The chamomile tea growing cold and bitter in Renjun’s hands as he’s left to deal with his nightmares alone.

Renjun can’t lose Yangyang. He can’t.

“ ‒ think we spend too much time together?”

Ah, Renjun thinks as Yangyang’s eyebrows climb. Fuck.

“What? No, why would you say that?”

Because Renjun is dumb, and lacks the proper mechanics to formulate a sentence in his brain before it leaves his mouth. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Mark mentioned it earlier.”

“I mean…” Now Yangyang looks uneasy. “Do you think we spend too much time together?”

Oh god. That is quite literally the opposite of what Renjun thinks. “No,” he scrambles to say. “I mean, you’re over like, practically every day, but ‒ but it’s fine! Totally fine. Because, you know, you’re helping me with my nightmares. I mean, we’re not spending too much time together if that’s the case, right?”

Something flashes across Yangyang’s face. But then Renjun blinks, and Yangyang is nodding and smiling like everything is okay. “Yeah, totally. Right.”

Renjun stands awkwardly in the middle of his apartment as Yangyang moves to the dresser. He rummages around until he finds what he’s looking for ‒ a red hoodie he’d left behind months ago, one that Renjun’s taken to wearing to bed on colder nights.

“Look, I wouldn’t worry too much about what other people say,” Yangyang says, coming back over. “I mean, I’m happy with how things are. Are you happy?”

“I’m happy,” Renjun says, and it’s the truth.

“Then isn’t that enough?”

Yangyang holds out the hoodie. Renjun takes it, and their fingers brush. Abruptly, he’s reminded of all the things that he already has: nights of undisturbed sleep; late, lazy mornings wrapped up in warm sheets and, more often than not, Yangyang’s arms; someone who brings him hot chamomile, who holds his hand when he’s terrified of a dumb movie scene, who makes him laugh like no one else ever has.

It’s enough; it’s more than enough.

The thing is, when it comes to Yangyang, Renjun thinks he’ll never stop wanting more.

Renjun hitches on a smile, and slips the hoodie on. “I suppose it is.”

😴

But then, this happens:

It’s another lazy weekend morning. Outside, there’s the gentle rumble of thunder, and the sound of rain pattering against the window. It’s chillier than he’s used to. Renjun groans, caught halfway between sleep and wakefulness, and huddles further into his blankets, cheek pressing against something warm and solid.

The blankets stir. “You cold, babe?”

Renjun’s eyes snap open. Yangyang’s already awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looks down on Renjun, curled up against his chest, with a hint of a smile on his face.

“Morning,” Yangyang says, voice raspy and low.

And then he leans down and pecks Renjun on the forehead.

They both freeze.

“What,” Renjun says dumbly, and then he nearly falls off the bed as Yangyang jerks into motion, scrambling away to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Sorry,” Yangyang says, recovering first, although panic shines faintly in his eyes. “Sorry, it’s just that Ten ‒ he has cats, and they sleep on the bed, and when they wake up they’re just so cute that sometimes I just can’t help but give them a kiss ‒ ”

Renjun clutches the sheets to his chest. It feels like it’s going to split open with how hard his heart is pounding, and the place where Yangyang had kissed practically sears. On the other end of the bed, Yangyang looks equally distressed, his hair sticking up oddly from where he’s running his fingers through it, the tips of his ears glowing red. He’s speaking so fast, Renjun almost can’t catch what he’s saying, but he does latch onto one thing in particular.

“Wait,” Renjun says. “You’re still seeing Ten?”

Yangyang stops rambling, and blinks. “Um, yeah. Sometimes. A baku’s gotta eat, you know? And also, like. Earn money.”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. For all the time they spend together, Yangyang doesn’t stay over every night, and it’s perfectly within his rights to have other clients. Renjun’s taken basic economics; he knows, in theory, how businesses work.

That doesn’t make the jealousy that washes over him sting any less, however.

“Oh,” Renjun says. “I see.”

Yangyang raises an eyebrow. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” Renjun says, when it totally does.

He knows he’s being petty. And so does Yangyang, judging by the dubious look he shoots Renjun, but he doesn’t call him out on it. Not directly, anyway.

“It’s not, like, a regular thing,” Yangyang says. “Just, you know, when he has insomnia, or nightmares. He’s under a lot of stress, like you. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help him out if I could?”

The way he speaks is careful ‒ not like Renjun is glass and could shatter at any moment under the weight of his insecurities, but like he’s something precious to be handled. Slowly, the jealousy recedes, leaving shame like ugly, broken shells on the shoreline of Renjun’s heart.

“Sorry,” Renjun says, flushing. “I ‒ I didn’t mean ‒ ”

“And, just so you know,” Yangyang cuts in, much to Renjun’s relief. “You’re kind of my only regular, now.”

It’s both exactly what Renjun wants and doesn’t want to hear. Still, he looks up hopefully. “Am I really?”

Yangyang’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Yeah.”

Renjun allows himself to bask in it for a moment before clearing his throat and looking away. No, he tells himself firmly. You heard him. You’re a regular client, so just ‒ just behave like one, okay?

“And is that, like, an extra charge? The kiss?”

“Um,” Yangyang says, suddenly awkward. “No. There’s no charge.”

“Okay,” Renjun says, even though he’s not. “Okay. Cool.”

He thinks that’s the end of that. But the next time he wakes up in Yangyang’s arms, Yangyang rolls him over gently before pressing another short, chaste and very deliberate kiss to his hairline.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he winks, and Renjun’s heart somersaults. “Free of charge, just for you.”

The moment doesn’t last; Yangyang loudly remarks that he needs to pee and pads away to the bathroom, almost squishing Renjun in the process. And yet, tucked between still-warm, lavender-sweet sheets, a small bubble of hope in Renjun’s chest forms, then rises, rises, rises.

😴

Yangyang is almost at the door when he stops and spins around. “You sure you’re going to be alright?”

“Yes,” Renjun says for what feels like the hundredth time. “Stop worrying. Anyway, it’s been so long since I’ve experienced a nightmare that I think I’m due for one now.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Oh, please. One little nightmare isn’t going to ruin me.”

“You don’t know that,” Yangyang says. “Do you even remember how to summon me?” When Renjun doesn’t answer right away, he scrunches his nose and fiddles with the handle of his luggage, conflicted. “Maybe I shouldn’t go ‒ ”

“Hey,” Renjun says, managing to sound both placating and indignant at once. “You haven’t seen your parents in months. You’re going.”

When Yangyang had brought up the news that his parents would be in a city just a couple of hours away on business, Renjun hadn’t hesitated in urging him to go visit them. Now, though, seeing him struggle to get an oversized Rimowa suitcase over the threshold ‒ half of which is filled with sneakers Renjun seriously doubts he’ll wear ‒ makes his chest pang in a way that’s difficult to ignore.

“Wow,” Yangyang jokes. “You just can’t wait to get rid of me, huh?”

“Definitely,” Renjun agrees, lying. “I’ll finally have my bed all to myself.”

“Damn, I knew you only liked me for the dream-eating thing,” Yangyang says, but his eyes twinkle.

They smile at each other, silly, and Renjun drinks in what will be his last look of Yangyang for a long while. Yangyang’s in sweatpants and an old tee he’s borrowed from Renjun, sweetly rumpled from where he’d rolled out of bed not fifteen minutes ago. There’s still a faint imprint of the collar of Renjun’s pyjama top on the curve of his cheek. His hair is just a tad too long, falling into his eyes, and Renjun fights the itch to push it back.

Then Yangyang clears his throat, and Renjun is yanked back to the present. “Okay, but, like, seriously. If you have a bad nightmare, or if you need me at all…”

Renjun groans and all but shoves him out of his apartment. “Yangyang, I’ve got it under control. Go enjoy your holiday.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going!”

Yangyang starts down the corridor, rolling his suitcase behind him, and Renjun leans against his doorframe, watching him go. After a few steps, though, Yangyang stops, clearly hesitating. Renjun’s about to ask if he forgot his phone charger or something, but the next thing he knows, Yangyang’s doubling back to pull him into a hug. Renjun inhales sharply, pleasantly surprised, and he gets a whiff of his own laundry detergent. His arms start to rise up to wind themselves around Yangyang's back, but then Yangyang lets go as quickly as he had embraced him and steps back.

“Bye,” Yangyang says, breathless. His cheeks are tinged red.

With that eloquent farewell, Yangyang grabs his suitcase and goes. But just before he disappears around the corner to where the elevators are, he looks back and gives a tiny smile over his shoulder, and Renjun is left both on cloud nine and all alone.

The fleeting warmth of Yangyang’s hug sustains him for the next few nights, which, if slightly lonely, pass without event. Renjun catches up with his friends, artfully dodging questions about the guy who’s been staying over, and finishes another submission for school. He has a couple of dreams, too, but they’re vague, smudged things, almost like he’s experiencing them through frosted glass, and he hardly remembers what they were about the next morning.

On the seventh night, though, the mattress dips beneath another weight, and Renjun, half-asleep, stirs.

“Whassat?” he mumbles.

The movement stops. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Suddenly, Renjun is wide awake. “Yangyang?”

He flicks on his lamp, and sure enough, it’s him. Yangyang is lying in an awkward position on the mattress and squashed up against the wall, like he’d been trying to sneak quietly into bed without disturbing Renjun. He’s got on Renjun’s old tee again, and seeing it, seeing him, sends a pleasant, happy thrill down Renjun’s spine.

“What’re you doing back so early?” Renjun asks. Yangyang’s return flight is booked for that weekend.

“Um.” For some reason, Yangyang doesn’t meet his eye. “I may have kinda, sorta… cut my trip short.”

This is news to Renjun. He’d been so excited about seeing his parents. “What? Why?”

Yangyang fidgets with the hem of Renjun’s shirt, almost like he’s embarrassed. “It didn’t feel right, leaving you all alone.”

“I haven’t been alone,” Renjun says, confused. “I’ve been hanging out with Mark.”

“Okay,” Yangyang says. “It didn’t feel right leaving you alone without me.”

“Without you?”

Yangyang catches his lip between his teeth. “Yeah.”

Renjun stares, confused. “Why would you come back just for me?”

“I ‒ ” Even in the orange glow of his bedside lamp, Renjun sees how Yangyang flushes bright red. “I said what I said.”

It’s both too early and too late. The dredges of sleep are still clogging up Renjun’s mind. Abruptly, he thinks of that one night when Yangyang had brought over a thousand-piece puzzle for them to put together in the hopes that it would be so boring, Renjun would be lulled to sleep. It had the opposite effect; instead, Renjun had become frustrated at how the image of the pirate ship on the box had failed to present itself through the little pieces littered across his table, even with Yangyang’s gentle guidance and hours of hard work.

Now, Yangyang is looking at him expectantly, a little defiantly, and Renjun gets that same itchy feeling of not being able to grasp something that is right in front of him.

“Yangyang,” Renjun says slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

“Spell? Spell out what?”

Yangyang growls, frustrated, and the thrill in Renjun’s spine expands to a full-body buzz.

“This,” Yangyang says, and kisses Renjun square on the mouth.

All the breath is instantly knocked out of Renjun’s lungs, either from the kiss itself, or the way he falls back onto the pillows from the sheer force with which Yangyang lunges at him. Maybe both. Renjun gasps instinctively, and the second he does, Yangyang’s licking at the inside of his mouth, cupping his jaw to angle his face exactly the way he wants.

It’s hot. Everything is hot ‒ Yangyang’s hands gripping Renjun’s face and waist, the insistent press of Yangyang’s lips, the way he pins Renjun to the mattress like he has no intention of letting him go. All Renjun can hear is the stuttering of his pulse in his ears, their shared, shaky breaths, the rustle of the bedclothes as they move around each other, and it sends pure heat coursing through his veins.

“I missed you,” Yangyang says into Renjun’s mouth, rushed, like he’s been hoarding it for days just to spend it all now. “God, I missed you so much.”

The admission sends Renjun reeling. “You never said anything.”

“I thought about it.” Yangyang moves on to Renjun’s neck, and Renjun hisses at the sensation of teeth scraping skin. “I thought about you.”

Yangyang licks a stripe up Renjun’s neck, soothing and scorching all at once, and Renjun lets his head fall back with a whimper. He can feel himself growing harder and harder, even though all their clothes are still on, and rocks upwards, desperate and without finesse, trying to seek some relief.

Even in the fog that seems to have settled around them both, Yangyang notices. He trails a hand down, grinding the heel of his palm into Renjun’s erection, moving in deep, delicious circles that fan the metaphorical flames. When Renjun keens, he swallows it up whole. “Alright, babe,” he says, soothing. “Come here, come here ‒ ”

Renjun clambers into Yangyang’s lap and crashes their mouths together again. They peel the layers off each other, piece by piece, and even as the cool night air hits their skin, Renjun can physically feel the temperature around them rise. Yangyang is a lit match to Renjun’s line of kerosene, and the longer they make out like this, naked and pressed up against each other, the more Renjun feels like he’s about to explode.

They tumble back down into the sheets. Above him, Yangyang is glowing in the dim light of his room, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and wherever Renjun places his hands, it feels like Yangyang’s skin is aflame. He peppers kisses down Renjun’s neck, his torso, taking his time to move down the bed until he’s nipping at the soft flesh of Renjun’s inner thighs. He peeks up at Renjun, one hand gripping Renjun’s hip, the other wrapped around Renjun’s cock, giving it long, languid strokes.

“Babe,” Yangyang says. “Can I…?”

He rests his bottom lip right on the tip of Renjun’s cock, deliberate, and holy shit.

“Yeah,” Renjun nods, trying and failing to keep his cool. “Yeah, absolutely.”

Yangyang beams at him. “Okay, cool.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he takes Renjun’s entire length into his mouth.

Fucking hell. If Renjun was feeling hot earlier, he’s positively on fire now.

A moan instantly rips itself from Renjun’s mouth at the sensation of liquid heat around his cock. Yangyang starts off slow, but whatever he lacks in skill, he makes up for in pure enthusiasm. It’s messy, sloppy, spit pooling from the sides of Yangyang’s mouth as he bobs his head up and down. When he starts to experiment, flattening his tongue on the underside of Renjun’s cock with each pull, Renjun has to bite down on his fist just to shut himself up. It doesn’t help that Yangyang keeps looking up at him through the fan of his eyelashes, cheeks hollowed, painting such a pretty picture that Renjun has to squeeze his eyes shut.

“Why aren’t you looking?” Yangyang asks, popping off. “Aren’t I taking good care of you?”

He is, and Renjun’s just so overwhelmed with the tight, wet heat around his cock ‒ with the fact that Yangyang is in his bed, giving him the blowjob of a lifetime ‒ that if he adds a visual to the experience, he genuinely thinks he might come. But the pout on Yangyang’s lips, plush and red and slick with spit, is both so endearing and fucking hot that Renjun is helpless to do anything but give in.

Renjun drags his thumb along Yangyang’s lower lip, watching it bounce back into place. “Baby, you have no idea.”

Yangyang purrs, pleased. Before Renjun can withdraw his hand, though, Yangyang snatches it, and settles it in his hair.

“And, by the way,” Yangyang says, winking. “I like it when you’re a little mean.”

With that, he sinks back down. Yangyang’s hair is so soft and wispy beneath his fingers, and when Renjun tugs it gently, Yangyang moans around his cock. The vibrations ripple throughout his entire body, and Renjun gasps at the sensation, one endless feedback loop of them turning each other on.

“Fuck, Yangyang.”

Renjun grabs fistfuls of Yangyang’s hair, tugging on it gently, then not-so-gently, as Yangyang goes down on him again, and again, and again, possessed by a single-minded focus on making him come. When he’s sure Yangyang’s throat is relaxed, he thrusts upwards into his mouth once, twice, enjoying the way Yangyang’s throat contracts as he gags a little around him, at the gasps that are punched out of him.

“Yangyang,” Renjun chants, lost in the haze of his own horniness and the molten heat of Yangyang’s mouth. “Yangyang, oh my god, oh my fucking god, Yangyang ‒ ”

Above the sound of him moaning, pornstar loud, above the sounds Yangyang is making around his cock, there’s a faint creak of wood. Renjun opens his eyes, worried that maybe his bed frame is splintering with how enthusiastically they’re going at it, and finds that it’s fine.

But then he sees something in the doorway that makes his stomach swoop:

A sheep.

A shaggy, familiar-looking sheep.

In that moment, Renjun realises three things:

1. This is a dream.
2. Which means the Yangyang currently settled between his legs, sucking him off in earnest, isn’t actually Yangyang. No ‒ the sheep in the doorway, gaping at him with wide, round eyes, is proof enough of that. Which also means that Sheep Yangyang ‒ Real Yangyang ‒ is watching Renjun get a blowjob. A blowjob from Dream Yangyang.
3. He’s about to come.

Then Dream Yangyang gives a particularly long, hard suck, and suddenly, Renjun’s not about to come anymore. His orgasm crashes into him with the force of a bullet train, and he’s spilling into Yangyang’s hot, tight mouth, coming and coming and coming until he sees fucking stars ‒

Renjun jerks awake. He’s all alone in bed. The front door is shut. All, it seems, is well.

Then he registers that his boxers are sticky and wet, and he realises that, oh, yeah. He's just had a deranged, filthy wet dream involving his baku. A wet dream where Renjun had called out his baku's name in the throes of carnal pleasure, unwittingly summoning said baku right as he orgasmed.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

😴

“Dude,” Mark says. “You look terrible.”

This time, Renjun doesn’t have the energy to glare at him. He just makes a tired noise and goes back to his shitty lunch ‒ peanut butter on bread with crushed chips, the only thing he’d had the energy to make that morning.

“What happened?” Mark wants to know. “I thought Yangyang ‒ ”

“Yangyang,” Renjun says into his sandwich. “Is not around.”

It’s been two days since his wet dream. In a fit of paranoia and profound embarrassment, Renjun had turned off all notifications to WeChat and blocked Yangyang from calling him. He’s even refused to go to sleep, terrified of meeting Yangyang in his dreamscape, and has been surviving on quick naps, cans of Red Bull, and coffee ever since.

Renjun knows that he’s being terribly immature. He also knows that if he doesn’t avoid Yangyang while he thinks of an excuse for his wet dream, he might explode.

“Did something happen?” Mark asks. “Between the two of you?”

An image of Yangyang nestled between his legs floats into his mind, unbidden, and Renjun feels his face grow hot. “Technically, no.”

“Ooooookay,” Mark says slowly. “Do you want to talk about it, or…?”

“No.”

Mark shrugs, and goes back to his own healthier, more appetising tteokbokki lunch. “Okay, then.”

Renjun lasts for all of five seconds before he cracks.

“Okay, fine, I’ll tell you,” he says. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Um. Okay?”

So Renjun tells him. Mark listens quietly, giving no indication that he’s shocked except for the way his eyes grow bigger and bigger. Once Renjun mumbles his way through how he had realised it was a dream, though, Mark throws his head back and erupts into peals of laughter.

“Oh my god, are you for real?!”

Renjun kicks him under the table. “You promised not to laugh!”

“Sorry, my bad.” Mark wipes literal tears from his eyes. “But it’s funny when you think about it!”

“How is it funny?” Renjun wails. “I literally had a wet dream about him ‒ a wet dream that he saw in all its glory ‒ and now I can’t even face him!”

“Why not?” Mark says. “Dude, at least now he knows that you like him. Or you wanna, like, sleep with him, hahaha. Get it?”

“Oh, he knows, alright,” Renjun sulks. “But he hasn’t reached out to me at all!”

“He could’ve been busy, right? You said he was visiting parents.”

“Not busy enough to drop me a text?”

“Well, have you reached out to him?”

He has not. Renjun bites his lip and looks down at his lunch. His sandwich has disintegrated in on itself. It’s an ironically accurate metaphor for his love life right now.

“Well, there you go,” Mark says sagely. “In fact, I bet he’s feeling as awkward about this as you are.”

God. Is he? Yangyang’s mouth is filthy, and he laughs at the dirtiest jokes, but it hadn’t occurred to Renjun that he might be more prudish and respectful when it comes to his clients’ dreamscapes.

Renjun looks up. “So what do I do?”

Mark grins and plucks Renjun’s phone out of his hands. He types something into the screen, and flips the phone over to show Renjun what he’s found. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

😴

Renjun, on high alert since that morning, leaps to his feet once he hears a timid knock at his door. He swallows and takes one last look of himself in the reflection of the mirror bolted to the entryway before he throws the door open, heart in his throat, to find ‒

“Hey,” Yangyang says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Sorry, I know I’m early.”

Yangyang could’ve been five hours late, for all Renjun cares. All that matters right now is that he’s here, ready and willing to talk it out.

“It’s okay,” Renjun says, opening the door wider. “Um, do you want to ‒ ?”

Yangyang steps inside hesitantly, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed. It’s only when he’s laying his shoes down neatly next to the house slippers that Renjun realises what’s missing.

“Where’s your skateboard? And your bag?”

“Oh.” Yangyang straightens up. “I didn’t bring them.”

“Aren’t you staying the night?”

Yangyang looks at Renjun strangely. “You want me to stay the night?”

“I mean…” Renjun blinks, thrown by the question. “Yeah?”

Yangyang blinks back. “Oh.”

They move further into the studio apartment, taking opposite ends of Renjun’s bed. Yangyang stares at the painting of the beach Renjun’s hung up on his wall. The only indication that he’s as nervous as Renjun’s feeling is the way he fiddles with his fringe. His gaze darts from the painting, to Renjun, and back again, and when their eyes finally meet, he jumps like he’s been electrocuted.

“So ‒ ”

Renjun can’t stand a second of it any longer. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, black pouch, thrusting it in Yangyang’s lap and cutting him off.

“Here,” Renjun says. “For you.”

Yangyang looks down at the pouch, apprehensive. “What…?”

“It’s ‒ just open it.”

Renjun’s voice comes out more shaky than he’d like. Yangyang casts a worried gaze over him before turning back to the pouch.

“Okay,” he says, and, as Renjun watches with bated breath, he opens it.

Three long, agonising seconds pass.

“It’s a key,” Yangyang says, mildly surprised.

“Yeah.”

“Why would you give me a key?”

Grab the bull by the horns, Mark’s voice intones in Renjun’s head. Renjun wishes he could grab inner voice-Mark and shake him instead. “Um, because ‒ ”

“Wait,” Yangyang interrupts, frowning. “So this isn’t…” His eyes shift from side to side, like he’s worried it’s a trap. “This isn’t a, like, you firing me type of situation?”

Firing? That stops Renjun right in his tracks.

“What?” he cries, confession forgotten. “What, no. Yangyang, what would make you think that?”

For some reason, Yangyang blushes all the way to his roots. “I mean ‒ ugh, I guess there’s no avoiding this now. Because I saw your dream. The one ‒ well. You know which one.”

“Oh, god,” Renjun realises. “Look, I can explain ‒ ”

“No, you don’t have to. That was completely unacceptable of me,” Yangyang insists, launching into what Renjun can tell is a well-rehearsed spiel. “I never enter my clients’ dreamscapes unless I can sense they’re in danger, or if they summon me. I just ‒ I swear I heard you call for me, which has never happened before, so of course I could’ve gotten it wrong, or been hearing things, but I really thought that you had called me? Until I entered your dream, of course, and found you with ‒ “ Yangyang coughs, embarrassed. “Haha, um ‒ found you with that guy, and it was like, oops! Silly me, what was I thinking ‒ ”

Realisation doesn’t dawn on Renjun so much as it smacks him in the face. As Yangyang rambles on, flushing a deeper and darker shade of scarlet, two things are made abundantly clear:

1. Yangyang has been beating himself up about the wet dream, and potentially ruining things between them, just as much as Renjun has.
2. Yangyang has no idea that it was him that Renjun was dreaming of.

“Yangyang,” Renjun says with no small degree of incredulity. “It was you.”

“ ‒ so, like, I totally understand if ‒ huh?”

It’s now or never. Renjun gathers all of his courage, and wills himself not to pass out.

“That guy in my dream,” he says. “It was you.”

Yangyang's mouth falls open. “Me?”

“You.”

“Are you sure?”

“What ‒ Yangyang! Of course I’m sure! It was my dream!”

Yangyang looks stricken. “That can’t ‒ it’s not ‒ ”

All of Renjun’s patience runs out, and before he knows it, he’s almost shouting. “It can, and it is!” It must be the nerves; his neighbour is just going to have to deal with it. “The guy had pink! Fucking! Hair! Who else could it possibly have been?”

Yangyang blinks. “Oh. Oh.”

They sit in dead silence for the next couple of seconds. Yangyang’s eyes have gone wide. Renjun waits, terrified; his heart pounds in his chest, a bomb waiting to go off. Tick, tick tick ‒

“So,” Yangyang says, grinning cheekily. “Was I any good?”

‒ boom.

“Are you being serious right now?” Renjun explodes. “Do you have any idea what the past few days have been like for me? I was so fucking terrified you didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore, especially since I've liked you for so long, but did you notice? No, of course not, because you're so goddamn oblivious! God, I even made you a key to my apartment to show you ‒ no, Yangyang, I am not finished! ‒ and the first thing you ask me is how good the blowjob your dream self gave me was, are you for fucking real ‒ ”

Yangyang launches forwards and kisses him.

Just like in his dream, Renjun falls back onto his bed. Except this time, it’s not just one-dimensional heat, birthed from Renjun’s imagination. Here and now, Yangyang smiles into the kiss, and cups Renjun’s face sweetly. Renjun can feel the calluses on his fingers, the ends of his hair, just slightly too long, tickling his face, the way their noses bump into each other, graceless but tender. Can see how Yangyang draws back for the briefest of seconds, eyes shining and crinkling with happiness, as he takes the sight of Renjun in. Renjun can't help himself; he smiles back, smiles into their kisses, gives in completely to Yangyang's effect on him. These sensations, layered and beyond his wildest dreams, fill Renjun up. He feels like he’s brimming with light, like when the sun crests over the horizon and he opens his eyes to see sunlight streaming through his window, illuminating his little room and the familiar body curled around him.

They kiss until they’re breathless, until they’re dizzy, until there can be no question of each other’s feelings. After Renjun sighs dreamily at the press of Yangyang’s lips against his neck, Yangyang props himself up on an elbow, and grins down smugly. “That good, huh.”

Renjun glares at him. Or tries to, anyway. He’s overcome with a suspiciously buoyant feeling that’s making his heart bounce all over the walls of his chest. “You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

Yangyang ignores him and reaches over, scooping up the key from where it had fallen onto the ground. “And you made me a key? Really?”

“It was Mark’s idea. Stupid, romantic gesture, or whatever ‒ ”

“But you did it anyway.” The key dangles from Yangyang’s finger, shiny and new. If Renjun were a poetic man, he would say it’s a symbol of the next step in their relationship, or whatever. “Gosh, Renjun, I had no idea you wanted me to move in ‒ ”

“I do not want you to move in with me, asshole. Just ‒ just for you to come over. Whenever you want. So I don’t, like, have to wait up to answer the door anymore.”

It doesn’t fool anyone, least of all Yangyang. He simply beams, radiant, and pulls Renjun in for a hug, burying his face in his hair. “Sounds to me like you really want me around.”

In spite of himself, Renjun feels himself smile. He does. He does want Yangyang around. So he pulls Yangyang back into a searing kiss and shows him with actions, since he can’t with words.

Much later, when their kisses have turned long and languid, something occurs to Renjun. “Wait,” he says, pulling back. “Just ‒ I just want to check ‒ this isn’t a dream, right? This is real?”

Yangyang’s expression goes impossibly soft. He reaches for Renjun’s hand, drawing him close once again. Renjun is reminded of a lavender sea breeze, the ocean’s warm embrace, and the last light of a dream sun painting everything gold.

“Oh, baby.” Yangyang kisses him, long and hard, until Renjun’s head is as light as the clouds passing by outside. “With you, who says it can’t be both?”