Archive of Our Own

It all starts with a house.

If Johnny had to pick, choose out of all the moments, the family home located in the middle of an endless wheat field would be the start. It's rustic (even though it's been recently painted over, judging by the bright blue color shining on the walls outside), and the warm breeze that ruffles Johnny’s hair adds to the overall cozy feeling. He recognizes a difference the moment he realizes he feels safe, like he's been to this place a thousand times before, like he belongs in some way. It's been a while.

Decisively, he approaches the building although being confident, taking careful steps and assessing his surroundings, analyzing meticulously every detail because that's what Johnny is supposed to do after all. A job. The reason why he's there, no matter how entrancing the scenery is. So as he comes closer to the house, Johnny discerns a vague melody. There's a piano, for sure, and it's so familiar that it sends shivers down his spine, still urging him on to follow the feeling. Follow what's awakening Johnny’s long-gone interest, a piano engulfing him like a blanket, the thrilling unknown inside the place.

The dream aspect becomes rather apparent the moment he grabs the knob and opens the door. Instantly, the music stops—and in the blink of an eye, Johnny finds himself a few meters away from the house watching it bath in flames in front of him.

Strangely, the grass doesn’t burn.

Johnny notes it all down, the way the sky turns a dark gray—whether it’s from the ashes or the subject’s feelings, how it’s still chilly despite the growing fire, and then, just how deeply the overall peculiarity of the dream touches Johnny’s walls.

And the dreamer doesn’t seem to be present, either, which is essentially weird as well.

But Johnny is content. Satisfied. And he’s already looking forward to analyzing another taped dream from this subject. So he scans his surroundings one more time and—there’s a voice.

“In a night, or in a day,” it recites, “in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?”

As the words sink in, Johnny shivers. He probably does in real life, too.

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

The tape ends.

-

Those words echo around his mind, and subject number 74656e becomes Johnny’s favorite.

A routine had settled on his shoulders for a while now, rinse and repeat, analyze an approximate amount of twelve to fourteen tapes in a day, find absolutely nothing new at all, and then repeat. Most days end with an empty notebook and a few scribbles at the corner of the page out of boredom, going from tiresome to worrying. Because dreams were meant to be interesting, intriguing, but Johnny hadn't been able to look for anything relevant in any of them so far, so he reasoned—maybe it's me, maybe nothing interests me anymore. Worrying.

Even Jaehyun had noticed.

“Dude, is your job really that boring?” He said, “you don't even bring any tapes home anymore.”

Johnny only shrugged, tired, dark bags under his eyes from doing the bare minimum.

“At least you get paid enough.”

Which is true, but as clichéd as it may sound, he didn’t do it for the money. He accepted the job because dreaming had become kind of a weird hobby of him when he was a child, filling thousands of dream journals accompanied by short analyses of what he thought they meant. It was sort of his passion. Now it's merely another monotone shade in his black and white life.

Subject number 74656e is the color he was desperately in need of.

Of course their dreams do have some patterns (a house, for example, the same way people often have dreams where there are variations, yet there's always a constant or a common event: a snake, flying around town, killing an acquaintance) but then Johnny’s watching the sun hiding behind that constant, delighting in every last ray of sunlight, hyper-aware of the grass tickling his feet, and the different types of breezes that graze his body once the biggest star sets and gives way to a thousand others.

So, two days later, after watching two consecutive dreams where the dreamer is falling off a cliff (going through a major life problem) and then another where they lose all their teeth (confidence faltering), Johnny receives another dream from his dearest dreamer. If he smiles to himself when he grabs the tape from the pile on his desk, no one has to know.

It's cold. That's one of the first details Johnny notes, and with the considerable amount of times he has visited this subject’s dreams, he curses himself for not having regulated the temperature before getting in.

In contrast to the first dream where he seemed to be alone, this time he can make out children laughing in the distance. It wraps around him, like that first melody, like the fire, ringing in his ears mockingly as if it’s suddenly everywhere and inside his own head simultaneously. Johnny falls in love with the feeling.

He has always liked complex.

Not exactly knowing where the laughter is coming from, he moves forward with confidence still. A path appears below him. Johnny smiles to himself. It's the giddiness of finding something that makes him feel content and nostalgic—and nothing else, he thinks, and repeats it to himself over and over until he finally catches sight of a kid running around a small park, playing with the fallen yellow leaves, and a sinking feeling settles on his stomach. It's curiosity, not familiarity. Johnny repeats mindlessly, and walks towards the playground.

The scenery looks like this: a sandbox, a slide, the leaves-covered ground, and then it’s a haze that Johnny’s eyes are unable to focus on. There’s white and blurred shadows that resemble trees and a neighborhood, but they are closer to a burnt photograph than anything remotely distinguishable. Like there are boundaries Johnny just can’t get past, or see. And it makes Johnny feel ecstatic.

For a moment, he wonders if the kid is the dreamer. If a child would be able to create such a complex world. But then a voice calls out to him (in Korean, Johnny notes a few seconds later, after he processes the sounds because it’s been quite some time since he last spoke or heard the language) and the boy disappears into the mist.

Johnny still follows the path, dumbfounded at the way it materializes above the endless whiteness, an overexposed image. It leads to the sandbox, which, up close, is bigger than Johnny expected, so he steps on the sand and almost shrieks when his foot doesn’t sink, as if the sand is made of plastic. It definitely feels like it, but its appearance stays as close as reality as it gets. This only thrills him further. Johnny would call it poetic, even.

There, on top of the vast sand, lays a small dollhouse. It fits perfectly inside of Johnny’s hand, so at first glance, there’s nothing remarkable. Yet, there is. There’s a feeling that Johnny has been striving to ignore, and now it grows immensely because it looks awfully similar to Johnny’s childhood home. One of the many memories he’s been successfully repressing, since he moved to Chicago, since he found new friends, a job, a new life. And never looked back.

Johnny is an outstanding coward. Except this time, Johnny doesn’t avoid it.

As the tape ends, he makes a decision, unplugging the device and shoving the tape—and the other two labeled Subject 74656e into his pocket and bolting out the room.

Kim Dongyoung’s office used to be very intimidating, initially. Johnny remembers his palms sweating whenever he had to face his unfazed boss, who he also not only looked up to, but rather deified too. Now, knocking twice and receiving an absent-minded hum from the inside, finding Dongyoung hunting for something inside his mini-fridge, he’s definitely not nervous. At all.

“So,” finally retrieving a bottle of water, sighing like it was actually hard to find, Dongyoung turns around and lifts an eyebrow at him, “you needed something?”

Johnny places the tapes on top of his overly-organized desk—he even has binders sorted by color, and a drawer system he can only understand—and then sits on one of the armchairs.

“I want to monitor this subject,” Johnny states, “number 74656e”

Nodding, Dongyoung grabs one of the recordings and looks at it, inspecting it unhurriedly. There’s nothing significant or evidential on the outside of the tapes, but Dongyoung seems entertained enough, so Johnny doesn’t disturb him until he’s done.

“Okay,” he starts once he sets the last tape in a neat pile, “but let's be clear, three is a weird number—or at least not enough. What piqued your interest?”

Johnny racks his brain searching for any reason but I’m weirdly attached to the dreams. And because he’s a coward, he’s a great deceiver too.

“More or less of the usual, I guess. I’d just like to dig into it a bit,” Johnny answers. His palms are clammy, and he’d laugh if he wasn’t in front of Dongyoung already giving him a speaking look.

The longer Dongyoung takes scribbling something on his burgundy notebook, the more Johnny regrets his decision. Because he avoids giving Dongyoung any concrete details, he’s left pondering over the fact that he hasn’t encountered or seen the dreamer, yet. And now he’s intruding this faceless, unknown person’s dream. Johnny doesn’t know if the feeling that overtakes him is fear or excitement.

Then, there’s also the condition, an immovable rule, that experimenters are not allowed to know in any way the identity of the dreamer, because they are sent in anonymously. So there’s nothing Dongyoung can do to help, really—even more so because it’s Johnny’s job, after all, to investigate the dream and its anomalies. Maybe he’ll become the first researcher to prove the existence of ghost dreamers.

“Alright, you know the drill,” Dongyoung declares, finally, putting away his pen, “you’ve done this before, hand in your report once you’re done, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Johnny ignores Dongyoung’s emphasizing raised eyebrows and beams at him, picking up his belongings—including the tapes—and heads towards the door.

“And you’re lucky. There’s a device available for you, ask Sicheng for it.”

So Johnny does, and goes home with not only three tapes, but a monitoring device. Jaehyun shoots him the most baffled look.

-

Third time’s a charm, they say.

Johnny attempts to use the device the first night, too euphoric to even consider sleeping, and enters the wrong password a total of five times. Dongyoung reprimands him the next morning—something about paying more attention and not getting carried away, and then helps him set up everything so there’s no margin of error. Except the second time Johnny tries, the light stays red until he passes out from exhaustion.

So, when he abruptly wakes up at 5 a.m for no apparent reason and notices the steady green light brightening up his room, Johnny feels more than hopeful. He hooks himself up to the device after washing his face (because the possibility of accidentally falling asleep, again, still exists), and turns on the switch.

There’s a beach, a warm and gentle wind, and Johnny’s childhood home. Now, now he recognizes it and remembers it vividly, like the palm of his hand, every single detail—maintaining its appearance, just like the last time he visited. It’s almost scary, and Johnny doesn’t want to brood over the implications of it, facing away from the house and finding solace in the calm and navy-blue sea. Ashen clouds obscure the sun entirely, but the scenery remains breathtaking.

Of course, third time’s a charm, they say.

For Johnny, it’s a turning point. Not a start, but a moment where it all takes a different path.

Because, only a few seconds after entering the dream, there’s a voice behind him.

“What?” The person says, and a breeze whispers against his neck like a lover. It’s a bit too high-pitched, but the kind of honeyed voice Johnny finds pleasant to listen to. Almost familiar, almost gut-churning. So Johnny turns around, and—

That’s Ten.

That’s Ten, his childhood best friend, prepubescent crush, the outgoing kid from the neighborhood that once pushed him into a pool unaware of Johnny’s inability to swim and nearly killed him, his former soulmate. There are a million thoughts, more or less, flooding Johnny’s mind that he fights to filter out, rationalize, close his mouth and just play along Ten’s dream ideas. But, God, he has grown into his face beautifully, his sharp features stand out and pour gasoline on Johnny’s spark of awe, the memory of baby-faced Ten with bleached hair done awfully long-gone. Johnny can’t help but gape at him. Ten continues frowning, empty eyes running over Johnny’s body.

“How—What the fuck?” Again, Ten exclaims, and Johnny is actually amazed at how much smoother Ten sounds in Korean, even when cursing.

So since he’s still trying to comprehend Ten’s words and intent, Johnny remains quiet. Ten takes it as his cue to step forward, inspecting Johnny’s face closely, making his palms sweat (there are things that just not change) and then, he raises his hand and cups Johnny’s jaw. The touch is cold, though deep down Johnny knows that’s not the reason why he trembles.

That, apparently, prompts a reaction from Ten. He stumbles back and gulps audibly, wide eyes riveted on Johnny’s face.

“Whenever I dream about you and try to touch you, you vanish,” he states, not directly addressing Johnny, more like spilling his thoughts out, “there’s no—like, you look old.”

Johnny itches to call him out and warn him about respecting his elders—as he used to do, like the old times when that one-year age difference was the motive for their endless teasing, though currently, there’s something else standing out more concerning.

“You,” Johnny speaks for the first time, choking out, “you are aware you’re dreaming?”

“Yeah.”

Great, Ten is a lucid dreamer.

“So… You have lucid dreams every night?” Cautiously, Johnny asks.

Ten knits his eyebrows further, “are you my subconscious trying to tell me to look that up?”

Johnny almost laughs, a soft smile tugging at his lips that he tries to conceal by looking away. Of course, Ten notices, and scoffs. It’s endearing, as it has always been, and Johnny wants to tell him everything. And maybe, Ten would be a bit more cooperative if he knew. Maybe.

“No, I’m Johnny,” he answers straightforwardly.

“Yeah, well, I know.”

Behind him, Johnny watches the house—his house, gleaming under the sunlight, clouds nowhere to be seen.

“No—I’m actually Johnny. Real-life and old Johnny,” in hopes of lightening up the situation a bit, Johnny includes a small reference to Ten’s previous comment. Getting to grasp the concept of what Johnny does is not the easiest task. And Ten isn’t the easiest person, either.

“What is this, Inception?”

Now, Johnny does laugh, full-on. Because it’s funny, and he needs to ease off, and he missed him.

Ten is suddenly leading him to a bench, which definitely wasn’t there before, and when they sit side by side facing the house, Johnny starts explaining. “Something like that,” he says, “I just analyze dreams, look for patterns, that kinda stuff.”

Cutting him off, Ten starts giggling. That’s a sound he hasn’t heard in a while, and that same nostalgic and sinking feeling finds a home on his stomach once again. When Johnny looks at him, puzzled, Ten quickly apologizes.

“Sorry, your Korean sounds weird. It’s a bit rusty,” and well, he’s not wrong. A pay-back for all the times Johnny teased him about his accent, “it’s cute.”

Johnny is an astounding coward. So he clears his throat and continues, “you probably signed up to a program at some point in your life.”

It seems like Ten is attempting to call to mind that certain point in his life, eyes unfocused and a slight pout to his lips, deep in thought. He tries to hide it, of course, when a sudden memory comes to him and he looks down, his face falling.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “I didn’t think it still existed.”

Pin-drop silence follows. And what else can Johnny say, if it’s still a dream after all. Even if he’s reuniting with his childhood friend and Johnny wants nothing but to catch up talking to him for hours, of a thousand things, of nothing at all. Ten hesitates before focusing back on him, apparently finding his tongue.

“So, this is your job,” it’s not phrased as a question, but as still being in the process of digesting the substantial amounts of information given to him in such a short time.

“Yeah,” Johnny confirms, “if you’d let me, I would like to analyze your dreams.”

If Ten shows a flicker of resignation, Johnny decides to ignore it. He chooses to remember the tiny smile Ten offers him, like he’s at least pleased with Johnny’s light teasing tone. It’s enough.

“Well, I can’t do anything to stop you, can I?” He questions. And Johnny wishes he was naive enough to overlook the true meaning disguised behind Ten’s words. Wishes he was unaware of every past mistake, pretend it doesn’t haunt him.

“I can just talk to my boss and tell him I didn’t find anything interesting, if that’s what you want,” Johnny replies, almost defensively.

Ten shakes his head in disbelief, that same small smile pulling at his lips again. “Did you find anything interesting?”

And maybe, maybe Johnny does glance at Ten. Imprints of his now adult face, sharp words and witty remarks in his brain. He doesn’t know what’s interesting anymore, but Ten awoke something inside him presumably gone. And even if Johnny doesn’t find himself competent enough (too afraid, too scared to let his walls down), it’s an opportunity not worth missing. Again.

“I did.”

Ten’s gaze burns so intensely, as powerful as back in the day, and Johnny is sure Ten notices him shivering this time. He’s hard to read, complex. Like his dreams, his double-edged words. There’s the thrill that drew him in, lured Johnny into getting this deeply involved.

So Johnny blinks, and when his eyes open again, he’s suddenly surrounded by the darkness of his own room. The red light flares up tauntingly.

Something different settles on his chest when he goes back to sleep.

-

Jaehyun is very outspoken in the mornings.

His brain-to-mouth filter fails to work, and every baseless thought that crosses his mind comes out in the form of blunt words. Johnny is somehow used to it, but then Jaehyun decides to confront him about the dreaming situation.

“I woke up to pee and saw you sitting at your desk with your eyes closed and your face glowing green,” Jaehyun recounts while peeling an apple. Because he likes his fruits cut into small pieces, for some reason, “that green light was making your face look weird. It was scary, to be honest.”

Johnny lets out an amused giggle, “I’m just monitoring a subject. You’ve seen me do it before, Jae.”

“At ass o’clock? Never before.”

“Yeah, well, I woke up by chance and saw it on. I wasn’t gonna miss the opportunity, y’know,” he explains, deflecting. But Jaehyun is also insistent in the mornings too, apparently.

“Are you sure?”

Sighing, Johnny ponders for a moment over the consequences of telling Jaehyun. But the need to take a load off his mind weighs way more than any kind of remark Jaehyun could make in the future, so Johnny goes for it.

“It’s Ten,” Johnny admits, “those are his dreams—and before you say anything, I didn’t know it was him when I told Dongyoung. Also, he’s a lucid dreamer.”

Jaehyun just gasps and stares at him, mouth wide open. And then blurts out:

“God, hyung, you’re fucking Ten in his dreams?”

And Johnny isn’t a prude, really, but he can’t help the heat rising to his face, now a probably wine-red color. He remembers telling Jaehyun offhand comments about Ten in the past, some drunk, some very emotional at 4 a.m on New Year’s eve, going through old photos on his phone—it’s understandable that Jaehyun would dare to assume that.

Still, he splutters, almost spilling his cup of coffee. “No! What—it’s not like that.” Johnny feels the sudden urge to overshare and tell him that, in fact, it’s quite the opposite—that Ten may possibly hate him now, and that the feelings that Johnny thought were mutual at some point were just an illusion. Part of being a teenager. They’re adults now, and Johnny has a job, a task.

“But you want to?” Jaehyun presses. There’s a smirk dancing on his face even if he isn’t looking at Johnny, too busy cutting the apple into little pieces.

“No? I haven’t seen him in years, and it’s my job, I’m not unprofessional like you—”

“Johnny, I’m just joking,” now sitting on a stool, he says, ignoring Johnny’s outburst, “but, so, his dream-self is also his real-self, right?”

“Yeah, he can’t change how he looks, he can control every other aspect of the dream but himself,” Johnny sits too, at the table, and goes to turn on his laptop while Jaehyun processes his explanation, chewing on the fruit.

“So you’ve seen him,” he concludes, “has he changed?”

Johnny gulps. There wasn’t much he could appreciate, still afraid to look at him for too long, to allow himself to be fooled by nothing but a dream. Yet, the few changes Johnny managed to observe were enough to leave him reeling. Ten has alway been gorgeous, crafted by angels (and Ten disarmingly aware of his prettiness, a tool of his), with a fierce but then extremely gentle gaze, honeyed voice Johnny likes so much, his height unfailingly a few inches behind. At that time, Johnny used to describe him using actual poetry as a reference, because Ten liked poetry and so Johnny was forced, in a way, to have a taste for it too. Now, there aren’t as many words as before.

“Yeah, a lot,” he sips on his coffee to distract himself from the burden of having to say something. To think about it. Johnny doesn’t want to think, “he looks much more mature.”

“Cool!” It’s all he gets, “let me know when you fall in love again and decide to move back to Korea on impulse.”

Jaehyun is a smartass in the mornings, Johnny learns. And regret comes as easy as being honest did.

-

The house has crumbled, collapsing onto the ground.

It’s a bit startling to see his childhood home having been demolished, practically covered in dust from the dirt surrounding it. Aside from that, Johnny can't see anything but a stiff and endless desert, so that must be it. And then, walking towards the destroyed structure, he spots Ten.

Up close, Johnny notices he’s standing on top of the collapsed red-tiled roof, where a piano is strangely placed. Ten is pressing random keys, not exactly following a melody, but it's still a breathtaking sight. He’s always been an artistic and overall talented person, it just never stopped astonishing Johnny. So, with the aim of avoiding interrupting Ten, he keeps quiet watching the back of his head and his fingers moving tentatively—playing different sounds, testing. It allows Ten to fully give up to it, closing his eyes (which Johnny takes carefully advantage of, now standing in front of him) and humming along, that’s it, until he abruptly stops.

In retrospect, creeping up on Ten wasn’t the most clever decision, especially when he’s so engrossed in getting the right melody.

Nevertheless, Johnny greets him with a cheery “Hey.”

His reaction was a given, but Johnny still chuckles at how Ten jumps and stumbles back, uttering a yelp while placing a hand on his heart. It’s slightly strange that Johnny can feel the vibrations of Ten’s palpitations. That’s the dream world, he guesses.

“Fuck, you scared me,” his eyes glint with a different emotion.

Johnny looks around, and avoids any kind of eye-contact, “sorry.”

Once his pounding heart mildly ceases, Ten continues pressing random keys absent-mindedly. And then confesses, “I didn’t think you’d be here again. I thought it was a dream.”

How ironic, Johnny thinks. And voices it in the most thoughtful manner possible, “well, it technically was a dream.”

At that, Ten rolls his eyes, and attempts to lock gazes so Johnny can see the light exasperation. He does, for less than a second—but there’s more to Ten’s eyes that Johnny will never be capable of deciphering, an intricate meaning to every sentiment they hold.

“I meant an actual dream, hyung,” and that—that sets his insides on fire, smoldering, licking at the bottom of his heart. Johnny gulps as if to keep it down, “not this whole Inception-Matrix crossover.”

Johnny giggles. It doesn’t lessen the heaviness on his chest (the nostalgic feeling and longing for the past, a melancholy that winds around him and Johnny carries around pretending it doesn’t exist), but it does divert Johnny from his thoughts for a bit. To happy memories, at least.

Focusing on the contrast of Ten’s red hoodie against the mustard piano, the only two vivid colors in the entire scenery catching the eye, Johnny opts for starting to pour his energy into actually doing his job. The possibility of handing in a report filled with wistful words about his childhood friend to Dongyoung is non-existent.

“So, what’s with the house?” Johnny finally inquires.

Ten arches one eyebrow, “you’re asking me?”

“Well these are your dreams, Ten,” it’s sort of pathetic, how he tries to imitate Ten’s earlier tone to get back at him (in a way that not even Johnny can comprehend, really, he doesn’t understand what he does most of the time. Now, he can blame Ten), but it seems to affect him more than Ten.

“I don’t know, it’s just part of my childhood, I guess?” With his eyes locked on the house, he answers, “aren’t dreams like, a mix of just random subconscious things? You’re the dream expert, hyung.”

“Kind of,” Johnny clears his throat, “dreams are affected by expressions of unconsciousness, past experiences and daily experiences.”

“Wow—did you memorize that one?” He quips after a few seconds, Cheshire-cat smile and all, “I’m just kidding, that’s pretty interesting. I’m glad you got to make a job out of your weird obsession with dreams, really.”

Ten’s smile turns soft, and Johnny is glad too. The routine that had been haunting him a week ago long-forgotten.

As Johnny ditches any desire to continue working and mentally notes down a thousand questions to ask Ten about his recent personal life, Ten is quick to interrupt his elaborate train of thoughts.

“But what do you think it means, Mr. Cobb?”

So Johnny gives him a sincere analysis, “a constant in a dream usually means your brain is trying to process an event that you haven’t been able to process yourself while being conscious, like you can’t move on, so it manifests in your dreams. My childhood home could be a symbol of that,” Johnny explains. And wishes he wasn’t aware of his face glowing pink, “but, I—who knows?”

This time, Ten doesn’t appear that affected, he does frown and look away—down, at his hands hovering over the piano again, but he swiftly composes himself and smirks at Johnny.

“If you want me to tell you that I missed you that bad, then you should try harder,” he says, shrugging, “you won’t get it that easily out of me, hyung.”

Johnny bites his lip to contain a smile. “Are you challenging me?”

“Maybe.”

The bare minimum is all Johnny needed, it seems.

-

Dongyoung isn’t satisfied with the minimum.

“So, how’s it been going?”

Johnny looks up from the screen of his laptop, the game of Sudoku he’s currently playing reflecting on his glasses, a dead giveaway. And the blinking text cursor where he should be composing an in-depth essay about Ten seems to stare back at him wryly.

“Good.”

Dongyoung isn’t satisfied.

“Could you, I don’t know, elaborate?” The way Dongyoung is so keen on glaring at him as if to reprimand him like a little kid is a bit funny, if Johnny must be honest. There’s a rickety chair that serves no purpose but to take up space in his office so it gives the impression of being functioning, and Dongyoung takes a seat fully conscious of it.

“Y’know, the usual process of dream-work,” Johnny starts, “but there’s some—anomalous details, like dreams occurring before stage five or even four, and Te-their dreams are mostly minimalistic, like, they’re not chaotic or anything like that.”

As Dongyoung moves forward, chair creaking, the scowl plastered on his face dissolves gradually into a neutral but pleased expression. It’s good that Johnny knows, by now, that Dongyoung’s strict and ill-humored demeanor is nothing but a pretence.

“That’s—satisfactory,” nodding, Dongyoung says, “I can see you’re interested. It’s been a while, don’t you think?”

Thing is, there’s more to that statement than meets the eye. Johnny would know. But his office at 3 p.m is no place, or time, to discuss it—if there’s even something to discuss, really. Dongyoung worries excessively about him, although he doesn’t normally express it verbally, but Johnny has built way too many walls, and it gets tiring to try and break them down after a while.

“Yeah, yeah,” Johnny waves his hand dismissively, “thank you.”

It comes from the deepest part of him.

“Don’t thank me, hyung.” And Dongyoung doesn’t usually use honorifics in the workplace, so his response is as honest and heartfelt as Dongyoung can get. “Don’t get yourself into a stew. You’re unbearable when sulking.”

Johnny allows his mouth to stretch into a big smile. Dongyoung returns it contently. “As if it would bother you that much, maybe if you left your office once in a while…”

Dongyoung just rolls his eyes and gets up (the chair scrapes against the floor and makes the weirdest sound, Johnny guesses it won’t last much longer), patting his pants and shaking off the imaginary dust that Dongyoung sees everywhere.

“Thanks for the offer,” a last glance, “but I’m comfortable enough in my office with my child.”

That manages to get a giggle out of Johnny. Moments like these are what he relishes the most, tension easing, mind somewhat clear, and of course—witnessing Kim Dongyoung laughing carefreely.

Johnny has a dream that night, a chaotic one, overflowing with laughter and swimming pools and learning how to swim. It stays tucked away, but he remembers patently two dainty hands reaching out to him and saving him from drowning.

-

He finds the green light on hours prior to the expected time.

Placing his glasses on his desk and taking a seat, Johnny hooks himself to the device, and subsequently ignores his rumbling stomach. Jaehyun is yet to arrive home with the usual promised take-out, so Johnny takes the chance presented in front of him, hunger being obscured by curiosity.

Once more, it’s straightforward.

There’s a large garden, and Johnny would deduce that the grass extends endlessly, like most of Ten’s dreams. His home is drowning in plants, from the outside and inside, vines climbing up the walls, turning the rooftop into a splatter of in blossom pinks and yellows. Still, the constant sticks out like a sore thumb.

It’s an awe-inspiring sight.

The summerlike atmosphere, in particular. It takes Johnny back, way back to sweaty and scalding summers spent bravely outside until the heat becomes intolerable and they move inside, safely blanketed by the air conditioning.

Now, there isn’t a sweltering heat engulfing him. But the vibe stays—and when Johnny walks around the corner and stumbles upon Ten, reclining on a lawn chair, swimming trunks and flip-flops on, it feels like a punch in the gut. A memory that is way too vivid for Johnny’s liking.

“Why are you asleep so early?” Johnny opts to ask, to make his presence known, “isn’t it like, 12 p.m in Korea?”

Ten is going through a magazine with nothing but nonsensical symbols and scrawls on it, almost like hieroglyphics, since reading is very rarely possible in dreams. Though, he seems amused enough. The surprise on his face has been lessening considerably with each dream, so now, Ten looks up just a bit disconcerted.

“Ah, yeah,” he puts down the magazine (as if it was of any use, Johnny would like to think he was just waiting for him), and says, “had practice.”

Of course, Johnny thinks, nodding slowly. And then, “you still dance?”

That’s the starting point. A beginning to the catch-up with the years looming over the both of them. And it’s so smooth, so gradual, so easy—Johnny just forgets, listens, and allows his brain to wind down and sit back, relaxing. Ten has that effect.

So Johnny learns that Ten is, indeed, still dancing (“very professionally,” according to Ten.

“I’ll have to see it for myself,” Johnny had added, smirking.

It’s so easy to fall back into old habits. The prospect of that ever happening shot tingles down Johnny’s spine, even with every other part of his body screaming back at him that it’s just a dream). And that he moved, too, with his sister, closer to the downtown area because (“it’s closer to everyone, and an excuse to leave everything behind,” Ten had explained.

Again, the subtext was very clear. Johnny is just used to the bitterness of it by now.

“So my house got swallowed by plants?” He asked, innocently, trying not to ruin the mood.

“Honestly—probably.”).

And so on, because time in a dream is unlimited.

“I’ve been a lot more into poetry lately,” fumbling with the sunglasses he’s holding, Ten comments. They’ve been exchanging random facts—updates, and Johnny holds a permanent smile on his face.

“I’ve noticed.”

Ten narrows his eyes. “When?”

“One of your dreams—you were reciting one to yourself,” Johnny catches the slight glow on Ten’s cheeks, “it was a little spooky, to be honest.”

“Spooky? You should be on your own inside a dream, y’know, lucid and shit. It’s boring,” Ten complains. His voice goes a bit higher and Johnny commits it to memory, for the second time in his life.

“So you memorize poems?”

“I’m just practicing, hyung,” Ten retorts, “be glad you never caught me singing.”

At that, Johnny giggles. Not because Ten would be a bad singer—in fact, if he sets a goal for himself, Johnny is sure Ten could achieve it in no time—but because the comment only encourages memories to keep kindling in Johnny’s brain, and the one where six-year-old Ten sings and dances to, at that time, recently-released Perfect Man by Shinhwa on top of a table is definitely a keeper.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” a pause, “what’ve you been reading?”

“I saw the wing of a bird on the road,” Ten voices. The glowy summerlike colors of the dream turn gloomy, “it was early, I was walking alone.”

Johnny averts his gaze, and decides to focus on the goosebumps breaking out across his skin.

“And I found it lovely.”

There’s a deadly silence. Johnny awaits and—

He watches the way Ten opens his mouth to continue and no sound comes out, so Johnny blinks, and it’s pitch black for a moment. It doesn’t last long, at least not enough to make him panic, because soon he feels two strong arms grabbing at his shoulders, as if shaking him awake—and of course, it’s Jaehyun.

“Dude,” Jaehyun exclaims once Johnny opens his eyes and stares confusedly back at him, “you need to eat.”

Johnny just sighs, disgruntled, and says, “I was in the middle of something, I think it was pretty obvious.”

“Tell that to your stomach.”

Coincidentally, it makes a low sound. Jaehyun takes it as a victory, smugness evident when he shoots Johnny a dimpled smile and leaves the room, making a beeline for the take-out in the kitchen that’s making Johnny salivate just by smelling it.

The food doesn’t agree with him, it appears, as Johnny’s stomach aches the entirety of the night.

-

Two days go by before Johnny can coincide with Ten’s sporadic dreams.

And the guilt of having left so abruptly wears on him, adding to the existing weight, pushing Johnny back into self-deprecating thoughts. It’s remorse for his actions—and his cowardice.

So it’s no surprise that the moment Johnny’s been dreading, a confrontation requiring more than he could ever give away, comes just in time. Johnny knows it was meant to happen (written in the stars, Ten would say), yet it hurts.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Johnny says. Ten is sitting on a rock, squinting at the white veil on the shore and the vast cerulean that disguises as a sea, and doesn’t budge an inch. This is reason number one: rejection.

Johnny knows his words hold a double and deeper meaning now, and he also knows there are no words gratifying enough for Ten. That’s reason number two: numbness.

He approaches Ten with great caution, standing awkwardly at a thoughtful distance, and then finally looks at the house. It’s painted red this time, a dazzling shade, and Johnny wouldn’t recognize it if it wasn’t because of the constant. So, lost in thought, he mutters, “it was never red.”

Unexpectedly, Ten answers.

“Your uncle painted it when you moved.” It’s more than bitter—it’s sour, and Johnny is urgently in need for the elephant in the room to be addressed. Ten’s childlike upset tone is only cute when there aren’t feelings on the line.

So Johnny stays mute. And waits. Because Johnny is a notable coward and he doesn’t dare to talk.

“Why did you leave?” And so, Ten drops the question with a soulful voice. It hurts, and it’s inevitable.

While Ten mounches anxiously on his bottom lip, Johnny rummages through every single repressed memory in his brain—and attempts to call back to mind a reason. Thing is, there’s no exact known reason. It’s a decision Johnny made because he was afraid.

“I’m—I was scared.”

At that time, Johnny had been a coward (and to this day, too, it’s just that now Johnny likes to pride himself on the small amount of progress he has made since he moved). Afraid of love, commitment, any sort of feeling—because Johnny got accustomed to putting others first, and then himself. To be there, and expect nothing in return. Which was sweet, selfless, but it eventually lead to his downfall.

So, on a stormy but balmy night of summer, at dinner, Johnny’s family informed him of a trip to Chicago in two days, (“It’ll probably turn into a long stay, so pack all your things, okay?” Johnny’s mother had said. Johnny locked himself in the bathroom and cried, because he knew) and dejected seventeen-year-old Johnny chose to hide it from everyone. Including Ten. It wasn't the smartest decision, that's a given, but it seemed like the easiest one then.

Especially, because when Ten had asked about hanging out, the lie slipped so easily out of his mouth, it could've been considered natural.

“It's cleaning day today,” Johnny told him.

“Ok then, you better actually clean, fatass,” Ten said, “I'll see you tomorrow at the park?”

Johnny knew, already, that their tomorrow was non-existent. Yet, he didn't seem able to stop telling (what he then considered) white lies.

“‘Course, at 6 right?” After, he was left staring at the stacked boxes and three suitcases in his almost-empty bedroom. It hurt, deeply, and sleeping with tears on his eyes that night was a telltale sign of something not being right that Johnny kept on avoiding.

Nevertheless, none of those silent tears stopped him. Johnny visited the park one last time the next morning, thoughts of Ten going there to meet up with him later that evening filling every corner of his brain, and still his phone remained suspiciously turned off throughout the day.

“How did it go?” Johnny's mother had asked after he returned, seemingly concerned.

“It's alright. We'll keep in touch through messages and stuff.”

So, the moment came, Johnny got into a car and then a plane. And Korea was left behind along with every piece of Johnny's broken heart. He learned to put a bandaid on it and call it a day after the first few years, then, it gradually became just another characteristic of his persona. A sweet and goofy guy in a tall and lanky body—and a broken heart along a box where feelings are kept under lock and key.

Even now, Johnny is sure Ten is the only person with a key to that box. He just wishes the grand opening would happen under different circumstances.

“Afraid of what? You've been ghosting me for years and this is all you got to tell me?!”

Johnny gulps, “I was afraid of leaving, of—I don't know,” he looks at Ten and immediately averts his gaze, “it was a stupid choice.”

Now Ten doesn't seem to be dropping his intense stare any time soon, or appearing somewhat satisfied, that same irked expression remaining on his face.

“Of course it was stupid, and childish, and rude—it fucking hurt, hyung,” Ten exclaims, and although he looks angry, his voice has a wounded tone, quivering a little, “you gave me nothing but radio silence, not one call or message or anything—and be glad this is a dream and I can't hit you, asshole.”

“You can,” he clears his throat, “hit me, I mean.”

“You wouldn't feel it, what's the point?”

“Actually, you can feel everything in dreams, even more intensely sometimes,” and so, Johnny dares to face him, stepping forward, “I can feel everything.”

That manages to induce a slight change in Ten’s expression as he stands up and looks at Johnny, challengingly.

“I'm gonna hit you,” he defies.

“Ok.”

Evidently, Johnny wasn't expecting Ten to launch himself at him, and start throwing punches at his chest. It's borderline cute, because Ten is still a few inches smaller, and his attempts at causing any pain fall short since Johnny works out—so his chest muscles are firm and strong, and Ten’s hands mostly just tickle him. Though, a forceful third hit has him wincing, stumbling backwards. And by instinct, grabbing Ten’s wrists.

They fall into an embrace—and this is what Johnny means when he says he can feel every single thing. Ten’s heartbeat and warm breath fanning over his face, the atmosphere thinning, and the rhythmic percussion of waves crashing on the shore in the distance. It could all be summed up in a single second, but again, time in a dream is relative, and unlimited.

Ten is the first one to break.

He escapes Johnny's grip and circles his arms around him, hugging Johnny tightly while tucking his head into his chest. That's a feeling Johnny would've paid to feel again before.

“I'm really fucking sorry,” hugging him back, Johnny says, “I'm an asshole, and a child, and the stupidest person alive. I’m sorry, Ten.”

Ten sniffs. And God, Johnny prays that he isn't crying. There are a lot of things he can't handle, but seeing someone cry because of him (Ten, specifically, and maybe that's another reason) is first on the list.

“I was worried, and then angry, at you but mostly with myself,” Ten mumbles, voice muffled by Johnny's clothes. But the warmth of his voice is spread everywhere else across Johnny's body, “because I trusted you and you didn't.”

Tentatively, Johnny starts caressing his back. This kind of skinship is foreign for them now, but Johnny missed it more than anything. “I trusted you, Ten. I just didn't know what to do with myself.”

“Well, you didn't trust me enough to tell me, or give me a reason, I don't care what it was.”

Deep down, Johnny knows what it was, the exact reason besides the many factors. But getting to admit it, even to himself, is a work in progress.

“Ten, I don't even know the reason now,” Johnny says, “how could I have known back then?”

Ten peels back and sends him a wary look, “I still don't trust you,” he responds, and then buries his face back against Johnny's chest, “but I missed you.”

A smile tugs at his lips, and although the guilt still sits heavy on him, he allows himself to savour the moment, drink in the feeling of Ten’s frame against him, his arms engulfing him, and their hearts beating in sync.

“I missed you too.”

Their hearts, the sea, and nothing else. It's almost poetic, the kind that Ten likes.

And maybe that's reason number three: falling in love again.

-

There's a change after that, not only in their relationship, clearly, but in Ten’s dream’s patterns.

Especially when Johnny enters one dream and his childhood home—or any house, for that matter—isn't the first and most remarkable thing he sees. Instead, Johnny finds himself at a train station.

Ten’s the one startling him now, too.

“Hey,” seemingly appearing out of nowhere, he says, and stands right beside him. They both are at the edge of the platform, facing the snow-covered railway. But Johnny is having a hard time understanding the variation in the dream.

“Hey,” Johnny greets him, “are we waiting for a train or what?”

“I have no idea.”

Ten scans the place, and shrugs. Johnny is even more puzzled.

“This is your dream.”

“So? I can't control what I dream, or know what's gonna happen. That's your job, isn't it?” Ten ripostes, and as he talks, Johnny is able to make out a train approaching in the distance.

“Well, yeah—”

“You're still here because of your job, after all, right?” Johnny tries to complain, but fails at making up an excuse that doesn't lead him to unveiling his eagerness to spend time with Ten, so he keeps quiet and nods, “what a shame, I'm sorry for making your job more difficult, Mr. Cobb.”

The sound of the train arriving at the station mutes Johnny's groan.

“Let’s go,” Ten tells him, walking into the train once the doors open. Unconsciously, Johnny notes there isn’t anyone inside (or at least that’s what it seems, from where he’s standing in the middle of the corridor, peering at the never-ending compartments), and runs through every symbolic meaning of an empty train stored in his brain. There are several characteristics of the dream, and basic features of the train, that Johnny must turn over in his mind to arrive at a diagnosis.

So he decides to focus on Ten’s profile instead, gazing outside, once they take a seat. Now Johnny doesn’t even try to deny it—doing his job is tucked far in the back of his mind. Because Ten’s eyes sparkle with a different glint now, his lips protrude in a pensive pout, and the bright snow-white moving scenery casts different shapes on his face, so Johnny is having a hard time looking away or inspecting any other detail that isn’t Ten.

It’s a gradual change that Johnny allows to happen.

“Quit staring,” eyes never leaving the sight outside the window, Ten orders with a teasing tone, but there’s a faint gentle smile that tells Johnny that it’s okay now. And the deep-seated bitterness is just a memory now. One of many.

“Sorry,” Johnny mumbles, and tries to deflect because of the embarrassment, “there isn’t much to look at anyways. Where are we even going?”

There probably isn’t a logical answer to that question. Johnny still attempts to divert Ten from his long-standing habit of teasing him (and usually, Johnny would counter back, engaging in their usual banter, now it’s like the beginning all over again—sticky palms and stuttering under his gaze), and it appears to work, considering Ten focuses more attentively on the landscape in order to answer Johnny’s question.

Though Ten only gives him a deafening silence minutes later, and continues gazing outside. It’s only awkward, Johnny supposes, because he can’t stop staring. And as Ten isn’t a naive person (quite the opposite, he’s leery of the smallest details, every look, every touch. But he’s a great actor, too. A complexity for which Johnny has fallen too many times), he’s most likely aware.

“Look!” Johnny snaps out from his blank-minded (Ten-filled) state as Ten exclaims, pointing at something outside, “there’s your house.”

And then, the home finally comes to light. It’s mostly clad in snow, but the few well-known visible details of the place are a dead giveaway. The wooden beige door clashing with the dark brown of the walls outside, having faded a bit through years of weathering—that’s one of the closest appearances that Johnny remembers. And the snow is an important factor, too, when Ten is involved.

Because childhood isn’t only summer.

The train comes to a halt and once their feet make contact with the enveloping snow, Johnny is hit with the overwhelming memory of snow-fighting and devastating colds not even Ten’s lithe body could handle (Johnny remembers Ten being forced by him to sleep over at his place—this same house, the constant in every dream—so Johnny could watch over and coddle him. He also recalls not sleeping a wink those nights, too busy checking Ten’s temperature every twenty minutes. The meaning behind his actions was kept in a box, and now Johnny understands).

And when the back of his head is met with something cold, Johnny realizes nothing has really changed.

“Hey!”

Ten is standing there, an expression of having been caught red-handed, and if Johnny must be completely honest—he feels a bit lightheaded. Because Ten’s cheeks shine like two fresh red apples, round, the biggest smile on his pale lips, and his glowing nose is the cherry on top (quite literally, considering the color). He's a piece of art, and as Johnny allows fragments of his heart to come together back to place, he concludes the strange fluttering feeling on his stomach is anything but new.

“That old, hyung?” Ten teases, cocking his head to the side while rolling together a perfect snowball with his bare hands, ready to pelt Johnny with it.

“No, I'm just—”

It's thrown directly onto his face. The snow melts quickly, and despite the burning cold, Johnny feels warm all over. Ten just smiles.

“Should I remind you that I can feel everything?” Johnny tells him, also a bit concerned that Ten can touch snow with such carelessness, barehanded.

“So?” Ten, at least, has proper snow gear on. Johnny shivers, and drinks in every sensation. It's been weird since the first dream Johnny analyzed—being so aware, so susceptible to every feeling—but with Ten, it's two times realer. And Johnny can't lie and say he's not wallowing in it.

“I’m cold!”

Which isn't that far of a lie, because although it's a mix of many things, Johnny's body is starting to react to the low temperatures. And the thawing snow dripping down his chest and back isn't helping.

“Let's go inside,” heading towards the house, Ten suggests.

But instead of complying, Johnny slyly creeps up behind him and smashes a snowball on his nape, where silvery skin is exposed. Ten immediately turns around, mouth agape, and after shaking the fresh flakes off, he starts advancing towards him. Johnny can see—on his eyes, the curve of his mouth, his overall demeanor—the not-so-subtle mischievousness.

“Oh, you're on.”

Looking back on it, Johnny doesn't regret a thing. With a drenched body and a heavy heart, there’s only space for the biggest smile on his face. Ten clinging onto his back to push him down to the cushioned ground, every giggle leaving a mark, the persistent memory of their childhood—of the selfsame scenario. Johnny is sure they can both sense the nostalgia, and how it isn't a burden anymore.

It doesn't weight down on him, watching Ten falling face-down on the snow in the same way he did at the age of thirteen. Johnny is not as guilty anymore, when Ten looks at him once they are done, panting, and notes the sheer happiness taking over his countenance.

So dreamlike, being back. Spending time comfortably with Ten like a first time and as if time hasn't passed at all, all together. It feels like a dream, Johnny guesses, because it is.

And Ten is aware, but doesn't seem bothered by the fact.

“I wish you could wake up in the same state in real life as you're in a dream,” Ten comments, assessing Johnny’s dripping clothes, “can that happen? Like, waking up like this—with your clothes all wet.”

Johnny huffs.

“You can’t,” he declares and waits for Ten to poke fun at him, but he just listens attentively, “it's like dying or getting injured. You don't wake up dead, Ten.”

“Wait, that thing about dying in a dream forcing you to wake up is real?”

“In a way—” Ten gives him hopeful eyes, “but, it's not really true. It's just that your brain can't process what's beyond death. But still, you can dream about dying.”

“Cool.”

Ten ponders over something for a few moments and then inquires, “what does killing someone in a dream mean?”

His question seems genuine, with a subtle hint of curiosity, even. So Johnny takes his time formulating a coherent answer.

“Well, it usually means repressed anger about something or someone,” he explains, “it could be towards a person, an event or even about yourself—you know, like a habit or memory you want to get rid off.”

The air around them thickens, or at least that's what Johnny's paranoid mind perceives. And a brave assumption comes to mind.

“Interesting—”

“Wait, was it me?”

Ten looks taken aback, but Johnny needed to get it off his chest, attempting to stop carrying around so many worries—weight.

“Honestly, I have no fucking idea,” it's sincere enough. It helps to soothe Johnny a bit, “I just remember it happening, but not an specific person. Don't worry, hyung, I won't kill you.”

And Johnny laughs, unwinds, relishes in the now falling snow and their throbbing and cherry-colored hands.

“Yet.”

-

“You seem happier.”

After a whole minute of silence, Jaehyun comments. Moments before, mostly filled with the sounds of cutlery clinking and drinks being sipped, their lack of chitchat was serving as a way to just relax and eat (even if they usually talk quite a lot over dinner time), being a product of their tiredness and, in no way, awkward. Just a habit, a routine. But if there's something needed to be brought up, it happens unexpectedly.

Or well, Jaehyun is just an unexpected person.

“Okay?”

Jaehyun finishes swallowing the same-old takeout noodles and stares at him.

“Really? That's all you got to tell me?” Johnny shrugs and takes a bite out of his own food, “dude, I’m trying to get you to open up, and I know you—”

“I don't like opening up.”

“—don't like opening up.” Jaehyun finishes and smiles, “Wow, I really need to get you drunk.”

“I don't even let myself know about what I feel, Jae,” he mutters, and then asks, “what kind of vital information do you even need from me—”

“Well, there's something making you happy,” he interrupts. Johnny fights a smile, “and I love seeing you happy, dude, that's why I want to talk to you about it.”

“I hate that you found a way to include dude in that sentence,” Johnny tells him instead of giving any kind of honest answer about the topic. It feels very dreamlike, still. And that scares him a bit (because dreams aren't real—and so, none of those interactions were real, per se).

“Listen, you can talk to me, hyung,” this time it's whispered into the air, allowing Johnny to choose to catch it or not. He does, and treasures it.

“But I'm still getting you drunk this weekend, so.”

In a way, Johnny looks forward to it.

-

Again, the anomaly is the lack of a constant.

Whereas before the recurrent presence of a house was the variant, now the absence of it raises a red flag. And he's in a closed space too, suddenly shrinking away at the strong smell of chlorine.

And, oh, what a familiar smell.

No sooner Johnny walks further into the building than he realizes the constant (the house, his home, which Ten’s dreams seem unable to exclude) is always there, but indirectly. Vague and allusive. With every dream, finding his home becomes more difficult, and Johnny would presume it's just Ten’s mind processing the events, getting rid of the symbolic object. Except, as he saunters through the hall, and looks at the framed pictures of his house in different points in time, a sharp pang of guilt hits him again. Because Ten can't exactly forget—and maybe he never will.

The pictures are all taken from a similar angle, filter differing depending on the period of time. Johnny must admit, they are really pleasing to the eye. Even more so, because although being amateur, as a photographer, Johnny is hard to impress.

(But, he supposes, if it's Ten, he’s already been impressed. Now—and years ago).

As he keeps advancing, the framed photographs change. There are trees, a dreary black and white rainy landscape—and then there's Ten. His eyes, his side profile, nose and mouth, details that make Johnny's heart hammer against his chest (because they are really well-taken shots, Johnny repeats to himself, and the inviting pink-ish tint of Ten’s lips has nothing to do with it). Scrutinizing the pictures slowly, Johnny arrives to a set that, after taking a few seconds to process them, gets his pulse racing. Gorgeous and aesthetic shots of Ten’s body, that's what they are—back, waist, shoulders. And Johnny would prefer to avoid certain thoughts, or just not think at all.

It's Ten who finds him looking too closely at the photos.

“It's a dream, don't judge me too much. They probably look weird.”

Johnny whips his head around at a fast speed, almost tripping, and takes in Ten’s familiar appearance. The swimming trunks, white shirt, red flip-flops and it clicks. But he still waits, taking the chance to talk more about Ten.

“You are into photography?” Johnny asks.

“A bit, I guess? I’m not good—I just follow my inner artist.”

The way he talks sheepishly about it makes the feeling on Johnny's stomach sink even lower.

“No—Ten, these are really good,” he praises, glancing again at the pictures, “though, it's true dreams distort certain things, but they look pretty real. I would love to see them in real life, too.”

Ten lowers his head while wearing glowing cheeks and then, with his entire demeanor changing, he turns around and signals for Johnny to follow him. It's the smell of chlorine getting stronger that makes Johnny's stomach churn.

After a few steps that feel eternal, they reach what appears to be the main room of the building. That Johnny knows too well, unable to stop his heart from jumping and his palms from sweating—he wishes he was naive again (always does, ever since the start, wanting to be capable of being unaware), uncaring enough to not pick up on every single clue presented boldly in front of him. But Johnny does, can't ignore what's bigger than him, and so he advances towards the mesmerizing swimming pool.

It's as intimidating as he remembers—large, deep, water so crystalline and turquoise it gives off a mystical vibe. Johnny has always liked it for that reason, the dreamlike feeling of swimming in sparkly water.

“It's pretty close to reality, right?” Ten asks, voice echoing. Johnny looks around the immense room, blue-tinted because of the light bouncing back from the pool. Ten’s face reflects a similar hue, but prettier, the color turning his features softer.

“It's…” He finds it hard to convey through words what he’s thinking. And still, Johnny is sure Ten gets it.

“Very fanciful?” Ten adds, scanning the place, and then—taking off his flip-flops—he goes to sit by the edge of the pool, feet testing the water, “yep, it's warm. Unrealistic.”

Johnny giggles and does the same, “yeah, it's like—the same-old local swimming pool but from the perspective of an over-imaginative child.”

“Well, the last time I went there I was 17.”

For no less than a second, Johnny glances at Ten, it's his piercing stare that sends a spark down Johnny's spine and prompts him to focus back on the glimmering water. The question gnaws at the back of his mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you sign up to the program?”

Ten appears unfazed, “I think you meant to ask when.”

They are revisiting uncharted territory (or, well, already-explored territory), but in contrast, Ten isn't bitter, or sad. He smiles when he notices the brief confusion on Johnny's face.

“When did you?” He finally inquires, an idea of what Ten’s answer might be taunting him.

“When do you think I did, hyung?” His voice is like honey dripping out of his mouth. And it does things to him, to his conscious self.

Johnny shrugs.

“When you left, dumbass,” as if it's the most obvious reason, Ten says, and Johnny can only ask—

“Why?”

“I guess, in a sense, it was a way to remember you. You've always liked dreams—you wouldn't stop haunting mine, I just wanted to feel at least that sense of closure, get answers,” Ten wanders off, trying to recall, and Johnny feels his heart seizing up, “but I just got those standard analysis a few months later. Then I forgot about it.”

Johnny used to despise the concept of fate. Now, sharing dreams with Ten, he thinks maybe it was written in the stars.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop being sorry. I’m glad I’m here now.”

They both fall silent, marveling at the vast expanse of water. And—

“Do you remember when you almost drowned?”

Johnny remembers drowning many times in his lifetime, but he’s certain Ten means it literally, the memory that's been following him since he first sensed the smell of chlorine (sore eyes too vivid), since he saw Ten in those infamous swimming trunks.

“Of course, how could I forget when you almost killed me?”

Ten laughs, loudly, and it resonates across Johnny's body and heart.

In hindsight, Ten had never meant to intentionally hurt him, of course. He had always been kind of a prankster, a tease, to Johnny—so his actions weren’t malintetionated. Even when Ten laughed for a good two minutes after Johnny fell. It was clear there was no deliberate malice of any kind.

“Look at how the water is shining!” Ten had exclaimed, nearing the pool. Johnny followed him suitly, like a lost puppy, observing the immense place.

“It looks deep,” that elicited a smile from Ten, who eagerly placed his red flip-flops on the edge, and hovered over the water.

“Let’s swim.”

Ten had always been a complex person. And Johnny had always liked complex.

So breaking into the local natatorium at midnight, swimming gear on, the proposal of taking an innocent dip—to Johhny’s profoundly whipped mind, it just seemed like the coolest plan. Except, Johnny should’ve kept in mind that he didn’t know how to swim (doesn’t know—it’s a pending matter).

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Johnny said, and plunged his whole leg into the water, “it’s warm.”

Ten had beamed at his reaction, content about slowly but surely convincing Johnny of just diving in.

“I know, right?” The pool appeared to be heated, being indoors helping keeping its temperature regulated.

So it happened like this: Johnny kept on entertaining himself, making waves with his feet and contemplating entranced the color and pellucidity of the water. Ten had gone behind his back, taking his chance, and pushing Johnny into the lukewarm water.

It was funny, for at least two seconds, and as Ten laughed with his whole body and Johnny watched him bend over, accidentally swallowing water—it all went downhill. Desperate coughs filled the emptiness of the building, echoing through the walls, Johnny waving his hands hysterically attempting to keep afloat, albeit to no avail, instead forcing his body further down into the water.

It’s then, with black dots clouding his vision, that two dainty hands reached out to him, grasping at any body part near the surface. He didn’t register when, or how, exactly (considering the haze of having been choking on water, the strong taste of chlorine on his tongue, and the soreness of Johnny’s eyes and muscles), but then he was being pulled up, out of the water, and his body fell limp against the cold tiles. However, Johnny couldn’t react—his mouth remaining closed, along with his eyes, and every part of his body felt numb to any touch. Those hands desperately moved around, cupping and prodding at Johnny's pale face.

“Hyung?” Johnny remembers having heard, distantly, “please.”

It sounded so wounded, tiny and filled with guilt, regret. Johnny almost found, somewhere deep inside his body, the strength to open his eyes and bring his consciousness back, but he recalls only being able to lay there—hyper-aware of Ten’s mortified and desperate state, incapable of moving.

So Ten's warm hands (in contrast to the rest of his dead-cold body) cupped his face from a different angle, and that is the moment Johnny is mindful of the most. The reason why drowning becomes a depiction, a poetic metaphor of Johnny's feelings. All of sudden, Ten joined their lips in a chaste kiss—as if that could do anything, really, the poor kid wasn't (isn't—as far as Johnny knows) a paramedic, but movies had shown him enough. And luckily for him, that action seemed to ignite something inside Johnny’s body, bringing him back to life.

He coughed, trying to welcome the sudden gust of air entering his water-filled lungs. Trying to make sense of the strange tingling feeling on his lips, his heart, his body.

“Thank God,” Ten uttered, and didn't move an inch.

The proximity of their bodies did nothing to help with the confusion Johnny was experiencing. A simple kiss had awoken more than just Johnny's physical body, and his fourteen-year-old self couldn't find a rational reason for the nagging replaying of their lips touching in slow motion in his brain. Maybe that's another of the many unfolding points, one of the many bricks that have built over the years a wall around Johnny's heart, and memories.

He's no poet—that's Ten’s job, but finding himself years later at the same place (even if it isn't accurate, or real, and it's nothing but a dream), with Ten by his side, looking as young as ever, as mischievous as back in the day—Johnny concludes falling is just a never-ending process, inevitable, like jumping blindfolded off a cliff, unaware of the end that awaits.

“I’m sorry for that, by the way,” Ten says, abruptly pulling him back down to reality. Johnny feels the remains of cold tiles against his back, “you’re right, I literally almost killed you.”

“It's okay,” Johnny reassures him, “you've apologized plenty of times.”

“I've always felt guilty.”

It hurts a little inside, close to his heart.

“Why?” Ten just shrugs, “you were thirteen, Ten.”

“I don't know, I've always felt like I forced you into doing certain things,” he trails off, staring at the pool as if reminiscing, “God, I was the worst influence. And you are my hyung.”

Johnny wants to tell him a thousand things.

“You didn't force me into anything,” he denies instead, and—

“You made me happy.” It's all he manages to let out. The urge to say: make (present time, present thoughts coming back) is strong, but Johnny is a coward.

And because Johnny is a coward, he avoids Ten’s searching gaze and focuses his eyes on the ceiling, leaning back on his elbows against the tiled edge of the pool.

It's not as cold anymore, Johnny notices.

-

And so, the prospect of Johnny ever fulfilling and resuming with his duty is out of the question.

Writing any reports, finding brand new details, analyzing the meaning behind every action and event—all become tangential to Johnny's life. When he allows Ten to lure him back into dreamland, teaching him how to feel again, making Johnny forget about the undeniable fact they are facing: dreams are not real life.

But still, an idea takes a hold of his brain. Steadily, it sticks in there, it grows resistantly, and there’s not much Johnny can do to fight back. He goes pliant, stares at Ten, and lets it fully form. Of course, for that idea to arise, it must be planted first. The seed of it has been stored away inside Johnny’s brain (on purpose, single-handedly, Johnny took the thought, the idea, and buried it deep) a while back.

It almost feels like watching a flower that can’t be bloomed.

“You keep spacing out,” Ten interrupts. Johnny is kind of thankful, except he focuses back on Ten, and the idea in his head struggles against being eradicated, “what are you thinking about?”

The cheesiest answer comes to mind before anything else, and Johnny doesn’t filter it this time.

“You.”

“Same old, same old Youngho,” Ten tuts, “what exactly?”

Precisely what, not even Johnny comprehends. He just knows that looking at Ten now, in a different light (metaphorically and literally, under the brightest moonlight), is evoking those repressed ideas that are undoubtedly out of his control. Now Johnny looks at Ten, the tip of his perky nose reflecting the strong light, and his conscious mind wants nothing but to kiss it, kiss him. Reach out and touch. Feel the warmth of Ten’s skin against his again, but in a complete different manner.

And it's scary, incredibly so, to experience vividly those feelings again.

Ten doesn't help either, insistently watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“I—just remembering things, I guess,” Johnny murmurs.

Going back to the task at hand (at that moment: getting the right melody on the piano), Ten doesn't press. Still, the need to continue teasing him is evident in the smirk Ten doesn't even try to conceal—gaze focused on his hands hovering over the keys, but the twinkle of playfulness in his eyes is glary enough to catch.

Changing topics is one of Johnny's specialties, now. So he does just that.

“I know this one.”

Ten glances briefly at him and the smugness doesn't falter one bit, “because you taught me this one, remember?”

As to prove it, he starts leisurely pressing the keys, playing a vague tune of what the actual song is. It sounds strangely similar to the one Johnny heard in the first dream (it's not just similar—but nearly the same, Johnny has a hard time discerning those sounds even now). Gradually, details start piecing together.

“I kinda don't,” Johnny grimaces. He's mostly disappointed in himself.

The jet-black room doesn't prevent Ten from being the main focus, as the light entering the window hits his figure just right and the halo around him further nourishes the idea of Ten being an angel, or a deity. It's entrancing, like anything Ten-related these days, and Johnny can't find it in him to look away.

Ten shifts closer in the seat, their thighs becoming one, and the snap of his fingers forces Johnny to blink, blush and allow sounds to be processed by his brain again, all in the span of one second.

“Pay attention,” his warm hands find Johnny’s damp ones, catching hold of them with a tender touch and placing them on top of the keyboard, “and try it yourself. You’ll see it'll come out naturally.”

At a slow pace, it does. It's strange—getting accustomed to the foreign feeling of playing the piano again, yet after a few awkward but apparently funny (judging by the not-so-encouraging giggles Ten kept letting out) minutes, the melody starts flowing easily, along with a gust of memories. The recognizable difference now, is that Johnny has become averagely good at dealing with them, so he's not as overwhelmed when he thinks about fifteen-year-old Johnny playing a classical piece while fourteen-year-old Ten dances, carefree, with his whole body moving to the rhythm.

“That's good, see?”

Johnny looks down bashful, “I like your version better.”

And Johnny is aware this is new territory, uncharted, past and present. But there's a force much stronger inside him, that urges him on, tears off his mask, and coaxes him into attaching his eyes to Ten’s lips. Johnny blames the intracorporeal desire and exempts himself from his own actions. Even as Ten gyrates his body entirely to fully look at Johnny, their eyes meet for a second, and then his gaze drops to Ten’s lips (to appreciate every detail, every curve, every color and shade). It's rather obvious, how painfully aware Ten is, and the cockiness it spurs in him only makes Johnny's palms drip with sweat.

The sudden tension is so thick in the air, it's almost suffocating.

“Thank you,” pleased, Ten replies. It's not honey-like anymore, his voice, now it's heavier, gravelly. Johnny wonders if Ten knows, “I’ll play it and you dance.”

Outside the window, in the distance, Johnny can see the outline of his house glimmering under the moonlight.

-

As expected, it only grows.

And the impossibility of avoiding it like Johnny's been doing the past few years of his life, is now being helped by Ten’s smug demeanor. He's perceptive, most likely aware of the change in Johnny's behavior, of the longing looks turning into enamoured ones. Yet, Ten doesn't utter a thing, doesn't even tease him about it. He lets Johnny's brain do all the work by itself.

“It's so hot,” fanning himself, Ten says, “it was always cold in here before.”

Johnny's brain takes quite some time—approximately the two minutes they've been inside the dream, but as he sets foot inside and looks around, he comes to realize that for the first time, Ten is allowing him to enter the house. It's strange, not because Johnny hasn't visited his home (or Korea, as well) in years, or because out of all the dreams, none were inside the actual place, but because it's from Ten’s perspective.

His perception of Johnny's childhood, basically. And it feels more vibrant than Johnny remembers.

“Turn on the air conditioner,” Johnny suggests, and then notices there isn't one. It's just a ceiling fan and the scorching sun.

“I wish I could make one appear.”

Ten moves around expertly, yet in a way that doesn't impel Johnny to follow him, allowing his curious self to roam around. That's what he does, then, assessing each detail of the place while Ten sits on the couch and stares intently at his every movement, amused. The couch looks comfier, somehow, in a better state, along with the furniture surrounding it and the objects on them.

Photographs are a haze, blurry with burnt edges, same as any precise detail that demands too much from Ten’s memory—which is understandable. Johnny nearly barks out a laugh when he notices the magnets on the fridge being nothing but black rectangles.

“You can't?” Johnny asks suddenly as he continues inspecting. From an outsider’s view (from Dongyoung’s, maybe, or even Jaehyun’s) it might appear as if he's doing his job meticulously, taking it seriously. In reality, Johnny's intent is far from it, has been for a while now, and the reason why he's so concerned about the characteristics of this dream in particular is because he wants to learn more about Ten, and his perspectives. On a personal level, instead of a professional one. His actions are ruled by Ten, and Ten only. There's just no way to mask it now.

“No, should I?” He asks, and Johnny finally glances at him, “are you gonna teach me?”

He's gleaming under the few sunrays that fall slanting through the blinds, a stunning golden, because apparently the sun is setting. Or it's just a never-ending sunset. And Johnny feels more than lightheaded.

“Dumbass,” Johnny replies, earning a scoff from Ten, “it should happen naturally. Some people can do it, and others can’t.”

“So not only did I get stuck with you in my dreams but I also can't control them and I have to suffer from the heat.”

“Basically.”

As their banter comes to an end with a few giggles and content sighs, Ten unwaveringly makes his way towards one of the bookshelves (the one that appears to have the largest amount of books, with distorted titles and unreadable back covers that Johnny finds, at least, an aesthetic familiarity to) and grabs a small book, a worn-out white color. Johnny is not familiar with it.

“What's that?”

Ten fumbles with the book, and as Johnny catches sight of the cover, he notices it's readable. There aren't weird symbols, hieroglyphics, or illegible images—which is weird, but now, it doesn't stay on his mind as a reminder of anomalies and statistics, it simply passes off as a mere occurrence.

“It's a poetry book,” Ten answers while going through the pages absent-mindedly.

“That's definitely not mine,” with a smile, Johnny clarifies, simultaneously trying to recall the books he had bought because of Ten. Still, he's sure he's not the owner of that one.

“I know, it's mine.”

Inwardly, Johnny knew. And yet, giddiness washes over him, his brain unable to find that fact anything but cute. Lately, it's cute the go-to adjective.

“Read one for me,” the way Ten looks up at him as the words hang tentatively from his lips nearly makes Johnny regret ever opening his mouth. Ten just has those intense eyes, he guesses.

“Really, hyung?”

“Please,” and so Johnny pouts for added effect.

That prompts Ten to move, apparently. He goes to sit on the couch again, facing Johnny as their knees knock together and meet (which dusts Johnny's cheek with a rosy color, as the warmth of Ten’s body spreads through his, all because of their bodies barely touching), and opens the book pretending to not know in which page. But Johnny can see, Ten is devilishly aware.

“Mh, I forgot how good these were,” Ten comments, eyes shifting up and down the page, “anyways—hear this one.”

Johnny gulps in anticipation.

“Love does not look like a person, love is our actions,” he starts, “love is giving all we can, even if it’s just the bigger slice of cake.”

From the beginning, his sweet voice only pushes the words deeper into Johnny, skin-crawling. And he stares—at Ten’s furrowed eyebrows as he reads, the outline of his profile as the sun strikes his face, the curve of his lips as they move. Johnny isn't so sure about love not looking like a person.

“Love is figuring out all the kind sweetness we deserve, and when someone shows up, saying they will provide it as you do,” Ten recites, “but their actions seem to break you, rather than build you.”

Looking up from the book—Ten’s eyes land on him, and Johnny incapable of maintaining eye-contact, averts his gaze, instead focusing on Ten’s hands enclosing the book. The silence that follows doesn't help with Johnny's clammy hands.

“Love is knowing who to choose.”

The words ink into his skin, and once Johnny dares to look up again, Ten’s piercing stare outright waters the idea growing inside Johnny's head. Inevitable, from the start. He licks his lips and tries to push down the feelings overcoming him.

“That—was good,”Johnny manages to let out, “it feels like something you would write.”

“I'll show you someday.”

Seemingly pleased, Ten stands up and places the book back where it belongs. It stands out strikingly in contrast to the rest of the gloomy books on the shelf, and glows just as much as Ten when, curiously, he peeks out the blinds—allowing some sunlight to get in. The room appears coated in gold, and that's a reminder of the dreaming aspect (that lately Johnny is too keen on forgetting, overlooking).

As they settle back on the couch—or, Ten stops pacing around—Johnny's eyes look about aimlessly, taking in as much possible of the nostalgic setting. There's nothing especially eye-catching, until, on the dark-brown desk right beside the stairs, Johnny spots a photo frame that isn't blurred, for once.

It's a clear portrait. Not a family one, but of him and Ten at an amusement park, with the sunset hiding behind them.

-

“It's been a month.”

Dongyoung enters his office like he owns the place (which—he does, but the attitude sometimes isn't necessary), immediately stating the fact as if to remind Johnny of his pending report, and end to his investigation.

“I know,” it’s all he can say, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen of his laptop because his eyes are an open window that Dongyoung peeks into too easily.

“Then?”

Finding an excuse gets harder each time, and now Johnny feels exceptionally unfilled of ideas, considering all he can think about is Ten, Ten’s lips, Ten’s devotion to poetry, Ten’s fierce gaze. It's Ten.

“I—” Johnny breathes in and out, slowly. For the time being, he supposes telling some part of the truth can't be that bad, “he's a lucid dreamer.”

Dongyoung takes a seat on the unstable chair angrily and it makes a cracking sound. He doesn't seem to mind.

“And you chose to tell me now?”

“Well, I found out maybe a week ago,” now it's when the white lies come into action, “and I had to confirm it.”

“I assume you're following the rules,” Dongyoung quips, and that list goes from having no contact to acquiring zero information about the person. Johnny can only gulp and nod.

“Of course.”

There's a pause, where Dongyoung reclines on the chair and Johnny fears for both their lives (Dongyoung’s and the old chair, but mostly the latter), the silence only aggravating Johnny's anxiety about being caught.

“You're one of my best experimenters,” he eventually says, “don't throw that away just because of one job.”

Johnny's mind goes back to wasted afternoons, repetitive dreams, monotone and static thoughts, and replies, “I promise this is a good one.”

That pleases Dongyoung, at least for a bit, and he narrows his eyes at Johnny with a smile teasing at the corner of his lips. Trust is something Johnny worked hard on to gain, and this is where it most comes in handy, because with a final warning look, Dongyoung leaves him alone once and for all.

A combination of that trust and innocent white lies seem to be enough. Johnny doesn't feel so conscience-stricken.

-

Johnny remembers with sharpness how it all started. How it truly did.

Not with a house, a dream, a job—but with two complete opposite families, neighbors, coming together. It was a sunny morning, and he recalls every detail so well because the first time he saw Ten, there wasn't an instant liking. And that, for Johnny, after years of self-discovery, is a rare occurrence.

His mother had ushered him towards the front yard, minutes after Johnny woke up with his hair sticking up and eyes droopy, while notifying him of the new family that had just moved in. The excitement in her voice and eagerness in her pace was an important factor in keeping him captivated and awake (and still to this day, it's one of the details that's most etched on Johnny's memory).

So whether his expectations were high and they were never met, or his mother cooing at five-year-old Ten standing smiley as she pinched his cheeks was arousing a jealousy Johnny hadn't felt before—he doesn't exactly know, but Ten immediately rubbed Johnny the wrong way. And while their mothers chatted the morning away, he couldn't help but feel distant.

That feeling only grew as both their families forced a friendship on them, with Ten barely speaking Korean, and Johnny being unable to identify what was so fascinating about him.

“Do you speak English?” A sunny afternoon, Ten asked. It caught Johnny off guard, how out of nowhere Ten finally uttered a word, audible and decipherable at least, and the fact that it was in English left Johnny staggered.

“Yes. Do you?”

Johnny could see his eyes lightning up, almost sparkling, as he nodded and the words left his mouth. Exaggeratedly, Ten let out a long and profound sigh, and gradually, Johnny started to see the endearing aura in him.

“Oh, finally!” Ten exclaimed, jumping up from the bench and frantically clapping his hands. It made Johnny smile, and he bit his lip to contain a giggle.

The trees in the little park they were playing in danced in the wind, which roared nearly spookily, and prompted goosebumps to rise on his skin. It was cold, Johnny remembers distinctly. Luckily, people leaving allowed them to fully enjoy the playground area, with the slide and the large sandbox that Johnny loved so much.

“My mom doesn't like me playing with sand because I get my shoes dirty,” Johnny commented, feet already deep in the sand. Ten just looked at him, grabbing the red plastic shovel, and grinned.

“She's not here.”

As Ten’s fringe fell on his eyes because of the wind and he grumbled under his breath, reaching up to style his incredibly long hair, Johnny realized he didn't feel as distant as before.

It's been a process from the start, Johnny guesses.

-

Another unfolding point happens in the present time, a week later.

Most hours of Johnny's days are spent in his room, physically. And in dreamland with Ten, psychically. So eating fades into the background of his life, and now that Jaehyun has become increasingly worried about it, he's been leaving already-cooked ramen on his desk. He feels thankful as the steam coming from the overheated cup hits his face, fogging up his glasses.

Still, Johnny pushes it to the side as soon as he sees the green light on.

It's red, that's the first thing Johnny is able to discern. And once his eyes adjust to the dazzling light, he recognizes the scenery, this time, as his old room. Once again, Johnny is inside the actual house, and feels more than glad that Ten is allowing him in, in all aspects.

Sitting on his own bed, staring at the ceiling while pondering over where the source of the red light is, Ten crosses his mind and the door simultaneously opens. Johnny actually wonders if Ten could read or hear his thoughts at times.

“Hey,” Ten greets him, taking a seat beside him. And that’s when Johnny notices the change in ambience, temperature, and the beginning of clammy palms, “I was looking for you.”

“Where else would I be?”

Johnny shoots a brief glance outside the window, where there's nothing but bottomless whiteness. It's similar to those edges of the dream, like burnt photographs, that Johnny has encountered before.

“Yeah, but I hadn't even seen your room before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Ten nods, looks around, and the way the red lighting frames his face, nose and lips standing out, makes sweat bead at his temples. Still, Johnny wipes his hands on his jeans, ignoring how now it's his entire body reacting altogether. He blames the hot atmosphere, “it was locked.”

There's a meaning to it that Johnny opts to disregard, completely. Because of course it was locked. He replies with a hum, and as Ten gets up from the bed, Johnny lets his body fall limp on the mattress with his eyes closed, the heat becoming unbearable. Soon enough, there are careful steps all around him, that Johnny reckons are from Ten inspecting the major aspects of his room (mainly, what Ten’s capable of remembering), unhurriedly, given by the gentleness in his pace. Though, when they all of sudden stop seemingly near the door—Johnny fears Ten might just leave.

“I’m turning on the ceiling fan.”

It's strange, watching the fan blades remain unmoving, while a gush of refreshing air reaches his body. Johnny supposes it's just another anomaly of Ten’s dreams, a plain pattern, and still—Johnny is starting to get used to them. To the pitch-black photo frames all around his room, the endless outside dreamworld, the now inconsistent temperatures.

“It's still hot,” Johnny groans and closes his eyes again. Maybe to avoid Ten’s gaze, him shifting back towards the bed.

“It's weird because I’m used to my dreams being cold,” there's a dip on the bed, “maybe it's you.”

And Johnny doesn't need to see him to recognize the look he must be wearing. Yet, curiosity gets the best of him, and his eyelids flutter, squinting at the teasing smile wrapping around Ten’s lips. It's like he knows, and he reads every single thought going through Johnny's brain.

“Does it bother you this much?” Johnny asks instead, “because it's really intense.”

“Of course. Didn't you tell me you can feel everything in a dream?”

“Yes, but—”

“And more intensely too.”

As Ten interrupts him, Johnny reaches out to pinch the first part of his body he comes in contact with. In this case, his arm. Ten yelps.

“Well, you definitely felt that.”

“Asshole,” he mutters, rubbing at the reddening spot. Johnny only feels a bit sorry, when he remembers Ten has sensitive skin.

“Sorry.”

There's a pause. And suddenly the air sits heavier, thickly.

“Come here,” Ten orders, motioning him closer—and Johnny gulps, wiping for the third time his sweaty hands on his clothes. The intensity that Ten’s eyes hold is just too much.

“Wha—”

It's quick, short. The way Ten looks up at him through his eyelashes and joins their lips, chastely, and it's so straight to the point (so smugly, after Ten leans back and smirks) that Johnny can only assume Ten thought it through.

“Did you feel that?”

If Ten is referencing the warmth of his lips, the beat Johnny's heart misses, the redness that spreads through his body, and the utter shock written on his face—mouth hanging slightly open and all, then yes. Johnny can feel. And it's addicting, the many and various emotions that Ten is able to provoke on him.

It's exhilarating, and it places Johnny out of his own mind, allowing his brain and mouth to work on their own, basically.

“I didn't really—feel it, uh,” Johnny stutters out, “you should do it again. For, y’know, research.”

“Right, research,” Ten parrots back, still smirking, but Johnny is able to see that he's not alone, Ten’s cheeks starting to sport a very rosy color.

This time, Ten shifts closer, holds onto his jaw (and Johnny is taken all the way back to that first dream, that first encounter, how many things and nothing at all has changed) and tilts his head up once again. Johnny has no time to stare or to process it properly, really, as Ten’s lips are on him in no time, and now he doesn't back away instantly—Ten kisses him like he means it.

There isn't an extravagant or new feeling that Johnny experiences, it's more like an intensified version of all the emotions he's been going through since the start. A slow and gradual build up. But it doesn't explode, it burns, it spreads like wildfire inside him. There are no butterflies, but the pieces of Johnny's heart that had been missing, falling into place.

It's falling, and being caught at the end. It's love looking like a person.

And Johnny forgets—he pushes every single thought to the back of his mind and kisses back just a tad eagerly. Yet, the slow and carefulness of the kiss stays, with Ten sighing contently and allowing Johnny to lean down, cupping his jaw firmly. It's their lips sliding together, and years of pressure on both their chests being released.

Ten seems to come to his senses first.

“Ok—” he cuts himself off to catch his breath, “is that enough for your research?”

With the ghost of Ten’s hand on his neck and lips on his mouth, Johnny takes a few seconds to come up with a coherent answer that's not a stammered fuck. It does come out, though, under his breath once he opens his eyes.

“More than enough.”

And the red lightning of the room does nothing to hide the flushed expression on both their faces.

-

Infatuated would be an understatement.

Johnny is head over heels, diving deep into unknown waters. Explored, but unknown still. And it's a feeling rather different to what Johnny had experienced before, after that accidental kiss as teenagers, after he had to start hiding parts of himself so he wouldn't hurt others (or hurt Ten, push him away, the fear of making Ten hate him always present. It was egoistic too, in a way, that he'd just wanted for things to remain the same, even if it meant covering up and wearing a mask).

Now the distinction is in Johnny's lack of need to hide, because Ten is the one pulling in. Not away, but close to him.

“Stop looking at me like that if you can do something about it now.”

Ten is a complex person, deceiving words, eyes that contain an infinite amount of contradicting meanings. And Johnny has always liked complex. So there's a correlation, that now Johnny is able to see.

“I wasn't staring,” he tries to counter, but the way his voice trembles gives it away.

“Right,” and there’s Ten’s trademark smile.

Before them, the house stands almost majestically, with the sun casting down, and freshly painted white walls bouncing back the light. It appears almost heavenly (and as Ten approaches the door, his figure fully engulfed by sunlight, Johnny can only assume he’s died and ascended to heaven).

“Looks like a normal cleaning day in the Seo household,” Ten says looking around the beaming place.

Johnny chuckles at the immediate memory of his family opening every single window in the house while cleaning, times where his mother would wake him up by allowing sunlight to snap his eyes open, squinting at her mischievous smile. And he’d known that he would have to get up, tidy his room, help his dad mow the lawn, scrub the kitchen table until it’s lustrous—but Ten waving at him from across the street was a key motivator, back then. And afterwards, an addition.

The living room is full of boxes, scattered books and old trophies and souvenirs that not even Johnny remembers owning, or throwing away (though, the scenery reminds Johnny of moving, packing, leaving everything behind—so he doesn't dwell too much on the details). Ten walks in between the heap of objects, making a beeline for (where Johnny guesses is) the laundry room. Again, there's a certainty to his steps, to the way he walks so sure of himself. And Johnny follows suit, as always.

It's a bit dirtier than Johnny had expected, given the cleanliness of the rest of the house, inside and outside. The laundry room is closer to what Johnny remembers, the old washing machine with the few scratches from moving it around so much, the red hamper, cram-full of dirty clothes, and then the white walls sporting handprints of different sizes, all belonging to the both of them. There's way too much detail for it to be a simple memory—but Johnny doesn't ask. He waits.

“Look—this one’s yours,” Ten points out, drawing his attention to one of the marks on the wall, beside the washing machine. It's pretty big (because he’s always had big hands, at least in comparison to Ten), and he doesn't need to rummage through his brain for that specific point in time to know it's his. And next to it, a bit smudger, appear Ten’s fingers.

“Is it from that time you pushed me?”

“From the time you tripped over your own feet,” he corrects, and walks ahead of him, sitting on the washer.

“I remember clearly—”

“I clearly remember more,” a smirk, “it's quite a special memory, I would say.”

And, yeah, for Johnny—all of their time spent together is special. Mainly cleaning days where Ten would join him, as if he was naturally a part of his family structure, and he would help him and his dad mow the lawn, hands ending up covered in dirt. Days where Ten would tease him, and Johnny would trip over (in all senses, tripping over words and feet), blaming Ten’s grubby hands on his back. Memories in the form of handprints on a recently cleaned wall. But the curve of Ten’s lips tells Johnny there's a different side to the mischief of their childhood escapades.

“Why?”

There's utter curiosity to Johnny’s question, and nothing else, as he aimlessly moves around the room, waiting for an answer but still—not expecting anything. Johnny turns on the tap and watches as water steadily comes out.

“I’d wanted to kiss you here.”

Water flows endlessly, but inside Johnny's own head, time stops.

Johnny concludes he must've misheard, and clearing his throat, he mutters, “sorry, what?”

“I was sitting here waiting for you, and I think you were washing your hands—I'd wanted to kiss you,” Ten explains, legs swinging loosely, and Johnny envies how his voice doesn't tremble, how easy it is for Ten to admit, out loud, such feelings (while it took Johnny years—still an ongoing process).

“You—you aren't kidding?” Much to Johnny's relief, Ten shakes his head, “you liked me?”

“I don't know, hyung, I was a teenager.”

The sound of the never-ending water stream only adds to the overwhelming tension Johnny is carrying on his back, mostly by himself (judging by the calm expression Ten’s wearing, and how unbothered he appears), and so he turns off the tap, and faces Ten again attempting to keep it all down. The equal parts of excitement and nervousness.

“Though, I think you're missing the point,” Ten cuts him off—or well, interrupts the onset of a very empty train of thoughts, since really, Johnny didn't know how to respond.

“What do you mean?”

Ten laughs.

“I’m literally begging for you to come here and kiss me,” Ten says and Johnny gulps, “since, you know, dreams come true and all.”

Johnny isn't so sure of how true it can be. How real, inside a dream, it can get. Still, it's as if a magnetic pull is drawing him in, his legs moving on their own, planting himself in front of Ten. It's unconscious, almost. And he comes to his senses once he looks straight into Ten’s bottomless eyes and shivers.

It feels real in the most thrilling ways.

Ten is nearly his height, even with the advantage of being on to the washing machine, and his legs dangle from the edge as he spreads them open—welcoming Johnny. And honestly, what can he do, with such a beautiful, dreamy sight positioned right in front of him, but accept it. As it is, as it comes. So Johnny shifts closer, allows Ten’s hands to rest on his shoulders, and his body to react.

And then it's just a pull.

Magnetic, entrancing, piecing together. Their lips meet (and although Johnny doesn't know who leaned in first, the encouraging hand on the back of his neck says enough), almost harshly, and Johnny can't help the sigh that escapes him. Because God, if he had wanted it too, that day, every day back then. Yet, although his lips are quick to react, his arms stay hanging awkwardly by his sides, and it's Ten who takes the lead—reaching out to grab his hands and place them on his thighs, all without breaking off the kiss.

It's heated, right from the start, but the contact of Johny’s hands on Ten’s body is a switch. Ten slowly opens his mouth, tilting his head and adding pressure against Johnny's neck simultaneously, and there's so much tension—such a long build-up that Johnny can't control the situation, and so he melts under Ten’s touch.

Their lips moving, Ten tentatively sweeping his tongue over Johnny's bottom lip, how it burns like wildfire spreading across his entire body, from the tip of his fingers instinctively squeezing Ten’s skin, to his toes, tingling from the overall sensation. As Johnny opens his mouth just slightly, and Ten takes it as his cue to explore more, to pour gasoline on the growing fire—Johnny tightens his grip once again, eliciting a delightful sound from Ten (husky and sweet like honey altogether, just like him), and that's the trigger.

Perhaps it was the abiding anticipation, or the way Ten’s velvety lips press against his, or the sounds that his mouth is able to form, or just Ten in general. Toned legs and lithe body, pressing against Johnny with fervor. And maybe it's just himself submitting to old—resurfacing desires. But there's no physical or mental halt in his actions, now. Johnny completely allows his body to fall pliant, to move of its own accord. So his hands shift upwards and venture over every curve, reaching the dip in Ten’s waist, one of Johnny's many weaknesses, and he places them there comfortably as Ten continues taking control, his tongue a pleasant intrusion.

Johnny groans, arising from the pit of his stomach, like coughing up ashes as the flames continue flaring up. Seemingly affected, Ten responds with a sound of his own, and then his fingers dance on the hairs at the back of his neck, testing. There are goosebumps breaking out across every fragment of skin Ten’s fingers skim over, and so Johnny is sure Ten can feel every shudder that starts from his spine and travels down Johnny's body. Lips sliding together, with his lungs on the verge of bursting apart, hands tight on Ten’s hips—Johnny begins to wonder how long it'll take for them to break away, take a breath, realize that air is needed. Or that it isn't necessary, and they can kiss endlessly (or, until Ten wakes up and Johnny is left with a heavy heart).

Just as Johnny was about to dare to drag him closer, Ten pulls away with a long exhale. It's like no time passes, and there's already a smug grin forming at the corners of Ten’s spit-slick lips.

“Thought I wouldn't need air in a dream.”

“Seems like you need it,” Johnny quips, eyes fixed on Ten’s mouth—always.

“And you don't?”

He's speaking in that tone, the teasing and sultry one, that makes Johnny want to punch his mouth with his own lips—so like, kiss the brat out of him. Though, now that he can, there are no holdbacks. And Johnny is leaning back in, with avidity and consuming hunger, that Ten accepts contently.

Teeth are added almost instantly when Johnny secures his grip on Ten’s waist, holding onto him as to get closer, and Ten bites Johnny’s lip. He welcomes it, a low groan being pulled from his throat, and while Ten continues filling up his lungs with fire, one of Johnny's hands slide down involuntarily to grip the side of his thigh, dragging Ten against him (as if it's possible—space between them now nonexistent). It's not enough, though. It’s having a taste and realizing, knowing he’ll never have enough.

So Johnny, lips tingling and eyes glazed over, panting against Ten’s mouth once they part so he can relocate his hands, allows himself to get lost in the haze and finally haul Ten up by the back of his thighs. Like that, Ten instantly wraps his legs around his waist, a pressure that makes Johnny's heart hammer against his chest. An urgent need that’s more addictive than anything Johnny has ever known before. They are back on each other in no time, attaching their lips with the same fervor by both parts, and Ten clings to him firmly as if his body is an anchor to reality, keeping him in place (reality—dreams, Johnny is aware there’s a difference, but in that moment, the line only gets fuzzier).

Ten holds a dizzying intensity to every touch, sending Johnny into a deeper state with every kiss and lick and bite—and then he’s parting Johnny’s cherry and flaming lips, an invitation for Johnny to let it all out. So he groans, louder this time, and one of his unoccupied hands travels up his thigh towards his waist once again, until he reaches Ten’s back and pulls him closer, closer. Until they melt against each other, turning into liquid and becoming one.

As their lips become numb, throbbing red, and Johnny takes advantage of Ten’s position to start pressing kisses on his jaw, it seems like he strikes a nerve. Ten squeezes his legs around Johnny’s waist and he hisses.

“That hurt, wow,” Johnny breathes out.

Ten giggles, and it’s so entrancing how it contrasts with the redness around his lips, his heaving chest and blooming single mark on his jaw.

“Sorry, dancer’s legs.”

On instinct, the other hand that was left resting on his thigh strokes idly the hard surface.

“Right,” he says, avoiding Ten’s eyes. Then, his palms are sweating again, and he mentally shakes his head to get rid of Dongyoung’s face. Not the moment.

“Is the John Seo getting shy on me?”

Johnny looksto his left (anywhere but Ten’s legs still wrapped around him, or his arms on his neck, or piercing stare and inviting lips) and smiles bashfully.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

There are certain weaknesses that Johnny has, impossible to ignore, and Ten is one of them. So he leans back in almost instantly, eliciting a smirk from Ten that he can feel while they kiss, an unmistakable curve. Water flows infinitely, as the tap turns itself on.

And Johnny doesn’t feel afraid anymore.

-

It becomes a constant, then.

To come home, stride to his room, sit on his desk chair and meet Ten. A routine, that Johnny would usually despise, that now doesn't weigh at all. Because it’s not the monotonous and tiring one that Johnny had fallen into before, but a repetition that makes him feel fulfilled. It's Ten and his laugh, Ten and his poems, Ten and his kisses—it's not something Johnny carries tiredly around on his shoulders, it's a thing he almost proudly wears. And the desire to do that, meet Ten in real life (not meet, but reunite) and show him off to the world, in the way he’d wished to do before, has been gradually getting stronger.

But the dream aspect is not a bother, for now. Not when Ten looks so happy, so convinced. Johnny learns to pretend, and for the time being, to blur the lines between dreams and reality.

It’s difficult, with two moons on the night sky shining with a yellow tint. But as Ten lies beside him, staring up at the stars and the double orbs reflect on his eyes almost mystically, Johnny forgets. Pretends.

“One shivers slightly, looking up there,” Ten starts, Johnny immediately noticing that he’s reciting a passage, his voice deep and eyes fixated on a distant point in the sky, “the hardness and the brightness and the plain.”

Johnny stares at him. And forgets, forgets about the moons, the city below them. It’s Ten and Ten only.

“Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare,” he continues, “is a reminder of the strength and pain of being young, that it can’t come again—but is for others undiminished somewhere.”

A long exhale, and Ten’s eyes are back on him. “Wow,” Johnny says, “what is it about?”

“It’s a poem about the moon, but more like a down-to-earth kind of interpretation,” gesturing softly, Ten explains, “you know how poets have always linked the moon to romance and all, exaggerating its aspects. So I really like this one, since it’s a realer but still poetic response and it touches on youth and nostalgia, I guess.”

So Johnny can only smile, teeth showing, with his heart light and fluttering.

“Remember when you used to call me a nerd?”

“You like Sudoku!” Ten counters.

“It’s not nerdy!”

“It’s boring though,” he says, though the fond smile on Ten’s face tells Johnny that he’s back inside his head, reminiscing, “but I’ll allow it.”

Johnny pinches his side, earning a scoff and a hit to his shoulder, and once he looks again at the moon (moons, plural), he shudders, full-body.

“So the moon reminds you of youth and—those are somehow related to that,” pointing at the sky, Johnny inquires.

“You’re the dream expert, hyung.”

“Well it could mean many things, but mainly there could be a fight that’s pulling you in two directions, or two extreme sides of something that you’re deciding on,” as he starts talking, Ten raises his eyebrows at him, and there’s no need for words. Johnny can tell by now, with just a look, what Ten is trying to say.

“Stop—”

“No, continue,” Ten encourages him, “it’s hot that you’re nerdy.”

“God.”

The curve of his lips as he turns to face Johnny is enough motivation, even if Ten’s just teasing, if he isn't interested. By now, Johnny would do almost anything if Ten asked.

“But, uh, in dreams the moon is often linked to hidden parts of yourself, I guess you could say it's your unconscious or an intuition—that's why it could mean being conflicted about a decision, or just an instinct that you have to follow.”

Ten scans the wide darkness blanketing them, eyes unfocused, and then lets his gaze fall heavy on him again. And perhaps, Johnny will never get used to it (never actually did back in the day, and know it seems harder than ever).

“My intuition is telling me that you should come closer because it's cold,” Ten replies moments after.

“Smooth.”

“As always.”

As expected, he complies. Mainly it's Johnny being weak, but the night falling onto them is sending shivers down Johnny's body (besides Ten’s subtle words, of course), enough to propel him into carefully snuggling into Ten’s side, allowing his head to rest on Johnny's chest. His heart misses a beat, or two, right against Ten’s ear—but Johnny can't find it in him to care anymore. Closing his eyes, it's pure serenity amidst a ball of feelings growing incessantly.

A few seconds fly by, or stretch into hours, time turning into an erratic variable, and soon there's pastels in the sky.

“Remember when you had me watch you over from here while you were in a date in case you needed help fleeing?” Johnny asks abruptly, prompting a hearty laugh from Ten, who throws his head back. It makes Johnny feel fulfilled, in indescribable ways, how Ten’s hair tickles his chin and the echo of his laughter vibrates against his own chest.

“Yeah, what an asshole, honestly,” he says, “but I did think about just making up an excuse and bolting, I just didn't know how to let you know. Maybe I didn't think that far ahead.”

Johnny looks down at the houses beneath them, Ten’s house in particular. It's not too far off from what Johnny remembers it looking like, even around that time. Ten’s room was on the second floor, at the front, window facing the streets (Johnny's room had always been located at the back of his house, so their windows weren't overlooking, because that would've been too many clichés in a lifetime), and from the roof—Johnny had a clear vision of Ten’s room, when the curtains were open, and the lights on. They had made the discovery a starry summer night, in the same position, and of course, Ten had to take advantage.

The date was a pretty boy from their school (Johnny doesn't remember his name, or his exact features, just that he was hot, as Ten had described him), nice and funny. Mostly everything that Johnny thought he wasn't. And so, he got picked by Ten to be his next fling, and Johnny got chosen to keep an eye on the situation—as a good friend would.

Thinking back on it, Johnny considers it a bit funny. Pathetic, even. Their constant bantering bordering on attraction and a strong friendship that's just too good to ruin. Now, laying on the roof of his house, with Ten draping one arm over his stomach, and his steady heartbeat syncing with Johnny's, he understands. And wouldn't change it for anything.

Wouldn't go back in time, undo and unsay anything. The past is insistent, a burden. And Johnny thinks the time to drop that weight has come.

“He wasn't that hot anyways.”

Ten raises one eyebrow, “oh, are those remnants of jealousy I see?”

“I was never jealous!” Johnny exclaims, Ten lifting his head just to get a good look of his face.

“Right.”

“If I knew I had feelings for you at that time things would've gone different—”

“That doesn't mean you couldn't get jealous,” completely disregarding the heaviness of Johnny's statement, Ten continues mocking him, and as Johnny responds by grabbing his arm and pulling him back down against him (because it's cold, not because he needs them to stay like that so Johnny can drink it in, process it, relish in the smell of Ten’s shampoo and softness of his skin—every detail that brings him closer to reality), Ten’s expression changes into an earnest one, “you know it's okay now, right?”

“What?”

“I don't mind anymore, the past I mean. As long as you stay with me now, here, it's okay.”

It's okay, Johnny repeats to himself. Hugs Ten closer, and says:

“Let's start over, then.”

Where Ten’s house stands out, and his room is exposed with the curtains freely dancing in the wind and the lights on, Johnny is able to discern two silhouettes, one of them as himself.

He's everything Johnny thinks he is.

-

“How's 74656e?”

Johnny's heart jumps out of his chest at the sudden voice and nearly hits his head against his desk, having been tying his shoelaces.

Dongyoung remains undaunted, clearly. Waiting for Johnny to catch his breath and answer such a simple question.

“What?”

“The subject.”

“Oh,” Johnny mutters, his cheeks colored a light pink. He doesn't need to pray, Dongyoung has probably already noticed, because Kim Dongyoung is never unequipped—so Johnny just mentally prepares, “it's fine.”

“So, I'm going to be straightforward,” the tottering chair isn't there anymore as Johnny discarded it a week ago, so Dongyoung stands in front of his desk puffing out his chest and planting his hands on his hips, imposingly, “does the subject have anything to do with your past in Korea?”

And, doesn't matter how much Johnny gears himself up, the question strikes a nerve. One of many, and although it doesn't hurt, it leaves a bitter taste. Johnny gulps and stares, mouth slightly open like a fish gasping for breath. He strangely relates to the hopelessness of a fish flapping desperately on the sand, actually. And Dongyoung was the one that took him out of the water.

“No—of course not.”

“You know Yuta could just take over—”

“I don't want Yuta taking over, I have it under control,” Johnny states confidently.

“It's not about keeping it under control, rather making sure it's not hurting you or affecting your performance,” gradually, Dongyoung’s expression softens, “if this is a demanding job, request a transfer.”

“I’m okay.”

Johnny's more than okay, actually. But in Dongyoung’s eyes, he's deep in a mess, in love with a job. And attachments aren't allowed, Johnny knows. But the thought of abandoning Ten ever again makes his skin crawl and stomach churn.

“I trust you—you've earned that,” he says after a minute, “but be careful. Because dreams are not what they seem.”

Nodding understandingly, Dongyoung leaves somewhat satisfied, hands empty once more. Yet, Johnny opens his laptop and starts writing—remarkable details, not-so-important situations, irrelevant conversations, and straight-up ranting about Ten. He avoids some details, of course, and once it's overflowing with feelings, Johnny emails it to Dongyoung. Knowing him, that would help soothe his anxious need for control and order, seeking a solution where there's nothing but confusion (or well, Johnny is the least suitable to give an explanation right now, that's it). What Johnny wasn't expecting was to get a response so fast.

It reads: If I'm forced to submit this as your official report on the subject, you would be fired. Thank God I'm an angel and I’m going to entirely disregard this email and pretend you never basically confessed your love for the subject—though, it's not you who concerns me. I'm more worried about the subject falling too deep into the dreaming state.
You're forgiven, I'm going to file the subject as inconclusive. Thank me later and tell it to my face.

Best regards, Kim Dongyoung N.D.T

And it seems like it helps Johnny more than Dongyoung, as he laughs quietly at the automatic signature Dongyoung’s emails show, no matter how crude they are.

Chuckling, Johnny replies: thnx boss.

It’s been a while.

-

“There should be some kind of technology to—ah, to connect dreams with reality,” Ten comments offhandedly, with Johnny’s mouth attached to his neck, currently in the process of marking him up.

There’s already a few blossoming red spots along his jaw, and Johnny doesn’t think he’ll get tired any time soon.

“That wouldn’t be exactly ideal.”

“Why?” he asks and faces Johnny, forcing him to detach his lips from the dip of his collarbone, “I want to be able to see these in real life. Am I being greedy?”

“No—”

“You're judging me.”

“I mean it's impossible, these are dreams, anything can happen,” Johnny starts, “you could go from dyeing your hair a crazy color to morphing into an animal—or something like that.”

“You're calling me an animal?”

“No, God—”

“Hyung, I'm kidding,” Ten giggles, “though, I am hurt.”

Ten stretches his neck and strokes the reddening skin, fingers dancing and pressing on every spot. It tempts Johnny, makes his mouth water.

So he licks his lips and asks, “why? Did I hurt you?”

“Do you really think these are just dreams, hyung?”

And just like that, Johnny finds himself between the Devil and the deep blue sea (which sounds way too poetic for him, dramatic even, it's not a dilemma between two equally unpleasant situations, but a dilemma between hurting himself or Ten). Because it is a dream, all of this, Ten, Johnny's bed, every kiss and every word—and still, that doesn't mean nothing is real. Reality is relative. Dreams are deceptive.

Johnny doesn’t need to test it out, ever since Ten’s first dream, and here and now. Air thick that sits lightly still, chills that run down his spine, specks of dust floating through a feeble ray of sunlight, a window displaying a cogent and believable outside. Those feelings that Johnny wouldn’t trade for anything, can’t deny or shrug off.

“Of course these are not just dreams, Ten, I’m conscious of what I’m doing. You are too,” he tells him, and as Ten shifts closer, Johnny struggles to find his tongue, “these—these are just the means. Unusual means.”

“Means to meet up?” Now he gulps, when Ten closes in oh-so-smoothly as always, cornering Johnny against the headboard of his bed.

“Exactly.”

“Do you think these are just dreams, hyung?”

Ten repeats, except now his sultry voice kicks in, and Johnny undoubtedly melts. Liquefies. Becomes mere putty for Ten to play with. And Johnny would laugh, at himself, at the point he has reached, because he’s getting his heart ripped off his chest by his own hand, then placed on a tray, vulnerable and innocent again.

It’s exhilarating, now. Nothing else.

Johnny watches with caution as Ten straddles his lap once his legs give out, not daring to make a move just yet, admiring with pride the remnants of hickeys on his neck. Though, Ten raises his eyebrows at him. In a manner that’s inviting, challenging. His heart thumps wildly inside him, near bursting—but Johnny is no coward anymore.

“No,” he places his hands on Ten’s waist, only spurring Ten on, who immediately leans into the touch. Before, there were invisible threads tying him down, preventing Johnny from ever caving in to his innermost ardent desires, a heatless fire. Now, it’s an unrelenting burn.

Cheekily, Ten doesn’t ease off on the consuming and steady eye-contact, bending until their noses are within a hair’s breadth and the ghost of Ten’s rapid breathing is all Johnny can taste. It’s done on purpose, to take Johnny to his limits, he would know. And right then, it’s becoming an undoable task for Johnny to remain motionless, calm, stop himself from smacking their lips together.

“Do you think this is just a dream?” He breathes against his mouth, searching for Johnny’s eyes, questing after any clue, feeling, answer. Johnny is too preoccupied with gaping at the inviting pink-ish tone of Ten’s lips.

“Ten.”

And so their mouths join in a sore crash, but the ache is addicting, the force and weight. Ten drops most of his body on top of Johnny, as to get closer and closer, so he hugs his waist and does just that—yanks Ten closer with a hand splayed across his back and the other gripping his hip. Ten’s tongue seems to wrap endlessly around him, a dizzying feeling, and then his fingers tangle in Johnny’s hair.

“You feel it?” Ten asks, breath labored. Johnny knows exactly what he means.

Pleasure oozes through Johnny’s veins like thick honey (similar to Ten’s voice, a comparison that can’t be avoided) when Ten pushes his body down, creating a friction that melds their bodies together with a raspy groan. It floods him, the need, the heat, the smell of Ten’s apple-scented shampoo, and every noise that escapes his mouth as he pulls away to angle his head better, deeper.

Then, voracious against the unadorned length of Johnny's neck, his mouth hovers over the now spit-slick skin, blowing softly on every mark. Johnny is sure he feels teeth at some point, but he's too occupied with attempting to keep his hips from bucking up (though Ten is insistent, unrelentingly pressing down—and Johnny could pass out, lightheaded, with blood rushing downwards so quickly his vision swarms with black dots). Johnny places both hands on the small of Ten’s back, and he's rewarded with a hum. Now—he understands Ten’s wish to experience sporting a variety of blossoming reds on his body but in real life. To see them, feel them.

For the first time, Johnny feels as if air is infinite. Heavy, damp, but not near suffocating. Johnny fills his lungs with Ten, and Ten only, as if it's the only oxygen he'll ever need. So once Ten confidently rolls his hips down, applying the right pressure on Johnny's crotch, he coughs up a hoarse moan that he's been trying to stifle ever since Ten crawled into his lap.

Ten suddenly sits straight, allowing Johnny's hands to drop down right above the waistband of his jeans.

“I'm sorry.”

An entire minute passes before Johnny can speak, or react at all. Breath ragged, heated and probably scarlet face, all he can do is stare. And then frown.

“What?”

“I know this is—weird, God, I’m sorry I'm this self-centred,” Ten bemoans, eyes fixed somewhere away from Johnny. Outside, a spot on the wall, he doesn't know nor care. It's the sheer shame on his words and expression that take Johnny aback.

Ten is not one to regret, to get shy or embarrassed. He owns up to every action, whether it's a mistake or done on purpose, with pride and even cockiness. It's not usual to see this side of Ten, (one of the many he has, of course. Ten is complex. Johnny has always liked complex) so Johnny takes a moment to relish it before he grins and hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Ten's jeans, acquiring, for a moment, the lead.

“What are you talking about, dumbass?” Johnny asks him with soft eyes, “I want this, I want you, nothing else. I don't care how crazy or weird this is.”

With a soft smile, Ten reverts to his bold and cocksure character. “Such a poet.”

“I know,” Johnny quips, but the banter dies down rather quickly once Ten attaches his lips back to his neck. Battling against any sound threatening to come out of his throat, Johnny manages to find his words, “and if you're still wondering—I feel it.”

Confusion creases Ten’s brow for a few seconds until he takes the words in, understanding, immediately leaning in so their lips meet with passion, the weight of two heavy hearts unleashing. There's a whine that Ten seems to have been holding, and Johnny groans as soon as Ten is back vehemently grinding his hips down.

Now there's no calm sea, rhythmic beating hearts in sync, no poetic words. It's raw desire, undisclosed, erratic heartbeats.

And Johnny believes, for a moment, that dreams become reality.

-

It's a weird morning when Johnny pads to the kitchen and Jaehyun is silently peeling an orange, his mouth strangely shut.

Even as he walks towards the cupboards, side-eyeing him as he grabs a mug and waits for the awkward atmosphere to dissipate, Jaehyun emits no sound. Johnny checks the clock on the wall. 9:10 a.m. Weird.

It's when Johnny's already halfway his coffee, and the steaming cup has warmed his hands into a soft red, that Jaehyun finally decides to break the ice. The rest of the orange is left tidily on the side of his plate, and he looks at Johnny with such a blank expression Johnny fears a little for his sanity.

“Remember when I jokingly asked if you were fucking Ten in his dreams? Well, sometimes some questions are better off unanswered.”

Johnny chokes on the coffee meant to go down his throat, and now is spilling out of his mouth and nose. It burns almost as much as his glowing face.

“W-what?”

“I'm not familiar with the whole dreaming situation, but dude, is it that good in dreams?” So once Jaehyun's mouth is finally open, it's like the morning switch turns itself on. Johnny doesn't even get to clean the table before he's speaking up again, “I was weirded out before but now I'm traumatized.”

“Jaehyun—”

“I put my airpods on after the first three minutes,” he interrupts, “but please, don't do it again while I'm home.”

The embarrassment isn't even what has Johnny gulping and rummaging through his brain for an answer—but the knowledge that now Jaehyun is aware that there's definitely something going on with Ten. And maybe he's more ashamed of his hookups happening via dreams now.

“I—I’m sorry Jae, it's, uh, weird.”

“It's cool. Fine,” Jaehyun says as he picks up an apple from the counter (and Johnny looks hungrily at the leftover orange, to which Jaehyun nods approvingly), “it was fun to hear you whine Ten and then please.”

The way Jaehyun imitates him makes Johnny's skin burn bright red, he doesn't need to see to know, and he does the first instinctive thing: throws a piece of orange at Jaehyun’s fresh and clean face.

“Dude!”

“Shut up.”

“Stop fucking him in dreams then,” Jaehyun counters, “invite him over and let me meet him.”

Johnny apologizes once again under his breath, and once Jaehyun leaves the kitchen, he's left staring idly at the now cold coffee. Far in the back of his mind, that idea is planted.

-

“You know, I woke up the next morning and I swear my ass was sore,” the sunglasses he's wearing prevent Johnny from looking directly into Ten’s eyes, which he's thankful for, as the satisfied smile on Ten’s lips is already filling his stomach with a variation of insects.

“Ten!”

“I'm just saying, Mr. Cobb, maybe I should just stay in dreams.”

“And if you get bored of me?” Johnny asks jokingly, with a hint of his bone-deep fears.

“I guess I'll just wait for someone else to come,” shrugging, Ten says, and leans back on his elbows so the sun hits his torso full-on.

The beach on a sunny day is definitely a breathtaking view, no clouds in sight, the sea looking as blue as ever, irregular but harmonic waves crashing on the shore in the distance. Ten is lying face-up, back against the scorching sand, pretending he's invincible and his skin won't fall off if he doesn't move in the next five minutes.

(Though, as the sun never sets, and the waves seem to have a repetitive pattern that's just too monotonous, Johnny remembers all dream aspects that were wiped off his mind.)

“If we go into the sea, you promise not to drown?”

“No promises,” Johnny says.

Narrowing his eyes, Ten gets up and dusts off the sand on his black shorts, stretches one hand out for Johnny to grab. An invitation, that he reluctantly accepts. Perhaps it's the smoothness of Ten’s skin, the warmth it irradiates, or the loose grip that allows air to slip between their joined fingers, that soothes Johnny's pervasive fear, makes him feel carefree. So Ten pulls him up (so effortlessly, strength he has been hiding) and guides him towards the calm sea.

For a moment, Johnny drinks in the scenery. Ten’s bare back, a few moles scattered across, and no signs of sunburns that should definitely be there. The horizon, different hues of blue contrasting against one another, and the single snow-white cloud in the sky. He feels at ease, free. A sensation considered atypical for him in real life (and it irks Johnny, in a way, that this is only limited to dreams).

At the first contact of his feet with the water, Johnny tightens his grip on Ten's hand.

“What? You thought it'd be warm?” Ten chuckles.

And well, he kind of expected it to be.

“Well, in real life—”

“Stop mentioning real life. It makes me feel stupid,” they walk further into the water, Ten already halfway in.

“Sorry,” Johnny staggers and almost falls face-down, catching onto Ten’s shoulders, ”What does that mean?”

“It just makes me feel crazy, I guess, for taking dreams so seriously,” he mutters, and then sinks down until his shoulders are below the surface and Johnny has to bite his lip to not giggle at the sight. “See! You're laughing!”

“I'm not! You look cute, that's all.”

Johnny feels something skimming over his foot and shrieks, trips over a slippery and steep rock, and dives into the water almost as gracefully as that time back in the swimming pool (Johnny feels as stupid as back then, too).

In contrast, Johnny doesn't drown this time. Rises up with water dripping down his bangs, choking dramatically, until he realizes he's afloat. Ten gasps at first but immediately becomes aware of Johnny moving his legs instinctively to stay suspended like it's his second nature, and grins widely at the image.

“You look like a wet puppy. That's cute.”

“It's cold,” Johnny pouts, and tries to ignore his heart beating erratically, aware of the never-ending sea, or Ten swimming closer.

“Come here,” he says as he motions for Johnny to dive into his extended arms.

Of course, he does, eagerly. Ten's heated skin instantly warms him up, inside and outside, and his heart seems to jump up the moment Ten lays his head on Johnny's naked chest—naturally, a knee-jerk reaction. It's the height difference, Johnny supporting his chin on Ten’s head, and the water surrounding them that suddenly feels like thin lava.

“I can't believe I'm actually swimming,” Johnny reflects out loud.

“See, dreams literally come true, we should—”

Ten screeches, latching onto Johnny’s arms and wrapping his legs around his waist.

“What?”

“There's a shark!”

“That's—”

“Hyung, there's a shark.”

With great effort, Johnny manages to look over Ten’s shoulder (who's burying his face on Johnny’s neck, murmuring about how terrified he's of sharks), attempting to spot the animal.

“If it's an irrational fear of yours, it's highly possible for a shark to appear in your dreams,” in hopes of appeasing Ten, Johnny begins explaining, but Ten peels back and rolls his eyes at him.

“Fuck off, I don't like your dream-expert persona anymore.”

It elicits a booming laugh from Johnny, those eye-wrinkling and loud ones, and the chill that runs up and down his spine once his eyes are back on Ten is a telltale sign of what he's come to feel. It's like a time-stopping moment, except time doesn't stop, Johnny doesn't have a startling or dramatic realization, and the scenery remains near the same.

But Johnny is completely, utterly, and deeply in love.

“So you like me but not my job?” He retorts.

“I like you. All it implies.”

They kiss with love. That's a word Johnny wouldn't have dared to use before, but now it's only fitting. Johnny pecks his lips sweetly, unable to stop the soft smile curving his mouth, and Ten replies with just the same amount of tenderness. It's so intimate, Johnny is not surprised that a few seconds after, he spots a gray moving figure in his field of vision.

“Oh—”

Again, Ten screams and fastens his thighs around him, body stiff. Decisively, Johnny secures his hold around Ten’s middle, and looks about for any signs of the mysterious creature. And although he's carrying Ten, the swimming comes easily to him.

“Since when are you this ripped? Your arms are—”

Johnny watches a few of the supposed sharks porpoising in the distance, and instantly realizes they are dolphins. So he drops Ten, interrupting him mid-sentence, and stares awestruck.

“Johnny,”

“Look behind you!”

Out of nowhere, a shoal is circling them—or, well, swimming together quite near. Ten gasps, and the horrified expression on his face dissolves into a joyful one, smiling amazed at the dolphins. Johnny is overflowed with love, and it's as if he’ll drown in that feeling instead of the water.

“Oh my God!” Ten exclaims.

Then, it's a journey back to the past, feeling like children all over again. They play with the dolphins, the water (a clichéd scenario where two people are splashing water on each other’s faces, flirtatiously, but instead Johnny does that and Ten throws himself at him, pushing Johnny under the water, pinching his sides and starting an endless war), themselves, their words—they laugh and banter, and Johnny is not a coward anymore. On the shore, where they stumble after their heavy limbs struggle against remaining stable, Johnny discerns his house so far in the horizon it's almost wholly distorted by heat refraction.

Johnny falls into deep waters again. And he falls in love for the second time in his life.

-

The corner of his notebook is filled with indistinct doodles of what could be made out to be Ten’s eyes, and nose, and his childhood home. Technically, it's work, so Johnny is content enough.

Still, he continues doing the basics. Ever since Dongyoung filed Ten’s dreams as inconclusive, and he's not officially monitoring him anymore, Johnny has been analyzing the daily total of tapes again. Boring and monotonous dreams. He submits short reports on each one, and then goes back home to Ten. It's ideal (but not quite, and Jaehyun's words resonate inside his mind).

As he goes through his emails, Johnny stumbles upon a familiar address underlined in the unread inbox, and momentarily freezes. It's been a while since his parents had last contacted him—in New Years, to be more precise. And now, there’s a “Subject: Miss You” on the screen of his laptop that gazes back at him, tauntingly.

Johnny opens it hesitantly.

Hello Youngho, I’m sorry I haven’t messaged or e-mailed you. How have you been? We miss you back here, although we don’t get in contact frequently, I feel your absence every day. But I’m going to get straight to the point; would you like to spend Chuseok with us? Come to Seoul for a few weeks, son, we miss you…

Take care, your mom.

He clicks reply with such swiftness that only leaves him staring at a white screen, empty-minded, for a good five minutes. Then, Johnny reads it again, and again, just to be sure. Of the prospect of that invitation, the entailment of Johnny accepting, going back to Korea, a heartwarming reunion and Ten. Ten outweighs any factor, any fear, so Johnny places his hands on the keyboard, set on getting rid of the already-appearing dreadful thoughts that would hold Johnny back in any other situation, except now he glances at the corner of his notebook and knows.

Hi mom, I’m glad you’ve decided to contact me—

A knock on his door. Johnny looks up from the screen, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, and before he can utter a word (a come in, or even a simple approving cough—as Dongyoung does) the door of his office is being opened, revealing a resting-bitch-faced Sicheng.

“A warning could’ve been nice.”

“I knocked,” Sicheng states, shrugging.

Johnny shakes his head to himself, and then closes his laptop just in case. Sicheng is like a teenager, the kind that Johnny occasionally considers adopting, so although his pretence is built on not caring—Johnny knows he can be quite noisy sometimes. And a bit sour too, grouchy even.

“You’re forgiven, what did you need?”

“I was sent to rescue the poor monitoring device you’re holding hostage,” he tells Johnny, his expression reminding him of Ten’s unreadable one. The sarcastic words, too.

(It all leads to Ten—it seems.)

“Dongyoung told me I can keep it,” Johnny lies. It’s a white lie. There’s no harm in that, he supposes.

“Dongyoung told me otherwise.”

That’s as far as Johnny’s innocuous lie can get, so he resorts to bribery.

“I can get you something,” Johnny starts and Sicheng’s eyebrows lift in interest, “like—a date.”

Sicheng rolls his eyes, so far back into his skull Johnny would’ve thought he was about to faint (though, it’s such a well-known habit of his, Johnny just deems it as normal). And then waves him off, backtracking as if to leave. However, Johnny is aware of some of Sicheng’s weaknesses.

“Jaehyun is single. And willing.”

So Sicheng finds himself compelled to stop dead in his tracks and slowly face Johnny with narrowed eyes.

“What are you implying?” He asks, now with both hands on his waist, voice a bit deeper than usual.

“That my hot, young and single roommate is single? And looking for love?” Johnny responds, accentuating the facts with an interrogating tone.

“You know I rejected him, right?”

That, Johnny didn’t know. (So he mentally notes down: debrief Jaehyun as soon as I get home).

“But—you told me he was hot.”

“I did, indeed, told you that. I’m sure I was drunk though, so you’re just taking advantage of that piece of knowledge you have of me,” Sicheng argues, and it’s incredibly frustrating how he’s got a way with words. For speaking in a language that’s not even his second one, he for sure is incredibly cunning.

“C’mon! He’s told me plenty of times that he likes you.”

“I know, he’s told me,” he ripostes, and when Johnny looks down at his desk and exhales wearily, Sicheng eases off, “but, well, if he’s willing I wouldn’t mind.”

“Really?” Johnny can feel the gleam in his eyes re-emerging as soon as Sicheng lets up.

“Yes,” he affirms, “but if he bores me I will not only blame you for wasting my time but for also possibly getting me in trouble with Dongyoung.”

“He’s a sweetheart, I promise. When he’s not drunk.”

Johnny thinks back to many of the company’s parties, where most of Jaehyun and Sicheng’s encounters had occurred, and perfectly comprehends Sicheng’s reluctance and lack of enthusiasm. Jaehyun is insistent (in the mornings, and when drunk), but it worsens when he's on a mission. Thus, Johnny can just hope they don’t self-sabotage when sober.

“Okay. Have fun with the machine.”

“Have fun with Jaehyunnie.”

Sicheng bolts out of his office holding up the middle finger, and Johnny would pinch his cheeks if the integrity of his hands wasn’t on the line (it’s not that Sicheng is violent per se—but certain things are worth not risking).

Hi mom, I’m glad you’ve decided to contact me. How are you doing? I want to go back now, at least for a few days, and I would love to spend the holidays with everyone back there (i hope no one is mad at me…) I’ll let you know when I buy the tickets :)!

Johnny presses send and wonders if his house still looks the same.

-

Ten is gasping, a drop of sweat dribbling down his temple, landing on his cherry-colored cheeks. And Johnny can’t help but sit back and just admire, treasuring such a stunning sight.

“Hyung,” he whines. Childishly, almost.

So he leans down, intending to kiss the pout out of Ten’s lips—and it’s all pitch black.

Johnny panics (now overly acclimatized to dreams, and too submerged in pleasuring Ten), arms flailing until two firm hands stop any movements, and Jaehyun’s voice pulls him back to his room.

“You got me a date with Sicheng?!” It’s what he cries out, eyes wide and face glowing. Once Johnny’s eyes get used to the lighting, he nearly wheezes at Jaehyun’s distressed state.

“Wait—”

“Dude! I’ve liked him for a year and now he’s suddenly texting me telling me you forced him to do it!” Jaehyun keeps on shouting directly in his face, stopping so he catches his breath and a break, if possible. A deep exhale escapes his lips, and he finally drops his arms. “This is so humiliating.”

“I didn’t force him! I coerced him,” Johnny tells him, merely helping with the situation, “just take the chance, Jae, he’s willing to go on a date with you. Sober.”

Huffing, Jaehyun crosses his arms and opens his mouth seemingly to complain, but abruptly stiffens.

“Oh God, don’t tell you were…” that’s when Johnny notices Jaehyun’s gaze trailing down to his crotch and then up, looking with huge eyes anywhere but at his face. And that’s when Johnny also notices the protruding bulge in his pants. Which, well, wasn’t his fault.

“Stop.”

“This is more humiliating, oh God,” he chuckles, but still avoids Johnny’s eyes with a flushed face.

“Shush! Walk away,” attempting to keep any signs of being ashamed (and his arousal as well) at bay, Johnny softly jabs Jaehyun in the ribs with his elbow, and politely kicks him out.

As soon as the door of his room is slammed shut, and the curses thrown at him get lost in the gush of air, Johnny faces back at the device only to find a red dot shining faintly. And then stares sadly at his crotch.

Johnny opts for a cold shower.

-

It isn't sudden, gradual instead, the change in Ten’s behavior.

Johnny had known, far at the back of his mind, that getting this deeply involved could only encourage Ten. Every offhand comment, every stare and touch, progressively started to hold a different meaning, unveiling like marble being shaved off to reveal the figure in the stone. It's just too apparent now to avoid and ignore. Johnny knows.

Back in the day, Johnny used to have very common and rational dreams.

“I had a weird dream today,” he had told Ten while they lay in bed, avoiding any school-related matter.

In his mind, dreams had become a whole alternative world, an oracle of sorts. They would dictate Johnny's days and feelings as he pretended to understand what dreams actually meant, or were, and so Ten was chosen to hear all about it.

“I dreamed that I was in prison for shoplifting… at a pet shop,” in contrast, Ten's dreams had always been more spectacular, “but there weren’t any dogs or like, cats, in cages—there were people inside them. I think I just took the money and fled. So maybe I was in prison for leaving them there—who knows.”

“That's…” Johnny trailed off, thinking of a fitting word (while mentally comparing both their dreams. Perhaps Johnny's was a bit more pure).

“Sadistic?”

“Ten!”

“What? It is kinda weird—also I think my cellmate was Leonardo DiCaprio,” trying to recall his dream, Ten pouted and gazed outside with empty eyes.

“You're crazy.”

“You always say that. What's with your weird dream then, fatass?” he retorted.

Johnny had trouble keeping account of details and overall feelings, so he leaned back to rummage inside his bag for the notebook where he noted everything down. It was a gift from Ten (for his last birthday, and Johnny still kept the drawing and cheesy letter inside).

“Now compared to yours it's stupid,” Johnny said as he went through the pages, full of scribbles and delineations of every dream.

“Hey! Don't say that, I wanna know now,” so Ten pouted, not from being deep in thought, but to get a reaction out of Johnny. It worked (it works, it will work, unfailingly), Johnny reading what he had written before clearing his throat and straightening his back.

“So, you were driving—”

“Unrealistic.”

“Don't interrupt me,” Johnny warned and continued, “and then we arrived at a field, or well, garden of red roses—all of them. It was stunning and it felt very real, you know, I felt at ease and free even when you kept bothering me.”

“I annoy you even in dreams? Wow,” Ten chuckled, but his eyes gleamed with interest, “I like the idea of a red ocean, but instead of water just flowers.”

The softness of Ten's voice encouraged Johnny to continue (after swallowing the lump in his throat, of course).

“Actually you were really amazed too—we were both silent and I guess that's what was weird. Well, until we started fighting and I think you picked a bunch roses, completely ignoring the thorns and offered them to me like a bouquet.”

“Such a romantic—”

“But they set on fire,” Johnny finished.

Ten laughed, joking about how now that's realistic. And Johnny ignored any hint of a sinking stomach or erratic heartbeat, the same way he decided not to keep on analyzing his own dream, after the meaning of red flowers made his palms sweat. Love, the website said.

Johnny didn't know love. Even when Ten had offered it to him, metaphorically. Johnny giggled along Ten, pushing at his shoulder and then muttering about the pending school project that they had been avoiding for weeks. Yet, as far as ignoring goes, Johnny's notebook remained a mess of question marks and repetitive dreams. An obsession.

Now, it seems like Ten is the one with a fascination for dreams.

“In happy dreams I hold you full in night,” with a vacant stare falling into pointless wool-gathering, golden striking his figure—completely unaware of Johnny's presence, Ten voices, “I blush again who waking look so wan, brighter than sunniest day that ever shone.”

The sunset appears static, similar to an artificial background from a play. Ten is content enough.

“In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.”

Still hidden, Johnny allows a smile to curve his lips, soft and tender. He feels enamoured in unexplainable ways. In love. A feeling rather foreign to Johnny, self-proclaimed incapable of, in the context of his everlasting friendship with Ten. Then, as if sensing Johnny overthinking, Ten turns around with a similar sentiment sparkling in his eyes—love.

It's love, Johnny knows, when he walks over to him and Ten reveals a red rose. It's not a bright color, like scarlet, or a cherry red; nor dull, like wine red or burgundy. It's simply love red—it shines as much as the feeling. Johnny knows. Now he knows.

“That was nice,” he comments and leans against the handrail of the balcony (Johnny avoids the view, as mesmerizing as it can be, in means of taking in Ten’s appearance. He looks prettier than ever, breathtakingly and painfully beautiful. It might be just to get Johnny to fall deeper, to spit it out).

“You think is okay to eavesdrop?”

“I just didn't want to interrupt—”

Ten grins and Johnny sighs, resigned.

“Just tell me and I'll recite them to you, hyung—face to face,” he says, honeyed voice and all. So all Johnny can do is lean forward and plant a gentle kiss on his rosy lips. “That was nice.”

Entranced, Johnny trails after him, eyes attached to Ten’s mouth. It seems like there's something else inside Ten's mind as he averts his eyes and fumbles with the stem of the rose. Thornless, Johnny notes. It's nearly smooth as silk, and it peels his heart layer by layer.

“What's with the rose?” Johnny asks, hopefully propelling Ten into spilling it out.

“Fuck, you don't remember?” brows furrowed in confusion, Ten curses, “let me rethink what I wanted to say.”

“What?”

“That dream you had—around the time you were obsessed with dreams. It never left my mind, apparently.”

Of course Johnny remembers.

“Oh,” Johnny pretends to be suddenly hit with the realization, “I remember. The rose garden. It was, uh, pretty normal now that I think about it.”

“Right? But I loved that concept, well, you can see that,” Ten looks around, rose still in hand, and that's the moment where Johnny's eyes finally leave Ten and land on something else—his house, for example. At a fair distance, overflowing with tall and long roses, splatters of red on the roof, climbing outside the windows, all over it. It reminds him of what Ten had described it as when they were teenagers—a red ocean. Love.

“It's so pretty,” Johnny mutters.

Ten grips the stem tightly, gulps, and Johnny senses his heart missing a beat.

“I looked up what it meant after you told me, because you didn't explain, and I remember reading all about love and passion. That night I had a dream where we kissed—”

“Ten—”

“So what does it mean, hyung? Is it love?”

He knows. Johnny knows what it meant (what it means, what it will mean).

“I-it's whatever you want it to be. I can't decide what you feel for you. There are certain meanings—”

“God, you're so fucking dense,” the prolonged sigh that leaves his mouth is almost enough for Johnny to understand, but maybe he just needs Ten to spell it out. “Did you love me?”

(He did. He does. He will)

“I love you.”

It's as if a steady pressure on his chest considerably lessens, not abruptly, or slowly, but so gently that all Johnny can do is inhale profoundly, allowing a much larger amount of air into his lungs. Like those three words have been stuck, in his throat, stomach, heart, all this time—and now, Johnny's cowardice is long gone.

“I—God, I love you too.”

Johnny could count with one hand the amount of times he's witnessed Ten stuttering, nervous, unable to act and present his cocky persona. He treasures them, dearly.

“Took us long enough,” Johnny chuckles, leaning in closer until their noses brush and Ten’s smile is almost blinding.

Then, all he can see is red. Johnny moves away, now focusing on the rose, and Ten waves it in front of him to catch his attention.

“Here,” just like that dream Johnny had, Ten stretches his arm and offers it to him, “hope it doesn't set on fire.”

It doesn't. As bright as ever, it stays. And once he sets it aside, his gaze falling back on Ten, he finds that there are stars in Ten’s eyes that Johnny knows aren't real, just an illusion—nurturing the idea, the possibility and desire of seeing it in real life. Hearing what Johnny's been dying to hear, but in person.

The proposal remains on the tip of his tongue, as Ten suddenly cuts any distance between them, grabbing Johnny by the back of his neck and tip-toeing to reach his mouth (he notices by the way Ten staggers, and Johnny is forced to wrap his arms around his waist to hold him firmly). Any thought or idea, any words or sentence, are all shoved into the farthest section of his mind—so all he can register is Ten, their lips gliding together, the grip he has on Ten’s hips, and the groan that escapes him once Ten tugs oh-so-discreetly at his hair.

Now, the red spots on Ten’s neck are a shade of red that Johnny recognizes, the sensation of his own lips tingling and the glimmer of Ten’s holding a deeper, more heartfelt meaning.

When Ten whispers, “I've always loved you,” making Johnny shiver, be filled with adoration that doesn't get stuck in his throat like a pill that's hard to swallow. Johnny gently maneuvers Ten into sitting on the handrail, with carefulness and giggles falling out of his mouth. As Ten wraps his legs around him, it's Johnny's heart coming together.

An unsolved puzzle with a missing piece, that was found and now fits perfectly (in his heart, around him, it's just Ten).

The golden background doesn't vary, at all. Like a photograph, it maintains that stillness.

“Is it just a dream, Johnny-hyung?”

“No, it's not.”

It's love.

-

Johnny is extremely sure his house had never had more than four rooms.

Though, staring at the endless corridor with the same uncountable amount of doors, he doubts it for a second. It looks so real, Johnny nearly goes into each one of them to investigate. Ten seems unperturbed, probably having seen this specific dream before (but Johnny is starting to believe Ten is just getting used to every anomaly).

“Have you ever heard of Hilbert’s Hotel?”

Johnny shakes his head.

“The paradox?”

“What?”

“Well, imagine a hotel with infinite rooms and infinite guests occupying each one. You would think that it's full, because it is. But you simply move every guest to the next room—guest number one goes to room number two, and so on. Then, room number one is free.”

Johnny gapes at him, but his brain fails at grasping the concept.

“What?”

Sighing dramatically, Ten continues explaining, “it's infinite. That's why. Simple math.”

“Right. You've been reading a lot last night, right?”

Ten rolls his eyes. “I wonder how you can tell.”

“I wasn't judging! It's—cute?” he quickly responds defensively. Though Ten just smirks, as usual.

“You have a nerd kink?”

“Shut up.”

With a final lift of his eyebrows, Ten signals for Johnny to follow him as he strides towards the first room. The white door shows an ochre sign with the number one engraved, and once it's open, the textbook appearance of an hotel room is revealed. A king-sized bed with white bedding, a luxurious chandelier that gleams under the artificial light, and a velvet-covered chaise longue. Now, Johnny confirms this definitely wasn't, at any point, part of his house.

“Wow,” Johnny utters, “this looks expensive. Thank God it's a dream, or you'd be paying.”

Ten gives him a speaking look. And it's enough for Johnny.

“I get so bored at night,” Ten comments as he flops down on the bed, spreading both his arms and legs. Johnny sits on the edge of the mattress, satisfied enough with just watching him, “last night I ended up reading articles about global warming.”

Something clicks inside Johnny’s brain, for once, out of all the ambiguous things Ten says. “Oh, now I get why your sleeping patterns are so erratic.”

“Stop analyzing how I sleep!” He huffs.

“I didn't realize before because of the time difference but you've been sleeping at weird hours, or as a friend would say, at ass o’clock in Korea.”

He averts his eyes from the ceiling to fix them on Johnny, and now he's so used to it Johnny just waits for Ten to drop the question with a neutral expression.

“You know why I go to sleep at random times?”

Johnny shakes his head as if he doesn't know. “Why?”

“To see you.”

(It would be much easier, much better, actually seeing each other, meeting up. Johnny doesn't know how to bring up the topic—even as it's being handed to him on a silver plate).

“You don't have to—”

“Well you still work, but you're here meeting me, and I don't want you suffering from lack of sleep. It's the worst,” Ten finishes with a deep sigh, and makes room for Johnny to join him in bed. It's as comfortable as a hotel mattress can get, but with Ten snuggling into his arms, it suddenly becomes the cosiest bed he's ever laid on.

“It's comfy.”

“‘M sleepy,” Ten mumbles against his chest.

“Then sleep.”

“Stay with me,” he utters, eyes droopy, until they finally close.

Johnny is aware Ten’s lucidity will fade away as he falls asleep, or well, just goes back to a normal dream where he happens to sleep. Still, Johnny takes all the time in the world to admire Ten’s peaceful state—eyes closed, mouth barely open with his left cheek squished against Johnny. The urge to pet his hair, caress him, is stronger than Johnny (anything is, when Johnny is so weak), so he allows one of his hands to shift towards Ten’s head, and his fingers to lightly bury into his silky black hair.

Soft, just like him. Johnny plays silently with a strand of hair, watching attentively the way it twirls around his finger. As it falls on Ten’s face, Johnny can't help but push his bangs back gingerly as to not wake him up (in real life, or within the dream—Johnny chooses to stay in the moment) and Ten, seemingly still asleep, scrunches his nose and furrows his brows. It only pushes Johnny’s heart further to the edge, about to burst.

And yet, Ten’s unconscious grumpiness isn't enough to hold Johnny back. In fact, the annoyed expression only encourages him to continue running his fingers through Ten’s hair, who pouts and curls up into the warmth of Johnny's body.

Ten is partly a human-furnace and an ice cube at the same time. Some parts of his body, like hands and thighs, are constantly warm (sticky hot in summer), others don't seem to absorb any heat—no matter how hard he tries to heat his feet up, they are always cold (a nuisance in winter, were Ten would attempt to place his feet in between Johnny's legs, searching for any source of heat).

Strangely, Ten’s body appears to be uniformly warm now.

So there's nothing Johnny can complain about, really. The prettiest boy sleeping next to him—half on top, messy head on his chest and legs enveloping Johnny's, intertwined. A frown and a pout, and Johnny pets his hair one more time before the fear of getting caught overtakes him as Ten’s eyes gradually open.

Ten focuses on the wall in front of him for what could be considered minutes—though time is weird, relative, in a dream, and when Johnny looks outside the window, the silky curtain does nothing to hide the fact that it's night.

His heart feels just a tad heavy, as he wishes for this to happen naturally in real life. To spend an entire day petting Ten, if possible.

“Hey,” Johnny mumbles, tenderly caressing the side of his face. Ten blushes, and immediately chases after the touch.

“That was weird,” he says after a moment. Johnny shoots him a puzzled expression. “I had a dream.”

“Are you lucid right now?”

“Yeah, ‘course, did I sleep?”

“You could say so,” Johnny replies, but there's no coherent answer to that question. He's still sleeping, technically, but for some reason Johnny senses Ten wouldn't like that comment.

“I regret ever joking about Inception. Like, I just had a dream inside a dream,” Johnny knows that's just him actually dreaming, “we were both in bed, right here, and you brought me breakfast.”

“Are you trying to tell me something? Because I wouldn't know where to find food here,” Ten smiles just as Johnny swipes his finger over his cheekbone, and feels every dent.

“Everything is possible, here in my dream,” with a melodious voice, Ten starts, earning a groan from Johnny.

“How do you even remember these?”

“I like poetry. How do you even remember every meaning for every dream?” Ten retorts.

All Johnny can do is lean in and peck the tip of his nose. Allowing the moment to get blanketed by a comforting silence (and Johnny's mind to be overpowered by unconscious, gnawing thoughts), their breaths mix at some point, and a flimsy ray of sunshine sneaks into the room through the curtains. It's the perfect opportunity, Johnny finally concludes.

Ten's eyes are closed, framed by golden, but Johnny knows he's completely aware.

“Can I ask you something?”

Eyes open and curious, he nods.

“Can we meet—”

Pitch-dark, once again. That's all Johnny sees, and disappointment sets low in his stomach as he comes down to reality and finds himself alone, inside his monotonous room.

It's not Jaehyun interrupting him, but a mere coincidence that appears closer to destiny than simply the odds.

-

Johnny clicks on the buy button before regret can catch up to him.

As he walks home, the website loads slowly before showing the receipt once and for all, making Johnny smile to himself as he takes a screenshot and then feels around his pockets in search of his keys.

Chicago, IL, United States to Seoul, South Korea, it reads. Imprinted in Johnny’s brain, it stays. Resonates over and over. So inside Johnny’s own fantasy land, unaware of his surroundings, he's surprised he even manages to skillfully open the door and shrug off his coat with such effortlessness. It lands with a soft thud on the couch, and that's when Johnny snaps out of it.

Undoubtedly, there is someone else inside their place. And undeniably, it's Sicheng moaning as well as Jaehyun.

Johnny goes rigid for a moment, processing the situation, filtering every reason and possibility that would answer the question taking over his mind now: why me. Though Johnny supposses he kind of deserves it, having traumatized Jaehyun before. There are plenty of things Johnny doesn't believe in, but now karma is the most coherent answer.

A deep groan echoes around the apartment, and Johnny definitely feels remorse then.

As he's about to leave, sloppily attempting to put back on the discarded coat (not realizing it's inside-out), grabbing hastily his keys and phone—Jaehyun walks into the living room shirtless. There's a smirk that dances on his lips, and now Johnny feels anger.

“Sorry, were you here for long?”

Johnny narrows his eyes.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“What?” Jaehyun sputters, but the tip of his ears sport a wine-red color. A dead giveaway.

“You can't even do this without getting shy!” Now grinning, Johnny exclaims as he points at his reddening face.

“Shut up. You weren't meant to come home early, I—” he pauses for a second when he hears movement coming from his room, lowering his voice to continue, “I actually never planned anything. But if you heard something… You deserve it.”

“I did—”

Sicheng comes out of dim hallway with messy hair and scarlet, plump lips. Johnny stares. And Jaehyun dies a bit inside, apparent in the way color fades from his face as if his soul has left his body.

“Dear co-worker and fuckbuddy, can you two shut up?”

Jaehyun gulps.

“I can't believe—” Johnny starts, except Sicheng is quicker. Wittier.

“Be careful with what you say, I'm not scared to blackmail you.”

The discussion between them starts to get heated (as heated as debating about anything with Sicheng can get, really), and it leads to Jaehyun meekly taking a seat on the couch, watching as the both of them talk from each corner of the room.

“Dongyoung already knows I'm keeping the machine, so you can't blackmail me,” Johnny counters. His confidence doesn't falter even when he notes the unchanging know-it-all expression that Sicheng wears—it's ordinary by now. Until Jaehyun doesn't maintain eye-contact with him, and focuses on the carpeted floor instead. That gives him an idea, a peek.

“But does he know you, too, are having sex with a subject?” So just like that, Sicheng punches him in the stomach. Metaphorically, of course, although Johnny feels it sinking.

“Jaehyun.”

“Dude, I had no idea—” Jaehyun tells him, defensively motioning with his hands.

“He's just weak. Don't blame him,” that earns a scoff from Jaehyun that Sicheng opts to ignore, eyes still fixed on Johnny, eyebrows lifted.

“You win,” Johnny says, conclusively, and turns around to gather up his belongings.

“Wait! Don't leave,” it's Sicheng who exclaims, grabbing Johnny's arm with the aim of stopping him, “this is your place. I was just kidding.”

“It's okay, I just wanna give you two space.”

“Oh please,” Jaehyun cuts in, “I know you're dying to go back to your room.”

Truthfully, it's all Johnny's been thinking about. Chicago, IL, United States to Seoul, South Korea. Seemingly noticing the tiny smile tugging at Johnny's mouth, they both share a look, raising their eyebrows and then mockingly making kissing noises.

“God, you two are twelve.”

“At least I suck real-life dick.”

Sicheng’s words don't go overlooked. No, Johnny enters his room determined, a whole speech on the tip of his tongue. And the words die as quickly as they popped up in his brain the second Johnny notices it's a red light looking back at him instead of green (mockingly, almost, and it wouldn't surprise him if the machine started laughing at him as Sicheng and Jaehyun did).

Odds, coincidences, destiny. Johnny just wants it all to be normal.

-

Ten is gazing at the bright sea, sitting cross-legged on the sand, when Johnny taps on his shoulder.

“Hey, Fuck, sorry,” Ten hurriedly apologizes once he turns around, “I forgot I had my alarm on. Then I had practice all day, couldn't sleep—”

“Ten, it's okay.”

A hand on his bicep is enough force to pull Johnny down, until Ten is able to reach and attach their mouths sweetly. Not long, not short. A normal kiss similar to a habit, an instinct (like a married couple, or grey-haired grandparents that never got bored of each other).

“What did you want to ask?”

Now, his tongue feels heavy.

“I'm going to Korea in a week,” the subtext is crystal-clear. An invitation, that is. And now it's all on Ten. To take it or leave it.

“Are you asking me to meet up?”

“Clearly,” Johnny says matter-of-factly.

It's completely unexpected, how Ten avoids Johnny's gaze and fixes his eyes on a distant point. How the single word rolls out of his tongue.

“No.”

Johnny has to refrain from panicking, crying, or reacting before inquiring into it. He gulps and sits beside Ten, making a valiant effort to face him (even when Ten's eyes remain dull and steady).

“Why?” he asks, unable to hide the heartache in his voice, “I don't—why?”

“It won't work, hyung. We wouldn't work in real life,” Ten says with a blank expression. It makes Johnny want to grab his shoulders and pull him back to reality.

“We've never even tried—”

“I just know. I just know because these months with you here have been the best of my life. I'm not gonna ruin it.”

It wounds him, that Ten doesn't have an ounce of faith in them. Their relationship, their future. But what hurts more is knowing that Johnny provoked it, so now he's face to face with the consequences.

“You told me you were gonna forget about the past, that this was a fresh start! I want to see you, and kiss you, and be with you,” Johnny bemoans, the hint of regret always present.

“And you haven't done that? What—”

“These are just dreams, Ten.”

That's the catalyst for Ten to seemingly wake up from his stupor, now turning around fully and confronting Johnny with pure indignation in his eyes.

“You're a fucking hypocrite! What were you telling me two days ago, huh?” He shouts. Johnny gulps, but the lump in his throat doesn't budge, “that these weren't just dreams. That you—we weren't just a dream. And now? It's all fake, right?”

“N-no, I didn't mean that. Ten, just hear me out. You have to understand that there is a line, of course I love you, of course these aren't just dreams—because you're more than that. But it still isn't real life,” pouring his heart out, Johnny attempts to knock some sense into Ten. Except when he reaches out to grab his hand, and Ten quickly pulls away.

“Real life sucks,” Ten mumbles, “dreams don't.”

“But they are not—”

“Fuck you!”

As Ten harshly stands up and walks away, Johnny's heart in hand, he's left staring at his retreating figure with sad eyes and disappointment settling down in his stomach. It's all his fault, really, for allowing Ten to fall this deep inside a dream.

(And for leaving him, and for hurting him, and for being so egoistic that he allowed himself a second chance).

For a moment, while Johnny looks around not knowing what to do next, he observes how strangely empty the beach is. As in, there's no house in sight. There's some guilt that wraps around him, of course, after professing his love for Ten and how real they are, yet persuading the understanding of every dream—but that culpability isn't enough to stop him from wondering if Ten's subconscious finally discarded the symbology, or it's way too hidden for Johnny to find.

The answer comes rather fast, once he glances at the crystalline and pellucid sea, and in the depths where light barely shines on—Johnny’s childhood home appears similar to Atlantis. Sunken and secluded. Johnny doesn't need to give much thought to it before he's chasing after Ten, running barefoot on the burning sand.

(Johnny is aware it wasn't hot, previously, a calm atmosphere and a calm breeze. The sand was lukewarm and the sky was clear).

A slightly-dark cloud obscures the sun, and Johnny finds Ten sitting near some rocks.

“Could you, I don't know, leave me alone?” Ten comments bitterly.

Johnny walks closer with wariness, once again, feeling like they are all the way back to the beginning. Afraid of striking any nerves, of standing too close, too far. Though, Johnny isn't a coward anymore.

“Just think about it. You can't tell me you love me and refuse to let me say it to your face.”

“You can't proclaim yourself as my soulmate and then leave the country. Without telling me, Mr. Face-to-face,” Ten quips and, well, Johnny can't deny any of those accusations.

“I'm sorry.”

“You've told me you're sorry plenty of times. Stop looking for more reasons to apologize.”

Distantly, thunder rolls closer.

“Ten—”

“This is so fucking stupid,” he curses under his breath.

“I'm visiting my family, I'm not forcing you. But I'm not gonna lie, you're the whole reason I'm taking this trip.”

Ten doesn't move an inch, of course. Remains motionless with his head between his thighs.

“Just leave,” he pleads.

In a way, Johnny understands. How easy it is, in dreams, to live and love. That their reunion happened to occur via dreams—instead of real life. That Johnny didn't put a stop, at any moment, whenever Ten would slowly but surely fall in love with a dream. Taunting words echo around his mind now, every stay here, dreams are amazing, a line getting fuzzier to the point it's unrecognizable. And perhaps Johnny should've just done his job.

For the first time, Johnny welcomes the darkness of his own room willingly, after Ten requested for him to leave.

And frankly, Johnny missed the fights, too, no matter how bad it might sound.

-

“So you're actually leaving to Korea?”

Jaehyun appears surprisingly dumbfounded, for having suggested the trip himself months ago.

“Yes, to visit my family.”

Now, Jaehyun does laugh. Because he was the one that lead the idea, so he knows. Johnny can't find it in him to refute him.

“Right, family. Ten doesn't have anything to do with it? Secret proposal?”

“Shut up,” it's all Johnny can mutter. Why does Jaehyun insist at the worst times? He'll never know.

Obeying, Jaehyun gets up and heads towards the kitchen wordlessly. After a minute, Johnny discerns the sound of glass clinking, a bottle popping open with great strength—and then Jaehyun is walking into the living room with two glasses of champagne.

“What?” Johnny questions, “are you celebrating me leaving?”

“No! Champagne was all I could find. Let's drink.”

With reluctance, he accepts, shifting on the couch so Jaehyun can fit his legs on top, too. They sit facing each other, cross-legged, and for a moment Johnny is at ease. Every sip feels like one less pressing worry, so after he downs the entire glass and laughs at whatever Jaehyun is telling him about—Johnny is considerably less heavy.

Two glasses down, and he floats.

It isn't fair, though, because Jaehyun has a really high tolerance and so he watches Johnny unwind with rosy cheeks and ruby-colored ears, but is entirely aware of every single word that escapes Johnny's mouth.

“I love him, Jae,” he cries out, “like—so bad. I think he's the love of my life, a soulmate. Do you believe in those things? I do.”

Jaehyun nods, understandingly, and sips on his drink unaffected. “What's wrong, hyung?”

In Johnny's drunken haze, the use of honorifics gets him. A mix between the familiarity of English and the Korean in his veins and heart.

“He doesn't wanna see me.”

“Bullshit.”

Johnny wishes. “For real, he doesn't wanna see me and I think I fucked up again.”

“Dude, what the fuck? Why not?” Puzzled, Jaehyun frowns and sets the glass on the table just to make it more dramatic.

The alcohol running through his system finds it endearing, and then sad, and then Johnny feels a single tear rolling down his heated cheek.

“He—he thinks we wouldn't work outside dreams. Maybe he's right.”

“Well, he needs to connect with reality right now. You can't live in dreams forever, they are just that! Dreams!”

And Johnny knows. So another tear drops, this time directly onto the beige cushion he's hugging.

“Oh no, Johnny, don't cry. I didn't think this through—”

“It's okay, I need to let it out,” Johnny reassures him as he pours himself more champagne. Let it out and let it in.

By assuaging his distress with alcohol, Johnny's mind gradually wipes off any trace of Ten's expressionless eyes and harsh words, any guilt-ridden memory from the past coming back to haunt, and overall Johnny's consciousness that isn't that very second. Jaehyun awkwardly hugging him and clumsily spilling his glass of champagne on the carpet, Johnny's eyelids drooping, and the heaviness of what feels like a quilt covering his body until it's all black.

It works, even as Johnny has a dream that night. Peaceful, a little back garden with a enormous variation of flowers. A table with no chairs. Normal to all appearances—until Johnny makes out laughter not so distantly, and following the sound he comes upon two kids on a tree. They laugh and talk in a hushed tone, as if afraid of being caught. Johnny doesn't know who they are, unrecognizable blurred faces and near inaudible voices, no matter how hard he attempts to overhear or see anything remotely familiar. Abruptly, they stop murmuring, and turn to face Johnny.

The entire tree sets on fire.

Johnny wakes up with a crushing headache and a heavy, fragile heart. One wrong move, and the pieces will scatter.

It's waiting for a green light all over again.

-

“Where were you!? Haven't you slept in the past days, Ten, are you insane!?”

Johnny bursts into the dream like a hurricane, a wave getting bigger, wind howling, capable of blowing Ten’s small frame away just with the power of words.

Though, Ten just faces him, unfazed. Around them the trees dance on their own, the wind providing the music, a roaring melody. It's nothing but a poignant reminder of the mess Johnny sent his way. A storm of sorts.

(He wouldn't know, as he can't focus on anything else but Ten's tousled hair falling onto his face—a framed memory of a child, heartbroken).

“Calm down, God,” he says nonchalantly, gripping the edges of his jacket, breath visible as he talks.

Strangely, Johnny doesn't feel the cold.

“I was worried sick!”

“Do you want me to say I was avoiding you? Because, yes, I was.”

Lightning illuminates the park entirely, and in that fraction of a second Johnny manages to recognize the playground they used to play at. The decayed swings. The way too small sandbox that seemed endless when they were children. Johnny's home shrouded in mist. A clap of thunder, and it's over.

“Ten,” Johnny chides, “this isn't—this isn't a game. You can't just simply avoid sleeping!”

Ten lets out a sardonic laugh. “I just slept regularly. Time difference, I think you said.”

“Ok, if you're still mad I'm just gonna leave—”

“I'm sorry.”

That's one of the infinite possible outcomes Johnny wasn't expecting. Off guard, he frowns, emits no sound, and another flash of lightning unveils Ten’s serious expression. Sincere, with an uncountable amount of feelings hidden behind his eyes. There are some Johnny is able to distinguish (unfeigned regret with some bitterness, as always, love, adoration, obscured by his pride) and then there's the unreadable Ten that disguises as the open book Johnny knows so well.

A lump rises in his throat, so Ten gives him a lopsided smile. Waiting.

“Please tell me you thought about it,” Johnny nearly begs.

“Well, eager, aren't we?” Wittiness is one way to get away with it, Johnny guesses. No, knows. It's an habit of his. “I did. And I'm sorry for being so harsh, I just—”

“It's my fault, I pushed you this deep into dreams.”

“No, no,” Ten shakes his head. The storm isn't that far away anymore, when a strong current of air engulfs them, and Ten shivers. “It's no one’s fault. Stop blaming yourself or overthinking it like you always do—just come here.”

Once Johnny approaches him, it's the now evident freshness over his skin making goosebumps appear, and Ten warmly circling his arms around Johnny's middle. An embrace that recreates a storm inside Johnny's own heart.

It doesn't break, of course, when Ten holds it so securely.

“Do you trust me?” Ten asks him, close to his ear (but not quite, with his head nestled against Johnny’s chest. The height difference, an unfailing constant).

“Of course.”

So the first droplet falls right on Ten’s nose as he pulls back to face Johnny, and before his brows can fully crease, it's a torrential rainfall. Instantly, Johnny’s bangs are dripping as if a bucket of water was thrown at him, clothes soaked. Ten, on the other hand, remains a bit more dry, though his matted hair is slowly straightening and falling onto his eyes.

Johnny's fingers twitch with the ineluctable need to brush Ten’s hair away from his face. And he would've done it, his romantic self being stronger, but Ten beats him to it.

The press of their lips is an apology, forgiveness, every unimaginable form of love in such a simple action. And God, if Johnny would excuse anything for him. Would do anything.

(Maybe—maybe it was Johnny who fell in too deep. Not into a dream, but in love. Blindly jumping off a plane, the euphoria of falling too addictive to let go. Maybe).

“Kissing under the rain, huh, and then I'm the romantic one,” Johnny breathes against his mouth.

“I took my chance. It's only romantic and better because this is a dream,” he says, “see my point?”

Johnny actually rolls his eyes. With endearment, mostly. But the subtle bitterness of Ten's comment is crystal-clear in Johnny's eyes.

“Ten, stop.”

One kiss on his nose, cheeks, and forehead. It softens Ten up a bit.

“I accept your invitation.”

“Really!?” Eyes the size of dinner plates, Johnny exclaims.

“Yes, fatass, you better not flee the country again,” Ten warns as he buries his head on Johnny's chest again.

“I promise.”

Johnny's heart thunders, almost as heavily as the dissipating storm. There's lightning and a howling wind.

But it doesn't break.

-

Giddiness overpowers him for the next remaining days.

He analyses every tape and writes every paper in time, even when Dongyoung strides into his office to interrogate him with genuine interest about his trip, disguising it as work and performance concerns.

“Are you leaving? As in, moving out?”

Johnny takes his eyes off the screen only to stare at Dongyoung, lifted eyebrows and all. It doesn't work, Johnny can't be intimidating with people like Kim Dongyoung being in his presence.

“No, I’m just—visiting. It's a short trip, two nights,” he says as Dongyoung takes a seat. There's a new chair, Johnny observes. (He doesn't want to know when or how, or why he didn't notice). “Why? Is there a problem?”

“Of course not!” Dongyoung scoffs, utterly failing at keeping his sudden interest and curiosity at bay. “I'm just asking, someone has to cover for you.”

“There's that much work?”

“Well, well, where is all this wittiness coming from?” He tsk-tsks, leaning back on the chair. It emits no sound, and Johnny kind of misses the old and tumbledown one.

“Sorry, boss.”

“I'm just concerned.”

It's inevitable, now, to give him a speaking look. Johnny knows too well where he picked that habit from.

“About work or about me?” He quips, allowing a small smile on his lips.

“I take back whatever I said months ago. You're more insufferable when you're in love than when sulking,” Dongyoung tells him conveying almost no emotions, deadpan expression. Though, his eyes show enough (they are a window to the soul—Ten would say. Johnny agrees partially, since sometimes Dongyoung appears to be soulless).

“Hey!” Johnny exclaims and then lowers his voice, “shut up.”

“Don't come acting cocky with me. I'm still your boss,” it'd be a warning, to any outsider, yet Johnny is fully aware of Dongyoung’s underlying intentions.

“I know—”

“But I can’t deny that I do worry about you,” he finally spits out, “and if you think this trip is the right thing—I'll do everything in my power to help you.”

Mushy, is what it is. Sweet. Corny. Everything that makes sugar ooze through Johnny's veins until he can only blush and smile. Dongyoung, as a rather-fatherly figure, manifesting personal and emotional worries, is truly heartwarming. Even if Johnny would never admit it out loud, he experiences a constant need for validation from Dongyoung, whether it's work or his private life. There's a sense of comfort in getting approval from Kim Dongyoung.

“Are you for real? I’m—thank you, for caring about me.”

Dongyoung rolls his eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his embarrassment.

“Don't get used to it. I'll make you work twice as hard once you get back,” he informs him, half-jokingly, half-serious, “but really, good luck hyung.”

With a final nod, Dongyoung vanishes from his office unnoticed. Johnny is too busy staring at the corner of the screen on his laptop, where the date is highlighted in white. He's on the verge of downloading a countdown app, so blinking rapidly and forcing himself to focus on the empty chair facing the desk, Johnny starts counting down the minutes mentally.

Two days, one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes. Johnny counts to five and it's enough.

-

Johnny's bed is definitely comfier than a hotel one (inside or outside a dream, it's a fact that doesn't need checking).

“It's always so hot in here,” fanning himself, Ten whines.

“You're just a human furnace.”

“You are the furnace in this relationship, you're like a bear.”

Johnny grins widely at the slip that goes unperceived by Ten. Or maybe he did it on purpose, which wouldn't be much of a surprise, really.

“I’m just hot, you know.”

“I know, baby,” Ten smiles teasingly. And when the word escapes his mouth so smoothly, Johnny becomes utter putty. He's sure his breath hitching is perfectly audible.

“God.”

“Wow, look at you, you're blushing!” Sitting up, Ten looks down at his expressionless face—or, a red mess attempting to refrain from reacting.

“Please stop teasing me, you're gonna kill me,” Johnny pleads.

“I told you I wouldn't kill you,” a smirk, “yet.”

“If I die now, I'll just wake up.”

Ten looks away and quietly lays back down beside him. Their hands find each other almost instinctively, and their fingers interlock similar to the last piece of a puzzle.

Outside, birds chirp cheerfully.

“We'll meet at the park, right?”

“Of course. At six?”

Snuggling closer, Ten nods against his neck, and then presses a sweet but wet kiss that stirs every cell in his system. Ignites a fire, creates a spark. The usual that feels like a first every single time. Johnny just can't wait to experience each tingle in real life.

Funnily, there's a correlation between Ten’s body having always been considerably warm, and Johnny’s insides turning into a frozen sea throughout their years apart. Accumulating skeletons in his closet, pain and fears that he refused to revisit, and remorseful memories kept inside that infamous box.

Johnny's soul, in other words. Icy, at that time. There's numerous ways to describe how frightened he was of self-disclosure, of commitment and feelings, of routines and habits—that eventually he fell into. Inevitably. Worrying.

And he's no poet, yet with his hand starting to dampen, not from nervousness but from the heat of Ten's one gripping it firmly, Johnny knows.

Ten is an unrelenting fire and it cracked the ice of his soul.

-

So, the moment comes, Johnny gets into a car and then a plane. And Chicago is left behind along with every piece of Johnny's worries and taunting thoughts. He learned to hesitantly remove the bandaid holding his heart together, allowing it to heal by itself, and to gradually become just another characteristic of his persona. A sweet and goofy guy in a tall and lanky body—in love with his childhood best friend.

Poetic words do the trick sometimes.

Other times, they don't.

Because once Johnny’s feet come in contact with the ground, filling his lungs with Seoul air, all Johnny feels is happiness. There aren't as many words as before.

Mom: Have you arrived?
Mom: Does this work? It says the messages are being delivered! So I'm guessing you're in korea

Pocketing his phone, disregarding his mother’s texts, Johnny focuses on the time. 5:34 p.m, it shows. And the device securely stored inside his handbag weighs just a tad heavier. Nevertheless, the walk out of the airport is done with his head held high, confident steps and a satisfied smile that remains unchanging even as Johnny hails a cab. A long drive, it is. But the ecstasy overtaking him and the lightness of his heart make it bearable.

Ten does, actually.

Counting down the minutes, 5:50 p.m. now. Gazing outside the window pretending to be in a drama (every moment spent with Ten—from their childhood to his dreams, replaying over and over, a never-ending film strip), tall but ancient buildings speeding by, blurry like a long-exposed photograph.

Yet real, inconsistent. In the flesh. Not a faux landscape inside a dream. And Johnny feels something similar to a mixture of nostalgia and euphoria, watching every familiar spot in Seoul move past him (or, Johnny driving past them, Ten would counter). Each one carries a memory, dearly.

Johnny feels ready to release his hold on them once the car nears the oh-so-familiar park.

And he would come to believe it's a sheer dream, once again—judging by the fixed, unvarying, appearance of the park. In all its glory, it remains near identical to what Johnny remembers it looking like. Average golden-leaved trees, the bench that became their bench, a hideout. It's all there, and Johnny missed it so much it starts to overload his insides.

(“What does TJ mean?” he had asked, attempting to read Ten’s handwriting with narrowed eyes.

“Ten and Johnny, dumbass,” Ten replied before carving a plus sign in between the letters, finishing his work.

“Ohh.”)

Dreamily, Johnny skims over the carved wooden of the bench, the pads of his fingers caressing every ridge of every letter. 6:00 p.m.

So he sits on it, and waits pathetically with both his suitcases beside him.

No hotels or parents’ house, it's Ten first and foremost. As insane as it might look, as sad or pitying. Johnny is being controlled by a fervent, urgent need, and so he's back to counting down each second.

Three hundred, currently. So five minutes.

And when the sun sets, like the lights dimming before a movie starts, gloomy and dark—Johnny counts to seven thousand two hundred seconds. One hundred and twenty minutes. Two hours. A white butterfly flies by and Johnny knows Ten won't come.

It's neither upsetting nor disappointing. Precisely what Johnny experiences is a broken heart. A low, painful pressure in the pit of his stomach where his heart seems to land, hanging by a thin thread.

Heartbreaking. And now Johnny understands, exactly, how Ten felt when Johnny left him in this very place—but years back. How Johnny had too, shattered his apparently though heart into pieces, carelessly, in the worst possible way. With radio silence.

Johnny relates, a déjà vu of sorts, even if he's not entirely informed of every thought that went through Ten’s mind that day (and the day after, and the week after, and the day Johnny walked into his life once again as if nothing had happened). Three hundred seconds more, and he's competent enough to stand up and leave.

A last lingering look, an empty park. Johnny leaves but there's nothing behind.

(“I just know. I just know because these months with you here have been the best of my life. I'm not gonna ruin it.”)

And as he waits for another cab to arrive, Johnny concludes: he deserves it. Ten’s smile is the ghost in the back of his head.

-

Johnny’s mother reminds him of Jaehyun.

Insistent, big-mouthed at the worst moments. (It nearly makes him cry, but Johnny's an arid desert now, having filled buckets of tears around the corner of his parents’ house before finally revealing his red-eyed self. His mom probably thought it was from smoking pot).

“Have you visited the old neighborhood yet?” She speaks with a soft voice that brings to mind Ten’s honeyed and high-pitched one.

Johnny instantly goes rigid, chokes slightly on his coffee and muffles it with cough.

“Haven't had the time. Why?”

“It's been a while, Youngho. You could use some time alone, going for a walk ‘round the neighborhood.”

Because there aren't as many words as before, it appears to repeat itself. Or maybe it's just Johnny unconsciously looking out for patterns (Dongyoung proudly telling him that it's been a while, the sense of satisfaction after analyzing Ten’s first dream, and his subsequent own thoughts: it's been a while. They echo around his mind, not tauntingly—but as a reminder).

“I don't think it would do much,” Johnny utters. Alone is not what he wants to be right now. “Besides, I'm leaving tomorrow.”

Aware of that fact, his mother still sighs disappointed. Shakes her head, and continues chopping onions (to this day, it hasn't stopped surprising Johnny how unaffected she is by its pungent juices. Her eyes remain bone dry).

In comparison, Johnny is a bit more weak. Though in that moment, the reason his eyes water is far from cutting onions.

“I'm sorry,” he stammers out, “I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for not coming back and for thinking I could be happy ignoring my own self, my past. I’m—”

A few tears fall, unavoidable, and Johnny wipes them at the speed of light. Almost. His mother is faster, probably having already noticed by the way Johnny poured every word out like they've been stuck in his throat this whole time.

“What's gotten into you? Hey—it's okay. We've never blamed you, Youngho. You made a life for yourself in Chicago,” the way she embraces him is enough to pull more tears out, “we weren't gonna take that away from you. Don't cry, sweetie. ”

“I should've said something, I should've—”

“I'm not following...”

Johnny sniffs (and at least now Johnny's mother won't assume he's doing any drugs, as tears roll down leaving red behind).

“Do you think everyone deserves forgiveness?”

“Of course.”

(“Love is figuring out all the kind sweetness we deserve, and when someone shows up, saying they will provide it as you do, but their actions seem to break you, rather than build you. Love is knowing who to choose.”)

The guest room—a single bed barely fitting in a corner and a bedside table crammed against it—serves its purpose successfully. Allowing Johnny's body to rest and the device to be placed somewhere near his visual field, that is. To contemplate while staring at the beige ceiling. To wait, and wait, until all he's able to see are imprints of the eternal red light throughout the walls, wherever Johnny's eyes land.

Red. Endless red. Before his eyelids get sluggish and—

“You're back!”

Mark Lee bursts his bubble, into his room, and back into his life with a cheery voice, beaming. There's a homely feel to him that eases some pressure off from Johnny's chest.

“Hey, kid. I am,” sitting up, Johnny greets him. Open arms and a smile that Mark welcomes by falling onto his lap and hugging him tightly.

“You're the worst at texting back.”

“It's really expensive, Markie,” he mumbles back. Out of the corner of his eyes, red derides him as pathetic.

“Fuck you,” escaping his embrace, Mark resorts to insults (a cozy feeling, reminiscent of good memories). “What brings you here?”

Love. Red.

“Just visiting, Chuseok, and because it's been a while,” Johnny replies instead.

“Honestly, hyung, I thought you would have improved your lying skills back in the states. But you're still the worst.”

And well, there are certain limits to how long Johnny can keep up with a lie.

“And you only got smarter, it seems.”

“I don't need to be smart to see the wrinkles on your forehead from worrying so much,” Mark susses him out, “you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what? Kids these days,” Johnny tuts. Though it threatens, slowly, to crawl up his throat and break free.

“I’m eighteen.”

“I’m your hyung.”

“Hyuuuung.”

Cuteness is Johnny's weakness, there's no denying.

“I came back to meet up with someone,” a little less heavier, his shoulders slump.

“What? And you can't reply to my texts?”

“It's someone—special. Unconventional, I guess,” Johnny explains with bashfulness.

“Oh,” Mark’s eyes sparkle, “Ten.”

It's been a while. Since he last heard his name, rolling smoothly out of someone's tongue that isn't Jaehyun. A while.

The light remains red.

“W-what? Why? You stayed in contact?”

Mark can only frown, puzzled, being bombarded by Johnny's desperate questions.

“No, I mean, I just guessed since you two, uh—”

Another one is added to the list of people who believed him and Ten were together.

“Mark.”

“You weren't? Fuck, well, sorry,” he quickly apologizes, “but Ten was so devastated when you left—”

“Stop.”

It's red. Johnny's heart is a dead weight.

“I’m not mad, hyung. We've talked about it,” in an attempt to put Johnny's mind at ease, Mark starts rambling, “like, for real! You're a grown man with a life, though I am hurt that you couldn't even reply to my texts while you still got in contact with Ten. How did that even happen? Last time I spoke to him, he claimed he wanted nothing to do with you—”

“Mark—”

“—but, right. Sorry. It's your life! I'm glad, because I kinda miss him. So if you're gonna meet up, bring him here!”

A headache would be an understatement. Johnny's head is flaring up, suffocating his insides.

“Mark, he doesn't wanna see me, just stop.”

“Ah, that explains it,” he sits beside him, and waits awkwardly for Johnny to open up. It doesn't happen. “I'm sorry. Is he still hurt?”

“Apparently,” Johnny sighs but knows there's more to Ten's feelings that meet the eye. Mark's eyes. The whole dreaming situation, for example.

“But he still made you come all the way here?”

“I made the decision. It wasn't him—”

Mark’s eyes suddenly shift and focus on a spot behind him.

“Sorry, what's that?”

Innocently, Johnny turns around. His stomach sinks, shrinks, and churns. The light is green.

“Fuck—”

He stumbles and trips over his feet attempting to stand up quickly, fast, reaching out to the device. Trembling, Johnny’s hands fumble with the buttons and before he can hook himself up—that familiar shade takes over.

“What the hell?”

With the promise to explain and tell him all about his job later, Mark leaves the room, worry written on his face. There isn't much more guilt Johnny can carry, so it doesn't affect him. Gradually, numbness becomes a prime emotion.

Red is just another shade.

-

Johnny's house has crumbled down.

This time, in contrast, is not a dream.

Its walls have collapsed, quite covered in dust. Red. The roof having fallen on top, too, and the scenery is so similar to Ten’s dream, it sends tingles down his spine. Goosebumps flooding his skin. A full-body sensation.

(“It was never red.”

“Your uncle painted it when you moved.”)

And maybe Ten was right, perhaps dreams are better—in all senses. Given that all Johnny has felt ever since he went on the journey of revisiting his neighborhood, is pain. Utter and real pain. There's no sense of comfort, coziness. Looking at his house, faded red walls and rotten wood, a scrub of moss and weeds, feels distant. Detached.

(Maybe from reality, from the unbearable truth, what Johnny has been avoiding with the decision of leaving and then not coming back. Detachment).

Johnny misses Ten’s poems.

Wishes he could describe what red represents for him, now. The night sky sparkles with infinite stars, an advantage of the countryside, and wishes Ten would describe them to him (silver dots shining on a black canvas, bursting open and supernovas forming—Johnny knows Ten would find an optimistic way to compare life with the phenomenon of stars dying). The walk back home is filled with paranoia, where the night sky looks down on him, destiny following. It's not cold, per se, an autumnal breeze that's chilly enough to wear a jacket. Yet, a sweater and Johnny’s oversized coat don't seem to be of much help, as Johnny continues shivering all the way home. Not even blanketed by moonlight does Johnny feel safe. He looks up and trembles.

Written in the stars.

-

On the next morning, it's the playground.

As small as ever, delimited by now tall trees, overgrown and old (like Johnny, really, and perhaps that's the reason it all appears so pocket-sized). The swings are seemingly new, though the sandbox looks about the same. Children continue playing as their parents conversate, and the pathway, being nothing more than dirt and littered rocks, doesn't materialize above the endless nothingness. It simply exists—with or without Johnny.

(“Do you speak English?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Oh, finally!”)

A few changes, a few constants. Johnny only feels a sting.

One of many, various needles piercing his heart at a torturous pace.

-

The swimming pool is a complete different story.

A last moment sort of thing. While packing (the only pair of jeans he wore and the forever-red device), it strikes Johnny that there's one place he hasn't visited yet—alike all of them, but with a few more intense memories attached to it. At last second, it is, and Johnny finds himself in front of the intimidating and colossal building once again.

It's been remodelled, judging by the integrity of the overall place. More security (a lady asking for a credential at the front desk—organized and elegant, in a way) whiter walls, and an array of pools that Johnny knows didn't exist before (a lap pool, where he comes upon a few people training). The local swimming pool is all but local, apparently.

The only constant, or well, a fresh memory that stayed the same, is the largest pool. Johnny guesses it's been repainted, as its blue hues shine more than ever. One foot closer—and the strong smells engulfs Johnny with such familiarity he smiles softly to himself. A constant, its over-chlorinated waters, embedding itself on Johnny's nasal hairs, almost like a souvenir.

He doesn't complain, and for the first time it's not sadness that overtakes him, but a strange sense of comfort. Unbothered by the smell, mind somewhere else (daydreaming, inside flooding memories that he used to regret and now Johnny itches for reliving). The clear, translucent waters call for him. So he walks closer to the edge and stares at his reflection.

(“Let’s swim.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”)

Distorted, Johnny's own eyes look back at him, nostalgia in his eyes. He blinks, it blinks. Until, out of nowhere, the warped reflection is advancing towards him—or, Johnny is unwillingly falling into the water. It's not until he reaches the bottom of the pool that Johnny registers the ghost of two hands on his back.

And once he resurfaces, Johnny shaking the water off his hair like a dog as to prevent his hair from falling in his eyes, it's a beginning. All over again.

Ten stands on the edge of the pool wearing a mischievous smile but soft, tender eyes. Crinkling at the corners, threatening to water. It's Ten. Where he drowns, where he learns, where he falls.

“Now you swim?” Ten asks nonchalantly, as if Johnny's agape mouth isn't starting to fill with water, speechless. As if he hasn't just showed up, without any warning. “Told you, dreams come true.”

That's the trigger. With great strength, Johnny climbs out the pool, dripping from head to toe. No holdbacks, not anymore. He dives right into Ten’s arms like he's the ocean and Johnny aspires to reach the deep end. Drown in Ten’s arms, his apple-scented shampoo, his small but lithe frame. Every detail, every feature of him. Johnny wants to drink them in and drown inside out.

“God.”

“You're getting me all w—”

As expected, Johnny kisses the complaint out of his mouth, captures it with his own lips and swallows it so all he can taste is Ten’s tiny gasp and minty breath. Realer than any dream, better, as authentic as it can get. Shifting one of his hands to Ten’s face, he grips his jaw and holds him tightly (because the fear of it all vanishing, of Ten escaping his clasp and simply waking up, is vividly present).

Then, an arm around his waist, a pull so strong it makes Ten stagger a bit. Johnny doesn't want to stop. Doesn't want it to end.

Though it seems Ten has a few things to say.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't—”

“Shut the fuck up, I'm sorry. About every single thing, about my shitty temperament and pride, about standing you up as if it would make me feel better. I’m sorry about loving you, I’m sorry for never saying it.”

Soundless, except Ten’s labored breath and Johnny's clothes shedding droplets onto the ground. Speechless, as Johnny swallows his tongue and closes his eyes for a single moment—to take it in, to think of a way to free space inside his body so he can fit more love. The infinite quantities that continue growing.

“You—” Johnny can't avoid feeling him up, every ridge on his face, from the bridge of his nose to his cupid’s bow. Ten sighs, content. And Johnny can't find his tongue so he presses the same amount of kisses on his lips as the amount of time Johnny waited for this moment, approximately. “You are something else.”

“I've been told that.”

“It’s my turn now,” Johnny mumbles against his mouth. Ten nods, grinning. “Don't—don't ever apologize about loving me again, okay? Listen to me clearly, I love all of you, your grumpiness and pride and every part of you, Ten. I'm the one that should be sorry about everything, so let's save it for now.”

“I love you.”

So simple, yet prompting a chain reaction inside Johnny, from his brain to his heart to the tip of his toenails. And Ten continues.

“You said you wanted to say it to my face—so I did it first.”

What can Johnny do, but bury his wet face (a mix of tears and chlorinated water) in Ten’s dry hair, relishing in the sensation of their bodies against one another, Ten’s chin on his shoulder, and both hands splayed on his back, uncaring of his own clothes dampening.

It's real, because there is no time-stopping, mind-blowing, sparks and fireworks kind-of feeling. Just a plain embrace, while people around town keep on walking, children in their beloved park continue playing, the sun sets, dusking—and dreamlike is just lifelike, now. Ten has a pimple under his cheekbone, and although some moles have disappeared over time, there’s a prominent one on the side of his neck, where Johnny’s fingers reach to skim over every mark.

An ultimate confirmation, an indisputable fact, that love looks like a person.

“How did you even know I was here?” Johnny ponders, yet remains unable to disentangle. Glued to Ten, he will be for as long as he allows it.

“Guess.”

“Mark?”

Then, pausing and pulling away slightly as to look up at him, Ten’s brows furrow.

“Huh? No,” he shakes his head, “I haven’t talked to him in a while, like—a year or so.”

Johnny feels a tad bad for Mark, really.

“Oh, my mom, of course.”

“Typical Myoryun-noona. I forgot she had my number and I think my soul left my body when I saw who was calling,” Ten reveals, expressive through every shift of his eyes and twist of his mouth, since his hands are currently unavailable—intertwined with Johnny’s. For a second, he focuses for too long on the claminess of his hands (not from the water, but from Johnny’s own nerves) and processes Ten’s words tardily.

“What? What did she say? How—”

Ten raises up in his toes and seals Johnny’s mouth with a peck, preventing any more questions from leaving. “That you were here. Which I already knew, so don’t overthink it.”

“I’d rather Mark had called you instead,” Johnny grumbles, “it’s pretty humiliating that my mom is contacting you.”

“Hey! I missed her, it was nice. Don’t be jealous, baby”, as Johnny liquefies and becomes part of the puddle under him, a smug smile tugs at Ten’s lips, “I think she knows something is up, but we conversated nicely enough.”

“She totally knows. I'm doomed.”

“I’m here,” Ten says. Reassuring, reminding, double-edged words—a seemingly normal comment, and the heartfelt and profound underlying meaning. In Johnny’s eyes, the latter is crystal-clear. As pellucid as the swimming pool. Because now he knows.

So finally disengaging their limbs, Johnny leads Ten towards the exit.

“Let’s go home, then.”

Unsuccessfully, the bed doesn't fulfill its purpose now. Although lacking in size and quality (Ten reaches the footboard just fine—which is unusual, and Johnny’s feet dangle from the edge. And the mattress is a bit too thin, both their backs being stabbed by the rusty bed springs), they make it work. Or, well, Johnny can't think much of anything with real-life Ten straddling him.

“My back,” Johnny pauses to breathe a sigh of pleasure, Ten’s teeth grazing his neck, “hurts.”

“Stop whining.”

“Put yourself in my shoes!” it comes out rather loud, but it spurs Ten on, biting him on purpose. Then, Johnny yelps.

“Sorry, what?” Cockily, Ten replies.

“Dumbass.”

“Fatass.”

Making out on such a small bed should be uncomfortable—and it is, making it all more authentic, more real. Adding to the thrill, as well as knowing they are currently at Johnny's parents’ house, back in town, making new memories. (Though, Ten seems to delight a bit too much in the knowledge that they are not alone, kissing Johnny in ways that he knows are key to make him go pliant, ductile and malleable).

It's no wonder that right then, Johnny's mother walks into the room with a question halfway out her mouth.

“Is everything okay? I heard—”

Ten flies out the bed, literally. Maintaining that innocent persona is difficult, has always been (when his mother would almost catch them sneaking away at night—and Ten would pretend to be looking for something to eat, rubbing at his eyes apparently sleepy. Johnny used to wonder why he didn't take drama class in high school). And Johnny freezes full-body.

“Sorry! I thought you were fighting,” his mother apologises, avoiding their faces or Ten muffling a giggle.

“I—it's okay. We weren't, uh, fighting. Just joking around.”

“My apologies, do continue.”

Once the door is shut, Ten chortles, booming.

“This is so embarrassing, Ten! Stop!” Johnny exclaims.

“Can't believe we're doing this shit as adults,” shaking his head in disbelief, Ten reflects, “I’m not complaining, though.”

As a warning, Johnny's eyes bore into him. Ten stays unaffected.

Dinner is a gentle throwback to the past. His dad at the end of the table, Johnny's mother by his side, and Ten sitting right in front of him. (Back in the day, playing footsie used to leave Johnny reeling. Now, a single look is enough). Ten, as bright and charismatic as ever, captures back their hearts with just a few words and polite smiles. A few lies, a few fake anecdotes. Johnny's parents are left amazed, moved by their reunion.

“I’m extremely glad you managed to bring Youngho back, Ten. We missed him tons, and I'm sure you did too,” Johnny's dad says.

“I did.”

“And we missed you, Ten. It's great that you're back together,” his mom adds.

And Johnny feels like a weightless cloud, floating at ease.

With Ten by his side, murmuring about everything and nothing at all against his mouth until his eyes give up, droopy. Johnny watches with utter adoration as Ten fades into a deep sleep—then, the room shines green. It accentuates his features, so with one hand Johnny reaches over to the device and the other caresses Ten’s cheekbone.

Subject 74656e is just another number.

-

Upon entering the empty, desert-like beach, Johnny instantly realizes the difference.

The constant, Johnny’s childhood home, isn’t present anymore. A variable.

A change in what safe and cozy meant until he found himself back in town, in bed with Ten. What thrill was until Ten pushed him into a pool for the second time in his life. What dreams and reality are.

The primrose sand is gentle on his bare feet, a static warmth from the grains, and the distant but steady impact of the waves is a soothing song. A constant. That Johnny is acclimated with. So he doesn’t expect much, advances towards the shore where there’s a distinct and well-known figure.

Ten sits still, basking in the cloudless sunshine. The ocean-carried breeze ruffles his long, charcoal hair, and once Johnny settles down beside him, he breathes in the refreshing air. Moments and time are marked by the sun above, the waves washing Ten’s legs (dusted with sand like flour), and every breath taken.

Silent, it is. There aren’t as many words as before.

Johnny stretches his hand out for Ten to hold, quiet and motionless. Ten does, and the grains of sand slip through their fingers like time in a dream does. It’s not abrupt anymore, when the moon takes over, as if they work in shifts, and the sun’s just ended. Stars appear, darkness floods the scenery, and a retreating tide leaves the damp sand tinted sepia.

The shore fades into liquid obsidian. And Johnny breaks the harmonious silence for the sake of hearing Ten’s relaxing voice. The sea doesn’t compare, no matter how much of a lullaby it might be.

“Remember that poem about dreams?” He asks. “Recite that one for me.”

“In a night, or in a day,” Ten voices, “in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?”

As a fresh breeze blows from the ocean, Johnny shivers. In real life, Ten snuggles into him warmly. Their hearts, the sea, and nothing else.

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”