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when he first visits the dream shop, it’s too crowded and noisy for him to breathe properly.
he can just barely make out the shelves of ancient-looking paper, rolled up like scrolls and carefully wrapped with ribbon, lining the walls over the sea of people around him, though he can’t read the labels on them. it smells papery, like the way it would if you shoved your nose in a book. sunlight slants through the huge glass windows, charmed so it’s neither too bright nor too warm. if he stands on the tips of his toes, he can see several desks at the back of the store, all with a cashier behind them and a long line of people winding around in front of them.
sighing, he makes his way back to the door. what he’s looking for isn’t urgent. he’ll come back later.
the second time, he uses a invisibility scroll he stole from an upperclassman to sneak out of the house. it’s nearly midnight, and soft moonlight spills into the store instead.
this time, there’s enough space for him to actually look at things. only one desk at the back is open, and a handful of people are looking at the shelves. he scans the labels, gingerly picks up the one he needs (he has to tiptoe to reach it), walks over, and plops it unceremoniously onto the desk.
“hi,” the boy says, smiling politely. “will that be all today?”
“yeah.” the name tag says qian kun.
“do you need an instruction manual? or do you want a room?”
ten stares. (he doesn’t want to admit his confusion.)
kun looks back, expectant (pick up on it, please, he thinks). then he brightens again. “oh! are you new?”
“um, yeah.”
“if you want, you can rent a room–it’s soundproof enchanted–to stay in for the night. every dream is different, so they come with instructions–or i can help you with it, if you’d like.” he waves his hand, and the prices appear in the air.
the dismissiveness must show on his face, because kun vanishes the numbers and says, quietly, “but you can have one for free.” he smiles. ten can feel the persuasion charm poking at his brain (or maybe he just thinks there’s one, he can see both of kun’s hands on the table).
“okay,” he says cautiously. kun pulls up the payment hologram and ten presses his hand against it to authenticate.
“follow me,” kun says, and a door appears on the wall behind the desk. the hallway is covered in plush carpet, doors to rooms marked with numbers line the walls, and candles float next to each one. he opens a door marked 127 and ten files in after him.
“do you do this for all your new customers?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. it’s the only thing in the room, except for the small table next to it and the door to what he assumes is a bathroom. one of the walls is an enchanted window displaying the night sky.
“no, just you.” ten looks up at him at that, but kun’s expression is still the same (polite, detached). he lets the tension hang for four counts (out of habit) and is about to say something before kun says, “do you want me to help you?”
“with what?”
“you have to be in the right state of mind for it to work, you know.” the slightest bit of condescension slips into kun’s voice.
“i don’t need–”
“your heart rate is too high, for example,” kun interrupts ( he is flirting! ten thinks). “you have to relax.” he takes ten’s hand in his (warm) and maneuvers the index and middle fingers to the pulse point on his neck. “see?”
ten catches his gaze. it’s not different.
kun releases his hand and summons a small piece of a paper. “relaxation charm,” he explains, and presses it into ten’s palm. he hands him the scroll, too. “you said you didn’t need help, right? then enjoy your stay.”
kun is mocking him. just slightly. then he disappears.
“fuck,” ten says to no one. (kun left the instructions in the scroll. it’s okay.)
when he lays back on the mattress, he doesn’t dream. for the first time in five years, he doesn’t dream at all.
the third time: he stands in the line for kun’s desk even though there’s an open one right next to him. he waits his turn. then he drops the scroll onto the desk.
“hi,” kun says. “is that all today?”
“how long are these supposed to last?” he asks (kind of aggressively).
kun tilts his head like ten’s said something delusional. (he drops his polite demeanor.) “a night?”
“do you have something permanent?”
“i think you’re looking for a memory eraser,” kun says, and there’s the mocking lilt from the other day. ten glares at him (not erasing. he can’t erase it).
“i can custom make one for you,” he whispers. “up to a week, maybe. same price.” kun smiles.
ten presses his hand to authenticate and smiles back.
the fourth time: it’s 1 am. there’s no one else in the store. ten kisses kun (he has to lean on his tiptoes to reach over the desk). kun grins at him. they lay together with kun’s chest pressed to his back on their sides on the bed in one of the rooms (warm).
in the excitement, he forgets to use the dream blocker.
(pain)
he can’t breathe.
(are you okay?)
he can’t see anything.
(ten? ten?)
there’s something missing.
(ten, you’re okay. it’s not real. you’re okay. just breathe with me.)
someone is missing.
(ten!)
kun.
kun is there. “can you hear me?”
“yeah.”
“i didn’t–i didn’t know they were that bad. i’m sorry.”
“s’okay,” ten mumbles.
kun tries to cast the dream blocker for him, but he ends up dreaming of kun instead. (he doesn’t mind.)
the fifth visit and the next and the next blur. he goes there almost every day to annoy kun during his work hours and take him out on dates. he loves it. he’s too clingy and loud and kun tells him to stop sleeping so late (it’s bad for his health). they care too much about each other and he loves it. he loves kun. he pretends he’s a customer and flirts with him and helps him arrange the shelves and gets to know the other people that work there, sicheng and yukhei and sometimes xiaojun. they make fun of kun’s motherly tendencies with him, and they greet him by telling him where kun is loud enough so that kun can hear from his desk. he makes kun cast his dream blockers, because they end up as dreams of happiness instead (he doesn’t tell kun that). he loves kun.
he enters the store, but it’s smaller. everything is covered in dust. the sunlight is too bright. there’s only one desk left, and there’s no one in the place at all.
he walks up to the desk. there’s a bell there. he presses it.
“hi,” sicheng says. he’s sitting in the chair where there was no one before. “you doing okay?”
“where’s kun?”
“ten,” sicheng says. “ten, you have to stop doing this.”
“what?”
“look, i made you those dreams because i thought it would help. but you keep twisting them somehow. i don’t know what to do for you anymore.” sicheng looks pained.
ten stares. and stares.
“i’m sorry.”
“kun isn't here,” he says quietly, to no one.
(and
then
he
wakes
up.)