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When Junmyeon wakes up, he wants nothing more than to peel his shoes and suit jacket off and slip under the covers, see if he can find a different dream waiting for him there. He chides himself. He doesn't have any time to waste, and so he tucks the bracelet away, is ready when she rushes past, although his heart lingers on the bed a moment too long. He knows better than to try to stop her. He chases her like a drop of water running down a window pane, inevitable, down a path so familiar he could run with his eyes closed, the wet smell of last year's leaves filling his lungs.
Junmyeon used to yell her name until he was breathless and sobbing, tripping into a bush, stumbling into the small creek. He started resenting her, wasted one of Minseok's evenings on walking in the wrong direction, until he was swallowed up by her absence and awoke hours too late at the break of dawn, under Minseok's tired but relieved eyes.
There's a small clearing growing near where he always loses her, wider with every week that he returns, its trees giving way to more of the light barely making it past the clouds—and Junmyeon wonders.
Minseok's tea developed a sharp note this month, one that had him straightening his back when he reached the maze to catch nothing but the tail of her reflection, that had him walk deeper into it, past his own selves, without the fear twisting his stomach. In the dreams he dreams alone and doesn’t speak of, he's been finding himself wanting to kiss Minseok lately. In those dreams, he sits back and leaves them to lead him nowhere.
"How do you feel?" Minseok asks when he wakes up, as he always does.
He doesn't ask did you find her?, not anymore, and Junmyeon wonders, sitting back up against the pillows and rubbing at his eyes. They'd moved the sessions to Junmyeon's apartment during a frustrating phase where nothing Minseok brewed made him stay in the dream after he'd lost her to the forest, and Minseok suspected other test subjects' dreams clinging to the massage table in his office of interference.
It started Junmyeon's personal frustrating phase.
Every Thursday, Minseok comes over. Every Thursday evening, Junmyeon opens the door to Minseok in black socks, to a smile and a polite refusal to use the coat rack. He stands by awkwardly and watches as Minseok inhabits the small collapsible table in his bedroom, the counter space in his kitchen, careful not to touch anything else, like it was roped off to him. Every Thursday night, he watches Minseok folding up his presence like he did his coat, tucking it into his backpack and leaving nothing but the lingering aroma of his tea behind.
Every Friday morning, he wanders his apartment, painting new ghosts of Minseok in colour everywhere Minseok never goes.
Junmyeon is his best test subject, Minseok had told him once. The clearest dream, the most responsive to even small changes to Minseok's tea blends, if not a little too responsive. Still not his favourite, Junmyeon thinks bitterly every time he remembers, until he reins himself in.
Every week, he wants to tell Minseok there's nothing for him to find in his dream, not anymore, that the bracelet lost its shine, that the love you forever he’d wanted to hear again now seems like a spell, finally broken.
Every week, Junmyeon shies away. There’s only so much room in Minseok’s life for him, on Thursday evenings.
Junmyeon is handed a different tea in one of his own mugs, the rim chipped so he has to turn it to take a sip of the brew that eases the aftereffects, lukewarm and sugary. "Good," he replies, trying not to think of Minseok spreading the contents of his bag on the kitchen counter, leaving nothing behind but a surface so clean it stands out against the rest of the kitchen. "There's a place I want to go," he adds after another sip, the tea leaving him content like a long-wished-for kiss. "A small clearing. It's been growing bigger lately."
Minseok's gaze loses focus, strays somewhere behind Junmyeon, but he nods. He knows better than Junmyeon that his dream shouldn't change, not like this, not at the fringes. "I can brew you something to give you range, but it might leave you anxious. What do you think you'll find there?"
Junmyeon doesn't know, doesn't know if he wants to find out. The thought pulls him in, and he only notices he must have fallen asleep again when he hears the sound of the front door clicking closed behind Minseok.
On this Friday morning, Junmyeon opens the fridge to a plate of meticulously wrapped sandwiches and a bottle of tea, a bright sticky note dropping to the kitchen floor when he takes them out and shuts the fridge. It's a list of ingredients, and it takes him a sleepy moment to process there’s a phone number at the bottom. Typing it into his phone's browser isn't leading to a sandwich shop, although the note says call here for more. He feels as nervous as Minseok must have felt, straying from their routine like this, leaving evidence of his presence in Junmyeon's apartment, a note with his private phone number. He calls, hangs up before someone can answer the phone, then calls again. This time, Junmyeon leaves a voice message. He orders more sandwiches, another bottle of tea, and before he knows it, he's asked if a date was on the menu, too. Junmyeon hangs up to an achingly tender heart and wonders.
The next time they meet, Junmyeon hopes as he steps into the clearing, the moss thick and soft under his shoes. Junmyeon doesn't wonder anymore, only hopes.