/ Different, different, different. /

In his dreams, he's always running. 

Junhui looks back once or twice sometimes, as if to see what exactly he is running away from; white, always white, so bright and so empty that it makes him look away. He can feel the sand beneath his bare feet even without looking down. Around him are mirrors, each featuring him,  but also not quite. He knows it's him—his eyes, the point of his nose, and the curve of his lips—but there is always something different. A different hairstyle, eye colour, and skin that is sometimes tan and sometimes pale. 

He keeps running anyway, never stopping to wonder at his reflections, even if he wants to. He runs. Forward, faster, wherever his legs will take him. He thinks his legs should ache by now, that he should stop, but they don't and he just keeps going. When he looks in front of him, he sees nothing but fog. Everything before him is unsure.

He runs towards it nonetheless. 

The dark grey mist surrounding his path inches away with each step he takes. 

If he squints, he thinks there might be somebody in the fog. Waiting. Watching. A human figure shrouded at the very end of his course. He knows this time it isn't himself standing there, for some reason. There's a tug at his heart that reminds him of something he once knew. There's an ache of longing. No matter how fast he runs and how close he seems to get though, nothing changes. Whoever is in the fog remains far away. There is a name and a face that escapes him. 

Junhui keeps running. 

(When he wakes up, things are the same. It's the 32nd time he's had the same dream—he's sure of it, he keeps track, although he only started doing so after the 5th time. He's 20 years old now, bordering on 21, with dark eyes and even darker hair. His skin is golden, the result of years spent under the sun. It's the only combination he hasn't seen reflected back at him. The dream is so familiar by now that it feels more like a memory; a moment in his life he keeps tucked away for safekeeping, but without knowing why. 

China is a nice place, he thinks, but South Korea sounds wonderful.) 

/ Tell me about it. /

In Minghao's dreams, he never moves. He's stuck in a vast expanse of blue. He has all the time in the world to wonder what kind of blue he sees; is it the blue of the morning sky, void of the sun and clouds? Is it the colour of a deep blue sea, endless before him? Is it the blue of eyes he knows aren't his, but can't seem to tell who they belong to either way? Eyes that change colour, unlike his surroundings. Blue, brown, sometimes green, sometimes grey. Bright, beautiful, familiar.

Does it belong to the boy he sees running away? 

He doesn't have to ask, really. Minghao knows it's him—whoever he is, whatever he's supposed to be—even with his back turned away from him, showing nothing but dark hair, white clothes, and bare feet. In every dream, he tries to run after the boy. In every dream, he never seems to move even if he knows he's taking a step forward. The same endless blue and the same running boy, far far away. 

He calls out, sometimes. 

He doesn't know the name that escapes his lips but he feels them move, tongue curling around syllables and letters as if he knows them by heart. 

Once, twice, the boy stops. 

He turns around; Minghao knows he does, knows he sees more than just dark hair. He sees a face he forgets once he wakes up no matter how hard he tries to remember, dark eyes that make his stomach flutter, his heart beat wildly in his chest and a smile. He knows he sees a smile, the way it lights up his whole face, the way it radiates happiness. Still, it stays far away, too far from his reach. He can't do anything about it.  

(He hates waking up after that dream, mainly because he hates forgetting the face he sees over and over again. Dark hair, dark eyes, much like himself. Maybe he never sees it at all. Maybe it's just what he feels that he experiences and nothing else. Still, it's frustrating, but at least he doesn't have the same dream every night. Just often. A bit too often. Not the type of dream boys at the ripe age of 19 should be having. 

He remembers the smile, though. 

Bright, beautiful, familiar.) 

/ You reach out to save me. /

One night, things change.

(One night, thin