“Do you dream?” Yixing asks, Jongdae’s head on his chest and fluorescent moonlight pouring in through their tiny window; this ship’s cabins are little more than broom cupboards with beds. If people still used brooms, that is.

Jongdae snuggles closer, fingers twitching of their own accord against Yixing’s thigh. He’s running low on power again, but they can’t afford to plug in on these ships. The prices are extortionate, and after the riots – well, Jongdae doesn’t really have money anymore. “I don’t really sleep.” He says guardedly, but the meaning is implicit; he doesn’t sleep because of Yixing.

“But when you do,” Yixing presses, fingers curling in Jongdae’s hair. It’s lighter than it used to be, but that’s a product of artificial sun and little power; once they get off this damnable ship, he’ll look more like himself. Yixing knows he looks worse – the metal of his cheekbones is beginning to show under human skin, and if they’re not careful, they’ll be found out.

“I don’t dream of anything.” Jongdae says impatiently. “What do you want me to say, that I dream of you?” His tone is mocking, but his voice is shaky – Yixing puts that down to tiredness. Jongdae would expend precious energy on needless sarcasm, after all.

“I do.” He murmurs. Jongdae strains to hear him, the crackling of his exhausted power reserves making it difficult. “I dream of electricity.”

Jongdae has nothing to say to that, because their world is nothing if not electrical. Why wouldn’t Yixing dream of electricity, if he dreams at all? “Oh.” He says shortly, curling up against Yixing a little more as he strains for the warmth of something other than himself.

“Did you ever imagine it would be like this, when you were human?” Yixing’s fingers tighten in his hair; Jongdae turns his face against his chest.

“No,” he says simply.