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Sword in one hand, wine in the other, Zhou Yichen enters Zhao Yuanzhou's residence. The entrance is empty; the halls are silent; malevolence waits here so thickly he almost imagines he's walking underwater.
When he finds Zhao Yuanzhou, Zhou Yichen allows himself to relax minutely. Zhao Yuanzhou is sitting at a table, gazing at his own hands, still and quiet. He's not unmarked by his current state, far from it; a cloud of boiling red qi clings to him like cobwebs; his eyes, beneath their half-lowered lids, are glowing crimson. But unlike in the case of the blood moon, he isn't wild with violence. He appears to be under control.
He doesn't acknowledge Zhou Yichen when he enters the room, sits, or speaks.
It's only when he reaches out, thinking to lay a hand on Zhao Yuanzhou's arm, that the figure in front of him makes any sign of life.
"Oh, dreamer. Would you like to know his dream?" he seems to say, in a voice so wrong that Zhou Yichen tries to draw his sword.
Faster than Zhou Yichen can see, a bolt of qi strikes his center forehead, the world goes red.
The dream's room is nearly identical to the one in the waking world. He still sits across the table from Zhao Yuanzhou. In the moments that Zhou Yichen's head was spinning, someone has uncorked one jar of wine, poured a matched pair of cups. Beyond the windows there is a solid red nothingness, and the dimness of what was an unlit room is now illuminated by a ruddy glow. The blue tint of the Yunguang sword is faint, nearly swallowed by the pervasive coloring of malevolent qi.
Here, the Zhao Yuanzhou who sits across the table from him is alert, regarding him, smiling. He wears a hungry expression, showing teeth, that Zhou Yichen is beginning to find horribly familiar.
And there is another Zhao Yuanzhou kneeling on the floor.
This second Zhao Yuanzhou is bowed in utter submission, head lowered almost to the ground. Chained, collared, half-naked, barefoot. The silvering hair he is so vain about swept over one shoulder to provide a clear view of the chains crossing his spine, securing his arms behind him. In the human world, walls or chains or bars have never seemed to bother Zhao Yuanzhou, the Great Yao, Zhou Yichen thinks, but here the metal is all-to-solid where it digs into his skin.
It takes a moment for Zhou Yichen to be sure this Zhao Yuanzhou is breathing.
Zhou Yichen rips his gaze away from the captive, keeps a wary eye on the first Zhao Yuanzhou, the malevolence across the table from him.
He - it? - seems unconcerned, even giddy. "Did you come to kill him, little sword?"
"I came," Zhou Yichen says, slowly, "to see my friend for a drink."
The malevolence, mockingly, toasts him. He feels a reluctance to accept his own cup of jiu, and lets the malevolence drink alone. There's always a trick to these illusions.
Zhou Yichen leaves his seat and crosses the distance to the second Zhao Yuanzhou, keeping his sword within reach. With a dreamy clarity, he is certain this is the real Zhao Yuanzhou, the one that matters.
Without his gaudy clothing, without his gestures and charisma, bowed and bound and trembling, this Zhao Yuanzhou seems small in a way beyond the physical.
"Zhao Yuanzhou," Zhou Yichen says, "I need you." When Zhao Yuanzhou doesn't move, doesn't seem to hear, when his own hands resting on his knees feel awkward and useless, Zhou Yichen blurts, "I need you to try the pear soup."
"What." Zhao Yuanzhou's head lifts a fraction. This one's eyes are also red - but not the dazzling crimson irises soaked in li qi; an ugly, irritated red, from tears. This boosts Zhou Yichen's certainty. That detail is not the sort that dreams use to trap.
"I wouldn't give you any before, but. Wen Xiao says I'm a half-decent cook when I make that," he lets his mouth run, encouraged. "You'll tell me if she's just humoring me."
"Xiao-Zhou," Zhao Yuanzhou says, brow furrowing, "Xiao-Zhou, who let you into my..." His sharpening gaze dances across Zhou Yichen, the room, the malevolence behind Zhou Yichen's left shoulder.
Zhao Yuanzhou goes instantly stone-still. Zhou Yichen is close enough to see the fear gloss his eyes.
"Xiao-Zhou-Daren, you promised." The malevolence is leaning close behind Zhou Yichen, now, its heat and shadow pressing near. "Keep your end of the bargain with this useless remnant, and we can all be happy. I may even let you live."
A hint of struggle from Zhao Yuanzhou, hearing this, a chime of metal as he strains against his bindings. "No. That's not-"
"I didn't promise him anything." Zhou Yichen says, firmly. "I promised you, Zhao Yuanzhou. Something we can discuss after we leave."
Zhou Yichen can feel the malevolence leaning into his back, hands gripping his shoulders - but his attention is better spent on the Zhao Yuanzhou in front of him, breathing shakily, eyes locked with his.
How do you escape a dream?
That's up to the dreamer.
"It's your body, and your qi, Zhao Yuanzhou." He insists, as though through confidence he can make it true. "You taught me how to circulate my qi through my senses. You must be able to do this yourself. You're already partway there. Hearing first - you hear me. You've regained your sense of hearing enough to clear it."
"I hear you yammering on and making no sense," Zhao Yuanzhou snipes, which is practically agreement.
"Sight next. You see me, don't you? Focus on that."
Zhao Yuanzhou's eyes shimmer red-black-red, which Zhou Yichen determines to read as a hopeful sign.
"Now are you going to tell me to smell you?"
"If you tell me I stink I will try the sword on you, next." As Zhao Yuanzhou scoffs, sounding halfway to his usual self, Zhou Yichen turns to the table, reaching for the wine - and the malevolence is blocking his way, leering.
Zhou Yichen, lacking any better idea, ignores it. He leans right through the copy, and thinks he sees disbelief written on its face before it dissipates.
He holds the cup of wine out to Zhao Yuanzhou, watching him inhale the aroma. After a moment, Zhao Yuanzhou sits back on his heels, looking doubtful. "It won't work again, for taste."
Before Zhou Yichen can think past his first instinct, he presses his lips to Zhao Yuanzhou's, feeling the gasp he provokes, offering taste. And simultaneously, fitting his hands to Zhao Yuanzhou's waist and side, secure connection, offering touch.
Zhou Yichen doesn't think much, for the subsequent immeasurable moments, other than wanting more, other than leaning into Zhao Yuanzhou's hands when they come free of their bonds to rest on his shoulders.
It's blurry, as the dream dissolves. As Zhao Yuanzhou's li qi fades - not extinguished, but tamed - and the daylight settles over them.
Zhao Yuanzhou, hands clutching tight into Zhou Yichen's shirt, wordlessly nestles his cheek into the curve of Zhou Yichen's neck. Zhou Yichen is content to let him rest there for as long as his dignity will allow.