Shen Yuan tries to cling back, but the dream is escaping him, a little; his real body—no; his current body reacting to his emotional state and stirring without his permission. He breathes Binghe in, trying to calm down. "I—I don't know," he admits. "I—they buried it, I guess. I, um. I died here. It was stupid, random—I was sick for a long time, but that isn't even what killed me, it was—" how do you explain food poisoning to someone who would hear the phrase and definitely think the poisoning in question was intentional? "—bad food. I mean, my immune system was shit, so that probably didn't help, but—" He's rambling. He should stop rambling, but he doesn't want to think about where this body is, what cemetery; what the funeral had been like, who'd come, who'd—who'd found it in the first place, slumped over his keyboard like a fucking PSA for getting too mad online—

Luo Binghe must have done something to allow his subconscious control over some of the dream directly, because when he opens his eyes, looking sideways from where his cheek is pressed to Binghe' chest, he can see it; the back of his own head where he'd fallen face-down on his desk, his computer casting a weird blue glow over his skin. And then, summoned by his racing mind, a knock at the door; his sister's voice, muffled, like she's speaking underwater, "Ge—are you ever getting up—"

He squeezes his eyes closed and buries his face in Binghe's chest. "Somewhere else," he says, thickly, his hands grasping and ungrasping at Binghe's incorporeal clothes. "Please, take me somewhere else, I can't—"