a/n: This is gay. Apparently I have to clarify this on ffnet, that's interesting, culture shock and all. Have fun

It is a well-known fact, and/or obvious deduction, (at least for a subset of the galaxy's inhabitants), that necrons do not dream. They do not rest. This is, of course, something taken from them by the biotransference; their bodies are now stronger, and there is no need to rest them. Which is quite strange, but, alas, it was the will of their one-time gods, and, whether or not they like it, they can't seem to escape them.

Nonetheless. Necrons do not dream. This is as true as the fact that necrons do not love, or that they do not have souls. It is even widely accepted that the Great Sleep, the only rest the necrons have had since they traded in their flesh-cloaks for chrome and steel, has been a dreamless, dry coma.

But Varguard Obyron forgives himself the flight of fancy, occasionally, when thinking about how his Nemesor will so often — inconsistently, of course — shut himself up inside his chambers and pretend to have been sleeping when Obyron inevitably knocks on them.

Oh, Zahndrekh will say, you've just woken me up, Varguard! Or, oh, old friend, I was about to lay down! Obyron couldn't contain his boggled surprise the first time he saw him do this, but by now, he's gotten used to it. And... strangely enough, he's become reluctant to quote-unquote "wake" him for non-emergencies. He really can't explain why. Maybe he's losing his mind, too; who knows.

So this is how Varguard Obyron finds himself standing by Nemesor Zahndrekh's door, waiting for him to "wake up", to tell him he's been ordered to take on a planet of rowdy greenskins for the hundredth time. And it is also how Obyron finds himself wondering... what would Zahndrekh dream about, if he could?

He doesn't doubt for a moment that Zandrekh has deluded himself into believing that he dreams, is the thing. But what could he possibly dream about? His previous life as a necrontyr? His life now, eons later, painted over with the illusion that coats his eyes? Either possibility sounds... well, oddly depressing.

He's forgotten, he realizes belatedly, how exactly dreams go. Oh, he remembers dreams. He remembers the concept, the execution, and the rough general idea. But somewhere along the way he's left behind things like the most common dreams shared by the necrontyr while sleeping, or any similar knowledge he could use to reconstruct a possible dream from his Nemesor. Does he remember any of his own dreams, anyways?

The answer, his circuits inform him, is a timid yes. There are a few dreams of his that he remembers. Obyron orders them displayed before his eyes — and his circuits refuse.

Why?, he asks himself, annoyed. The response doesn't help at all: they might be considered a private or personal matter, not to be shared. Obyron would tsk if he could, but he just replies with a frustrated I am not showing them to anyone, I am only accessing them. Something within his brain shrugs, as if saying, as you wish, and before Obyron's very eyes rolls the last dream he remembers from his necrontyr years.

Zahndrekh's head fits under his chin perfectly. Obyron has an arm around Zahndrekh's shoulders and another one holding onto him from the front, their hands interlaced, and Zahndrekh is leaning onto Obyron's shoulder. Zahndrekh lifts his legs up under Obyron's arm and scoots back a little, finding space to fit his feet on the cot and pushing himself and Zahndrekh back, far enough for their backs to hit the wall. He leans a bit more aggressively onto Obyron and almost nuzzles him, with his fuzzy, short-cropped head rubbing against Obyron's stubbly jawline. He holds Obyron's arm and squeezes a little bit, just enough to be reassuring.

"My Obyron," he whispers, and Obyron can't but feel— soft. He doesn't protest when Zahndrekh shifts to lay his legs on Obyron's lap, or when he lifts his head up and Obyron's jaw rubs against his cheekbone, or even when Zahndrekh lifts one hand to cup Obyron's face and bring it closer, facing his own. And where Zahndrekh seems happy just kissing Obyron's cheek, Obyron very purposefully tilts Zahndrekh's face to meet his lips.

Their kiss is freeing in its gentleness. Here, they aren't Nemesor and Varguard. Here, they don't have to return to war. Here, they're just Zahndrekh and Obyron, two souls who've found themselves becoming unbearably fond of each other, and are loyal to each other unto death as a result. And if that isn't love, then what is?

Obyron stands frozen in the hallway. He doesn't, he can't find it in himself to think about what that means. He doesn't have reflexes anymore, per se, but something within him hasn't got the memo— because impulsively, he replays the dream from the beginning. He doesn't know how long he stays there, looping it; pausing it, always, just after their lips meet; and rewinding.

He doubts it's noticeable from the outside, what he's doing. Still, there's a burning feeling of shame within him that he can't even begin to process. This — information had gotten smudged along the way, left behind with his flesh body, it seems, and finding it again feels both exhilarating and painful. He doesn't even know if the dream is a memory or a fabrication, but just knows that, even if dreams don't always signal interest or intent to pursue... in this case, it definitely did signal, ah, something. He knows it, but he can't really... articulate it? He can't elaborate on what the dream means, or how he feels about it, and so he just replays it, trying every time not to look forward to the kiss, trying to focus on the blurry details of the dream and failing.

What snaps him out of it is, unsurprisingly, quite mundane; it's the click of the door to his Nemesor's chambers, followed by his heavy metal body stepping cautiously out of the room. And suddenly Obyron is facing Zahndrekh, who looks at him with a curious head-tilt and asks,

"Obyron? Is anything wrong?"

Obyron tries to speak, suddenly feeling his metal skin like a prison all over again. Here's a thought: he cannot love anymore. He squandered whatever chance he had before. He's not processing this properly, though, sending every last droplet of the veritable cascade of emotion he's feeling right now straight to the express-deletion garbage bin, and he can't stop thinking about dream-Zahndrekh's words. My Obyron.

"Obyron?" Zahndrekh questions again. Obyron snaps to attention and delivers the news he's been told to bring and Zahndrekh chides him for not waking him if it was that important, old friend, and something in that pet name suddenly weights wrongly on Obyron's rib-cage. If he still needed to breath he'd gasp, maybe, or sigh softer than he ever did in life. And as Zahndrekh leaves to check on the ship and see it's being brought to where it needs to be, Obyron looks down and marks all of these memories as priority for deletion. My Obyron.

His, he thinks, and rotates the word a bit in his mind, trying to feel it out. Obyron doesn't need to say it, though; it's already obvious. Isn't it?

(Obyron, of course, forgets all of this a long time before ever setting foot in Doahht.)