If consciousness is dry land, and sleep translates as the vast bank of blue; then the first time you meet him is right when your heels sink into damp smooth sand while your toes bath in the incoming of water - ebbs upon ebbs upon ebbs. You don’t actually meet him, though, for all you see is a peek of platinum precisely on the fringe between trying to fall asleep and unconsciousness. Your knees jolt upon the familiar sense of tripping, and you are thrown back to consciousness. Brows furrowed, you ignore the annoyance that always comes with hypnic jerks, and remember throughout the night the tendrils of hair that seems to glow under the moonlight.

The second time you see him, and actually meeting him, is when you are ankles deep into the sea, the saltiness starting to frizz your hair in a scent that you breathe in deeply. It has been a recurring dream, you standing in a beautiful but empty garden, and by this point you could’ve been sick of it if not for the stranger sporting the crips platinum hair. You take a deep breath when he appears, walking down a cobblestone path along a strikingly English garden with daffodils and orchids perfumes wafting through the air. You notice his especially long and slender legs, clad snugly in skinny jeans with ripped details on both knees, and your eyes travels upwards until you are met with his gaze. He wears the kind of gaze that speaks his knowledge of you scanning his frame, and even in your dream, you feel your face warming.

“It’s the first time seeing you around here. Are you new?” He asks when you both are in a proper distance to communicate.

You search around with your eyes, perplexed at the question that sounds like a puzzle piece, incomplete and baseless. “I am not new; I guess?”

His brows up in interest, “Oh, so you’ve been to this garden too?”

Too? This is a recurring dream you know to its nook and crannies, and you have never find anyone except your own reflection when you look down the pond.

“Many times, but it’s always empty.” You answer.

It takes you minutes -in the time frame of a dream- to realize that you are now walking side by side, lolling in slow steps as if you are granted all the time in the world, as if the sun will never rise to wake you up.

“Really? That’s strange. Because I’ve always been here.” The stranger emphasizes on always, and you give up trying to wrap the oddness around your head because the next second his right hand extends.

His hair glistens under the misty sky which is sunless, moonless, displays no clear time signal, and he lets his lips curve up into a charming smile. “I’m Namjoon. Kim Namjoon.”

“I’m Y/N.” Unlike his smile that is effortless, the tug on the corners of your lips strain your cheeks just the littlest bit.

You notice that his fingers are long too, and feel particularly nice around your own.

// 

You forget a few of your dreams, insignificant, just filler in between episodes, nondescript ripples while you bask in the afterglow of sunset at the beach. But suddenly, on one night that falls without warning, you are transported back to the characteristically English garden. Not that you complain, though, because when you walk out of the light curtain of mist that always begins as your entrance to this particular dream, Namjoon is already sitting on a wooden bench; legs crossed and head angled to the sky.

His hair is down this time, fringe brushing his brows in a gentle sweep. He wears an abstractly patterned V neck shirt, resembling splatters of ink on white canvas, and you call out his name with an unfamiliar enthusiasm.

“Y/N! You’re here again.” He waves, face breaking into a smile from the previous tranquility.

“Yes. Recurring dream, remember?”

“Of course.” He nods, still smiling.

There is always something about Namjoon’s smile, like it’s trained to be there, accustomed to always appear on the most fortuitous of moments. It looks nearly all the same, unfazed by any kind of circumstances, not faltered by any kind of emotions. It’s a smile, nonetheless, a beautiful one that you will keep it warm and nostalgic the very next morning.

A butterfly flutters in front of both of you, but it’s turquoise tinted wings flap a little too slow not to seem robotic, and before you think about it too much, Namjoon interrupts.

“Y/N.”

“Yes?” You look at him. 

His eyes are fixed further front onto the pond many feet away from the bench, mouth parting momentarily and closing again, as if he’s swallowing back his sentences. Then the seemingly wondering stare in his eyes disappears, replaced by orbs that twinkle with excitement, lit up from the light bulb of idea within his brain.

“Aren’t you bored of the garden?” He asks.

“Almost.”

You mean it as a joke, but apparently Namjoon takes it seriously, for his hands suddenly rest on top of your own, gripping onto your wrist while transferring some warmth from his palms. Your body freezes in shock, and melts into puddle all over again when you see the excited grin of invitation on his face.

“I can take you to a different place.” He announces, with pride of his ability and hope of your company.

“What?” You rhetorically ask, tearing your view away from his eyes down to his hands. 

Hugging his wrist, you see a wristwatch, a malfunctioning one you think, because the minute hand is frozen while the second hand ticks back and forth, stagnant in a time range of a second. But again, Namjoon distracts you before you think too hard, and with a sharp tug of his wrist your surroundings fade into splotches of impalpable black.

Your dream rebuilds itself with brick walls replacing greeneries, hard concrete as substitute for soft grasses, and flickering lamplight instead of misty skies. You are on a deserted alleyway, you realize. You look around panicked, because there are no single living soul in the darkness, but when a hint of silver pushes through your line of sight you relax.

“Ta-da.” Namjoon expands his arms, like a conman reinforcing his frauds as amazing to a crowd of one person.

“I think garden is prettier.” You honestly remark, taking in the eeriness of the whole peripheral.

“At least it’s a different scenery, right?” A pout makes it way to his lips, lower lip jutted out and slightly moist and utterly adorable. Suddenly you’re so weak and you nod in defeat.

You scan him again, involuntarily, not that you plan to, and almost jump in surprise when he has changed his attire into a bomber jacket that matches so quizzically well with this whole setting. Even his gestures seems to adjust to the new place, because the usually polite and slightly reserved boy from the garden suddenly smirks and slings his arms around your neck.

You are forced to press flush against his sides as he walks with strides two times longer and faster than your own, and under the comfortable confine of his arms you relish the warmth radiating from his body. The walk down the seemingly infinite alley promptly feels more exciting, less lonely, and you are content that Namjoon has brought you here.

You are more than content when he pushes the double door to a club open, ushering you to a supposedly noisy hub of the nightlife that peculiarly, is empty of any living soul. The lights and music are on, but the seats are all empty, the dance floor is not shaking, and behind the bar stands no bartender. Arms still around your shoulders, he brings you to the tall stools placed neat in front of the bar, and you both take your seats.

Conversation falls so naturally between both of you, as in a matter of minutes exchanging shy smiles morphs into healthy peals of laughter. And you remember, even when you’re conscious, that it has been a long time since you laugh so freely like this. Namjoon politely offers to shake you a drink, to which you blatantly refuse for he admitted beforehand that he’s terrible at doing so. Besides, the situation is joyful enough that you don’t need any drink to loosen up. 

Besides, you’re already lightheaded enough to even say a blurt-out of “You’re beautiful.” in between half lidded eyes.

Namjoon laughs heartily at the compliment, then proceeding to rest his head on his palms which is connectedly supported by his elbow. He looks straight into you, then, scoots so much closer that you’re almost nose to nose. Too close that you can see the hint of hazel in his dark eyes even under the scarce lighting 

“Really?” He asks, superiorly flirtatious, adeptly alluring, eyes clouded heavy with something you can’t quite comprehend.

Namjoon is beautiful, the kind of beauty that is sweeps you off your at first sight, then hooks you completely after you get to know him. Tan skin with piercing hazy eyes and full wide mouth, all falling right in place as the imperfect kind of flawless. 

You profusely nod despite the blush creeping up your cheeks, and he seems satisfied with your answer because he let out another chuckle that you really, really, can get accustomed to hearing.

The shady club might be empty as you look around the bodiless corners, but you think it’s no less alive. Probably because Namjoon is there. 

You are grinning obnoxiously wide even without a sip, as if the liquor is Namjoon himself. And you’re too tipsy when you teeter into awareness, that you almost forget the slurry “You’re more beautiful.” right before you step back onto dry sand.

//

You have a friend named Jimin at work, who s himself into your life so exaggeratedly that he rapidly grows from a close acquaintance to your most prized best friend. Jimin knows the password to your apartment, and you know the size of his underwear. Jimin knows too, although not voicing it aloud, that you care about him just as much as he cares about you.

You woke up with a throng of logical thoughts invading your head, and at lunch, you naturally yet cautiously opens a discussion about it with Jimin.

“Jimin, do you ever remember people from your dreams?” 

Jimin is burying his face into a fat portion of burger when he looks up to you, cheeks puffed like that of a hamster and eyes dilated after hearing your question. He looks cute, undeniably attractive with eyes that disappears when he smiles and grin that comforts you at the most critical of times.

“I do. I just dreamt about our boss last night, his head exploding into colorful confetti every time he’s mad.” He rambles, and you barely make out his sentences that runs together with munches of bun, patty, and their accompanying condiments.

“No. I mean about strangers that appear in your dream. Like, you don’t know them in real life.” You explain. Your coffee tastes a little too sweet and creamy today.

His gaze falls into understanding, and you have this strange hope developing in your heart the he also fathoms the underlying meaning of remembering strangers.

“Nope. Never.” He shakes his head in dismissal.

“Never? Not even once?” Your try to suppress the pushiness in your tone, albeit failing.

He shakes his head again, firm and final, “They’re usually just faceless bodies when I wake up.”

You’re appalled by your wrongly mixed coffee and stop drinking it altogether. You frown not because of it, though, you frown because Kim Namjoon is nowhere near faceless body.

//

Namjoon appears in plenty more of your dreams.

And Namjoon does not merely appear, Namjoon grows. His presence is progressive, and with every dream that you drift yourself into, it intensifies in a gradual way - slowly but strongly. You sense his existence getting more acute from how tangible his words have become, resonating through your head more when you wake up the next morning. Also unmistakable is the longer his companion feels, how you fear less the imminent wake of sunrise penetrating through your eyelids. Most apparent is how longer it takes for you to wake up, how stubborner is the borderline between asleep and waking up. Your alarm fades into the background these past few days, as if working together with Namjoon to not let you break free from your blissful dreams.

You call the dreams blissful with no added effect; they are blissful in the literal meaning. They make your nerves tingle with electricity and your steps spring with elation, your body so full with joy at the ephemeral land of fleeting excitement. For example, this time Namjoon brings both of you to the theme park.

Again, the jolly carnival music is blaring loud into your eardrums, the lights in the gift shops are garishly bright, the Ferris Wheel is rotating and the coasters are zooming, but no living soul is present except for the both of you.

Again, you are still smiling because everything feels equally alive -if not more- as that dream at the club. You have fall fond enough for Namjoon to lace your fingers around his significantly larger ones at all time, a gesture which he gladly accepts. He doesn’t seem to want to let go of your hand at all, keeping it in the pocket of his denim jacket together with his own as if you may suddenly fall out of his grasp. You take a look at his face when he leads you to a place unbeknownst to yourself, serene, boyish, and happy, and you deduce that he has also grow fond of you. You hope that your liking doesn’t go unrequited, chants his name in your head numerous times as a gust of wind blows by.

“It’s cold.” You murmur, shrinking your frame and dipping your neck into the collar of your blouse.

Your blouse is made of chiffon, which doesn’t help at all.

Namjoon stops on his track, faces you, eyes glazed with a honey of concern that flips your inside more than you had predicted. His brows are furrowed, mouth downturned when he rubs his palms among themselves then settle them upon the pillows of your cheeks. Your eyes widen into utmost surprise, to which he only reply with a smile and the tightening of his grip around your face. And warmer you become, however less out of real heat and more out of embarrassment. You both stay that way for long, long enough for you to think that his fingers will never leave.

His fingers leave, much to your disappointment, only to take off his jacket and slung the heavy fabric around your shoulders. His jacket is big, considering that he towers over you a few significant inches, and you curl under them in a snuggle you don’t wish get out of. Namjoon smiles at you, and although you are not aware of what he thinks, you read on his face a lot of adoration.

“Are you still cold?” His inquisitive voice has also been much deeper lately, thicker with rasp like grains in black coffee, more enthralling with every word that rolls out of his tongue. 

As if on cue, a huge curl of wind passes through you right then, and it forces out of you an honest admittance, “Actually, yes.”

You are afraid that he may take this as a bait for even more warmer gestures. You are afraid that you seem to be calling for his attention. However, all your doubts are casted away when he so suddenly envelops you into a hug, the kind of embrace that rush all the air out of your lungs and pour every ounce of heat all over your body. He rocks your body slightly to the sides, chuckling into the ruffles of your hair, and you bury bury bury your head into his sturdy chest. His chest pressed against your cheek feels like a tomb of support yet a pillow of comfort, and you breathe breathe breathe in his scent that smells like rough rain-soaked wood, masculine black coffee, calming trees, pleasant hot springs; like a dream.

“It’s always cold in nirvana.” Namjoon muses more to thin air than to you, when you both had stop chuckling and breathing each other’s scent.

The sentence seems to have lost themselves in the waves of cold, but you can’t help not to register the words that has been playing inside your head like a broken tape, again and again. It plays to the point that it annoys you, and each time getting louder like an alarm that warns of an incoming catastrophe. You’re struggling to find the stop button, which you only find when you lock eyes with Namjoon. But you can’t be too sure, because everything seems to stop in its track when you’re so lost into the deep hazel beads of his eyes.

Pushed to the back of your mind is the oddness of Namjoon growing on and in and around you. You have tried, noting on the crevices of your brain just right before you fall asleep to ask about him. To ask about what he is, how he gets here, and why he decides to live on the pages that are as virtual, translucent, and surreal as your dreams. (And you always erase the note that ask him to appear on your reality instead.)

But apparently you are always missing a step, for Namjoon had metaphorically lifts you up to skip that path with smirks that tingle your insides and touches that linger on your skin. Namjoon helps you forget your worries, worries that ironically is him.

After so many meetings with Namjoon, you realize that you are swimming deeper into the ocean. By this point, half of your body are cold around the salty water, and the sun shines on the crown of your head with rays so scorching that you’re sick of the light.

Kim Namjoon is addicting, and something that feels so good can’t be that bad right? There are acceptable kinds of dependency, right?

//

When you finally remember about asking, it is raining in your dream. A pang of disappointment hammers in your chest because he doesn’t acknowledge your arrival, standing still a few feet far from you under an umbrella that certainly won’t fit for two. Initially expecting an exuberant turn of head and a quirk of a smile, you sigh as you silently approach him from behind.

There is an air of melancholy enveloping him, as if under the safe protection of the umbrella is even more clouds of sorrow and emptiness. The sky cries and soaks you, too, you only realize late, and you jog lightly towards him.

“Hey!” You call out with a pat on his shoulder, and stubbornly scoots under the tiny umbrella.

Namjoon doesn’t jolt despite your attempt, and you recall that he never displays any hint of surprise - ever. Namjoon’s movements are measured and planned, as if he has an omen of every single thing that’s going to happen, as if in the land of a dream, everything is in his favor.

“Y/N.” He simply inches away to give you some space, and you see from your sideline that his shoulders are exposed to the pitter patter of rain.

Perhaps this dream is different. In any other circumstances, Namjoon would have enshrouded you into an embrace or rested his chin on top of your head, he would have smiled a picture perfect one and opened a conversation about just anything. His sentences always flows in adumbrates of abstracts, of the sky that seems to laugh or of the puddle of water that distort your image funny, of how you look so pretty in messy buns -that you don’t remember tying- or of how he rocks his outfit. Namjoon never asks about how’s work, or how’s the weather, he never bothers to get to know about the life when your eyes are opened, only caring about the world you thread in your sleep.

Conversations with Namjoon are never dull, although the topics are of not too many range, because Namjoon never talks about your reality. And perhaps he knows everything about your real life, and simply chooses to rule it out of his interest.

But today, Namjoon has nothing to talk about, as he only openly stares into the faraway view of fog fighting against harsh drizzles. Your shoulders brush against each other but it’s an uncomfortable kind of contact, and when he sighs for the umpteenth time, you reckon that it’s a chance for you to take a lead of the conversation.

“Do you ever wonder why is it only both of us in every dream? There ought to be supporting characters, right, like those faceless strangers.” You start. 

His face straightens on alert, but not tense, as though he has a preceding expectation of where you’re going.

“No. I don’t wonder.” He shakes his head, voice loud and clear instead of being muffled by noisy rain.

“You never wonder why is it me you keep meeting, and no one else?” You reiterate your point.

“No.”

“Every morning you wake up, don’t you question how peculiar is it to keep seeing the same person on your dreams, moreover someone you never know. Are we perhaps two lost subconscious that keep serendipitously meeting, maybe-“

“I don’t wake up, Y/N. I won’t wake up.” He cuts your sentence. 

If you have ever been stuck in a silence so loud that it buzzes a beeping tune against your ears, this is it. This is that kind of pregnant pause that renders your head blank, your body so accustomed to a certain frozen position that it’ll become hard to move. This is lying down on an empty bed with eyes opened, knowing that you’ll rise up with your vision dizzy and dirtied with splotches of black. It takes long for you to steady yourself, to reconnect with the flow of discussion.

“So, I’m the only one dreaming?”

He nods.

“Namjoon. Who are you actually?”

You both are still walking, in the usual slow pace that justify how time never run to chase you in your dreams. There is something odd about your surrounding, it is not only empty of any living soul beside you two, but also constructed out of nothing but a long road to nowhere, a heavy tapestry of fog, and the unforgiving weather.

Namjoon straightens his posture and let your question hangs lonely in the air for a few moments, as if mentally preparing himself for a long lecture. You, while looking at his face, do not prepare yourself. Because you think nothing can turn ugly when you’re with Namjoon. Namjoon is never a nightmare. 

“You are a subconscious who walks on the realm of dream. Every sleeping person does that. But your subconscious, and some other’s, walks particularly aimless on the plane, explaining the recurring dreams of being alone; like yours in the garden. As to why you dream that way, has little correlation to the mundaneness of your daily life, but more about the emptiness of your mind of any desire. You think of nothing when you go to sleep because you are content of what you have achieved, you enjoy living a straight line, and you are fine with monotones.”

You can’t help but agree to his spot on explanations. Your life has been nothing out of the ordinary, but you enjoy staying in your comfort zone. You nod along as you walk down the infinite concrete.

“Science likes to call beings like me a Dreamwalker. I walk on dreams as permanent inhabitant, not as visitor. We cameo on noisy dreams, most of the time, but it’s a real goal if we become main characters in one. We can only have a strong presence on subconscious that are not as festive as others; and I see that your subconscious is lonely, so I decide to keep you company.”

“Besides, a person can’t live without any desire..”

You are aware that his sentence is unfinished. And you are aware that the following phrase would be so I am here to spark that. All along the discourse, Namjoon speaks openly about the whole situation that you are involved in. He speaks as though this is not something so whimsically clandestine, so out of the world, as if you have not just fall in love with the man from your dreams.

But maybe he speaks so openly about it because of that, too. Because he knows that you’re trapped tight between his grasp, high in the dose of fantasy that no amount of reality can shake you off of it. He doesn’t have to worry because you’ll still come back for him.

“In other words, you’re a particularly strong imagination, right?” You confidently summarize, to which he chortles lowly. His fingers accidentally brush against your own, and you feel the unmistakable course of excitement that pushes you to entangle your hands in his.

“You may think of me as a figment of your imagination. But imaginations aren’t tangible, imaginations stays at the back of your mind, the one that reappears only when you choose for them to do so. But I,” He stops you on your track by standing in front of you, thus blocking your path.

He inches his face closer to yours, eyes drilling holes that sends you almost lightheaded. You heart clenches when his hand travels up to cup your jaw. A shiver runs down your spine when arms finally encircle around your waist after letting go of the tiny umbrella with a faded thud.

“I am tangible. You can feel with your five senses my touches, you can remember the feeling of my skin under your fingertips, you can hear my voice even when you don’t want to.”

Your breath hitches at the top of your throat, because what he’s saying is so true true true. You curl your hands around his thumb which are rested on your chin, and you can feel the callousness of it to the finest texture of his skin.

His glassy orbs are absent of any mischief, and it doesn’t look like he’s trying to swindle you into a lie. His eyes speak matter-of-fact, implementing inside your head about the realness of what he had just said. Currently, you are soaked to the bones, but warm to the touch is Namjoon’s skin as he says,

“I am more than your imagination.”

//

You may not be the most exteriorly ardent person, sitting far behind in the rows of social butterflies, but you are definitely not completely aloof. So when Jimin shakes his hands in front of you for the umpteenth times during lunch, calling you a little bit detached lately, your immediate response is a shrug of your shoulders and a, “Really?”

“Yes.” Jimin nods firmly.

“What makes you think so?”

Thankfully, today your coffee is of the perfect mix. The kind of mix the both of you are fond of. Jimin takes a sip, and you involuntarily mimic his deed.

“I catch you staring into thin air during work.” He speaks in a manner of listing, his forefinger held up in a signal of ‘one’.

“No way, I’m always focused.” You deny. 

“Repeated times, Y/N. And you look so absentminded, your body moves slower.” He gestures a ‘two’.

“Do you have problems that I need to know? You know I am stuck with you and you are stuck with me, I’ll help you through financial problems and whatnots, Y/N.”

“You’re imagining things. I’m perfectly fine.” You dismiss him, to which he sensibly drops the topic. Although it is still clear in his eyes, the thick film of concern that does little to help you. 

You both finish your meal quickly without uttering anymore words. And in between bites, you think that In fact, you are the one imagining things, flashes of Namjoon disturbing you even in broad daylight, making you nonsensically missing sleep more and more. You are not fine, that you are aware of yet refuse to admit. When Namjoon pulls you deeper into flowers of fantasies, you are slowly pushed away from your daily reality.

“Just sleeping problems, Jimin. You should not worry.” You smile, thinking that despite him not audibly asking, you owe him an answer. You are trying to fake a comforting demeanor that you never possess.

“What kind of sleeping problems? Insomnia? Nightmares?”

“Nope.”

Namjoon is not a nightmare, your heart thinks.

//

On a distant corner of your mind, you feel seawater past your collarbone. 

This time, your dream is fabricated in between the unlaundered sheets of your bed. 

The moment you saunter onto dreamland; you open your eyes to a ceiling so familiar it can only be your own. The sheets are cold, yanked by your feet to the side, and your fingers are quivering. You toss to the side, initially to prop your body into a more apt position, only to be greeted by a messy bedhead of platinum, crinkled -almost- see through shirt, and a shockingly beautiful grin.

“Namjoon.” You breathe out in disbelief.

“Hi.” He greets, the trademark boyish smirk adorning the corners of his lips. His voice is lower than ever, raspier than never, and it flutters into your earlobe in vibratos. 

“Why are you here?” You question, propping your body sideway on your elbows. You look down on your attire and notice that you’re still in the sleeping gown you slip into after the warm shower.

“Because I want to watch you sleep.” He says it like he had done so numerous time, like it’s the most civil thing to stare at an unaware sleeping body. Your body warms up at the thought.

“Why is that, though? What’s so interesting about watching me sleep?”

“Well, it’s not the most intriguing of sights.” He shrugs. 

“Told you so.” You reply.

Then suddenly, a glint of something unfathomable makes it way to his eyes. “Do you know what is more interesting, that drives me to choose your bedroom, out of all places?”

“..”

Namjoon hovers his weight upon you, your elbows slip from your stance and you fall onto the mattress with a loud thud. “This.”

And he’s kissing you. His large frame borders your smaller one, trapping you in between the toned muscles of his arms, and he’s kissing you. 

His lips collide against your chapped own like the of flame on parchment; hot and burning and eating you alive. You open your eyes at all times, for you think it’ll be such a waste if you are not staring into his deep dark eyes. You remember his hair, the infamous platinum that you ache so much to touch, and runs your fingers along the smooth tendrils. Your fingers glide into his locks in a way that simply doesn’t glide out, purposely lacing your nails around the strands and rooting it there.

Entangled limbs translate into brushes of skin against skin, as the hem of your night gown is hitched up by a pair of sneaky fingers. He palms along the length of your thigh, and you relish swimming in the heat with a flutter of your eyelashes. You are kissing him back with parallel fervency, molding your lower lip in between his upper, and laugh when you feel him attacking with soft bites of his teeth. 

Namjoon pulls away from you for oxygen, breath rugged and throat letting out husky chuckles. You heave long whiffs, too, worn out from the intensity of the fire that is Kim Namjoon. You exhale enthrallment, and he inhales triumph. When he dives in once again for a feast of fluttery kisses down your jawline, you simply lost grip of reality. 

This dream is shorter, more fleeting, but no less real. This dream is weaved out of two souls - one a visitor, the other a vagabond- emitting sighs that tie together in a booming crescendo.

(“I’ll see you again?” He asks.

“When?”

“I don’t know, when your subconscious craves for me enough.”

What makes him so sure; that you’ll covet him? )

//

Jimin decides that your sleeping problems are serious.

After much coercion from his part to spill your problems, insisting that the hollows underneath your eyes are too dark too ignore, that the lethargy painted on every inch of your duller skin is something out of your control, you finally tell him about Namjoon.

You tell him that Namjoon is the man from your dreams, whom you’ve met in repeated occurrences, some of which include deeds that cross the line of appropriate.

Jimin is realistic, but thankfully not dogmatic, and he listens to your explanation with searching eyes that sometimes droop in worry. Jimin logically suggests that maybe if you change the place where you sleep every single night, Namjoon may loose his way and leave you alone.

“Are you sure this is okay?” You ask warily, staring down at the sofa that has turned into a makeshift bed where Jimin will be sleeping for nobody knows how long.

Jimin slips under the sheets, wiggles his body around making the blanket wrap like a cocoon, and grins sheepishly. He is wearing the kind of grin that exposes his pearly whites and reaches the tail of his crescent eyes, the kind which suddenly ensures that everything in the world is still okay.

“I’m not that bulky, thankfully.”

“But-“

“We’re stuck to each other, right? You don’t worry, if this is what you need, I will always have your back.”

But you have to remember than Namjoon is not a ghoul that lurks around your apartment, but a soul that lives inside your mind. And so he comes again that night, in wisp of smoke that kisses you drunk in desire. He comes again the next, and the next, and the next.

You know perfectly how dangerous he is, how perilous the man from your dreams whom you have gotten irrevocably attached to is. So there comes a time when your logic works faster than your faint heart, a time when you finally decide to start pushing Namjoon out of your mind. Even though deemed unwise, even Jimin has feared your actions, you insist that the only way of escaping Namjoon is to avoid sleeping at all.

You thrive with coffee for a little less than a week, relying on being as productive as possible to occupy your mind, catnaps, and Jimin. Jimin has been nothing but supportive, doing his own research on this particular topic, waking you up if you doze off long enough to enter the REM phase, blatantly denying every time you breakdown and call yourself insane.

Jimin’s heart hurts, too, to see a person he cherishes crumbling like this. And he extends his hands to comfort, albeit vain, on top of your head.

“You’re not insane.” He whispers.

Coffee soon stops working, and you retreat to dozens of cans of energy drink per day. Not sleeping definitely  takes its toll on you, and you start truly loosing your focus, not only in work hours but also on simple tasks like separating your laundry or taking out the trash.

Your boss has taken notice to your unlikely behavior too, and Jimin always covers up for you perfectly and seamlessly. However, you are aware that one day your covers will be blown up, and the company will ultimately be sick of your slacking. Even you are sick of your slacking.

//

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Jimin ask, worried.

It’s seven in the evening, and Jimin is dressed in a crisp navy button down and tight slacks. His hair is middle parted, styled in a windswept kind of effortless, he looks handsome, and there’s no way you’re hindering him from yet another blind date set up by his family.

“Of course, I’m used to this now.” You reassure, although you doubt that Jimin buys your lies.

You don’t want to require Jimin’s assistance at all times, so you enlarge your eyes into an unnatural width to feign awareness, and usher a reluctant Jimin out of the door. 

You wobble to the fridge to grab another can of energy drink, trying to shoo from your mind the thoughts of the man from your dreams. 

But Dreamwalker isn’t a completely fitting name to regard beings like him, for Namjoon touches not only the depth of subconscious but also breaches into the surface of awareness. Even as you open your eyes, you only see his shiny hair and tanned skin and lopsided smile. And you know, with body shaking and head hazy because everything is falling out of your grasp, that you’re in too deep. 

You’re in too deep and not only your subconscious, but also your whole existence craves for him. 

Your head throbs as you collapse on the carpeted floor.

When you meet him this time, for hopefully longer than a night because you have missed him too damn much, his wristwatch ticks clockwise. 

“I’ve missed you, Y/N. Where have you been?”

If consciousness is dry land, and sleep translates as the vast bank of blue; then currently your head is completely underwater.