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He’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real-
Fuck, he’s staring right at you.
There’s a question in his inquisitive brown eyes (god, you wrote that didn’t you?) that you cannot answer. At least, not at all logically. Because an hour ago when you had fallen asleep at your laptop, head propped awkwardly on top of your desk as you drooled away into sandman land, you had no idea you’d wake to a rather long finger poking at your shoulder tentatively, almost unsure in their movements. You had originally assumed that your roommate had come home from work early and was checking up on you because you had a tendency to fall asleep while working (blame your hyper imagination keeping you awake at all hours of the night), but when you had opened your eyes to come face to face with… well, him, you had promptly shoved him across the room and grabbed the nearest weapon to you. Unluckily for you, it had been a book, but it was a heavy book. If you aimed just right, you could possibly knock him unconscious and have just enough time to sneak away before-
“I’m… afraid I’m about as clueless as you are about how I got here, so I guess there’s no point in asking you how. But where exactly am I?” His voice is smooth, reminding you so very much of the very man you had been dreaming about before he had awoken you. Every rational part of your mind was telling you that you had gone crazy and that there was no way you could write and dream up a man just like that. There was… there was no way. Of course. Right?
“What’s your name? Tell me your name first and I’ll tell you where you are.” “I fail to see how knowing my name changes anything about where we are,” you wrote him as a bit of a smart-ass too, even if he was a polite one, “but it’s Kim Namjoon. Now can you tell me where we are or am I going to have to go look for myself?” There’s a threat in his voice that he’s willing to walk out of your apartment right now and onto those streets, but if you really weren’t hallucinating and this was the same Kim Namjoon that you had written an extensive character arc for over the last three months, then surely, this same Kim Namjoon would not survive in a world he didn’t exist in. You’d seen “W”, you knew what happened when you showed up in a world you didn’t belong in.
You thrust yourself before the towering man just before he can grab the doorknob, and blurt, “You’re in my house.”
His eyes narrow at you, calculating your next move, just how you’d written him to be. Namjoon was thinker; he made no moves before thinking them over. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already thought up an escape plan if you proved difficult or untrustworthy. “Where is your house? Is it in Seoul?”
“Uh… not exactly Seoul but-” “Did you kidnap me?” He interrupts, shock taking over his face before you can even dream to explain yourself.
“No!” You shout, sounding none too inconspicuous. His eyes narrow even more. “I mean… No. I don’t go around kidnapping people. And I’m pretty sure I couldn’t carry you even if I tried. I’m just a writer. See?” You hold up your hands to him as if it would be solid proof of your profession.
“Then how am I… is this a dream again?” He moves back some, a hand flying up to his face. His hands brush the rims of his black glasses and he’s tearing them off the bridge of his nose with a noise of discomfort. The backs of his knees hitting the edge of your bed, he falls down into a seated position and places his elbows on his knees, looking none too comforted by the way you cautiously step forward.
You had also written his character very thoughtful and very prone to existential crises, as if to add more to your plate. Why, if you told him that he was simply a character you’d written in a book and that he didn’t exist anywhere out of your imagination, the poor guy would explode. Or implode. He’d definitely self-destruct in some way.
You made your way over to him, his head bowed and his gaze uneven on the patterned rug beneath his immaculately cleaned loafers. When you kneeled before him, his eyes shot up to yours and something akin to hopelessness swept over his expression. One minute, you were writing Namjoon in the midst of a thriller novel as the main protagonist and withdrawn detective. Now he was in your bedroom, seated on a Hello Kitty throw blanket and clutching at his jeans for dear life. He’d usually be able to deduct situations like these fairly easily but… you were strange. Far stranger than anyone he had ever encountered, and you were currently looking at him like a pitiful mother telling their child Santa wasn’t real.
What exactly were you hiding that made you look so lost and melancholy?
“Namjoon… what is the last thing you remember?” You start your first attempt at ordering your thoughts, hand hesitantly coming to rest over top his knee. He flinches at first and you pull your hand back, and oddly… he feels a little less comforted without your touch all of a sudden.
He clears his throat anyway, “I just remember… I was working on this case I’d been stuck on for weeks,” he begins to recite the opening scene you had been working on before you fell asleep, to make matters creepier, “and I… I received an e-mail of some sort. It said I was the lucky winner of a trip to Cancun. Of course, I didn’t believe it, but the minute I opened it, my computer completely froze. That’s all I remember before blacking out and waking up on your bedroom floor.”
Okay, that, you didn’t write.
What you had written was one of his trusty companions at the police station entering his office and telling him that they had found another dead body similar to the one in the case Namjoon had been working on. That’s how you were writing your story. There was no e-mail or computer freezing nonsense anywhere on your first draft.
Wait. Your draft.
Darting up, much to Namjoon’s surprise, you run over to your desk to click on your laptop, the screen having gone black while you had been asleep. Quietly, Namjoon made his way behind you and looked over your shoulder, curious as to what you were so frantically searching for. You pulled up your documents program, fully expecting the underwhelming one thousand word first draft you had been tirelessly perfecting, only to find a blank document. There was nothing there, as if you had fallen asleep on… nothing.
With lightning fast reflexes, your fingers moved to bring up all the documents and files on your computer, searching for key words, everything. There was currently nothing proving that you had written him, that you had written anything, and it was making your skin crawl.
“What are you looking for?” Namjoon asks, moving in impossibly closer to you. His stunning appearance catches you off guard for just a moment, your eyes locking with his. There’s an undeniable fear in those chocolate irises of his, but they are as concealed as can be. You had written that about him too.
With a shaky breath, you think over how exactly you can explain your predicament now with legitimately no proof whatsoever. There was no trace of your writing of him anywhere; even the outlines that you had slaved over, bled, sweated, and cried over… they were gone. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I… I created you.”
Just as you expect, Namjoon looks completely unconvinced. “Funny. You look nothing like my mother.”
Ah, and there was the sarcasm again.
But you have no time for that when you’re promptly losing your mind, “Namjoon, listen to me. This is gonna sound wild and unbelievable and if I was in your shoes I’d feel the very same, but I’m telling you the truth through and through. I wrote you. I’ve been writing your traits and your life and your appearance for the last three months and you’re exactly like the Kim Namjoon I made, born September 12th in 1994. You’re a virgo and even though you claim you don’t believe in horoscopes you check yours every morning in the newspaper because your mother believes it and it intrigues you. You build model boats in your spare time and despite what everyone thinks of you, you prefer Kendrick Lamar over Bach and Mozart anyday. I wrote you. Believe me, I made you with my own two hands and every word in my vocabulary.”
He stares. And stares. You can’t even tell if he’s really listening to you because he looks completely out of it.
Then, “So… there is a god. And they're a woman.”
Well… that was a very Namjoon response.
“I’m no god, I just wrote you. Like a character in a book, I wrote you. And that bit about your computer glitching? Didn’t write that. Whatever is going on… it’s… it’s far beyond me, Namjoon. I can’t explain it, but something strange brought you here and for what purpose, I can’t tell.”
Very unlike Namjoon however, he nods and doesn’t close in on himself like you’d expected him too. His arms fold over his chest, but he looks at you with a decisiveness that is stronger than you anticipated, and you wonder if maybe he’s just playing you long enough to get out of here and find out the “truth” himself, but you have no choice but to tell him all that you know. You’d mourn over all of your hard work being molded into a real person later. Right now, the man you’d written was here, and it didn’t look like he was going anywhere else anytime soon.
“Can I know your name then?” He asks, lip twitching a bit when you give him a wide-eyed look in return. You stutter over the syllables of your name but otherwise get it out to him, and he hums, processing it inwardly. He repeats your name on his tongue a few times like a mantra, and sighs.
Clasping his hands together, he’s about to ask you something else, but the door to your room flies open and-
“(Y/N)! You better not be sleeping- oh…” Your face takes on an expression of pire horror as your roommate and best friend of ten years, Jeon Jungkook, stands in the doorway with a lost puppy look in his eyes upon seeing Namjoon sitting atop your desk, a little too close for Jungkook’s comfort. “A dude.” Is all Jungkook says a moment later.
“Jungkook, what have I told you about knocking?” You growl, pushing yourself up from your seat and nearing him.
Jungkook’s eyes bug a little at your angered glare but his lips turn up into a mischievous smile just as Namjoon raises a brow, “Why? We’ve seen each other naked plenty of times before.”
Your sheer mortification leaves you beating on Jungkook’s chest, desperately trying to get him out of your room, but the extremely tall muscle bunny does nothing but nod his head at Namjoon, “Don’t mean to make the stranger over there jealous, but I and (Y/N) go wayyyy back. You couldn’t possibly understand our bond.” Jungkook’s words get even worse the longer he talks, and you’re very tempted to stuff a sock down his throat and let him choke alone in the hallway.
You look to Namjoon to explain that this is definitely not what he thinks it is, but the older boy is completely unbothered. In fact… he’s even smiling? “You two may go way back, but I’m (Y/N)’s boyfriend, so… I kind of trump you in this little game of yours, don’t I?”
Both yours and Jungkook’s mouths drop in awe, and Jungkook is immediately grinning ear to ear, eyes searching yours with expectancy, “You got a dude?! And you didn’t tell your best friend? How long has this been going on? Are you guys just fuck buddies or is this a relationship for the long haul? Does your mom know about him? Should I tell her-” You manage to shove Jungkook out of the room and slam the door shut and locked, his voice still carrying through the wood but still considerably muffled. When you turn to chance a glance at “your boyfriend”, Namjoon is still all smiles, although he looks a little less smug this time around.
“He’s a cute kid.” “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sounded jealous.” “You don’t know any better, then.” Namjoon finishes, with a very questionably disgruntled look on his face that makes you stifle a giggle.