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Every day at sunrise, no matter how early or late it is, Jungkook is there—his cart at the edge of the park, in a corner full of spring green, fall gold, white winter, or the hazy humid pink of summer—
He would be there with his cart, cart full of freshly spun dreams on their brightly colored sticks, his fingers sticky with the thick honey of dreamstuff, from all the pulling and spinning and weaving them into good dreams.
There’s a sign, hand painted of course, hanging from the front of the cart:
3 dimes for a dream
5 dimes for 2
a dollar for 5
The fine text at the bottom specifies that these aren’t meant to be daydreams, oh no, because daydreams cost a lot more, like, a lot more. They’re not only more precious but more difficult to spin, to weave for they must be powerful enough to eclipse the solidness of reality. They must be strong enough to paint over the colors of the real world with colors the world only knows with its eyes half closed.
Oh yes, daydreams cost much, much more.
Only two people have ever asked about the cost of a daydream—Jungkook himself when he was small enough to dream with both hands seeped in the honeypot of dreamstuff, nose crinkling from the sweetness, to his father who had smiled and said that he’d know the price of one when he needed to know. And then another boy, with hair red as skyfire, and just as wild, drops of midnight dotting the tops of his eyes.
Dreamwalkers, they’re called.
The ones who can walk through dreams with their eyes wide open.
“How much for a daydream?”
“Why do you ask?”
The boy gestures to towards his eyes, the dark ink splatter of midnight dancing over his skin with every flutter of his dusk-thick lashes.
Jungkook dips his finger into the honeypot and pulls it away with a strand of raw dreamstuff, swirling it through the air, threading it into the dream in his other hand, delicate as a cloud, and just as light, spinning it around a tangerine orange stick.
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“I just told you.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yeah I did.” Jungkook dips his finger back for another strand of honey.
“You just said ‘a lot’.”
“Yep.”
“So how much is that?”
Jungkook hums, keeping his eyes trained on the current dream. He weaves the song of bluebirds and rainbows and the tang of lemon drops.
“If you needed a daydream, you’d know the price.”
“You don’t sell daydreams,” the boy says, sighing.
Jungkook’s eyes snap up, bright and flashing, “Of course I do!”
“I don’t believe you.” The boy pouts on lips as pink as the strawberry shortcakes in a perfectly spun dream.
Jungkook huffs. “I do,” he says, nose crinkling, dipping his finger in a bit too hard, a droplet of honey jumping out of the honey pot, landing on the boy’s face. Jungkook gasps, reaching out to say sorry but the boy just wipes it from his cheek with a grin and licks the honey off his finger.
“Prove it and sell me one then.”
Jungkook pulls his hand back, forces himself to look back down at his work, the broken strand of honey still caught around his finger. He pauses for a second before bringing it to his own lips and licking it off as well—sweet, sweet, sweet. The boy giggles, watching.
“Fine, fine, I guess you won’t sell me a daydream,” and as he shrugs, he turns to leave.
Jungkook swallows. “Wait—what’s your name?”
The boy turns with a lopsided grin, skyfire hair mussed and messy over his eyes, almost as dark as the bits of midnight on his eyelids.
“Trade you for a daydream.”
Jungkook sighs and lowers his eyes again. But as the boy turns again to leave, the spring picking up around them in a soft breath, as if it had been watching their every word, their every move, waiting for a resolution, Jungkook hears the boy’s friends calling for him across the park—
“C’mon Jimin! Let’s go!”
Jimin, Jungkook smiles, mouthing over the name.
Jimin picks up his pace and trots away, but not before one last glance over his shoulder. Jungkook would never admit it but he almost glanced back up too.
Business is good that day, almost a full cart of dreams sold. Not that Jungkook keeps track; that’s not his job. His job is to spin the most perfect dreams he can and sell them to anyone who wants to buy a perfect dream. And what a world of good a perfect dream can do.
Jungkook packs up at sunset, humming to himself as he does.
Laughter tickles his cheek, the sound tinkling and just far enough to sound like a dream, but close enough to make him look up. Faintly, in the distance, Jungkook sees Jimin and a group of other boys, running with their hair flying, laughing, not a single care in the world.
They say dreamwalkers are born of stray strands of dreams that find each other and eventually become a person, or rather, the image of a person. They say that if a dreamwalker visits you in your dream, it’s because once upon a time, a strand of your dream got lost and found its way to them, and now they’re returning it back to you. Because all lost dreams want to do is find their way home, after all. That’s what all lost children ever, ever want.
No one knows if a dreamwalker dreams; no one’s ever seen one asleep.
That night, Jungkook sits in bed and wonders which dream he should pick tonight—one of the perks of being a dreammaker is that he gets to make his own dreams. He remembers Jimin and his skyfire hair, drops of midnight on his eyes, framed by dusk-thick lashes, and smiles. Maybe he’ll dream of Jimin tonight.
And so, he does.
“If you were to spin me a dream, what would you put in it?”
They’re walking, hand in hand, on a tightrope made of the wishes of children on shooting stars, jumping over small clouds. Jimin’s hand is smaller, but warm. Jungkook gives it a squeeze.
“I’d spin in laughter and wings,” Jungkook says, hopping over a stray cloud.
“Why wings?”
Jungkook swings their arms in the patch of blue, blue, blue sky between them.
“Because who doesn’t want to fly?”
Jimin laughs and their hand swing, and swing, and swing.
“What else?”
“The moon,” Jungkook says, “and all the stars, even the falling ones.”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” Jimin says as they both jump onto the same cloud and tumble into each other, laughing.
“The falling stars? Well, you don’t have to grant their wishes, just keep them close. Protect them if you can.”
Jimin draws shapes along the back of Jungkook’s hand.
“Do you dream of falling stars?”
Jungkook shakes his head, giggling, “Nope. Too much pressure.”
Jimin laughs so much he falls back into the cloud, squeezing Jungkook’s hand hard.
They watch the night rise like a velvet tide against the horizon’s shore, till it’s drowned out the entire sky. Stars blink down, soft and slow and sleepy.
“Pretty, aren’t they?”
Jungkook looks up, and there he is, standing right there.
“Jimin?”
“How’d you figure out my name?”
“I heard your friends calling you from across the park.”
The wind picks up. The moon sings a lullaby and the sky rocks, rocks, rocks. Jimin scuffs his feet along the sky, hands linked behind his back.
“Oh,” he says, then he laughs. It’s solid, falling from the sky like stars onto the world below. Jungkook wonders how many kids are wishing on them tonight.
The next day, Jungkook is there at sunrise, the first rays of sunlight kissing him soft. He rubs at his eyes as he adjusts the sign on his cart before hopping onto his seat and picking a sky blue stick and dipping his finger into the honeypot, still warm from a whole night’s stewing and bubbling.
It isn’t until afternoon that Jimin shows up again, scuffing his feet along the grass of the park.
“Sleep well last night?” he asks, a knowing smile on his face.
Jungkook weaves a trail through the woods, where butterflies dance to the songs of the trees. Jungkook nods, but keeps his lips pressed tight. Jimin doesn’t need to know he fashioned himself a dream with him in it.
“What’s your name?” Jimin asks.
Jungkook chances him a look. “You haven’t told me yours yet,” he says, feigning ignorance with a pout that he hopes looks half as endearing as Jimin’s had been yesterday.
“You already know my name.”
Jungkook frowns at the dream in his hands. He does. And then, it hits him. The cart shakes as Jungkook almost knocks his knee against it, the honeypot shaking, the honey inside shimmering.
“You visited me last night!”
Jimin’s cheeks are tinted pink. “Yep.”
“So… so you must have had a dream I once lost.”
Jimin nods, “Something like that. Yeah.”
Jungkook picks up a new strand. He spins wildflowers and a lake with water so clear and crisp it looks like a mirror to the sky.
“Well, I’m glad you returned it.” Jungkook sniffs, turning the dream in his hands.
Jimin doesn’t say anything, only watches.
Jungkook spins three more threads, dandelions and crackling fires and the warmth of falling asleep, before he takes a breath and says, “Jungkook.”
Jimin quirks his head. “Hm?”
“My name,” Jungkook says, sealing off the end of the dream with a skillful twist of his fingers. He sticks the finished dream into the small foam stand and examines his handiwork. Not bad—three new dreams. He’s keeping up well.
“Oh,” Jimin says, again, just like he had in the dream.
“Pick a color,” Jungkook says, pointing to the empty dream sticks.
Jimin blinks, then a smile spreads so fully across his face Jungkook almost blushes for him.
“Are you gonna spin me a daydream?”
Jungkook rolls his eyes, “No, I just wanted you to help me pick a color for the next dream.”
“Yellow,” Jimin says, pointing.
Jungkook picks up the yellow stick and a fresh stand of raw dreamstuff. He weaves a smile that reminds him of Jimin.
That night, he fashions himself another dream with Jimin in it, sighing as he closes his eyes. Maybe this isn’t the best of ideas but for now—he’ll just dream.
They’re sitting together next to a lake so clear it looks like a mirror to the sky. The sunset is the same color as Jimin’s hair. Jungkook reaches out to touch it—soft, like strands of dreams.
They don’t say much, but their hands are touching.
And maybe, just maybe, Jimin leans over to give Jungkook a kiss on the cheek.
“We look good together, you and me,” Jimin says, standing at the edge of the water, watching.
Jungkook laughs, nodding. “We do.”
Jimin reaches for Jungkook and Jungkook reaches back. Their hands fit so, so well.
“Let’s go flying,” Jimin says.
Jungkook nods with a smile so wide he blushes.
And then, they are—flying, above the lake, their reflections copying their every move. Jimin closes his eyes and lets the midnight drip onto his eyes. Jungkook reaches out to wipe specks from his cheeks.
“What do you know about dreamwalkers?” Jimin asks one day in the park, him sitting next to Jungkook on a patch of grass by the dream cart. Business is unusually good today. Jungkook spins faster, his eyes honed in on his work, fingers eternally sticky and glistening with honey.
“Just that you can walk through dreams and visit people who lost the dreams that you were born from.”
Jimin nods, humming. Jungkook finishes off another dream.
“Purple,” Jimin says. Jungkook picks the purple stick.
“Do dreamwalkers dream?”
Jimin turns. “Hm?”
Jungkook repeats the question.
“We can.”
Jungkook glances over at him. “Daydreams?”
Jimin nods, smiling. “Daydreams.”
“Where are your friends?” Jungkook asks, casting about the park. Flower petals skip and skitter along the ground to the slow swish of the wind.
“Probably racing somewhere.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“I like watching you.”
“It’s not very interesting,” Jungkook says, shrugging.
“I think it is.”
And that, was that.
Jungkook can’t remember the last time he’s gone to sleep without dreaming of Jimin, and he can’t remember if it’s because he keeps spinning Jimin into his dreams or if Jimin keeps on visiting him, or both. Both. But, he reasons, Jimin always seems to be around in the park too, even if he’s not sitting next to Jungkook watching him work, his laughter is never too far out earshot. Him and his dreamwalker friends like to run, without really a set destination. Jimin says it helps him breathe better, and that it’s useful for dreamwalking. Dreams are huge, expansive places, and walking through them no small feat. He needs to be in tip-top shape.
Jungkook dreams of walking on clouds again, tightropes and clouds, Jimin holding his hand.
He wakes up, and it’s still dark outside.
He can hear his father snoring from the other room.
He gets up, dangles his feet over the edge of his bed. The moon is trickling through his window. Outside, the world is still dreaming.
Something knocks against his window.
Jungkook looks up; Jimin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting you, duh,” Jimin says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Jungkook steps off his windowsill to let Jimin in but Jimin only extends a hand.
“C’mon, let’s go running.”
Jungkook stares at his extended hand. It looks small, but warm. The night is cold but Jungkook takes his hand anyway. He lets himself be pulled out the window, out into the back garden, where the night flowers are blooming with the navy throats exposed, drinking in moonlight, starshine.
Jimin’s hand is small, and warm.
And then, with a light tug, they’re off, Jungkook stumbling after Jimin. The wind tangles her fingers in their hair, dying them all the colors the world only sees with its eyes half closed. Jungkook laughs, loud, and lets the night take his voice right up into the sky. He feels like flying.
When they get to the park, Jimin slows and Jungkook slows with him.
“What’s dreaming like? Jimin asks as they sit side by side, fingers still laced.
Jungkook takes a moment to catch his breath, pull it back into his chest.
“Like you can do anything you want to do,” Jungkook says, “all the things you’ve never had the courage to but wish you could.”
Jimin nods, and then turns towards Jungkook.
“Like this?” and he leans forward to press his lips to Jungkook’s cheek.
Jungkook blinks. It’s dark, but the moon is bright and the stars are shining, even the shooting ones, weighed down with wishes they don’t quite have the strength to carry.
Then, he laughs. What a dream this is.
“Yes,” Jungkook says, “like this,” and he leans in to kiss Jimin too, on the lips this time.
Jimin laughs, lifting his free hand to cup Jungkook’s cheek.
And then, Jungkook leans back and sees Jimin, properly, because the moonlight paints everything in a shade of truth not found during the light of day.
“Do you see?” Jimin asks.
Jungkook nods, eyes wide.
“I’ve been looking for you for a very, very long time,” Jimin says.
Jungkook leans forward to press their foreheads together. So this is what it feels like to be reunited with every dream you’ve ever lost, because dreamwalkers aren’t just strands of lost dreams, come together, oh no—they’re so much more than that.
Dreamwalkers are the strands of a single person’s dreams, every strand of every dream they’ve ever lost, spun into a person, one person.
Jimin presses their lips together again, again, again, and it feels perfect every single time, more perfect than any dream Jungkook has ever, ever spun.
Jimin’s lips feel like home.
The next day, Jimin shows up to Jungkook’s cart with a smile.
“How would you like a daydream?” Jungkook asks, spinning one between his honey-slick fingers; he spins dreaming and sunshine and finding what you’ve always been searching for. He spins love and sunsets and oceans full of fallen stars. He spins finally, finally, finally, finding home.
Jimin grins.
“Only if it has you in it.”
Jungkook nods, reaching over to give Jimin the daydream.
For what else do dreams dream of but finding someone to call home?