It Runs Wild
→ [4/7] of the Society Series
→ summary: The red band around your arm is a cruel indication of your disorder. Your society deems you as a hassle, and most citizens avoid contact with you—in fear of acquiring this disorder from you. You’ve been forced, for sixteen years of your life, to be in therapy. Unfortunately, CID isn’t so easy to cure.
→ pairing/rating: namjoon x reader | PG-15
→ genre: 100% mellow angst | therapist!au & dystopian!au
→ warnings: profanity, minor character death, implied sex, therapy in this story is nothing like real therapy (this society’s kinda messed up)
→ wordcount: 8.9k
You're five years old when your parents drag you to Merrymore Hospital. For the first time, you meet Dr. Lee, an old man who apparently specializes in developmental psychology. He guides you to sit on a hard, wooden chair that reminds you more of stone than sand-papered bark. Your parents huddle in the back of the office, holding each other with fear riddled in their eyes.
Dr. Lee slides a laminated photograph in front of you. With his loud, squarish voice, he commands, "What do you see?"
"Clouds!" you exclaim, giggling. Behind you, your parents sigh in relief and even Dr. Lee seems surprised, raising his eyebrows. But you continue on. "That's a rabbit!" you insist, pointing at the cloud with two protruding ears. "Ooh! Giraffe!" you point at another cloud with a seemingly long neck. You squeal when you see an octopus, whisper when you think you see a lion and laugh when you see a goldfish out of its fishbowl.
Finally, Dr. Lee flips the photograph over. "That's enough, child."
Your mother is crying and your father's head is downcast in shame.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Lee says after a moment of silence. "Your daughter," he says, looking at you with pity in his eyes, "she's been diagnosed with CID."
The sky is weeping. People are weeping as well. A sea of blackness slowly drifts into the church. You're part of the crowd too, wearing your plainest—ugliest—attire to match the grim mood of the day. It's such good weather to splash around in puddles too—to pretend that the mud is quicksand and the water around it is a deep lake. What a pity.
Dr. Lee Hyunsoo has died.
He's been your therapist for sixteen years now. You feel like you should be more agonized over his death, but another part of you revels in the prospective freedom. For sixteen years, you've been dragged to therapy, where Dr. Lee tried to control every aspect of your thinking.
Think linearly, he used to say all the time. Don't think about something else, Y/N. Focus.
But it was hard for you to not let your mind wander. How could you? Dr. Lee's therapy sessions were wearisome. So wearisome that you had to escape the reality and take the time to give every object in his office a name. Supposedly, Dr. Lee is the best therapist money can buy. The statistics don't lie, after all. He's helped cure over a hundred children with the same disorder you were born with. Except his success stopped at you.
For some reason, he couldn't shake the CID out of you as he did to hundreds of other children. People say it's because you're stubborn. You disagree. You think it's because the older you get, the less functioning nerves you have, and that atrophy was the real cause of old Dr. Lee's inability to cure you. Your therapist would've been proud of you for having such a scientific thought process for once. Too bad he isn't here to congratulate you. Too bad there's no one else that will ever force you to think linearly again.
You let a triumphant smile slip, and too consumed in your thoughts, you unintentionally bump into the person in front of you. They take one look at the red band on your arm and hastily slip away before you can apologize. You're avoided like the plague.
The red band indicates that you're a CID patient. That you have a disorder that is somehow contagious. That you will poison others' minds with fantasy and fiction. You used to curse yourself for having the ever so rare Creative Imaginative Disorder. You couldn't help that you conjured up creativity in your thoughts. You couldn't control the fact that instead of thinking, you imagined. You wanted to get better. You wanted to be cured.
But after a while in Dr. Lee's office, it became increasingly clear that maybe... you weren't meant to be cured. You couldn't. You were immune to the therapy. Your parents still have hope. You just wish people will leave you alone to have your freedom.
Finally, you enter the church and sit on the hard, wooden church benches, sandwiched between your parents. Upon glancing at them, you realize that they've aged heavily over the years. Probably because of you. It's no secret that for sixteen years, you've been in therapy, yet you haven't been cured. People are starting to think you'll always be a CID patient. They start whispering behind your back, thinking you can't hear them, but you can.
Freak, they call you. Lunatic.
You just think it's hilarious that they're not able to come up with creative insults. Sometimes, when you're especially inspired, you spend hours coming up with derisive ridicules for yourself. Head-in-the-clouds (literally), ranCID (which you have to admit is kinda funny), incurable creation curator. The last one's a bit of a joke but you're proud to say that it rolls off your tongue well when you say it out loud. Incurable creation curator. You love repeating it to yourself when you're alone.
No wonder they call you a lunatic.
But you don't mind as much now as you did before.
The funeral seems to drawl on and on. While Dr. Lee's good friend delivers a long eulogy, you start comparing her voice to that of a walnut—hard, bitter but brainy. Thinking of nuts, you begin to dream of pistachios. When was the last time you'd had one? You're kinda craving them right now. It always piqued your interest that pistachios are green. A lightbulb illuminates in your head. You know what else is green? Almost like the pistachios? Grass! But when was the last time you've seen grass? The society you live in is void of plant life, really. The ground is also far from brown dirt. Instead, it's more akin to dust. Dust so dusty that its hue matches a light shade of tan. Quite creatively, your society is named—eponymously—Tan.
It's the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard of. Who would want to name a society, Tan? Why not Green? Why not Blue? Why not Mauve, Mulberry, Periwinkle? The list could honestly stretch vertically to the stratosphere.
There's been recent talk of covering the dust over with cement to accommodate the huge, growing (super efficient) factories. You wonder if they ever go through with that idea, they'll have to change Tan's name to Cement. Or Concrete. The thought makes you almost giggle out loud. But you remember you're at a funeral.
Right. If Dr. Lee saw you right now, he would tell you to "Focus, Y/N!" He might even sit up from his casket and open his cold, dead eyes—quite literally coming back from the dead—to tell you so. The thought makes you laugh. You quickly cover it up with a cough.
Your father elbows you. "Are you having one of your episodes again?" he whispers so lowly you can barely catch his words. Episodes—that's what the others call your train of "outrageous" thoughts. Embarrassed that he caught you, you nod your head yes. "Go," your father tells you. "Wait outside the church. Your mother and I will come to get you later."
Lowering your head, you obey. Your parents have already been through enough. If they hear another comment about your disorder from somebody else, they might also land themselves in a casket in this very church. You leave quietly. A few heads turn to watch you—no doubt judging you and that red band on your arm—but thankfully, no one stops you.
The first breath of air outside is refreshing. The rain had stopped but the roof still leaks the water that had gathered up earlier. You have the sudden urge to splash in the muddy puddles. It takes all of your willpower to stay standing, looking away from the alluring puddles—out of sight, out of mind. Instead, you look toward the sky.
It's gray. Dark clouds dotting the stormy horizon. Ah, clouds. It brings you back to the long hours you'd spent stuck in Dr. Lee's office.
"I said," Dr. Lee says almost dangerously. You shrink back in your chair in fear. "What is this, Y/N?" He points at a laminated photo.
"A-A... A bird," you whisper so quietly Dr. Lee slams his desk with his fist.
"Louder."
"A bird!" you cry, tears streaming down your face.
"What kind of bird?" he asks, pushing the photo closer to you. You push yourself back, shaking uncontrollably. You grip the edges of Chairce—the chair—and will yourself to keep answering.
Remember, this is for your own good.
"A st-st... strawberry b-bird," you manage to stutter.
Dr. Lee slams his desk so hard that Holden, the black leather pencil holder, falls off the edge, taking Pencilla the pencil and Balney the ballpoint pen with him. "Do you see a strawberry in this photo??" he yells, grabbing the picture and shoving it in front of your face.
"N-No!" you scream, clenching your eyes shut. "No!!!" you scream until your throat is raw. You begin to shake the sides of Charice, rocking back and forth and kicking your feet in the air.
Dr. Lee waits until your childish tantrum is over. Then, he clenches his teeth and says, "Then tell me why, Y/N. Why did you call this very obvious Robin, a strawberry bird?"
You let the tears stream down your face, refusing to look the old man in the eye. "I-It..." you hiccup. "I-It w-was... r-re-red."
"That gives you no right to call it a strawberry bird," Dr. Lee says. "You must focus, Y/N. Only call things by their name. A robin is a red bird, yes." He pauses. "But that is as far as you can go to describe it." He watches as you refuse to meet his eyes. "Look up," he commands. When you deny obedience, he says in a quieter, almost threatening voice: "I said, look up."
This time, you do.
"Grab a tissue."
You do.
"Wipe that snot off your face."
You try to.
"Now, you told me earlier that you heard a Robin talk to you. Pray tell me what it could've possibly said."
You shake your head, denying that you told him. Maybe if you deny it enough, he'll think it never happened.
"I-I want to go home." It's the single most coherent line you've said today in the session.
"You cannot." Dr. Lee lifts up another laminated photo. It's the same photo he's shown you two years ago when you first walked into his office. The one with the clouds shaped like various animals. "You cannot leave this session until you learn to realize that animals do not and cannot possibly talk. And you may never leave therapy until you see this picture," he says, shaking the photo in his hand, "for what it really is." He pauses, glaring at you with stone-cold eyes. "Clouds."
"Excuse me."
You look down from the sky to see a tall, handsome man in front of you. He dons a crisp, black suit and smiles at you politely, revealing two perfect dimples etched into his cheeks. Quite curious. No one ever approaches you in public.
"Excuse you," you reply, cocking your head. "Do I know you?"
He doesn't seem familiar, but his stance and demeanor remind you of a white stallion—robust and graceful. A white stallion with a black saddle and a newly polished coat.
Focus, Y/N. The ghost of Dr. Lee's voice echoes in your head. You push it away. You're dead now. Dead to me, you think.
"—oon," the man finishes, looking up to see your reaction.
You freeze in humiliation. Too busy daydreaming, you'd missed what the attractive stranger had said. "S-Sorry," you sheepishly apologize. "Could you repeat what you said?"
"Of course," the man says with an understanding smile. He doesn't seem to judge you. If it had been any other person, they would've been five feet away from you at this point—afraid that your disorder would contaminate their thoughts too. "I was just telling you my name. I'm Kim Namjoon." He holds out his hand for a friendly shake.
Cautiously, you let him encompass your cold hand in his warmth. He gives you a firm handshake before letting your hand go. Realizing you hadn't given the charming stranger an introduction of yourself yet, you open your mouth to tell him your name when—
"Good, you've met your new therapist," your mother sighs, gripping her black shawl around her shoulders. "The funeral's over. Your father and I thought today would be a great day to start a new session with a new doctor." To your utmost shock, your father nods his head, confirming your mother's outrageous statement.
Your eyes turn wide and you stumble back, away from this Kim Namjoon.
"No!" you shout, shaking your head furiously. "You said I'm incurable!"
"Dr. Lee may not have been the best fit for you," your mother says. "We need to keep trying until something—someone—works."
"I won't do it," you say, standing your ground. "Even if the world turns over or the ground cracks open, I won't do it." If you were dying and the only thing that would allow you to live again was going to therapy, you'd choose death. You would choose death a hundred times over. You swore to never step foot in Dr. Lee's office again. His death was supposed to be the end... The end of your imprisonment and the start of your freedom.
"She's having an episode again," your father sighs.
When her eyes are glossy and she becomes silent, she is having an episode, Dr. Lee had told your parents years before. Stop her. Interrupt her. Do anything you can to get her out of it.
To your surprise, Namjoon—Dr. Kim—cuts in. "Let her think," he says. He smiles at you warmly. "You're intriguing, Y/N. The only person to have CID for over 20 consecutive years."
"Let her think?!" your father roars in disbelief.
"Yes, sir," Dr. Kim says. "I'll work hard to cure your daughter. But in order to do that, I'll be using my own methods that may differ largely from Dr. Lee's. Will that be all right with you?"
"You're the expert, Dr. Kim," your mother says before your father can speak again. "Please, cure our daughter. You're our last hope."
"Don't worry Mrs. L/N. I'll cure her."
You sit in Dr. Lee's old office, now Dr. Kim's office, awkwardly glancing up at your new therapist who's studying the notes that Dr. Lee had left him. Charice has been with you through thick and thin but even she's starting to grow old—creaking painfully when you shift in your seat. She reminds you of a wooden cabin in the woods; the wind shaking the shack and threatening to turn it over.
"—doing?"
You jump, lowering your head in shame when you realize you've missed Dr. Kim's whole sentence—all except for the last word.
"S-Sorry," you apologize. "I... I um, can you repeat that?"
"Sure," Dr. Kim smiles cordially. "I was only asking you how you were doing."
"How I'm doing?"
You cock your head, looking up to stare at Dr. Kim. He almost looks too young to be your doctor. Too young to even know what he's doing. Dr. Lee had never tried to be friendly with you.
"Yes, Y/N," Dr. Kim says patiently. "How have you been since Dr. Lee's death? Have you been coping well? Eating well? Sleeping well?"
"I've never been better."
Dr. Kim raises his eyebrows. He pulls out a little black leather notebook and begins to write in it. "Never been better, I see," he mutters as he uses Balney to scrawl words across the paper. "You weren't close to Dr. Lee?"
You continue to keep your guard up, vowing to lie your way through therapy. Show no emotion. Show no vulnerability. "No, I wasn't."
"Interesting, Y/N," Dr. Kim says. He maintains eye contact with you, still smiling. "Why weren't you close to him?"
Goddamn. You hate it when therapists ask you why. You want to answer with long, detailed, creative responses, but they'll force you to keep it short, concise, factual.
"I guess our personalities clash. Clashed, I mean."
Dr. Kim nods as if he understands. "Clashed in what way, may I ask?"
You sigh. "He was cold, rude and abusive. I was young and he pushed me too hard. Happy?" You lean back in your chair and stare at Dr. Kim with a new sense of distaste.
Nosy therapists.
"I am happy with your answer," Dr. Kim says. "Thank you for sharing." He sets his notebook down and suddenly gets up from his seat, which startles you. Dr. Kim begins to walk towards your chair, and he sits right in front of you, on his desk. "I want to get to know you, Y/N," he tells you.
You look up at him, frowning. "Get to know me?"
"My goal isn't to cure you, Y/N. You're not a statistic to me as you were a statistic to Dr. Lee. My goal is to get to know you—as the person you are," Dr. Kim says. "Regardless of what I told your parents. Once I get to know you, the cure will come eventually."
Your frown grows deeper along with your distrust of this man. "May I leave?"
Dr. Kim takes a moment to process what you've said. He smiles at you, revealing his crescent moon dimples. "You may leave, Y/N. But we'll meet again tomorrow. Same time. All right?"
Relief floods through your system at his permission to leave. You don't even answer Dr. Kim because you're halfway out the door.
"Mom, he said his goal isn't to cure me," you scoff. "He said he wants to know me. And that's his goal."
"That's outrageous!" your father says. "How dare he trick us that he's an actual therapist?"
"You still shouldn't have left early, dear," your mother sighs. "Maybe he has an unconventional method that works."
"I doubt it."
"You'll continue to see him," your mother says. "He's our only hope."
"We're trusting our daughter to a twenty-eight-year-old man who just barely got into the business?" your father scoffs.
"He's intelligent," your mother says. "He's already cured a handful of CID patients. What if he'll cure Y/N?"
"Bullshit!" your father yells. "He said it himself that his goal is to get to know our daughter. This man thinks his job is a dating game!"
Your mother yells over him, "Put your trust in Dr. Kim! He's going to cure our daughter. He promised!"
You block out the incessant yelling by staring at the chicken noodle soup sitting in front of you. The little blobs of oil float around, bumping into each other and creating fascinating shapes—close resemblances of clocks, water bottles, pillows. The tan color of the chicken reminds you of the tan-colored slacks Dr. Kim had been wearing. They had been ironed so stiffly that even when he sat down in front of you, they'd maintained their rigid shape. No matter how friendly Dr. Kim tries to be with you, you don't think you can ever trust another therapist again.
"You never learn," Dr. Lee sneers at you. "I've told you to focus, Y/N. Is it really that hard?"
You whimper, reaching for a tissue to wipe your eyes. But Dr. Lee snatches the tissue box away from you.
"Who have you been talking to?" he demands.
"N-Nobody!" you insist. "Nobody, Dr. Lee!"
"Liar!" he screams at you, slamming his fist on his desk.
Your stomach growls—a reminder that you've been in this room since 8 a.m. and have been withheld from breakfast, lunch and now dinner.
"You may leave when you have told me the truth," Dr. Lee says.
Too young and naïve to actually believe what he said, you spill the truth on the spot. "I-I... I w-was ta-talking t-to... my fr-friend."
"Your friend?" Dr. Lee says. "Your parents tell me you have no friends."
"S-She... She's r-right h-here wi-with... me..." you sniffle pointing at the wall behind you. "S-She's... She's always here with me."
Dr. Lee pauses. He stares at you incredulously. "Your friend is... imaginary..."
"S-She's r-real to me!"
Dr. Lee's eyes darken. "She won't be by the end of this session."
Dr. Kim is waiting for you when you cautiously open the door to the office. He smiles at you and gestures that you take a seat in—
Wait a minute. Where's Charice?
Where the hard, wooden chair used to be is a periwinkle-colored bean bag. Your jaw drops open unattractively when Dr. Kim collapses on a cream-colored bean bag across from yours.
"Come sit!" he says merrily. But the way he says it is a suggestion, not a demand. "Nice and comfy, aren't they?"
You stare the man down as you slowly sink yourself down in your bean bag. He's right. It's insanely comfortable. You feel like you're forever falling into the warmth of the bean bag that hugs your figure almost protectively.
"I just thought it'd be better to make a comfortable environment here," Dr. Kim confesses. He points to himself. "You should call me Namjoon. Just like how I call you by your first name."
When his knees accidentally brush against yours, you quickly reposition your legs away from him, awkwardly glancing down at the floor. You don't even bother replying.
"Have you talked to Haegyung recently?" Dr. K—Namjoon asks.
It's an innocent question but your eyes grow wide. Namjoon must've read Dr. Lee's notes. "N-No," you stutter out. "I haven't. Not since I was seven."
"Why not?" Namjoon says. He leans in to express curiosity. "Wasn't she your closest friend?"
Dr. Lee must've not written down what he made you do to her.
"She was," you say. "But she doesn't exist anymore." When Namjoon hands you a tissue, you realize you'd started crying. Sheepishly, you wipe away your tears, clearing your throat. "Thank you."
Namjoon nods. "Anytime."
He lets you sit in silence, drunk in your thoughts.
"You know, he made me burn her to death," you finally say.
The man in front of you frowns. "Sorry, burn?"
"Yeah, you heard it right," you say bitterly. "He lit a fire in that trash can," you say, pointing at the old, charred trash can in the corner of the office. "And he told me to push her inside."
"That's horrible," Namjoon says. "I'm sorry..."
"I didn't want to do it..." you continue. "But he made me. He told me if I didn't, I'd never be allowed to go home. And I was really, really hungry. I hadn't seen my mom for the whole day... I just—" you bury your face in your hands, shaking as you began to cry.
You feel warmth, realizing that Namjoon's patting your back. He'd shifted to sit on your bean bag instead of his. But his proximity is weirdly calming. He lets you cry until the tears don't come out anymore.
"I... I know she never existed," you whisper quietly. "But... I was lonely and no one wanted to be my friend because of my stupid red band."
"Then take it off," Namjoon says. "Simple. Every time you walk into my office, you'll be allowed to take off your armband."
"Really?" You wipe the last of your tears with the back of your hand and stare at Namjoon in awe.
"If it makes you more comfortable, then yes," he answers. "I want this place to be your safe place, Y/N. Do what you want, okay?"
"O-Okay."
When Namjoon leaves your bean bag to go back and sit on his, you lose the warmth and almost reach out and tell him to stay. But you don't.
"You may leave if you want," Namjoon says. "You uncovered a lot today. You should go home and rest."
He must be a saint. "Thank you..." you say.
When you're halfway out the door, you look back and tell the kind man, "Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time tomorrow," he reassures you.
The walk home is pleasant.
Namjoon doesn't do anything to restrict your freedom of thought. Leaving a therapy session with him is more mind-opening than limiting, unlike the days you spent with Dr. Lee. You watch as your feet dig into the gravel in the ground and you imagine the dents as little creatures crawling around in the dirt. Dust bunnies, you like to call them.
You sigh, wishing your society found more importance in color. Everything is too tan around here. But imagine how beautiful the place could be with little sprigs of verdant green sprouting from the dusty soil. Imagine how beautiful it could be if the buildings were majestic shades of magenta or sapphire blue. If the houses weren't a shade of storm cloud gray but were made of bright red clay or sun-spun yellow bricks. You can only dream.
Your parents ask you how today's therapy session went. They want a short, concise, factual answer, and that's what they get. Over the years, Dr. Lee's therapy may not have cured your CID, but he did, in a way, help you fake normalcy.
"It was fine."
Your parents don't ask you any more.
At night, you dream of meeting Haegyung. That she rose from the ashes of the trash bin like a rising phoenix. It's the first time after sixteen years of therapy you go to bed with happy thoughts.
"What do you think of the bean bag colors?" Namjoon asks you as soon as you take off your red band and stash it away in your jacket pocket.
"Pretty," you respond. It's the answer that society would deem as correct.
"What do you really think of it?" Namjoon says. His eyes coax you to elaborate, to delve into your thoughts and reveal your true feelings.
"Well..." you pause. "Um..."
The only existing colors are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet. Dr. Lee whispers menacingly in your head. The sky is not a cerulean blue. It is only blue. Remember that.
"It's okay. You don't have to be afraid," Namjoon soothes you. "There's no one here but us."
That is true. And Dr. Lee's dead. Every time you remind yourself of that occurrence, another wave of relief washes over you, drenching you from head to toe. With a rejuvenated attitude, you confidently say, "Mine's periwinkle. Sort of like the shade of lavender, but paler. A softer blue-violet..." you trail off, searching Namjoon's eyes for any look of disappointment or disapproval. There is none.
"And mine?" he asks instead.
"Yours is cream-colored. Kind of like the color of cream mushroom soup I had for dinner two days ago." You smile to yourself at the memory. "But it's also a soft color. Not as pale as my periwinkle—a bit more vibrant and brilliant if that's possible."
Namjoon nods. "Your thoughts are interesting, Y/N," he tells you, almost compliments you. "Don't try hiding them for the sake of others. In this room, you can tell me everything you're thinking. Is that all right with you?"
Your eyes widen, making eye contact with Namjoon's. He just gives you another one of his reassuring smiles. "I thought you're trying to cure me?"
"I can't cure you when you're not yourself with me," is his answer.
"Right..."
Namjoon maintains eye contact with you, shaking his head. "I've read over Dr. Lee's notes. I don't approve of his conduct at all. The man's method was too... extreme for me."
"He tried to chase away the CID with fear," you say, frowning.
"You responded by shutting yourself up."
"Like a clam."
"Yes..." Namjoon says, cocking his head curiously at you. "He couldn't cure you because you stopped showing the real you."
"It was to save myself."
"I could see that." Namjoon nods. "Good thing that he's dead now, right?"
His blunt words make your eyes widen, and you stifle a laugh. "You have no idea how many nights I went to bed hoping that day was the last I'd ever have to see him."
"Your wish came true, didn't it?" He laughs along with you.
"But I can still hear his voice in my head sometimes," you confess. "It's like he's always with me, floating above my head and nagging at me."
"The aftereffects of sixteen years of therapy with him," Namjoon says. "Once you're cured, you won't be able to feel his presence."
"Thank you," you say. "Really."
"For doing my job?" Namjoon smiles. "Any time." He gestures over to a children's picture book sitting on his lap. "We'll go over this page by page now. Will that be all right with you?"
You nod, smiling. Almost excited. "Yes." That'll be more than all right.
You get home by midnight.
"What took you so long?" your mother asks. "Your father's already gone to bed. He was too tired to wait."
"I was in therapy," you reply.
"From 8 a.m. to 12 a.m.??" your mother asks incredulously.
"There was so much to unpack," you say. "It was a lot to go over." In truth, you took almost an hour with each page in the children's book, marveling at the pictures and verbalizing the metaphors that popped into your head.
"Even Dr. Lee made an effort to get you home by 9..."
"I think Namj—I mean, Dr. Kim is doing a great job so far," you say. "I think I'll be okay."
"What are your future plans, Y/N?" Namjoon asks you. He raises a glass of sparkling apple cider, and you quickly pick up yours to clink them together. "What do you want to do out of therapy?" He sips his drink.
You set down your glass and pick up a cracker from the charcuterie board. Chewing thoughtfully, you finally give your answer. "Maybe an architect, I think." The other careers out there seem all too dull and monotonous to you.
"Really?" Namjoon eyes sparkle with interest. "Why?"
"I guess the buildings fascinate me," you say. "I mean, have you ever wondered about buildings that aren't necessarily a rectangular prism? Maybe we can have one that's dome-shaped. Or made of glass! What if we make them out of colored material?"
Namjoon laughs. "That's certainly an idea."
"It's an idea that wouldn't be approved of," you sigh, munching on a grape. "I don't know how you do it, Namjoon."
"Do what?" he asks, slightly puzzled.
"How do you listen to me ramble on and on and not feel the urge to sprint away from me or give me a disapproving look?"
At that, Namjoon smiles. "You have a disorder, not a disease. You're just as human as me. Why treat you differently?"
"We obviously don't think the same," you say. "Isn't it tiring?"
"I'm not the one doing the talking, usually," he admits with a grin. "I just listen to what you have to say."
"Yes, and I say quite a lot. I've been getting home later and later these past few weeks."
"Do you want to cut the sessions shorter?" Namjoon asks.
"No!" You blush when you realize you'd shouted the answer. "I mean, no thank you. I think this works. It's fine. I think the longer sessions are helping me." You duck your head down to hide your reddening cheeks. "You let me be myself."
To your utmost surprise, you feel Namjoon placing a warm hand over yours. "That's what friends do for each other."
Friend?? You've never really had a friend before. A real friend, that is.
You smile, looking up at Namjoon's handsome grin. "Thank you."
And for hours on end, Namjoon listens to you tell the tales of your wildest fantasies. Between the two of you, the food lies forgotten.
On your twenty-second birthday, Namjoon gifts you a new children's book—one about the different types of flowers. You spend six hours giggling over it in his office with Namjoon smiling happily next to you—happy that you enjoyed his gift.
Then, he presents you with an even better gift. Your eyes widen as large as saucers when you catch sight of the form. "An application?" you squeal. "To be an architect!! Oh, Namjoon!"
Nobody's ever cared enough to gift you something you actually wanted on your birthday. It's always socks and toothbrushes and notebooks that you never use. This must be the best birthday you've ever had.
Before you realize what you're doing, you're hugging Namjoon, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your face against his chest. He seems surprised at first, but he never pulls away. Instead, he lets you cry happy tears against his pearl-gray sweater, patting your back. You stay in his arms a bit longer than you should have. But he smells of cool evergreen on a frosty morning and a hint of fresh linen lying on the warm sand. Too good to leave.
Hesitantly, Namjoon tucks your hair behind your ear. He pauses before running his fingers in your silky locks. It seems forbidden to do so. But neither of you can stop yourselves.
With your face still buried in his chest, you whisper, "I could never apply before... because no one wanted to recommend me." You sniffle. "Thank you, Namjoon." You grip at his sweater, relishing in the feeling, the smell, the happiness, the unbelievable. "Thank you..."
He makes you feel like you're floating in the sky. He makes you feel like you're dancing on the cotton candy clouds. He makes you feel like the golden hour—when the sun is beginning to set and casts an aureate shadow across the land. He makes you feel... like you're on top of the highest building in Tan, not looking down but looking up.
"—you..."
Goddammit. You've missed what he said. Again. You curse your daydreaming.
But it's almost as if Namjoon can read your mind. He repeats himself. "Anything for you..."
He continues to play with your hair. And the two of you hold each other in your arms in complete silence. You try to ingrain the smell of him in your head. You try to save the feeling of floating with the clouds in your mind.
Now it seems like there's too much to do and such little time in this world. The application form is long and requires weeks and weeks of writing, revising and editing, but your therapy sessions with Namjoon are starting to end at three in the morning—there's just too much to talk about, too much to do.
You wake up every morning tired and go to bed every night just the same. The butterflies in your stomach don't cease either.
The nineteen hours you spend with Namjoon every day—awake—goes by in a flash. You blink your eyes and somehow you've time-traveled from 8 in the morning to 3 a.m. the next day. The tiredness never hits you until you come home. With Namjoon, you feel more awake than ever. He, too, never looks tired in your presence.
But the time spent marveling over Namjoon's crescent-shaped dimples, his broad shoulders and his stallion-like composure is the time taken away from completing your application.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
"What's on my mind? I think a bit too much," you laugh, watching as Namjoon sits up from his cream-colored bean bag to settle down on yours. You make room for him, allowing him to place a warm hand on your thigh.
"We've got time." He smiles and it brings back the pink butterflies in your stomach.
You look away, cheeks heating up. "I wouldn't know where to start."
"Start with how you're feeling," he coaxes.
It's almost as if Namjoon knows how he makes you feel. "Like I'm on cloud nine."
"Oh, really now?" he says with a teasing lilt to his voice. Of course he knows.
Namjoon reaches for your face, cupping your chin with his hand. He slowly drags his thumb across your lips, his own lips curving up in a small smirk. He knows how he makes you feel.
The moments of last week still play in your mind like a broken record. You splayed across the desk, him standing between your legs, rough kisses, clothes on the floor, whispered affirmations and shy confessions of love and heated affection... Even after seven days, you haven't come down from that high. And Kim Namjoon knows it.
"Describe it," he whispers against your lips.
"Like I'm walking across the sky," you say quietly. "Like I'm so happy I could just... soar up in the air. It feels like riding on top of an ocean wave, letting the sun bask on my skin and the water to refresh me. Like... like I'm in a constant state of euphoria so strong that I can just... die like this and be content forever."
He rewards you with a fleeting kiss on the lips. Though you keep leaning in, falling forward for him, he falls back, holding you in place with his hands. "Y/N," he says, looking you into your eyes. He becomes serious, a frown stretching across his handsome face. "You know we can't keep doing this."
You groan, falling forward to bury yourself against his chest. He calms you down, makes you feel safe. "Why can't we?"
"It's... It's unprofessional," he whispers. But he can't stop himself from tangling his fingers in your hair. "I mean... I could get fired."
"R-Right..." you sigh. "We should stop." But neither of you pull away.
Sometimes, Namjoon holds you in his arms for hours, asking you to describe how much you love him in vivid detail. You come up with new metaphors, trying to equate the feelings building up in your stomach with words. They're futile attempts but Namjoon finds it fascinating that you can come up with words for feelings in the first place. And you find it fascinating that someone with no imagination can somehow feel love like you do. But maybe they can feel love like you. They just won't be able to explain it like you do.
"You need to start working on your application," Namjoon tells you, pulling away to gaze at your face. He rubs your cheek with his thumb and lightly pinches your nose, eliciting a giggle out of you.
"I know I do," you answer, leaning into his touch. "I guess... maybe I should go home early today..."
"Maybe..." Namjoon whispers. "But before you go, tell me again, please? How you knew you love me?"
"I've already told you!" you laugh. "Six times now!"
"You tell it a different way every time," he protests.
The man is head over heels whipped for you. You remember when he'd first told you that his goal was to get to know you. He's done a little more to accomplish that. You're just glad you have someone that doesn't fear you and loves you for who you are—CID and all.
"All right, all right," you sigh, settling down to get comfortable. "It's gonna take a while. You know how I go off into tangents."
"I don't mind," he tells you.
You end up spending the night in his office as you tell endless tall tales, spontaneous stories and confess your fervid feelings; your application lies untouched at home.
"There's always next year," you tell Namjoon.
"You're already three years behind," Namjoon gently reminds you. He's right. Others your age are already working their first (or even second) jobs. But CID has dragged you down once again. "Y/N, the application is due in two weeks."
"Time flies by when you're having fun."
"We need to get you home early today. Do your parents worry?"
Yes. Just last night (well, three in the morning), they'd questioned if Namjoon's therapy really was effective. If he was truly doing the most to help cure you. Sometimes you forget that Namjoon's supposed to be your therapist. He hits you as a friend, a lover. And he seems to love who you are with CID, so what really was the point to cure it anymore? It feels like you're just where you've started after Dr. Lee's death—maybe even at a worse state since Namjoon allows you to think your imaginative thoughts out loud. But you lie to your parents and tell them Namjoon's therapy is, in fact, effective.
You lie to Namjoon too. "No," you say with a shake of your head. "They don't worry at all."
He smiles. "Well, that's good at least," he says.
"I'll finish the application, Namjoon," you tell him. "I promise... I just keep getting distracted, you know? The fictitious daydreams... The incessant rambling... It's almost as if..."
"Productivity comes with rationality?" Namjoon finishes for you.
"Well..." you pause, realizing he's right and there's no better way you can phrase it yourself. "Yeah. You're right." You laugh a little. "I probably could've finished the application a long while ago if I'd just stopped elaborating so much... If I'd just stopped running on and on about my imagination."
"How about this?" Namjoon says. "Go home and mull it over. Try to work rationally and see where it takes you. We can talk about your progress tomorrow."
For the first time in a long time, he sounds like your therapist. Yet he's always suggesting and never demanding. He always gives you a choice, and you always take it gratefully.
"Okay," you say, standing up from your periwinkle bean bag chair. "I'll give it a shot."
And you do.
Back at home, you lay the application on your desk, picking up a pen and begin sifting through the paperwork. There's a lot that it's asking. You answer the easy questions first.
Name, birth date, mother and father, address—they're all simple answers. Your mind works almost mechanically. Instead of Dr. Lee's usual overbearing "Focus, Y/N," you get Namjoon's dulcet voice: "Productivity comes with rationality."
Be rational, you repeat in your head over and over again. Productivity comes with rationality.
For a while, you find it easy. The questions are straight-forward, and naturally, so are your answers. Except, it all spirals down when you get to the short essays.
Why would you like to be an architect?
What led you to apply?
What would you like to improve in the architectural community?
The why questions always seem to trigger your CID. Immediately, your mind roams free, towards the plain, drowsy-looking buildings of Tan. The same buildings you hope to fix with shades of color and miniature ornaments. You want to paint buildings like the colors of a particularly pink sunset. Or a particularly orange sunrise. Or maybe, you'll make a series of buildings next to each other—each painted a different phase of the sky.
You begin to envision the designs in your head, smiling to yourself as you see the bunny-shaped clouds drifting in the cerulean sky-colored buildings. You end up losing yourself in your thoughts once more, waking up the next morning on your desk, disappointed.
Slowly, you trudge to Namjoon's office, feeling almost embarrassed that you hadn't gotten far in your application.
He greets you with a chaste kiss on your lips and asks, "So, how did it go?" When he sees your troubled expression, he pats your back reassuringly. "It's okay, Y/N. With practice, you'll be able to get it right."
"What if by the time I get it right, I'm not even halfway through the application?" you say, brows furrowing. "What if I'll never get it right?"
Namjoon shakes his head. "Think about it this way," he says. "Productivity comes with rationality. After you've been productive, you'll have free time, yes? And then we can go on a proper date outside this stuffy office. Not as a therapist and a patient—but as lovers."
The thought makes you want to melt. "Productivity comes with rationality and free time comes with productivity?" you say. "I think I can do that." You have an incentive now. The more you try to be rational, the more likely you might be cured of CID. You won't have to go to therapy anymore, and you'll still be with Namjoon too. It seems like a win-win situation.
"It isn't hard in theory," Namjoon says. "But it'll be hard to actually try."
You lower your head, knowing exactly what he's talking about. The memories of last night flood back into your head. You feel shameful, almost, to have already tried and failed so easily. It's too embarrassing to admit out loud.
"I'm going to try," you say with your mind made up. "I'm going to try to be rational."
Namjoon smiles, nodding his head encouragingly. "Try it again at home, Y/N. When you catch yourself drifting, remember what your goal is, okay?"
You nod vigorously. "Remember the end goal," you repeat. "Productivity comes with rationality."
Maybe love makes you do the craziest things. But you're willing to stay focused for once, to stay rational, to be a normal citizen of Tan. You're willing to sacrifice your daydreams, your comfort for this man. You'll emerge from his office cured of CID. Then he and you can be happy—be together, dancing on top of rainbows and pirouetting over the clouds.
You vow that a day like that will come in the future.
You're back in your desk seat again, glaring at the papers of the application. You can almost feel the ghost of Namjoon's hands on your shoulders, supporting you, telling you that you can do it. Gritting your teeth, you mumble to yourself, "Be rational," before picking up a pen and diving into the application once more.
The easy questions are a breeze. You double, triple check your answers, eyes trained on the paper and only blinking when absolutely necessary. But when you get to the short answer questions from yesterday, you freeze.
Remember, be rational.
With a deep breath, you read across the first question once more. Why would you like to be an architect?
Rationally, what would make sense? What do architects do? They design, of course. They... create. But those are buzzwords that would deter the admissions crew from accepting your application from the general pool of applicants. You think, biting your lip hard while drumming your pen against the desk.
You drum to the beat of the steps you take when you imagine yourself prancing on the clouds above the skyline. It's a simple, steady beat, but the sound begins to help you drift off to dreamland. You imagine yourself taking handfuls of the white, cotton-like substance from the clouds and tasting them as if they were cotton candy. You even imagine Namjoon standing next to you, laughing. He's shaking his head, unable to imagine to your degree but finding amusement in your fascination.
Wait a minute.
You jerk from your daydreams.
Rationality.
Right. Cloud-walking with Namjoon is far from reality. You need to get back on track. Glancing back at the question, you frown. Isn't architecture about creating? Isn't that CID?
Or maybe it isn't.
Maybe you can play it off that you're not a CID patient looking to go into architecture because you love to create. Maybe you can fabricate a character—a normal character—who wants to go into architecture because... because... because you want to help build buildings more efficiently!
Efficiency, rationality, facts, linearity are the keys!
You just know Namjoon will be proud of you.
Slowly and surely, you begin to chip away at your application. With the help of Namjoon's encouragement during the day matched with your unrelenting determinedness at night, you begin to realize the sheer importance of rationality.
It becomes a small habit of yours to keep conversations short and concise with Namjoon (he knows you enough to understand what you mean without you having to elaborate and create unnecessary metaphors). That way, with the conserved time, you can work swiftly and diligently at home and go to bed at a reasonable time for once. When you wake up in the morning, you're no longer tired. When you slip into your covers during the night, you no longer drop dead-asleep once your head touches your pillow. But even waiting for sleep to fall upon you, you don't feel the urge to lose yourself in your imagination. The more you imagine, the more you think, the less likely you'll fall asleep soon. And you need all the sleep you can get to be re-energized for the morning. So that you'll be yourself when you meet Namjoon and still have enough energy to work on your job application.
Time conserving becomes your passion in a short amount of time (which, funnily enough, makes quite a lot of sense).
Namjoon becomes proud of you, walking with you to the Office of Careers to turn in your application. The admissions crew glare at you, eyeing your red armband from behind their screens. But they accept your application nevertheless. You finally feel free.
From there, you still attend therapy every day. But the time spent in the office grows less and less. You find that when you try to conserve time, you don't have too much to say. For there's always so much more to do.
"Y/N!" Namjoon smiles happily. "How was your day yesterday?" Namjoon asks, sitting on his bean bag chair and gesturing you to sit across from him.
You shake your head to indicate a polite 'No.' "It was decent," you reply. "May I leave early today? They've accepted my application. I'm to work as an architect starting tomorrow. I have to go home and prepare if that's all right with you."
Namjoon looks taken aback but he nods. "Y-Yeah, yes. Of course," he quickly says.
You realize that you've never passed up an offer to spend more time with Namjoon. Feeling a little guilty, you turn to fully face Namjoon. "After work, tomorrow. We can go on a date."
Namjoon cocks his head at you. Before you turn around, he calls your name.
"Yes?" you respond, bouncing on the balls of your feet, ready to dart out of the office to get on with the rest of your day.
"What do you see?" he asks, raising a painfully familiar photograph with shaky hands.
Your eyes widen in recognition. But your face turns cold as your eyes sweep across the picture. The same one that Dr. Lee had held for you nearly seventeen years ago.
Namjoon watches as your eyes turn cloudy for a split second before you shake your head. "What do I see?" you say. "I see clouds. May I go now?"
Namjoon doesn't know what to feel—relief, happiness, a sense of accomplishment? "Wait," he calls to you. "You won't be needing that anymore," he says, pointing at your red armband.
Your eyebrows raise. With an urgent pull, you tug the band off and pocket it. "Oh, finally. Good."
And it's all you say before you head out.
But two seconds later, you pop your head in Namjoon's doorway again. "Hey, I love you, you know," you say. Before Namjoon can tell you he loves you right back, you're gone again.
He's flabbergasted, not knowing how to react.
Surely, you must be going through more inner turmoil than 'Oh, finally. Good.' Possibly you didn't want to go deeper into your emotions for the fear of wasting time. It's been seventeen years since you've first began therapy and you're finally cured. Except you gloss over the fact as if it was nothing.
Peculiar.
Technically not peculiar but normal.
You've finally become normal.
This has been your goal all along; to go on a date with Namjoon. This moment was the reason for your rationality, your unparalleled obsession with productivity. But Namjoon can't sense whether you're actually happy or not.
You laugh at his jokes and you tell him with three curt words that you love him, but it feels almost empty—at least, the way you describe it.
You're even wearing your work clothes, too worried that changing your outfit would take away from the precious time you can spend with your date.
Namjoon does the brunt of the talking, asking meaningful questions and suggesting deeper topics of conversation. You give one-word answers to most or opt to answer with a single sentence (when Namjoon gets lucky). He knows you mean more. He knows you're capable of saying more, but you don't.
You answer questions in rapid succession, for if you spend too much time answering one question, you'll have less time to answer others.
In a way, Namjoon understands you.
It had been his goal, all along, to get you to see how much time creativity could waste.
But he misses that side of you that lit up when he asked a slightly intriguing question. He wants to go back to the times you used to explain your love for him in words. You'd said it felt like walking across the sky. That being in love with him felt like the golden hour. Namjoon had never understood those metaphors to their full extent until now.
Now, he knows exactly what you had been talking about.
Because here, with you, he feels like he's sailing the seven seas. The strong breeze giving him whiplash and a slightly pinkened nose, but a happy feeling nonetheless. It's the only way he can describe how he feels with you right now.
He lets himself go. Lets his mind wander. And his thoughts to run wild.
—masterpost
—masterlist