creativity; gen, onew/everyone, onew/taemin
Title: Creativity
Pairing: Gen, Onew/Everyone, Onew/Taemin
Rating: PG
3757 w.
A/N: thanks to all the people who pushed me to finish this. ;__; i probably would have left it for dead w/o you. ♥ also, becca, thanks for the beta! clings to you!
Jinki created four people in his lifetime, each one different from the next, each one taking something different from Jinki to make themselves real.
When Jinki was six, he made his first friend from crayons and paper. Jonghyun was neon green, with a large, crooked smile and big eyes. He was just a stick figure scribbled on a crinkled piece of construction paper that was torn at the edges.
Jinki thought he was perfect.
He drew Jonghyun a red house with wide windows and a small door. There were yellow flowers below the windows, and only half the sky was blue. Then he drew himself in the picture and made his counterpart hold Jonghyun’s hand.
They were smiling at each other.
The next morning, Jinki woke to find a boy curled up at the foot of his bed, face tucked into his arms. His skin was a sickly pale color, and his breath left him in harsh, ragged gasps that made Jinki think of a panting dog. For a long time, Jinki sat in his bed and stared at the boy, half-convinced he was still dreaming.
Unsure of anything else he could do, Jinki placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Who are you?”
The boy curled further into himself before letting his eyes flutter open and focus on Jinki. He looked even smaller, then, with his eyes open and peering intently at Jinki’s face.
“Who are you?” Jinki asked again. “Are you okay?”
The boy’s small hands shot out and grasped Jinki’s wrist. His fingers were ice cold.
“H-hey,” Jinki protested, trying to pull his arm away. “Don’t do that.”
His grip was unrelenting as he pulled Jinki’s hand to his face and began to nuzzle it. Jinki was at a loss. There was a strange, sick kid in his bed, and he didn't know what to do. Was he supposed to take care of him? A part of him just wanted to scream for his mom to take the kid away, but there was something about the boy that was familiar, and Jinki couldn’t quite figure out why.
He tried to pull his hand away, but the boy refused to let go, his face scrunched up in discontentment. It was like some strange tug-of-war, with Jinki's arm being the rope, and as each second passed by, Jinki felt more and more like the warmth was being leeched off of his skin.
“Who are you?” Jinki repeated, still attempting to tug his wrist away.
The boy’s mouth began moving, forming words that never hit the air. A strange look crossed his face, and he glanced up at Jinki in confusion, as if accusing Jinki of stealing his words.
“I don’t like this,” Jinki whimpered. “Stop it. I’ll call my mom.”
“Jo-Jong-”
Jinki froze, his muscles going slack in the boy’s grip. The boy had the softest voice Jinki had ever heard, softer than even Jinki when he was in school, shy and afraid to speak to any stranger. It was almost melodic, and he wanted to hear more of it. “Jong? Jong what?”
He pressed his fingers against his throat and croaked out, louder, “Jong-Jonghyun.”
“I don’t-” Jinki frowned and looked down at his hand. “I don’t understand.” He glanced around, looking for something to help him get away. He didn't like how cold his hand felt.
“Jonghyun. Jonghyun. Jonghyun. Jonghy-”
“Stop it! Why are you-why-?”
His eyes fell on the drawing hanging above his desk. The colors were faded, and half the drawing was covered by the glare of the sun streaming in through a part in his curtains, but he remembered exactly what it looked like. “Jonghyun.”
The boy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded in excitement. He shook Jinki’s hand enthusiastically. “Jonghyun!”
“You’re… Jonghyun?” Jinki asked. He bit his lip. “How-?”
Jonghyun smiled and rubbed his face against Jinki’s hand. “Jonghyun,” he said in satisfaction.
They didn’t make very much progress until Jinki taught Jonghyun how to speak, but once he'd examined the drawing Jinki never doubted for a moment that Jonghyun was anything but his own creation. His artistic skills hadn’t quite captured it on paper, but Jonghyun was exactly how he had imagined him.
Jinki didn’t know how he created him, but what he did know was that he liked having Jonghyun around. Even with his lack of speech, Jonghyun was still incredibly bright and talented. He was always smiling and cheerful, and it rubbed off on Jinki, who was normally quiet and reserved. Jinki never knew how to interact with people, but for Jonghyun it was innate, and it made him the best friend Jinki could ever imagine having.
He was also imaginary, but plenty of children had imaginary friends, and Jinki never told anyone about him. Jonghyun felt real to him, and that was all that mattered.
For the first few years, having an imaginary friend wasn’t so bad anyway. Jonghyun never had to go home after dinner or leave him during school. He was always there when Jinki wanted to play or if he was sad.
But it didn’t take Jinki long to realize that Jonghyun wasn’t without flaw. His skin was almost always pale and cold. It was only when Jinki held his hand that he darkened and became warm, and the longer Jonghyun went without Jinki’s touch, the less energy and color he had. Sometimes Jinki thought of it like sharing life through the palms of his hands.
Most of the time it didn’t affect Jinki. He was a naturally warm person, and if he was ever cold, all he needed to do was put on a jacket or some gloves. Sometimes, though, he became sick after touching Jonghyun, and other times he became so exhausted he could hardly stand. More than once he refused to touch Jonghyun even when it made him feel like he was a horrible person.
But in the end he didn’t know what would happen to Jonghyun if he stopped touching him, so it was never long that Jonghyun went without his contact.
As he got older, it became harder for him to take care of Jonghyun, who began to steal his energy more and more the older Jinki seemed to get. More than once, Jinki had collapsed during school in exhaustion. His parents had brushed it off as stress, but Jinki knew better.
Then it just became too much. He wanted to be able to talk to Jonghyun in public and not look crazy, to introduce Jonghyun to his parents, to stop getting looks of pity because people thought he didn’t have any friends. He wanted to hold Jonghyun’s hand and not feel tired, and to not touch Jonghyun if he really wanted to, without being afraid that Jonghyun would disappear.
Jinki was fifteen when Jonghyun started to materialize-when people started to see him. It was slow at first, but as more people began to see him, it was as if he’d always been there, filling up the space that had always seemed awkwardly empty. Or maybe it was the space that Jinki always hoped he'd fill.
He’d been glad, at first, to be able to interact with Jonghyun in the real world, but with a physical body and a will of his own, Jonghyun didn’t want to stick around anymore.
Jinki didn’t blame him for it; he’d want to experience life too if he’d been imaginary all that time. But he didn't like the way Jonghyun was suddenly gone, after Jinki had spent nine years devoting his life to him.
Or maybe he just didn't like how Jonghyun had all these new friends that didn’t include him. Jonghyun was supposed to be his friend, wasn't he?
But maybe Jinki wasn’t good enough.
Kibum was an accident. Jinki didn’t know he’d make him; he thought Jonghyun was a one-time thing. If he’d known, he would have more careful. He would have doodled hearts and swirls instead of people.
He was sixteen when he sketched Kibum out on a random page in his chemistry notebook, all full lips, soft eyes, and high cheekbones. Jonghyun had been avoiding him for several days. He denied it when Jinki asked, but Jinki saw the way Jonghyun turned away when he was approaching. So when Jinki pressed the tip of his pencil onto his notebook, he pressed his frustrations down into the thin, crinkled page, tracing a face he'd seen in his dreams. Tracing a face that felt just like Jonghyun.
When he woke up the next day, Kibum was sitting by Jinki's backpack, his hands folded in his lap as he stared at Jinki with a bored expression. Jinki sat up, pulling his sheets up to cover his bare chest, and stared back at Kibum. He probably should have been scared, but he spent nine years waking up to Jonghyun staring at him.
"Are you going to say good morning?" Kibum asked eventually. For several moments, Jinki just stared. "Fine, whatever," Kibum continued, his face darkening. "No manners, I swear."
Jinki shifted uncomfortably. "It's just-- Where did you come from?"
"How rude." A look of great indignation crossed Kibum's face, and he folded his arms with a huff. "Well. Isn't it obvious?"
"No-- I mean. I didn't--" Jinki dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I really don't know. Could you tell me?"
Kibum stared at him with a blank expression, his shoulders slowly slumping. "I-- Okay, so I don't know either." He turned his face away, troubled. "I just, kind of. Woke up here."
Jinki's eyes trailed over Kibum's oddly familiar profile. His eyes were lowered, looking much like Jonghyun when Jinki refused to touch him, and his lower lip stuck out in a pout, the same way Jonghyun would pout when he wanted to hold Jinki's hand. Even the line of his jaw reminded him of Jonghyun, and it was all very unnerving.
That is, until it all hit Jinki like a slap in the face. "Oh," he said, standing. The blankets pooled at his feet, and he tripped over them as he made his way to his backpack.
"Um. Could you put on some clothes?" Kibum asked, staring at the side of his face.
Jinki froze and slowly retracted his head from within his bag. With a quick inspection, he realized he was only wearing boxers. "Oh, yeah." He gave Kibum a nervous smile as he grabbed a t-shirt and hastily tugged it on. "Sorry." He plopped down on the floor and returned to rifling through his bag.
"I hope this has a point," Kibum said as Jinki pulled out a ragged, crinkled notebook.
Jinki nodded as he carefully peeled away the pages stuck together by what he was sure was iodine, from the bluish-purple stain. "I know it's here." He made a strangled noise and slapped the notebook on the floor in front of Kibum, pointing to the page.
Kibum sat up on his knees and bent over to stare. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"
"It's you."
"This is a very poor depiction of me," Kibum said, with an air of indignation, as he reached his fingers out hesitantly and ran them over the page.
Jinki frowned. "I. Well. It's you."
"I believe you." Kibum pulled his fingers away, his head tucked down so that his face was obscured by his bangs. "I guess." He squared his shoulders and looked up at Jinki, his face hard. "But you could have done a better job, okay!"
Kibum was temperamental. He was much like Jonghyun; only rather than feeding off of Jinki's touch, he fed off of Jinki's emotions. He was demanding and bossy, and sometimes Jinki wished Kibum was real just so he could get away from him. It was like a dam building up pressure within him, only Jinki didn't know whether he was going to explode in tears, anger, or spontaneous song.
Kibum always seemed to have a comment for Jinki, regardless of what he was doing. He liked nagging Jinki about the cleanliness of his room and his state of dress, and he took particular delight in sitting inside the shower as Jinki bathed.
But even if Kibum was always complaining about him, and being annoying, and making him emotionally unstable, there was a small part of Jinki that was happy to have another friend. Life without Jonghyun had become boring, and Kibum seemed to fill the spaces that Jonghyun had left behind. At least he was there, brightening what had become a dull life, when Jonghyun was not.
It was unconventional, but it worked, and Jinki actually found himself enjoying Kibum’s company, and even his commentary on Jinki's everyday life.
And then one day Jonghyun came to see him and, unlike everyone else, Jonghyun could see Kibum. He’d wanted Kibum to be as snappish and irritable with Jonghyun as he was with Jinki, but Kibum and Jonghyun clicked in a way that Jinki never had with either of them.
It only took two months for Kibum to materialize. After that, Jinki hardly saw Kibum at all. And even if he never saw them, he knew from the talk during class and in the halls that Kibum and Jonghyun were always together. They were best friends; it didn’t matter that Jinki was the one who created them.
But it should have. Jinki made them to be his friends, not each other’s.
Minho was never supposed to be. The very idea of it made Jinki feel like a horrible person, but he’d sworn to himself that he would never make another person. Not when there was a voice in the back of his head assuring him that, just like his first two, his new creation would eventually leave him.
He was eighteen then, and he’d been forced into art class to satisfy his general education credits. There had been no other option, no matter how many pleading smiles Jinki aimed toward his advisor or how many times he left half-burnt cookies in her mailbox.
But Jinki was determined not to create again. He thought that maybe if he drew something abstract, something definitely non-human, he wouldn’t create another person.
It had been a landscape portrait done in pastel. There had been a soft gray pond sitting on the edge of a dull yellow plain. It was almost entirely devoid of color save for a lone red jacket that floated over the grass.
Minho was probably the tall, dark shadow cast over the surface of the pond. There had been no original object that cast the shadow; Jinki left that to the imagination. But when he thought about it, he realized the shadow looked suspiciously like the shape of a human, and the jacket looked just the right size to fit his human-shaped shadow.
He woke up one morning to find Minho sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at him solemnly. His gaze was more unnerving than Jonghyun or Kibum's had ever been. It was almost blank, yet full of so much emotion that Jinki could always tell what Minho was thinking.
Which came in handy, of course, because Minho was just as quiet as Jinki imagined the picture to be. It was probably because of that quietness that Minho fed off of Jinki’s words. He never spoke, so Jinki filled up the silence with awkward jokes and silly commentary.
Minho would just smile at him, the corners of his lips lifted up in something like amusement. Maybe it was his own private joke, being the only one to hear the words falling off of Jinki’s tongue.
It was easy at first to blame his muteness on a sore throat, but as the weeks passed by, it became more difficult to hide, and people began to assume that Jinki didn’t want to speak to them. It was hard enough for Jinki to try to make friends, and it seemed even worse when he was always lacking something. The irony was kind of painful.
It took only three weeks for Minho to fill out, and by the time it was over, it felt like Jinki had talked enough to fill a dozen books that no one would ever read. When he finally materialized, Minho wasn't quite like Jonghyun and Kibum. Whereas they had spread their wings and immediately left the nest, Minho hesitated. Jinki was sure it was because something in Minho felt too guilty to leave him like they had.
But Minho was his own person too, and by then Jinki finally understood that he couldn't keep holding them back from what they could be, and he could look at Jonghyun and Kibum and see that maybe he hadn't made them to be his friends. Maybe he made them just to be.
Then it kind of made sense how he managed to create three people. It wasn't his intention that mattered at all.
Taemin was the last person he made, and Jinki knew he was the best of all. Jinki loved all of his creations, despite all the pain he’d felt, but Taemin was special.
Jinki was twenty when he decided to make Taemin. Jonghyun and Kibum were traveling abroad, and Minho was studying for his college entrance exams. He hadn’t wanted to make Taemin at first, but he’d been lonely, and Jinki had never learned how to make real friends. He only knew how to make friends.
He was careful, meticulous. He spent half of his paycheck on a large canvas and a set of pencils and paints. Jinki wasn't an artist, but Taemin was going to be perfect. He needed to be perfect.
It took him three days to finish, two of which consisted of Jinki staring at a blank canvas in despair. But when he finally got around to pressing his pencil against the canvas, it seemed to just come to him, the way Taemin’s eyes were large and curved, arched into his smile and bright with happiness, and the way his lips filled out and parted, and the way his hair seemed to fluff out, unruly and soft, and the way his face shone in delight as he watched a butterfly flutter in his palm. By the time Jinki dropped his pencil and picked up his paints, Jinki could already see the outcome.
When he was done, he sat down and stared at his creation, drawing his gaze over every line and curve of Taemin's soft face. And then, like he had with his other creations, he curled up in his bed with exhaustion, nervousness crawling up and down his spine, and fell asleep, expecting Taemin to be there staring at him when he awoke.
But he wasn't. And he wasn't there the next day, either. Or the day after that.
In fact, Jinki counted the number of times he woke up expecting Taemin to be there only to be met with disappointment. Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight agonizing mornings, in which Jinki pressed his head back against the pillow and obstinately refused to look, counting numbers in his head until he gathered the courage to open his eyes.
But Taemin was never there.
He didn't know how to make it work. It had always just happened with the others. There wasn't a magic word or special paints or anything, so Jinki didn't understand why Taemin wasn't showing up. Every day, after he got off work, he would sit in front of the painting and stare at it intensely, some part of him hoping that if he sharpened his gaze enough, it would make Taemin real.
It was like this that Kibum and Jonghyun found him when they returned from their travels, burdened with suitcases and bags of souvenirs.
"What are you even doing?" Kibum asked, still as temperamental as ever. He dropped his suitcases and approached Jinki. "You haven't gone into a coma, have you?"
Jonghyun slid up beside him and turned his gaze to the painting before glancing back at Jinki, who sat quietly on his chair, his chin resting on his hand. "Who's this?"
"Taemin," Jinki said, shoulders slumping. "Why--Why isn't he real yet? It never took this long with you."
"When did you finish him?" Kibum asked, reaching out to touch the lines of the painting carefully.
"Thirty-eight days ago."
Jonghyun stared at Taemin for a long moment before he sighed and crouched down beside Jinki, placing his hand on Jinki's thigh. He looked extremely grown up then, and for Jinki it was like facing a different person, not the Jonghyun he sketched onto construction paper fourteen years ago. "Well, what are you missing?"
Jinki lifted his head and stared at him. "Missing?"
"When you made us," Jonghyun said, eyes soft, "you had something to spare, didn't you? Warmth, feelings, words. But what does Taemin need from you to be real?"
So as Kibum and Jonghyun unpacked into Jinki's apartment, Jinki sat, staring at the painting, and pondered what he could possibly have left to give.
It came to him later that night when he heard the sound of keys opening the door. As quiet as ever, Minho slipped inside his apartment, face weary as he dropped his backpack by the door and made his way into the kitchen. The sound of soft, soothing laughter hit his ears then, and Jinki stood up and followed him.
In the kitchen, Kibum was waving chopsticks at them angrily, watching the way Jonghyun twirled Minho around in delight. His hand was on his hip in an authoritative manner, but the way he barked, "Cut it out!" reminded Jinki of a lazy, affectionate kitten.
Minho was smiling as he reached up and grabbed Jonghyun's arms, stopping him from moving as he inquired quietly about the details of their trip. Jonghyun looked over at Jinki, his face lit up with a smile, and asked, "Are you coming in, hyung? We'll tell you both all about it."
As he sat down at the table, he felt a sudden burst of pride at what he had created. They were his, and they loved him, and he loved them back just as much.
He woke up the next morning, the thirty-ninth day, to find a beautiful, gangly teenager with large, curved eyes and a soft smile curled up next to him in bed, watching him silently.
"Hi," Taemin breathed when Jinki opened his eyes. And then he kissed him and said, "Good morning, Jinki. It's nice to finally meet you."
Jinki was twenty when he realized that he'd never really been a complete person. It was only then, surrounded by four people who loved him, that he realized what he had been missing all along.
Pairing: Gen, Onew/Everyone, Onew/Taemin
Rating: PG
3757 w.
A/N: thanks to all the people who pushed me to finish this. ;__; i probably would have left it for dead w/o you. ♥ also, becca, thanks for the beta! clings to you!
Jinki created four people in his lifetime, each one different from the next, each one taking something different from Jinki to make themselves real.
When Jinki was six, he made his first friend from crayons and paper. Jonghyun was neon green, with a large, crooked smile and big eyes. He was just a stick figure scribbled on a crinkled piece of construction paper that was torn at the edges.
Jinki thought he was perfect.
He drew Jonghyun a red house with wide windows and a small door. There were yellow flowers below the windows, and only half the sky was blue. Then he drew himself in the picture and made his counterpart hold Jonghyun’s hand.
They were smiling at each other.
The next morning, Jinki woke to find a boy curled up at the foot of his bed, face tucked into his arms. His skin was a sickly pale color, and his breath left him in harsh, ragged gasps that made Jinki think of a panting dog. For a long time, Jinki sat in his bed and stared at the boy, half-convinced he was still dreaming.
Unsure of anything else he could do, Jinki placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Who are you?”
The boy curled further into himself before letting his eyes flutter open and focus on Jinki. He looked even smaller, then, with his eyes open and peering intently at Jinki’s face.
“Who are you?” Jinki asked again. “Are you okay?”
The boy’s small hands shot out and grasped Jinki’s wrist. His fingers were ice cold.
“H-hey,” Jinki protested, trying to pull his arm away. “Don’t do that.”
His grip was unrelenting as he pulled Jinki’s hand to his face and began to nuzzle it. Jinki was at a loss. There was a strange, sick kid in his bed, and he didn't know what to do. Was he supposed to take care of him? A part of him just wanted to scream for his mom to take the kid away, but there was something about the boy that was familiar, and Jinki couldn’t quite figure out why.
He tried to pull his hand away, but the boy refused to let go, his face scrunched up in discontentment. It was like some strange tug-of-war, with Jinki's arm being the rope, and as each second passed by, Jinki felt more and more like the warmth was being leeched off of his skin.
“Who are you?” Jinki repeated, still attempting to tug his wrist away.
The boy’s mouth began moving, forming words that never hit the air. A strange look crossed his face, and he glanced up at Jinki in confusion, as if accusing Jinki of stealing his words.
“I don’t like this,” Jinki whimpered. “Stop it. I’ll call my mom.”
“Jo-Jong-”
Jinki froze, his muscles going slack in the boy’s grip. The boy had the softest voice Jinki had ever heard, softer than even Jinki when he was in school, shy and afraid to speak to any stranger. It was almost melodic, and he wanted to hear more of it. “Jong? Jong what?”
He pressed his fingers against his throat and croaked out, louder, “Jong-Jonghyun.”
“I don’t-” Jinki frowned and looked down at his hand. “I don’t understand.” He glanced around, looking for something to help him get away. He didn't like how cold his hand felt.
“Jonghyun. Jonghyun. Jonghyun. Jonghy-”
“Stop it! Why are you-why-?”
His eyes fell on the drawing hanging above his desk. The colors were faded, and half the drawing was covered by the glare of the sun streaming in through a part in his curtains, but he remembered exactly what it looked like. “Jonghyun.”
The boy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded in excitement. He shook Jinki’s hand enthusiastically. “Jonghyun!”
“You’re… Jonghyun?” Jinki asked. He bit his lip. “How-?”
Jonghyun smiled and rubbed his face against Jinki’s hand. “Jonghyun,” he said in satisfaction.
They didn’t make very much progress until Jinki taught Jonghyun how to speak, but once he'd examined the drawing Jinki never doubted for a moment that Jonghyun was anything but his own creation. His artistic skills hadn’t quite captured it on paper, but Jonghyun was exactly how he had imagined him.
Jinki didn’t know how he created him, but what he did know was that he liked having Jonghyun around. Even with his lack of speech, Jonghyun was still incredibly bright and talented. He was always smiling and cheerful, and it rubbed off on Jinki, who was normally quiet and reserved. Jinki never knew how to interact with people, but for Jonghyun it was innate, and it made him the best friend Jinki could ever imagine having.
He was also imaginary, but plenty of children had imaginary friends, and Jinki never told anyone about him. Jonghyun felt real to him, and that was all that mattered.
For the first few years, having an imaginary friend wasn’t so bad anyway. Jonghyun never had to go home after dinner or leave him during school. He was always there when Jinki wanted to play or if he was sad.
But it didn’t take Jinki long to realize that Jonghyun wasn’t without flaw. His skin was almost always pale and cold. It was only when Jinki held his hand that he darkened and became warm, and the longer Jonghyun went without Jinki’s touch, the less energy and color he had. Sometimes Jinki thought of it like sharing life through the palms of his hands.
Most of the time it didn’t affect Jinki. He was a naturally warm person, and if he was ever cold, all he needed to do was put on a jacket or some gloves. Sometimes, though, he became sick after touching Jonghyun, and other times he became so exhausted he could hardly stand. More than once he refused to touch Jonghyun even when it made him feel like he was a horrible person.
But in the end he didn’t know what would happen to Jonghyun if he stopped touching him, so it was never long that Jonghyun went without his contact.
As he got older, it became harder for him to take care of Jonghyun, who began to steal his energy more and more the older Jinki seemed to get. More than once, Jinki had collapsed during school in exhaustion. His parents had brushed it off as stress, but Jinki knew better.
Then it just became too much. He wanted to be able to talk to Jonghyun in public and not look crazy, to introduce Jonghyun to his parents, to stop getting looks of pity because people thought he didn’t have any friends. He wanted to hold Jonghyun’s hand and not feel tired, and to not touch Jonghyun if he really wanted to, without being afraid that Jonghyun would disappear.
Jinki was fifteen when Jonghyun started to materialize-when people started to see him. It was slow at first, but as more people began to see him, it was as if he’d always been there, filling up the space that had always seemed awkwardly empty. Or maybe it was the space that Jinki always hoped he'd fill.
He’d been glad, at first, to be able to interact with Jonghyun in the real world, but with a physical body and a will of his own, Jonghyun didn’t want to stick around anymore.
Jinki didn’t blame him for it; he’d want to experience life too if he’d been imaginary all that time. But he didn't like the way Jonghyun was suddenly gone, after Jinki had spent nine years devoting his life to him.
Or maybe he just didn't like how Jonghyun had all these new friends that didn’t include him. Jonghyun was supposed to be his friend, wasn't he?
But maybe Jinki wasn’t good enough.
Kibum was an accident. Jinki didn’t know he’d make him; he thought Jonghyun was a one-time thing. If he’d known, he would have more careful. He would have doodled hearts and swirls instead of people.
He was sixteen when he sketched Kibum out on a random page in his chemistry notebook, all full lips, soft eyes, and high cheekbones. Jonghyun had been avoiding him for several days. He denied it when Jinki asked, but Jinki saw the way Jonghyun turned away when he was approaching. So when Jinki pressed the tip of his pencil onto his notebook, he pressed his frustrations down into the thin, crinkled page, tracing a face he'd seen in his dreams. Tracing a face that felt just like Jonghyun.
When he woke up the next day, Kibum was sitting by Jinki's backpack, his hands folded in his lap as he stared at Jinki with a bored expression. Jinki sat up, pulling his sheets up to cover his bare chest, and stared back at Kibum. He probably should have been scared, but he spent nine years waking up to Jonghyun staring at him.
"Are you going to say good morning?" Kibum asked eventually. For several moments, Jinki just stared. "Fine, whatever," Kibum continued, his face darkening. "No manners, I swear."
Jinki shifted uncomfortably. "It's just-- Where did you come from?"
"How rude." A look of great indignation crossed Kibum's face, and he folded his arms with a huff. "Well. Isn't it obvious?"
"No-- I mean. I didn't--" Jinki dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I really don't know. Could you tell me?"
Kibum stared at him with a blank expression, his shoulders slowly slumping. "I-- Okay, so I don't know either." He turned his face away, troubled. "I just, kind of. Woke up here."
Jinki's eyes trailed over Kibum's oddly familiar profile. His eyes were lowered, looking much like Jonghyun when Jinki refused to touch him, and his lower lip stuck out in a pout, the same way Jonghyun would pout when he wanted to hold Jinki's hand. Even the line of his jaw reminded him of Jonghyun, and it was all very unnerving.
That is, until it all hit Jinki like a slap in the face. "Oh," he said, standing. The blankets pooled at his feet, and he tripped over them as he made his way to his backpack.
"Um. Could you put on some clothes?" Kibum asked, staring at the side of his face.
Jinki froze and slowly retracted his head from within his bag. With a quick inspection, he realized he was only wearing boxers. "Oh, yeah." He gave Kibum a nervous smile as he grabbed a t-shirt and hastily tugged it on. "Sorry." He plopped down on the floor and returned to rifling through his bag.
"I hope this has a point," Kibum said as Jinki pulled out a ragged, crinkled notebook.
Jinki nodded as he carefully peeled away the pages stuck together by what he was sure was iodine, from the bluish-purple stain. "I know it's here." He made a strangled noise and slapped the notebook on the floor in front of Kibum, pointing to the page.
Kibum sat up on his knees and bent over to stare. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"
"It's you."
"This is a very poor depiction of me," Kibum said, with an air of indignation, as he reached his fingers out hesitantly and ran them over the page.
Jinki frowned. "I. Well. It's you."
"I believe you." Kibum pulled his fingers away, his head tucked down so that his face was obscured by his bangs. "I guess." He squared his shoulders and looked up at Jinki, his face hard. "But you could have done a better job, okay!"
Kibum was temperamental. He was much like Jonghyun; only rather than feeding off of Jinki's touch, he fed off of Jinki's emotions. He was demanding and bossy, and sometimes Jinki wished Kibum was real just so he could get away from him. It was like a dam building up pressure within him, only Jinki didn't know whether he was going to explode in tears, anger, or spontaneous song.
Kibum always seemed to have a comment for Jinki, regardless of what he was doing. He liked nagging Jinki about the cleanliness of his room and his state of dress, and he took particular delight in sitting inside the shower as Jinki bathed.
But even if Kibum was always complaining about him, and being annoying, and making him emotionally unstable, there was a small part of Jinki that was happy to have another friend. Life without Jonghyun had become boring, and Kibum seemed to fill the spaces that Jonghyun had left behind. At least he was there, brightening what had become a dull life, when Jonghyun was not.
It was unconventional, but it worked, and Jinki actually found himself enjoying Kibum’s company, and even his commentary on Jinki's everyday life.
And then one day Jonghyun came to see him and, unlike everyone else, Jonghyun could see Kibum. He’d wanted Kibum to be as snappish and irritable with Jonghyun as he was with Jinki, but Kibum and Jonghyun clicked in a way that Jinki never had with either of them.
It only took two months for Kibum to materialize. After that, Jinki hardly saw Kibum at all. And even if he never saw them, he knew from the talk during class and in the halls that Kibum and Jonghyun were always together. They were best friends; it didn’t matter that Jinki was the one who created them.
But it should have. Jinki made them to be his friends, not each other’s.
Minho was never supposed to be. The very idea of it made Jinki feel like a horrible person, but he’d sworn to himself that he would never make another person. Not when there was a voice in the back of his head assuring him that, just like his first two, his new creation would eventually leave him.
He was eighteen then, and he’d been forced into art class to satisfy his general education credits. There had been no other option, no matter how many pleading smiles Jinki aimed toward his advisor or how many times he left half-burnt cookies in her mailbox.
But Jinki was determined not to create again. He thought that maybe if he drew something abstract, something definitely non-human, he wouldn’t create another person.
It had been a landscape portrait done in pastel. There had been a soft gray pond sitting on the edge of a dull yellow plain. It was almost entirely devoid of color save for a lone red jacket that floated over the grass.
Minho was probably the tall, dark shadow cast over the surface of the pond. There had been no original object that cast the shadow; Jinki left that to the imagination. But when he thought about it, he realized the shadow looked suspiciously like the shape of a human, and the jacket looked just the right size to fit his human-shaped shadow.
He woke up one morning to find Minho sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at him solemnly. His gaze was more unnerving than Jonghyun or Kibum's had ever been. It was almost blank, yet full of so much emotion that Jinki could always tell what Minho was thinking.
Which came in handy, of course, because Minho was just as quiet as Jinki imagined the picture to be. It was probably because of that quietness that Minho fed off of Jinki’s words. He never spoke, so Jinki filled up the silence with awkward jokes and silly commentary.
Minho would just smile at him, the corners of his lips lifted up in something like amusement. Maybe it was his own private joke, being the only one to hear the words falling off of Jinki’s tongue.
It was easy at first to blame his muteness on a sore throat, but as the weeks passed by, it became more difficult to hide, and people began to assume that Jinki didn’t want to speak to them. It was hard enough for Jinki to try to make friends, and it seemed even worse when he was always lacking something. The irony was kind of painful.
It took only three weeks for Minho to fill out, and by the time it was over, it felt like Jinki had talked enough to fill a dozen books that no one would ever read. When he finally materialized, Minho wasn't quite like Jonghyun and Kibum. Whereas they had spread their wings and immediately left the nest, Minho hesitated. Jinki was sure it was because something in Minho felt too guilty to leave him like they had.
But Minho was his own person too, and by then Jinki finally understood that he couldn't keep holding them back from what they could be, and he could look at Jonghyun and Kibum and see that maybe he hadn't made them to be his friends. Maybe he made them just to be.
Then it kind of made sense how he managed to create three people. It wasn't his intention that mattered at all.
Taemin was the last person he made, and Jinki knew he was the best of all. Jinki loved all of his creations, despite all the pain he’d felt, but Taemin was special.
Jinki was twenty when he decided to make Taemin. Jonghyun and Kibum were traveling abroad, and Minho was studying for his college entrance exams. He hadn’t wanted to make Taemin at first, but he’d been lonely, and Jinki had never learned how to make real friends. He only knew how to make friends.
He was careful, meticulous. He spent half of his paycheck on a large canvas and a set of pencils and paints. Jinki wasn't an artist, but Taemin was going to be perfect. He needed to be perfect.
It took him three days to finish, two of which consisted of Jinki staring at a blank canvas in despair. But when he finally got around to pressing his pencil against the canvas, it seemed to just come to him, the way Taemin’s eyes were large and curved, arched into his smile and bright with happiness, and the way his lips filled out and parted, and the way his hair seemed to fluff out, unruly and soft, and the way his face shone in delight as he watched a butterfly flutter in his palm. By the time Jinki dropped his pencil and picked up his paints, Jinki could already see the outcome.
When he was done, he sat down and stared at his creation, drawing his gaze over every line and curve of Taemin's soft face. And then, like he had with his other creations, he curled up in his bed with exhaustion, nervousness crawling up and down his spine, and fell asleep, expecting Taemin to be there staring at him when he awoke.
But he wasn't. And he wasn't there the next day, either. Or the day after that.
In fact, Jinki counted the number of times he woke up expecting Taemin to be there only to be met with disappointment. Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight agonizing mornings, in which Jinki pressed his head back against the pillow and obstinately refused to look, counting numbers in his head until he gathered the courage to open his eyes.
But Taemin was never there.
He didn't know how to make it work. It had always just happened with the others. There wasn't a magic word or special paints or anything, so Jinki didn't understand why Taemin wasn't showing up. Every day, after he got off work, he would sit in front of the painting and stare at it intensely, some part of him hoping that if he sharpened his gaze enough, it would make Taemin real.
It was like this that Kibum and Jonghyun found him when they returned from their travels, burdened with suitcases and bags of souvenirs.
"What are you even doing?" Kibum asked, still as temperamental as ever. He dropped his suitcases and approached Jinki. "You haven't gone into a coma, have you?"
Jonghyun slid up beside him and turned his gaze to the painting before glancing back at Jinki, who sat quietly on his chair, his chin resting on his hand. "Who's this?"
"Taemin," Jinki said, shoulders slumping. "Why--Why isn't he real yet? It never took this long with you."
"When did you finish him?" Kibum asked, reaching out to touch the lines of the painting carefully.
"Thirty-eight days ago."
Jonghyun stared at Taemin for a long moment before he sighed and crouched down beside Jinki, placing his hand on Jinki's thigh. He looked extremely grown up then, and for Jinki it was like facing a different person, not the Jonghyun he sketched onto construction paper fourteen years ago. "Well, what are you missing?"
Jinki lifted his head and stared at him. "Missing?"
"When you made us," Jonghyun said, eyes soft, "you had something to spare, didn't you? Warmth, feelings, words. But what does Taemin need from you to be real?"
So as Kibum and Jonghyun unpacked into Jinki's apartment, Jinki sat, staring at the painting, and pondered what he could possibly have left to give.
It came to him later that night when he heard the sound of keys opening the door. As quiet as ever, Minho slipped inside his apartment, face weary as he dropped his backpack by the door and made his way into the kitchen. The sound of soft, soothing laughter hit his ears then, and Jinki stood up and followed him.
In the kitchen, Kibum was waving chopsticks at them angrily, watching the way Jonghyun twirled Minho around in delight. His hand was on his hip in an authoritative manner, but the way he barked, "Cut it out!" reminded Jinki of a lazy, affectionate kitten.
Minho was smiling as he reached up and grabbed Jonghyun's arms, stopping him from moving as he inquired quietly about the details of their trip. Jonghyun looked over at Jinki, his face lit up with a smile, and asked, "Are you coming in, hyung? We'll tell you both all about it."
As he sat down at the table, he felt a sudden burst of pride at what he had created. They were his, and they loved him, and he loved them back just as much.
He woke up the next morning, the thirty-ninth day, to find a beautiful, gangly teenager with large, curved eyes and a soft smile curled up next to him in bed, watching him silently.
"Hi," Taemin breathed when Jinki opened his eyes. And then he kissed him and said, "Good morning, Jinki. It's nice to finally meet you."
Jinki was twenty when he realized that he'd never really been a complete person. It was only then, surrounded by four people who loved him, that he realized what he had been missing all along.