fairytale aspirations

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The snap and the flashy whoosh that follows as a Polaroid camera does its job is the most satisfying sound Luhan has ever heard. It’s a marker of his hard work, evidence of him having acquired a prize—and the prize right now is Kim Jongin, no more than three metres away from him in the heart of Seoul’s busiest shopping district.  He gathers the photo as it exits the camera, the smooth surface warm against his fingertips. Luhan isn’t patient enough to put it away and observe it later—his doe-eyes gleam in pride at the sight that greets him, that despite the brilliant glare of the sun that obscures about half the frame, the slowly-disappearing posterior of the one and only Kim Jongin remains captured in all its glory for Luhan to worship in the privacy of his bedroom at a later time.

Along with its companions, of course; the plethora of other no doubt very flattering images of his beloved.

His shoes tap a hurried rhythm against the asphalt as he rushes to keep up with his unsuspecting target—what’s Jongin here for today, Luhan casually wonders, his orbs attached to the plaid design of the taller male’s shirt. That’s the third day in a row Jongin’s chosen to wear plaid—a slender finger floats to Luhan’s lips as he contemplates it—maybe he has a thing for plaid.  That being said, somehow plaid fits Jongin exceedingly well, an unexpected match if you will. It’s a combination that seems so bright and bold on the surface, something that begs for attention and makes a statement—just like Jongin who is extraverted and humorous. Yet it’s so … ordinary; it matches with everything and it’s so everyday, just like Jongin, the stereotypical neighbourhood boy.

--“Hey! Hey you!”

The indignant greeting is what drags the honey-blonde back to reality.

“I—oh, right …” a momentary frisson of embarrassment shudders through his slender frame as he realises, belatedly, that he spent several minutes gazing into the distance and consequently rendered an old lady in a wheelchair unable to move forward.

Luhan vows to return tomorrow—though he doesn’t need to. His legs will bring him here anyway, seemingly of their own accord. His dreams will be of Jongin anyway and he won’t be able to resist the temptation to see him—because there’s something different, something breathtaking on a different scale in seeing Jongin alive and moving and in front of him. It generates this … this spark in Luhan because suddenly he can see Jongin’s vivid laugh and he can hear it simultaneously whilst smelling his shampoo mixing with the creamy scent of his soap and that unique caramel skin of his that’s always several shades off in his dreams—

And he can pick all of this out despite the numerous other distractions people milling around him.

Dreaming about Jongin isn’t the same as seeing him. Dreaming will never be good enough. Luhan always needs to see him, face to face—in reality—in front of him.

 ---

When Luhan is in his bedroom, he’s transported to a safe haven of only Jongin and himself. There’s nothing but pictures of him on the wall or little mementoes of his that Luhan has painstakingly collected over the years—a patch of fabric from his shirt that he caught on a nail in a shop once; a few strands of his hair that he managed to pick off his coat (which took an extreme amount of effort); one of his shoelaces.

Sometimes Luhan stares at the walls—just stares—and smiles when he feels like a photo smiles back at him. It’s the most gratifying feeling in the world, like he’s being appreciated for his hard work.

He wishes it filled every moment of his life—that in every second of the day he could see Jongin’s smile beaming at him. He wants to trail his fingers across Jongin's skin, weave them through his hair, trace them across his cheekbones and he wants Jongin to reciprocate the actions.

Prince Charming is a coveted man, transcribed out of fiction and into the dream male that any girl would give her right arm to find—Luhan is no exception … or maybe he is but only in that he isn’t a girl. He looks for Prince Charming as well, that nice man that everyone unquestionably admires and considers the epitome of perfection and he thinks he’s found it in Kim Jongin. It’s not so much that he wants Prince Charming when he spares it a thought—it’s more so that he wants to be Prince Charming’s.  

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Sometimes Luhan is floored by guilt and shame alike and it’s rarely because he’s unemployed (“and yet you somehow scrounged enough money to dye your hair blonde, Luhan?” His mother’s critical words return to him) and about as attractive as a mushroom or so he thinks, even though occasionally he’s told otherwise. Occasionally. Sparingly. Probably unlike Jongin who likely has girls offering to shine his shoes with their mouths if it means earning his love.

But no—that’s not what’s important. Luhan is well aware in some cobwebbed corner of his heart that his actions are wrong, that this is a criminal offense—and it doesn’t matter if he’s gotten away with it before, if he’d tried and tested it and knows it works. He can smother it under justifications and reasons and excuses as much as he wants to but it’s still wrong, wrong, wrong.

Unemployed, unattractive and a criminal; Luhan has swallowed reality whole and accepted his fate as an unsuccessful stalker or as he rationalises it, a man on the search for prince charming.

If it makes it any better, he has a dream now.

No, that doesn’t make it any better.

Luhan’s not really sure of the feeling anymore, perhaps having become desensitised from chasing one too many men at bars and libraries and through the streets of Seoul, but there’s something different about doing the same to Jongin. Only Jongin has taken him to this point. His world began with Jongin—it may as well have been a heap of ashes before but something in him has raised its head and is begging for life. It’s akin to watching something old and faint grow vibrant and feisty—something that has long since given up on moving and talking now return to those youthful gestures. Luhan has glanced at lots of men because they’re interesting—but not quite enough for his interest to bloom into passion and attachment and suddenly his feet are pulling him forward insistently and the rest of the world shrivel; and that’s why Jongin is different. Jongin is so innocent and trusting, like a ing child and he doesn’t even know something is wrong.

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Jongin proves him right two days later when Luhan is half-dead and painfully scrambles about on his uncoordinated knees at coincidentally the same street Jongin happens to live on. It’s one of the first times he’s been able to afford alcohol and Luhan swears, one moment he was rifling through his vast collection of photos which somehow lead to several mouthfuls of alcohol and in moments his world spun faster than the blades of a helicopter. Suddenly he can barely stand upright, barely force words out of his dried lips or form them with his dysfunctional tongue. His pants are a mess, ridden with dust and grime and liquid that could be vomit or rain or tears (or god forbid, urine), though they weren’t quite pristine to begin with, having never seen the light of a washing machine since their purchase.

And then Jongin comes along, unsuspecting as usual until his eyes land on Luhan; pitiful, on-the-verge-of-collapse Luhan who has spent the last night in a bus shelter and the last fourteen hours without food. And even though Luhan has been clinging onto Jongin like a shadow for five months, even though Luhan has spent these five months dedicatedly constructing his Jongin shrine, even though he’s drunk, he’s attired in such terrible clothing and blares with the apparentness of a neon banner crossed that he’s an absolute mess, Jongin kneels beside him and turns his concerned eyes towards Luhan.

“Hey, are you alright?”

The lump in Luhan’s throat nearly crushes his windpipe. Any and all explanations—or answers, for that matter—die on his lips, which are drier than an autumn leaf. Careful hands, trusting hands grasp his shoulders and manoeuvre his arms. Jongin supports Luhan—maybe in more than just the physical sense—and guides him away from his spot on the pavement under a dim, insect-laden streetlamp …

It’s warm in Jongin’s arms, warmer than the feel of freshly-developed photographs against his fingers, warmer than the feel of the summer breeze against his face.

Jongin really is prince charming; in his mind’s eye Luhan can see it all—the white horse, the sword and the splendid, fur-trimmed clothing.

---

When consciousness pries his eyes open, he finds himself in an overstuffed armchair, his cheek awkwardly pressed into his shoulder but to his relief his surroundings are well-lit and no longer smell like the interior of a garbage processing unit. The misty fragrance of tea entices him as it combines with the scent of vanilla that lingers in this place—and the scent of Jongin that he adores, wafts about as well. His fingers itch for the polaroid camera, if only to capture another moment for him to admire later.

“Hey—uh, I thought you might need some help but you passed out when I asked you if you did—” The words make no sense in Luhan’s mind possibly because he’s too busy trying to process everything his senses are being smothered by. The physical distance between himself and Jongin is small enough for the honeyblonde to smell the taller male’s cologne and yet the mental and the social distance are unimaginably massive. Luhan is and always will be the pitiful stranger Jongin decided to help out of the good of his heart.

“Oh. Right. I’m great … I mean, well, maybe not great but I’m fine. Yeah. I’m fine,” Luhan embarrassedly stumbles over the words in his euphoria before lifting his waif-like frame off the armchair and somehow managing to bow in thanks to Jongin. He holds his coat tighter around his frame and staggers towards the door before Jongin can even respond, desperate to leave because he’s such a mess and he doesn’t want Jongin to see him like this … in this deranged, defeated state. He wants Jongin to look at him the way Luhan has always looked at him—with awe.

And just as he heaves his sorry self forward, three sharp knocks on the door echo through the tastefully-decorated living room.

“That must be Sehun-ah—my boyfriend,” Jongin explains as he heads for the door.

All at once the honeyblonde feels his world spin and crash and burn, as it someone threw it in an incinerator inside a blender as a cruel joke. His windpipe implodes and his eyelids struggle to hold back the weight of his tears as he blindly pushes past the figure at the doorway and rushes down the street. His shoes pound harder than his heart as he makes his way through streets whose names blur through tears and vanish in his memory. He collapses only when he’s certain he’s out of earshot and view and when he’s free, he sobs harder than he ever has in all of his sad, sad existence. The pictures tucked away in the pockets of his coat spill and fan out on the uneven road, some ruined as the water from puddles soak through them and others carried away by the wind.  

He doesn’t know how long he spends wailing in his foetal position in this little alleyway but as his tears slowly relent to pave way for hiccups and shivers, he processes one thought—it’s not fair. 

Luhan’s dainty fingers grasp one photo from the mass that accompany him on the ground—how lucky he is, it features Jongin in plaid and in a smile radiant enough to challenge the sun; just how Luhan likes seeing him.

—his world dies again

because Jongin is someone else’s Prince Charming.

And that’s what kills his world.

Luhan can’t pick himself up and dust himself off—there aren’t other fish in the sea, they aren’t Jongin and they don’t stir the same sentiments in him. They won’t resurrect his dead world; they won’t destroy it the way Jongin has. Luhan knows already—however prematurely—that he will never be as heartbroken as he is now, that nobody will be able to make his world wither and shred itself the way Jongin did with six nonchalant words.

Slowly, despite the water that coats the smooth surface of the photograph in his grasp, Luhan presses a kiss to approximately where Jongin’s mouth is in the picture. It’s more than a kiss to a picture; it’s saying hello to a dear moment captured in time, a moment he can’t return to and a heart he can’t be connected with because he doesn't have a place in it. There’s something so ersely intimate about it—something others would say was reserved for Sehun but Luhan wishes were his. He presses the photo to the fabric of his shirt, under his coat, on the left side where he can feel the sporadic thump of his excited heart against flesh as tears his soft features. He only has one wish.

If only Jongin’s world had begun and ended with him.

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A/N: Something I'd like to add--I know it says Luhan has been stalking him for 5 months and therefore he should already know about Sehun but think of it as a ... uh, thing like, Kai's only been dating him for a month or something. And that maybe they're the sort of couple who's not very into PDA? omfg massive plothole, my apologies ;;! I didn't want to do something like Luhan stumbles upon them kissing, I wanted him to be helped by Jongin :<