#chuanchen

The Dream Villas. Chuanchen hates the Dream Villas. Though he’s thankful to at least have a roof over his head, the dilapidated building serves as a constant reminder of just how far he’s fallen. He lives here, in room 201, but he’s barely at the apartment these days. His name is on the lease, but more often than not he finds himself waking up elsewhere. Somewhere that the sink doesn’t leak, and the wall by the window isn’t damp. Working two jobs means that he leaves early and returns late, and it’s often more convenient to find somewhere else to lay his head.

And so he doesn’t even realize what he’s done until he returns for the first time in a few days. The door is never locked. Anything with any value is in his van, so he doesn’t see a need. Except this time, it is. When he reaches the room, he stands outside, rattling the handle in an attempt to gain entry, giving up after a few minutes of futile attempt with a swift kick. Clearly he’d locked it when he’d left without thinking, and for the life of him he couldn’t think where the keys could be. They clearly aren’t in his pocket, he knows that, but he still finds himself patting himself down for them anyway. “Of course, that would be too easy” He mumbles, ignoring the new throbbing pain in his foot.

The only option seems to be forcig entry; breaking into his own apartment. Two options. Pick the lock (Probably best ot to ask where he acquired that skill) or climb through the open window. Both impossible from out here ad without the proper tools. Wandering over to another residents door he knocks confidently. In truth he’s never really paid much attention to the other people in this building. If they’d told him their names he’d forgotten. But from what he can recall they seem harmless enough. “202, are you in there? Hello?” He calls out, knuckles rattling against wood. “It’s Chuanchen from next door. Open up.”

The universe has a rather twisted sense of humour.

Or perhaps it just enjoys poetic justice. Chuanchen really isn’t sure. Whatever the case it seems to revel in constantly reminding him of what might have been, in showing him the prizes that he could have won if only he’d been a little smarter. Living in the only apartment that he can afford which just so happens to be in the shadow of Wonyang’s grandest accommodation, forced to work in a bar just a few streets away from the empty husk of his own failed attempt. Pouring drinks for others that cost more than his entire food budget for the week.

From what he sees and what he hears, the Calypso isn’t doing much better. Most months they barely seem to take in enough to make ends meet. The faces remain the same, a handful of familiar regulars who keep the place afloat, but new ones are sparse. Not that Chuanchen really cares. They make enough to pay him, and that’s all that really matters. Besides, it’s far easier to charm the old guard into tipping than building a rapport with a horde of newcomers.

It’s as he’s stood behind the dimly lit bar wiping down glasses that the door creaks open and a face more familiar than most crosses the threshold. Taeyong has done a lot for him over the years. In fact, he’s one of the only people to see the depths to which Chuanchen fell, and the one who enabled him to pull himself back from the brink of ruin. Things have been ever so slightly more tense between them since he was unceremoniously (in his eyes at least) forced to stand on his own two feet, but there’s a level of respect and platonic affection that remains undeniable.

“Long time no see, old man. What brings you down from the ivory tower?” He calls out over the gentle hum of life permeating the room, focus returning to the highball glass that he’d previously been drying. “And what are you having? First round is on the house.”

Andy Warhol once said that in the future, everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes. Though it may have seemed like a preposterous statement at the time, it edges closer to becoming the truth every day. Finding your way into the spotlight is no longer an insurmountable task; in fact, with the right strategy it barely requires any effort at all. Skill, talent or ability are all helpful but ultimately worthless. After all, it’s not about what you know, but about who you know.

Like a moth to a flame, Chuanchen is drawn to people of privilege. One day soon he’ll try to get too close and his wings will risk catching alight, but for now he flutters on the periphery. Except these days he’s more like a leech than a moth, latching on and using the attention for the nourishment of his ego and projected illusions. If he’s to maintain the facade that he’s spent so long building, he needs an excellent supporting cast, and who better to fill those roles than those who spend their life in the spotlight?

Whispers of a drama filming in Wonyang pique his interest, and though he doesn’t know much about the production it doesn’t take long for him to worm his way close to the cast. Despite his silver tongue some realize his game early on and distance themselves, but Yohan seems to remain either completely oblivious or wilfully ignorant. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. They’re friends. Well... they’re friendly, at least.  It’s mostly superficial to Chen, but he doesn’t need to know that.

It’s in the all too brief couple of hours between his shifts that they meet. It’s the only real free he has these days, and he refuses to spend it alone. Besides, it’’s been a while and he needs to keep up appearances. “Have you eaten yet? Because I could use some food.” He says plainly as they walk the dimly lit street. “Unless you have other things to do, of course. It’s just been a while since we caught up is all.”