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All his life, Chan has just wanted to be taken seriously.
They laugh at him when he first tries out, tell him he’s too young, tell him he won’t last a minute. He tries again, a different circus, tries and tries until one accepts him, albeit not too welcomingly. The director makes sure to let him know very pointedly that they’re only hiring him because they really need more members. Chan just grits his teeth through it, fake smile plastered across his face.
He isn’t here to make friends, not really, although making some would be nice. Chan doesn’t really have a social circle. He’s been homeless since age six, wandering the streets and selling packets of gum to the businessman that spat at him as they walked past. Any job he had applied for had rejected him, criticizing his clothing or youthful appearance. It didn’t matter that Chan had spent weeks of bubblegum money on that suit, or that he had bathed in the freezing river water the night before and caught a cold just to look his best for the interview. It never mattered.
The people at the circus aren’t too bad, considering those that Chan’s met in the past. Some of the clowns are nasty, huddling in their little clown cliques and hurling distasteful remarks in his directions. He thinks it’s funny that they think they have some sort of social advantage over him when they’re literally clowns, rolling his eyes and walking away.
One of the makeup artists, a man named Jeonghan, excessively babies him the moment he sets his eyes on him. While Chan is sure his intentions are good, he still despises it. It feels so patronizing. He just grits his teeth through it, like he always does. At this point, this circus is the only thing keeping him alive. He can’t afford to make any real enemies.
It takes a week for Chan to meet Junhui.
He’s the star of the circus, clearly, face carved by the gods, his lithe body bending so neatly in that pretty jumpsuit. Chan stares with an open mouth as he finishes his practice walk across the tightrope, steps so elegant that Chan doesn’t think he’d mind even if they walked right over him.
One of the nearby clowns slaps him on the back, too hard to be considered friendly. “Don’t even think about it. He has no time for any of us, let alone you.”
Chan definitely thinks about it. He walks to talk to Junhui as he gets down from the ladder, ignoring the pairs of eyes that he can feel shooting lasers into his back. “Hello,” he says, friendly. Junhui looks at him, smiling like an honest-to-god angel. “Hi! I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“I’m Chan,” he introduces himself. “I’m a new choreographer here.”
“Oh, hello! It’s nice to meet you! I’m Junhui.”
It turns out that Junhui is just what Chan needs. He’s vulnerable, someone who needs someone to tell them what to do and looks for them in the struggling boy that no one takes seriously. He listens to Chan’s every word and order, comes to him with his concerns. As long as Junhui’s there, Chan doesn’t mind any of the words that anyone throws at him (even though most of them are because Junhui is there).
Junhui’s his good luck charm, throwing in a good word about him to the director. Within a day, Chan’s on stage, making his childhood dream come true for the first time. He dances under the lights, watches Junhui dance across the rope over his head, dances with Junhui in the other man’s tent afterward until they collapse onto the canvas bed.
Junhui takes him seriously.
Junhui listens to what he says, considers it, and gives him thoughtful advice. Junhui never tells him that he’s too young to understand, never undervalues his opinion. Junhui is always there, a presence beside him, soft and sweet, fingers on Chan’s cheeks as he peppers him with compliments.
Junhui is his guardian angel and he’s Junhui’s.
It’s the first time Chan’s felt genuine love for someone since the death of his mother. He thinks that she’d be happy with his choice, thinks she’d like Junhui. It’s not like he’d know though. Not really. The only memories he has of her are scattered, fragments of conversations or blurry pictures of her lifting him up from the street.
Junhui tells him one day that his own parents are gone too, just another link that connects them. He holds his hands in his lap, smiling softly down at Chan’s fingers as he rubs his own over Chan’s knuckles. Junhui has cried often in Chan’s presence but he doesn’t shed even a single tear when talking about his parents’ deaths. He’s just sort of vacant. In a way, Chan understands.
They don’t talk about it after that.
Junhui sits with Chan under the stars behind his tent, the largest of the ones allocated to the circus employees. He’s spoiled by the director, something even he will admit. It doesn’t get to his head, though. Not even a little bit. Junhui’s probably the most humble and self-conscious out of all the circus employees, Chan included.
“Chan,” Junhui says after a moment, looking up at the constellations that light their faces. Chan glances over, taking in just how pretty he looks, glowing like the stars above them. “Hm?” He hums, bumping his shoulder into Junhui’s playfully. It’s gentle, an indication that Junhui can say whatever is bothering him. Clearly, something is.
“I love you,” Junhui says finally, still looking straight up. His cheeks flush, embarrassed by his own confession. Chan smiles over at him gently. “Hey, look at me.”
Junhui does, eyes blown wide and reflecting Chan’s own starlit face back at him. “I love you too, Junhui.”
Junhui’s eyes twinkle, the corners of his mouth curling up a little. “It’d be hard for me not to at this point,” Chan continues, gentle. “So how about I kiss you now?”