[One-Shot] I See You
.I See You
.Changmin/Yoochun, R
.Changmin watches him
.Wherein you will find drug use, extreme obsession and chronic masturbation. This is something I wrote a while ago like... a while ago so yeah...
He doesn't see me but I watch him all the time. Follow him to work every morning. I hide around the corner in the ally, cloaked in darkness amongst the filth of the city floor. I don't mind it though and sometimes as I wait for him I think about how I fit right in. With the dirty and disgusting. But I can't help it. It's something I have to do.
He's young and beautiful and famous. An up and coming singer/song writer discovered playing at a coffee shop around the corner. That's where I found him. Where I first felt this obsession.
He didn't notice me and it was okay because I wasn't trying to be noticed. I didn't want him to see me. I didn't want him to know my face.
He was playing his guitar, a knitted cap hiding probably the most beautiful locks in all of Seoul. His voice was soft and breathy and indie rock. He interacted with the audience and girls piled in droves to see him and touch him and sing with him. He loved the ladies and sometimes he loved the men.
I've seen every single person he's gone home with, some go back to flat tires, broken windows; some go back to nothing.
It's not that I mind he go home with people to fuck, what I mind are the people who don't deserve his attention, who wear tight pants and sheer shirts. Girls who fall out of their halter tops or have their asses hanging out their skirts. Guys who think walking around town without shirts is cool, who sport fucking hard-ons around him. Filth like that isn't worthy of him, of his time, of his fuck.
He isn't famous enough so he doesn't have to worry about who he's taking home and he doesn't have an entourage of body guards flanking his sides so it's easy for me to follow him unseen. He's really smooth with the ladies he brings home and perceptive enough to know how to act around each of their personalities. And he's good.
He never lets them spend the night, I know. I watch him. It took a lot of blow jobs and tons of fucks before the manager finally let me have a copy of his apartment key.
All I wanted was a little look around. I wasn't going to take anything. But I wanted to sit on his couch, look at his bedroom, touch the blankets. I wanted to see what he had in his refrigerator and what kind of shampoo he used.
He was out of town that weekend, I know, I overheard him telling one of the guys he was guiding to his apartment. I knew it was the perfect time to put that key around my neck to good use.
He left on Friday and I spent the rest of the weekend there, sleeping, in his bed, rolling around in his sheet, trying not to get off at the scent left in his pillows. I took a shower in his bathroom and used his robe. I watched his television and ate his cereal.
Then I installed them all.
The cameras. Probably in every single room, hitting all kinds of angles. It helps when your ex-boyfriend used to work at a surveillance company, and forgot to take them when he moved out.
The night he came back I sat back and watched him walk through the door. And I've been watching him ever since.
It's a sickness this greedy obsession I have.
But I can't stop it. I have to watch him. I see him get up in the morning. I watch him eat breakfast, he has orange juice and toast on Monday's; those are his busiest days and he doesn't have time to make anything better. On Saturdays if he's alone he'll make eggs and bacon and cut up a grapefruit and drink milk and orange juice. Wednesdays he always has cereal.
He likes to watch stupid dramas when he's got time and hates MTV. One time he threw a book at the screen and left the room.
He changes his sheets every Wednesday and likes to keep fresh flowers on the coffee table. They come every morning at seven sharp.
He showers at six forty-five and makes it in time to answer the door. It's always the same guy and they flirt for a little while. Then he sets them on the table and heads back to his room to get dressed.
He always has his clothes out the night before and after breakfast he leaves for work and I follow.
He picks up coffee at the local coffee shop near by and he always gets the same thing. They've made it a special on the menu now, just for him. I order it on the way back to the apartment.
It's a soft kind of coffee and sweet.
It's become an addiction.
I don't have to work. I'm one of those kind of boys, born into privilege so I spend a lot of my time sitting in front of the wall of screens looking into his empty apartment, just waiting for him to come back home. And he does. He always comes home to me.
One time he came home with a girl. She was pretty and small; a tiny little thing. Watched him undress her. He kissed her and touched her face. He smoothed his hand down her back and she had a nice ass. He went down on her and she held on to the back of the couch and her mouth was open. She sucked him on her knees and he fucked her on the couch. Then from behind, over the coffee table like a filthy animal.
I jerked off and it lasted about as long. Since installing the cameras I've had lots of practice. My tolerance has vastly improved and I don't come as easily as I did when I first started taping him. Now it's a slow long process with anticipated pleasure; I come the hardest when I see him alone, lying in his bed. He touches himself.
And I love to watch it. I feast on him.
One night he brings home a guy and they're beautiful together and I imagine it's me under him. It's me he's fucking and touching and kissing and I come so hard I'm pretty sure I pass out because when I come too again the guy's gone and he's walking around the apartment naked, peeling a tangerine and sucking on each juicy slice.
It's the start of a trend. Walking around naked. He does it all the time now, when he gets home from a show and doesn't bring anyone home, which he starts doing more and more often. He showers and likes to sit cross legged on the couch with a notebook teetering on his legs as he writes. Sometimes he uses his guitar and I love watching him in his element and a lot of the times when he starts singing I fucking wish someone would kick me in the ass for not putting bugs in the room so I can hear it. It probably sounds better than when he's done tweaking and perfecting and ready to perform it.
He changes his routine sometime before Christmas. It's different now because he's become bigger and a lot more people are hearing his stuff and knowing his face. He rarely brings people around to the apartment anymore, but he still walks naked. It's exciting that he's so comfortable in his own skin. He's beautiful and perfect and the best part of my days are when I can watch him watching television, or when I see him shower, soaping his body down.
I jerk off all the time now. Have a box of tissues near the screens. I eat in front of them. I stop watching real television because it couldn't possibly be better than this.
I'm watching him fix dinner when I get up to get something to drink and the phone rings. I answer it and it's nothing but dead air. "Yeah?" I say just in case they didn't hear me, but I know no one's there. It's been happening often lately. These calls where no one answers and it's fucking annoying.
When I get back he's sitting down to eat and I swear out loud because I love to watch him and the stupid drink that I don't even want anymore and the fucking phone call that wasn't even a call made me miss one of my favorite things.
I could scream I'm so pissed.
Instead I sit down in the big leather chair and watch him eat. He eats beautifully and I wish I were the fork he sweeps his tongue over and it breaks my heart.
He hurts me because I want him so bad and I know every single little thing about him and he knows nothing about me. Will probably never even know my name.
The reality is just too much to bare so I do something I haven't done in a long time.
I go out.
It's an underground club that's a little swanky and completely exclusive. I can get in because I know the bouncer and I get VIP treatment because I fucked the owner one time in the bathroom.
It's got the hottest beats and best drugs. The beautiful people come here to play and for about a second it feels great to be out of the apartment. I see a lot of my old friends I've given up to stare into the screens for. They aren't any different; still hot. Good looking people always hang out together and it feels good to be the one admired again.
After a few of lines of the finest cocaine, some pretty good anonymous fucking, and in a pleasant state of euphoria I go home. I'm not too fucked up to find my place. It's dark and there's no point in turning the lights on. The screens are bright and really playing tricks with my eyes.
I don't want to, but they call me, they beckon for me like ghost whispers I can't ignore so before going to sleep I take a look and see if there are any new developments. He's naked again and in bed. His hands between his legs. I get hard. And he's wearing a hat.
I touch the screen and bring my eyes down as close as I can. It looks just like one I have and for a wonderful, glorious moment that takes me to elevations of happiness that no drug can ever do I run to my room and start looking for it. It's black with a single white stripe near the bottom. It's my favorite in the world and he has one too and for the first time, a real connection is felt with him.
He owns something I have.
I look in the closet, lots of hats but not the one he's wearing. Under the bed, a lot of old porn. On the night stand, empty bottles of lube. On the desk, papers with our names written together. But no hat.
I run back to the screens and he's still touching himself and his back's a little arched and he's running his hands along the hat. I look frantically around the room, a little desperate, by the couch, near the kitchen table, on the coat rack. When I look back, he comes, grasping the hat with an open mouth.
My face is practically flushed against the screen when he lets go and sort of melds against the sheets and I feel a wetness sliding down my cheek.
I'm not hard anymore when I pull back and it feels like I'm crying, but that can't be it because I don't really cry. And besides, it was a stupid hat. I probably left it at one of the clubs the last time I went out. Or with a friend. Or left it at the coffee shop. There are plenty of reasons why I can't find it.
It just really, really sucks that I missed the opportunity to share something with him. Now I have nothing again.
I go to bed depressed and I hope I wake up in the morning feeling better.
Maybe I'll dream where I left the hat.
I don't. Instead I'm woken up by the sound of the phone and I consider not answering it but I remember Mom's going to be in town soon, for Christmas, and she wants to make plans. So I answer it.
It's no one again and I'm pissed.
Not because it was no one, though it's getting really old, but mostly because now I can't get back to sleep. So I get up and check out the screens, see what's happening.
No one's home and I look at the clock. It's almost seven thirty and I've missed him. For the first time in a long time I don't care that I'm not following him.
But I still want my coffee so I throw on the clothes I went out in the night before and head out down the street. It's ice cold outside and I start to wish I brought a jacket. But I'll survive.
The coffee tastes good in the morning and I head back home when I run into a couple of friends. We sit and talk and catch up. Before we go I promise to go out with them after the holidays. It starts to snow and I have to run home with coffee spilling over the sides of the cup and I hate that I don't use the spill proof lids anymore. My hands are on hot-coffee fire and I turn the heat up on the thermostat after I run my hands under cold water for about five minutes.
There really isn't anything to do so I decide to do some shopping. Haven't done that in a long time and it's fun. Get a lot of things, buy a new hat. It's not the same but close enough.
By the time I get home he's back. He's chewing gum and there's a guy on the couch and he's hot and has dark hair that reminds me of mine. But mine's better.
They drink a couple beers and talk before they get at it.
I don't want to look because it starts to hurt and I hate that feeling more than anything, but I can't stop it. I'm drawn to it. To him. I can't stop watching him.
I love it.
And I think I love him.
They do it for a long time, in the living room and move into the bedroom. I've gotten off a couple of times and though it's the best feeling in the world, there's obviously something missing. Something's a little off.
The hot guy leaves and I go and get a drink. In the middle of twisting the cap off the beer the phone rings and I glance at the screens for a second, can't see him anywhere and reach for the phone as I head into the bedroom.
I slam it down in anger when it's no one on the other side and kick my shoes off. I have the right good mind to disconnect the line but mom still hasn't called and I can't really do anything until then.
Drinking my beer I start to sort out all the things I buy. A lot of clothes. Tons of music. More stuff to add to my mini art collection. When it's all spread out on my bed I wonder how the hell I got all the shit up to the apartment alone.
I notice a pair of shoes I bought and look toward the closet because I swear to god I already have those shoes. So I search and come up with nothing. They just look so fucking familiar. I forget about it a couple seconds later when the phone rings again and totally hesitate to answer.
Prank callers are not on top of my list and I'm pretty sure I'll throw the phone out the window if it's them. The ringing is consistent though and because I don't have an answering machine, it rings about ten times before I finally answer.
It's mom.
She's coming in a week. I have a week to clean and make everything perfect.
It becomes four days when friends stop by and stay two straight nights.
We party and get drunk and take some good drugs. Pure shit that's probably the best I've ever had. I'm pretty out of it four days before mom comes and my friends are still there.
I don't follow him even though my stomach tightens at night when I pass out. I don't see him. I can't let my friends think I'm a sick fuck so I hide him behind some expensive screens and a black curtain and tell them it's a new art project I'm working on and they understand. They hate art. And they know I hate showing unfinished works.
So it works out in the end.
They're out on a booze run when I lock the door and run to the screens and move them aside. He's on the couch. No one's there. He's alone and staring off. He's wearing clothes and the hat. And he's got on the pair of shoes I bought a few days ago.
My heart leaps into my throat.
He looks wonderful and I brush my fingers against one of the screens, wishing it were the real thing, but that's never going to be real, I've decided. He's way too popular now. He's got people watching him all the time.
Not only me.
And I'm jealous.
My friends come back and they're banging on the door when I see him look up and it looks like he's looking right into the camera and his face is sad.
Like he knows I'm there.
For a second I wonder if maybe he does. Maybe he does know about the cameras.
Maybe he misses me.
I dare not wish to hope.
Then he looks away and gets up. Someone's at the door. A girl and he kisses her and lets her in.
I remember her from before and decide to finally answer the door to let my friends back in. Right before I leave and hide him again, he looks into the camera once more.
It leaves me wondering.
By the end of the night I'm drunk on the floor and high and I think I'm crying.
I feel like I'm probably in the clearest state of mind when I'm high and I accept that this is as far as it will ever go. He'll continue to get famous. He'll leave. And forever I'll be left to watch him.
I'll know everything about him. And he'll never know about me.
I'm pretty sure I'm crying after that.
Friends leave in the morning when I'm still asleep and I don't actually wake up until later in the afternoon. I go straight to the screens and uncover them.
He's not home.
I'm sad.
And a little smelly.
So I shower and swear I hear some noise in the apartment but when I finish and get out. No one's there and everything looks the same.
I think I'm getting a bad case of paranoia.
Before getting dressed I look to see if he's come home. He has. He's got a scarf around his neck and he's wearing the hat again. He starts to strip, dripping clothing on his way to the bed room.
He leaves on the hat and scarf as he settles in bed.
I'm already hard.
I watch. He tickles the scarf against his stomach. My hand slides into my robe.
He spreads his legs and he's hard. His hand strokes slow.
I come a good time later. He's waiting it out, still touching himself and once he bites down onto the scarf he comes and it's hot. So fucking hot I start to get hard again.
He's looking in the direction of the camera and yeah. Totally hard when he brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean.
That's completely on purpose.
I know it.
And it's exciting.
I follow him the rest of the week. Get up on time and hide and admire him and try not to go up and introduce myself. It's really hard to stop myself.
I want to so bad.
I think I've gotten to a point where watching isn't enough anymore.
But it never happens. I'm still lurking behind the corners and following him like a stalker.
When mom comes to visit she hugs me and kisses my cheek and tells me how thin I am and how I need to eat more because I look like a skeleton.
I couldn't follow him that morning and I'm really sad about it. But she makes it a little better.
She brings presents and admires the apartment complex, tells me I'm doing good for myself. She talks about the family. About work. About how I should find a job because dad won't keep giving me money for free for the rest of my life. But he will. I'm his favorite. I'm his only child.
I'm spoiled.
She's in the middle of telling me about her and dad's last vacation to Europe when I see him walk through the front doors. He's climbing up the stairs and he's got a body guard now, he's big and intimidating.
I try not to stare because it's the closest we've ever been together. And he's breathtaking this close. He's wearing the scarf. I have one just like it in the apartment somewhere and it makes me happy.
He's about to pass me when his body guard starts talking to him. He doesn't look away as he passes, but the body guard pushes me aside so they can move on. He smiles and I think my heart has never beat this fast.
My eyes follow him up the stairs and before he turns down his hall, he whips around and leans against the staircase. "Hi," he says and his voice is music.
I can't speak. I can hardly breath and I'm pretty sure my eyes start to get a little glassy with emotion because he's talking to me.
He doesn't care I haven't said anything because he smiles softly. "I just-" he looks at his body guard who's telling him to wrap it up, and he nods before looking back at me. Giving me all his attention. "I just wanted to say hi," he bites his lip with a little smile and slowly turns to leave. "Oh and," he looks back just one more time, "I'm Yoochun."
"Chang-um. I'm. I'm Changmin." And I may possibly want to die right this very moment because I can't even manage to speak properly.
But he grins anyway and touches the scarf before he leaves and I watch him until I can't see him anymore.
[Master Fic List]
.Changmin/Yoochun, R
.Changmin watches him
.Wherein you will find drug use, extreme obsession and chronic masturbation. This is something I wrote a while ago like... a while ago so yeah...
He doesn't see me but I watch him all the time. Follow him to work every morning. I hide around the corner in the ally, cloaked in darkness amongst the filth of the city floor. I don't mind it though and sometimes as I wait for him I think about how I fit right in. With the dirty and disgusting. But I can't help it. It's something I have to do.
He's young and beautiful and famous. An up and coming singer/song writer discovered playing at a coffee shop around the corner. That's where I found him. Where I first felt this obsession.
He didn't notice me and it was okay because I wasn't trying to be noticed. I didn't want him to see me. I didn't want him to know my face.
He was playing his guitar, a knitted cap hiding probably the most beautiful locks in all of Seoul. His voice was soft and breathy and indie rock. He interacted with the audience and girls piled in droves to see him and touch him and sing with him. He loved the ladies and sometimes he loved the men.
I've seen every single person he's gone home with, some go back to flat tires, broken windows; some go back to nothing.
It's not that I mind he go home with people to fuck, what I mind are the people who don't deserve his attention, who wear tight pants and sheer shirts. Girls who fall out of their halter tops or have their asses hanging out their skirts. Guys who think walking around town without shirts is cool, who sport fucking hard-ons around him. Filth like that isn't worthy of him, of his time, of his fuck.
He isn't famous enough so he doesn't have to worry about who he's taking home and he doesn't have an entourage of body guards flanking his sides so it's easy for me to follow him unseen. He's really smooth with the ladies he brings home and perceptive enough to know how to act around each of their personalities. And he's good.
He never lets them spend the night, I know. I watch him. It took a lot of blow jobs and tons of fucks before the manager finally let me have a copy of his apartment key.
All I wanted was a little look around. I wasn't going to take anything. But I wanted to sit on his couch, look at his bedroom, touch the blankets. I wanted to see what he had in his refrigerator and what kind of shampoo he used.
He was out of town that weekend, I know, I overheard him telling one of the guys he was guiding to his apartment. I knew it was the perfect time to put that key around my neck to good use.
He left on Friday and I spent the rest of the weekend there, sleeping, in his bed, rolling around in his sheet, trying not to get off at the scent left in his pillows. I took a shower in his bathroom and used his robe. I watched his television and ate his cereal.
Then I installed them all.
The cameras. Probably in every single room, hitting all kinds of angles. It helps when your ex-boyfriend used to work at a surveillance company, and forgot to take them when he moved out.
The night he came back I sat back and watched him walk through the door. And I've been watching him ever since.
It's a sickness this greedy obsession I have.
But I can't stop it. I have to watch him. I see him get up in the morning. I watch him eat breakfast, he has orange juice and toast on Monday's; those are his busiest days and he doesn't have time to make anything better. On Saturdays if he's alone he'll make eggs and bacon and cut up a grapefruit and drink milk and orange juice. Wednesdays he always has cereal.
He likes to watch stupid dramas when he's got time and hates MTV. One time he threw a book at the screen and left the room.
He changes his sheets every Wednesday and likes to keep fresh flowers on the coffee table. They come every morning at seven sharp.
He showers at six forty-five and makes it in time to answer the door. It's always the same guy and they flirt for a little while. Then he sets them on the table and heads back to his room to get dressed.
He always has his clothes out the night before and after breakfast he leaves for work and I follow.
He picks up coffee at the local coffee shop near by and he always gets the same thing. They've made it a special on the menu now, just for him. I order it on the way back to the apartment.
It's a soft kind of coffee and sweet.
It's become an addiction.
I don't have to work. I'm one of those kind of boys, born into privilege so I spend a lot of my time sitting in front of the wall of screens looking into his empty apartment, just waiting for him to come back home. And he does. He always comes home to me.
One time he came home with a girl. She was pretty and small; a tiny little thing. Watched him undress her. He kissed her and touched her face. He smoothed his hand down her back and she had a nice ass. He went down on her and she held on to the back of the couch and her mouth was open. She sucked him on her knees and he fucked her on the couch. Then from behind, over the coffee table like a filthy animal.
I jerked off and it lasted about as long. Since installing the cameras I've had lots of practice. My tolerance has vastly improved and I don't come as easily as I did when I first started taping him. Now it's a slow long process with anticipated pleasure; I come the hardest when I see him alone, lying in his bed. He touches himself.
And I love to watch it. I feast on him.
One night he brings home a guy and they're beautiful together and I imagine it's me under him. It's me he's fucking and touching and kissing and I come so hard I'm pretty sure I pass out because when I come too again the guy's gone and he's walking around the apartment naked, peeling a tangerine and sucking on each juicy slice.
It's the start of a trend. Walking around naked. He does it all the time now, when he gets home from a show and doesn't bring anyone home, which he starts doing more and more often. He showers and likes to sit cross legged on the couch with a notebook teetering on his legs as he writes. Sometimes he uses his guitar and I love watching him in his element and a lot of the times when he starts singing I fucking wish someone would kick me in the ass for not putting bugs in the room so I can hear it. It probably sounds better than when he's done tweaking and perfecting and ready to perform it.
He changes his routine sometime before Christmas. It's different now because he's become bigger and a lot more people are hearing his stuff and knowing his face. He rarely brings people around to the apartment anymore, but he still walks naked. It's exciting that he's so comfortable in his own skin. He's beautiful and perfect and the best part of my days are when I can watch him watching television, or when I see him shower, soaping his body down.
I jerk off all the time now. Have a box of tissues near the screens. I eat in front of them. I stop watching real television because it couldn't possibly be better than this.
I'm watching him fix dinner when I get up to get something to drink and the phone rings. I answer it and it's nothing but dead air. "Yeah?" I say just in case they didn't hear me, but I know no one's there. It's been happening often lately. These calls where no one answers and it's fucking annoying.
When I get back he's sitting down to eat and I swear out loud because I love to watch him and the stupid drink that I don't even want anymore and the fucking phone call that wasn't even a call made me miss one of my favorite things.
I could scream I'm so pissed.
Instead I sit down in the big leather chair and watch him eat. He eats beautifully and I wish I were the fork he sweeps his tongue over and it breaks my heart.
He hurts me because I want him so bad and I know every single little thing about him and he knows nothing about me. Will probably never even know my name.
The reality is just too much to bare so I do something I haven't done in a long time.
I go out.
It's an underground club that's a little swanky and completely exclusive. I can get in because I know the bouncer and I get VIP treatment because I fucked the owner one time in the bathroom.
It's got the hottest beats and best drugs. The beautiful people come here to play and for about a second it feels great to be out of the apartment. I see a lot of my old friends I've given up to stare into the screens for. They aren't any different; still hot. Good looking people always hang out together and it feels good to be the one admired again.
After a few of lines of the finest cocaine, some pretty good anonymous fucking, and in a pleasant state of euphoria I go home. I'm not too fucked up to find my place. It's dark and there's no point in turning the lights on. The screens are bright and really playing tricks with my eyes.
I don't want to, but they call me, they beckon for me like ghost whispers I can't ignore so before going to sleep I take a look and see if there are any new developments. He's naked again and in bed. His hands between his legs. I get hard. And he's wearing a hat.
I touch the screen and bring my eyes down as close as I can. It looks just like one I have and for a wonderful, glorious moment that takes me to elevations of happiness that no drug can ever do I run to my room and start looking for it. It's black with a single white stripe near the bottom. It's my favorite in the world and he has one too and for the first time, a real connection is felt with him.
He owns something I have.
I look in the closet, lots of hats but not the one he's wearing. Under the bed, a lot of old porn. On the night stand, empty bottles of lube. On the desk, papers with our names written together. But no hat.
I run back to the screens and he's still touching himself and his back's a little arched and he's running his hands along the hat. I look frantically around the room, a little desperate, by the couch, near the kitchen table, on the coat rack. When I look back, he comes, grasping the hat with an open mouth.
My face is practically flushed against the screen when he lets go and sort of melds against the sheets and I feel a wetness sliding down my cheek.
I'm not hard anymore when I pull back and it feels like I'm crying, but that can't be it because I don't really cry. And besides, it was a stupid hat. I probably left it at one of the clubs the last time I went out. Or with a friend. Or left it at the coffee shop. There are plenty of reasons why I can't find it.
It just really, really sucks that I missed the opportunity to share something with him. Now I have nothing again.
I go to bed depressed and I hope I wake up in the morning feeling better.
Maybe I'll dream where I left the hat.
I don't. Instead I'm woken up by the sound of the phone and I consider not answering it but I remember Mom's going to be in town soon, for Christmas, and she wants to make plans. So I answer it.
It's no one again and I'm pissed.
Not because it was no one, though it's getting really old, but mostly because now I can't get back to sleep. So I get up and check out the screens, see what's happening.
No one's home and I look at the clock. It's almost seven thirty and I've missed him. For the first time in a long time I don't care that I'm not following him.
But I still want my coffee so I throw on the clothes I went out in the night before and head out down the street. It's ice cold outside and I start to wish I brought a jacket. But I'll survive.
The coffee tastes good in the morning and I head back home when I run into a couple of friends. We sit and talk and catch up. Before we go I promise to go out with them after the holidays. It starts to snow and I have to run home with coffee spilling over the sides of the cup and I hate that I don't use the spill proof lids anymore. My hands are on hot-coffee fire and I turn the heat up on the thermostat after I run my hands under cold water for about five minutes.
There really isn't anything to do so I decide to do some shopping. Haven't done that in a long time and it's fun. Get a lot of things, buy a new hat. It's not the same but close enough.
By the time I get home he's back. He's chewing gum and there's a guy on the couch and he's hot and has dark hair that reminds me of mine. But mine's better.
They drink a couple beers and talk before they get at it.
I don't want to look because it starts to hurt and I hate that feeling more than anything, but I can't stop it. I'm drawn to it. To him. I can't stop watching him.
I love it.
And I think I love him.
They do it for a long time, in the living room and move into the bedroom. I've gotten off a couple of times and though it's the best feeling in the world, there's obviously something missing. Something's a little off.
The hot guy leaves and I go and get a drink. In the middle of twisting the cap off the beer the phone rings and I glance at the screens for a second, can't see him anywhere and reach for the phone as I head into the bedroom.
I slam it down in anger when it's no one on the other side and kick my shoes off. I have the right good mind to disconnect the line but mom still hasn't called and I can't really do anything until then.
Drinking my beer I start to sort out all the things I buy. A lot of clothes. Tons of music. More stuff to add to my mini art collection. When it's all spread out on my bed I wonder how the hell I got all the shit up to the apartment alone.
I notice a pair of shoes I bought and look toward the closet because I swear to god I already have those shoes. So I search and come up with nothing. They just look so fucking familiar. I forget about it a couple seconds later when the phone rings again and totally hesitate to answer.
Prank callers are not on top of my list and I'm pretty sure I'll throw the phone out the window if it's them. The ringing is consistent though and because I don't have an answering machine, it rings about ten times before I finally answer.
It's mom.
She's coming in a week. I have a week to clean and make everything perfect.
It becomes four days when friends stop by and stay two straight nights.
We party and get drunk and take some good drugs. Pure shit that's probably the best I've ever had. I'm pretty out of it four days before mom comes and my friends are still there.
I don't follow him even though my stomach tightens at night when I pass out. I don't see him. I can't let my friends think I'm a sick fuck so I hide him behind some expensive screens and a black curtain and tell them it's a new art project I'm working on and they understand. They hate art. And they know I hate showing unfinished works.
So it works out in the end.
They're out on a booze run when I lock the door and run to the screens and move them aside. He's on the couch. No one's there. He's alone and staring off. He's wearing clothes and the hat. And he's got on the pair of shoes I bought a few days ago.
My heart leaps into my throat.
He looks wonderful and I brush my fingers against one of the screens, wishing it were the real thing, but that's never going to be real, I've decided. He's way too popular now. He's got people watching him all the time.
Not only me.
And I'm jealous.
My friends come back and they're banging on the door when I see him look up and it looks like he's looking right into the camera and his face is sad.
Like he knows I'm there.
For a second I wonder if maybe he does. Maybe he does know about the cameras.
Maybe he misses me.
I dare not wish to hope.
Then he looks away and gets up. Someone's at the door. A girl and he kisses her and lets her in.
I remember her from before and decide to finally answer the door to let my friends back in. Right before I leave and hide him again, he looks into the camera once more.
It leaves me wondering.
By the end of the night I'm drunk on the floor and high and I think I'm crying.
I feel like I'm probably in the clearest state of mind when I'm high and I accept that this is as far as it will ever go. He'll continue to get famous. He'll leave. And forever I'll be left to watch him.
I'll know everything about him. And he'll never know about me.
I'm pretty sure I'm crying after that.
Friends leave in the morning when I'm still asleep and I don't actually wake up until later in the afternoon. I go straight to the screens and uncover them.
He's not home.
I'm sad.
And a little smelly.
So I shower and swear I hear some noise in the apartment but when I finish and get out. No one's there and everything looks the same.
I think I'm getting a bad case of paranoia.
Before getting dressed I look to see if he's come home. He has. He's got a scarf around his neck and he's wearing the hat again. He starts to strip, dripping clothing on his way to the bed room.
He leaves on the hat and scarf as he settles in bed.
I'm already hard.
I watch. He tickles the scarf against his stomach. My hand slides into my robe.
He spreads his legs and he's hard. His hand strokes slow.
I come a good time later. He's waiting it out, still touching himself and once he bites down onto the scarf he comes and it's hot. So fucking hot I start to get hard again.
He's looking in the direction of the camera and yeah. Totally hard when he brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean.
That's completely on purpose.
I know it.
And it's exciting.
I follow him the rest of the week. Get up on time and hide and admire him and try not to go up and introduce myself. It's really hard to stop myself.
I want to so bad.
I think I've gotten to a point where watching isn't enough anymore.
But it never happens. I'm still lurking behind the corners and following him like a stalker.
When mom comes to visit she hugs me and kisses my cheek and tells me how thin I am and how I need to eat more because I look like a skeleton.
I couldn't follow him that morning and I'm really sad about it. But she makes it a little better.
She brings presents and admires the apartment complex, tells me I'm doing good for myself. She talks about the family. About work. About how I should find a job because dad won't keep giving me money for free for the rest of my life. But he will. I'm his favorite. I'm his only child.
I'm spoiled.
She's in the middle of telling me about her and dad's last vacation to Europe when I see him walk through the front doors. He's climbing up the stairs and he's got a body guard now, he's big and intimidating.
I try not to stare because it's the closest we've ever been together. And he's breathtaking this close. He's wearing the scarf. I have one just like it in the apartment somewhere and it makes me happy.
He's about to pass me when his body guard starts talking to him. He doesn't look away as he passes, but the body guard pushes me aside so they can move on. He smiles and I think my heart has never beat this fast.
My eyes follow him up the stairs and before he turns down his hall, he whips around and leans against the staircase. "Hi," he says and his voice is music.
I can't speak. I can hardly breath and I'm pretty sure my eyes start to get a little glassy with emotion because he's talking to me.
He doesn't care I haven't said anything because he smiles softly. "I just-" he looks at his body guard who's telling him to wrap it up, and he nods before looking back at me. Giving me all his attention. "I just wanted to say hi," he bites his lip with a little smile and slowly turns to leave. "Oh and," he looks back just one more time, "I'm Yoochun."
"Chang-um. I'm. I'm Changmin." And I may possibly want to die right this very moment because I can't even manage to speak properly.
But he grins anyway and touches the scarf before he leaves and I watch him until I can't see him anymore.
[Master Fic List]