Work Text:
Jackson never goes small. Especially not when he wants to impress and tonight, he wants to impress.
The orchestra ‒ a full ensemble taking up an entire wooden stage ‒ project piece after piece of beautifully performed music by only the most popular of composers and the people dance accordingly. And the people, well, the people.
They form a euphony of colours, twisting around each other and smiling beneath intricate masks. Long trails of silk and chiffon spiral out across the marble flooring as the aristocracy of the continent twirl around each other, gloved hands untouching.
It’s beautiful, Jaebeom thinks, gazing at the way the light lilacs blend into dark pinks, framed by emerald greens. Each outfit wholly unique and utterly mesmerising.
Jackson’s parties are always an honour to be a part of but this one, in particular, is even more so. He’s really out-done himself this time and Jaebeom feels pride bloom in his chest, amidst the awe.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Jinyoung muses over the top of a flute of champagne, “but Jackson is aware that throwing ridiculously grandiloquent masquerade balls is not the easiest way to garner Mark’s attention.”
Jaebeom and Youngjae both laugh, and all three of their gazes fall to where Prince Mark Tuan is stood in a night blue velvet ensemble with a matching mask lying over his eyes, talking to Lord Hui.
“He could just, I don’t know,” Youngjae says, “ask him to accompany him on a visit to town rather than spend a castle’s worth of money on a ball.”
“Well, at least this way,” Jaebeom chimes in, “we all get to reap the benefits of his pining instead of having to hear him whine for another length of time.”
They all laugh again, just as the music transitions into a sonata that Jaebeom can’t quite place.
“Announcing,” the Herald booms out over the din of the ballroom, “Prince Kunpimook Bhuwakul Bambam of Occidens.”
Jaebeom’s eyes automatically flit to the top of the large quartz staircase at the other end of the ballroom at the unfamiliar name.
Jinyoung’s voice trails off to somewhere at the back of his mind, some distant and indistinguishable noise because wow.
Descending the stairs, slowly, purposefully is a man more like a siren than a mortal.
Tan skin that glows delicately in the golden candlelight of the chandeliers, and ebony hair styled carefully away from his forehead, a few choice strands framing his angular face just as all art should be framed.
And, as he floats down each step and starts to move into the sea of vibrant colours, his entirely black outfit draws attention from more people than just Jaebeom. Quite rightfully, he thinks, as his eyes roam over the fabric that clings to his lithe figure as the prince moves through the crowd, making his greetings.
His mask covers only the upper section of his face, resting gently atop the bridge of his nose. It’s extravagant, the type of intricate but bold thing designed to pull in attention in the most elegant of ways. The mask seems to be made of black feathers, extending from both sides in neat curves and woven together with glistening silk and adorned around the eyes with black gemstones which catch the light just as much as diamonds would have with every small movement of his head.
His outfit is tight-fitting and plain black around his chest, exposing a sharp clavicle, but morphs into something more ostentatious and decorative along the sleeves. The fabric begins to cascade into something looser, freer, just above his elbows. They look like black waterfalls dripping artfully from his arms, embroidered with more of those same black gemstones ‒ save for the odd white ones here and there that draw Jaebeom’s attention like a helpless moth to a beguiling flame.
He’s beautiful.
“Beomie Beom,” Jinyoung sing-songs right in his ear and he jumps, jerking away from where Jinyoung’s stood too close and his eyes lose Bambam in the crowd. “Who are you leering at?” Jinyoung says, an eyebrow raised and evil smirk spreading across his face.
“No one,” Jaebeom just about manages to stutter out, even though he can feel his face grow hot with the lie. He clears his throat and, with more conviction, says, “I wasn’t leering at anyone.”
Jinyoung and Youngjae exchange a look before sending Jaebeom infuriating matching grins that tell him they both know he’s lying through his teeth.
They both lean back though, even if their faces stay as terrifying as ever and begin a conversation on something or other, even as mirth dances in their tone.
Jaebeom’s eyes scan through the crowd again and it’s not difficult to find Bambam, not when he sticks out as the only patch of darkness amongst a sea of pastels.
He’s talking to Jackson, standing close and familiar, laughing brightly. It’s strange, Jaebeom thinks, how Jackson is dressed in golden silks and actual solid gold, his mask decorated with white diamonds and more hanging from his throat and encasing his wrists and yet, Bambam ‒ draped entirely in black ‒ still commands the entirety of Jaebeom’s attention.
It’s not something Jaebeom can name, and there’s something in him that doesn’t want to. Something in him that wants to keep the mystery ‒ the intrigue‒ of this faceless man alive. Even just a little while longer.
“He’s pretty.”
Jaebeom’s head whirls to face Jinyoung, only to find him staring in Bambam’s direction with a sort of appraisal about him.
“I can see why you’d think he’s more interesting than your two longest friends,” Jinyoung pouts with feigned indifference.
Jaebeom sighs; Youngjae laughs.
“We see how it is,” Youngjae plays along, though he looks far too happily sadistic to be truly upset, “you see a pretty prince charming and suddenly forget us. It’s fine. We understand.”
And as the two of them move off to mingle into the crowd, Jaebeom can’t help the exasperated grin that overtakes his face before his gaze is pulled back to Bambam.
He’s unsure of what he and Jackson are saying, but it looks like Bambam is encouraging him through laughter ‒ or something of that nature, at least. Bambam has his hands on Jackson’s shoulders, and doesn’t break eye contact as he says something. And then Jackson’s manoeuvring across the ballroom with a renewed kind of swagger, even though there is something nervous to it. Jaebeom tracks Jackson’s path with his eyes and laughs when he sees that he’s headed straight for Mark.
Jaebeom’s eyes flit back to Bambam again to see him shake his head slightly as he watches Jackson walk away with a fond smile stretching his lips.
Jaebeom makes his own way to the refreshment table ‒ a long, mahogany thing that extends underneath a gallery of arched windows that reach the ceiling. He takes a glass of something bubbly and takes a sip before he allows his eyes to find Bambam again.
He’s talking to someone new now, a tall man Jaebeom loosely recognises as Yugeyeom Kim, son to a prominent lord in Jackson’s kingdom. The two of them embrace, holding each other tightly as the ball moves around them. They pull away and Bambam says something and they both laugh and Jaebeom is lucky enough to bear witness to the way Bambam’s face scrunches up when he laughs heartily, his mask lifting up slightly on his nose. It’s adorable.
And then they’ve linked hands and Bambam is pulling Yugyeom into the centre of the dance floor.
A waltz is playing. A calm, refined symphony but the pair of them treat it as though the tempo is doubled. They’re the same moves as everyone in the crowd around them, but there's something so utterly unique about the way the two of them move. It's enthralling. And Jaebeom can’t help but stare as they transform this centuries-old waltz Jaebeom had to learn with a tutor when he was a child into something so new and entrancing.
Bambam looks up then, and his gaze lands on Jaebeom immediately.
They lock eyes and Jaebeom feels heat rise to his cheeks. Bambam smirks. Jaebeom hastily looks at his drink as though it’s the most interesting thing in the world until he feels the eyes on him are gone.
He edges his line of sight back up bit by bit, shoulders sagging when he realises Bambam is no longer looking at him and is once again absorbed in his dancing.
(And if he’s a little disappointed then nobody needs to know.)
Jaebeom laughs at something Jackson says through a pout as he gazes longingly at Mark. He’s about to respond with something hopefully reassuring when Jackson’s eyes focus just behind his shoulder, widening before narrowing again with a suggestive look.
He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Jaebeom to gape at the space he left behind. Someone clears their throat behind him and Jaebeom wheels around and very nearly squeals when he sees that Bambam is stood behind him with a cocky smile that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it is.
Bambam, unfortunately for Jaebeom’s sanity, is even more stunning up close. With high cheekbones and plump lips quirked upwards, a warmth to his eyes that is dangerous for Jaebeom’s heart. Amusement radiates strongly from him, even despite the mask, and his dark eyes reflect the torchlight in such a way that it looks like they contain the candles themselves.
Jaebeom tries desperately to school his expression into something chic but he must fail, if Bambam’s light laughter is anything to go buy.
“Lord Jaebeom Im,” Bambam says, words slightly accented, “I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”
“You have?” Jaebeom blurts out before he can stop himself.
Bambam giggles and Jaebeom only barely manages not to swoon at the airy sound. “Yes, I have.”
“Well, we’re speaking now,” Jaebeom says intelligently, and then curses at himself.
Bambam laughs again, and Jaebeom hopes that it’s with him rather than at him (though he honestly wouldn’t mind either ‒ so long as he gets to hear Bambam’s laugh).
“You’re not wrong,” Bambam inclines his head. “But, now that I’ve achieved that goal, I have another one in mind.”
“And what would that be?” Jaebeom’s heart pounds loudly at the inside of his rib cage.
Bambam’s smile grows impossibly wider, impossibly more charming and he extends a hand, palm up.
“May I have this dance?”
Jaebeom stares at Bambam’s hand for perhaps a moment too long, because Bambam’s smile turns slightly strained and, for a moment, he looks a little afraid. That’s all the incentive Jaebeom needs to clasp Bambam’s hand tightly and say, “yes, you may.”
They walk together to the dance floor, just as the slow march that had been playing changes to a tambourin and they assume the traditional positions a foot or so away from each other. Bambam flashes him another one of those smiles when their hands, held vertically in the air, touch even though they shouldn’t. Jaebeom’s heart does that thing again but he decides to blame it on the alcohol.
They bow in time with both the music and the others around them, and the dance officially begins.
“I saw you dance earlier,” Jaebeom says, attempting a conversation now that his heart has calmed down (but not by much).
“I know.”
“Ah.” They step close together, and away again not a beat later. “You were good.”
Bambam snorts lightly and Jaebeom should not find it as endearing as he does, considering how very improper it is.
“Thank you for your poetic commendation, Lord Im. I’m flattered.”
They continue to step around each other, both in dance and words, through the song. The piece moves into its final repetition of the third phrase and, in accordance with the dance, they take a single step towards each other, but Bambam uses his absurdly long legs to press himself close against Jaebeom. Jaebeom holds his breath and hopes Bambam can’t feel his heart where it’s thundering in his chest.
“Would you like to take a walk with me, Lord Im?” Bambam says, easily, because he already knows what Jaebeom’s answer will be.
“Yes.”
Jaebeom has admired the Wang family’s flower gardens before, but never as deep into the night as it is now.
And maybe, if he could pull his eyes away from Bambam and his beautiful features, he would notice the way moonlight wraps itself around the flowers in soft white light and makes them appear otherworldly. Maybe he would notice the way the darkness pulls the flowers into it, so much so that even the brightest and most colourful flowers become three-dimensional shadow.
But, as it stands, all he can notice is the way moonlight rests atop Bambam’s skin, making him glow in a different way than the flames inside the ballroom did. He looks ethereal as he strolls amongst the flowers. The dark black of his clothes means that he is almost invisible from the neck down, swallowed by the night. But his face shines; it stands out from the darkness like a star in its own right.
They make conversation, and it flows freely between them, as though they aren’t strangers, as though Jaebeom has seen Bambam without that mask ‒ as though Bambam has seen Jaebeom without his. There’s something comforting and familiar about Bambam’s presence, but there’s also that excitement of the mysterious prince from a faraway land hidden beneath a mask of night and feathers.
They reach an overhang, a small stone balcony that overlooks a field of wildflowers. Stone walling in a curved half-circle around them, with intricately carved flowers leaving empty spaces in the wall and real flowers wrapped through the gaps, woven over the top.
“It’s beautiful,” Bambam says, eyes roaming the gardens around them and wide with child-like wonder that Jaebeom feels grip his heart tightly.
“Yes,” Jaebeom says, but he’s not looking at the flowers, hasn’t even for a moment since they’d stepped outside. “You are.”
Bambam turns to face him and, even with the low light making it difficult to see clearly, Jaebeom can see the faint pink that tracks its way up Bambam’s neck. Bambam looks down; it’s the first time Jaebeom’s seen Bambam bashful all night and Jaebeom is hit by the realisation that there’s so much more beneath the mask that he wants to discover. He wants to learn everything about this beautiful enigma of a stranger with the power to command the attention of an entire ballroom.
And, with a newfound confidence in the face of Bambam’s sudden shyness, Jaebeom takes a step forward, like he’s been aching to for a while now. He holds his hand just below Bambam’s chin, barely grazing the skin and uses his phantom grip to lift Bambam’s chin up so that their eyes are level.
“May I kiss you, Your Highness?” he murmurs.
“Please.”
They both lean forward at the same time, and Jaebeom feels Bambam’s arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him in closer. Their first kiss is deep, but Jaebeom can’t even find it in him to be surprised. Not when it’s Bambam.
Bambam parts his lips with his tongue, the tiniest moan escaping from the back of his throat and Jaebeom swallows it as he responds with equal fervour. Their lips move languidly against each other, no need to rush because they are detached from time in this flower garden so far removed from the rest of the world. One of his hands rests on Bambam’s waist and somewhere at the back of his mind he marvels at how thin it is, how nicely it fits into his palm and under his fingers. He uses his purchase there to draw Bambam in closer, until there is no space between him and all he can feel, all he can think is Bambam .
They pull away for a breath of air but then their lips are joined again like they never stopped. It’s the sweetest poison and biggest mess of contradictions in the world, kissing Bambam. And Jaebeom hopes that the rest of him is equally as confusing, as exciting. Kissing Bambam is slow but intense and exact but free and Jaebeom revels in the moments he gets to experience it.
They break away again, and rest their foreheads against each other, both breathing heavily.
The low hum of the party just about reaches them from across the grounds, but it’s muffled and it blends into the world as it spins around them and they stand still. Transfixed. A single moment in time framed in moonlight. And all Jaebeom can think about is how beautiful Bambam looks, how much he wants to kiss him again.
“Your Highness.”
It’s ruined all too soon by a voice cutting through the air. And the world snaps back into action, opens back up into more than just him and Bambam.
Irritation flashes across Bambam’s face so quickly Jaebeom’s half-sure he imagined it before he schools it into something more regal than Jaebeom’s seen all night. And all it does is make Jaebeom yearn to discover what’s beneath that feather mask even more.
“You are needed, Sire,” a servant says, looking between the pair of them awkwardly. He briefly catches Jaebeom’s eye and then immediately directs his gaze at the ground.
Bambam lets out a short breath ‒ something closer to a huff ‒ and turns back to Jaebeom, something apologetic in his eyes.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Jaebeom beats him to it.
“I understand; you need to go. It was selfish of me to presume to occupy so much of your time, Your Highness.”
Disappointment claws angrily at his insides, but Jaebeom ignores it in favour of smiling gently at Bambam, and hoping he’ll see it for what it truly is.
“Nonsense,” Bambam says. “I enjoyed your company, My Lord. If anything, you indulged my selfish whims.”
“I think it is safe to say we both did our fair share of indulging,” Jaebeom muses.
Bambam’s grin grows, blinding in the dark light and his eyes scrunch up again beneath the mask.
“I agree.”
A beat passes, heavy in the air.
“Goodnight, Lord Im.”
“Goodnight, Prince Kunpimook.”
Bambam follows the servant back through the garden paths and he does not look back once.
Pale sunlight swarms the room and Jaebeom blinks slowly as his eyes adjust. His limbs feel heavy, dragged down and lying like dead weights on the sheets of his bed.
Last night feels like a foggy dream or distant memory, but the feeling of Bambam’s lips on his, Bambam’s tongue against his, Bambam pressed tight against his body feels so, so real. He can remember it so vividly to the point that it feels as though he is still in that moment in time, in that flower garden with his beautiful stranger.
He blinks the thoughts away, forces himself back into reality.
He hears a knock at his door and hauls himself into a sitting position. He runs a hand through his hair as though it’ll make any difference before calling for them to enter.
It’s a servant, and they deliver a letter into his hands before excusing themselves politely. He uses the letter-opener discarded somewhere on his bedside cabinet to tear through the envelope, holding the parchment rectangle upside down over his lap.
A single, long black feather falls from the envelope.
It flutters downwards for a good few seconds before finally coming to rest atop Jaebeom’s lap. It looks out of place, and Jaebeom can’t help but think that it’s fitting. He stares at it for a moment, admiring its beauty. The way the vaine unfurls delicately from the centre more elegantly than a feather should be capable of.
He takes it gingerly between his fingers, scared he may break it and the memories it brings along with it. The feeling of soft feather is familiar under his fingertips, like a dream physicalised. Jaebeom’s eyes close naturally, and he finds himself back in the flower garden, the feather mask under his fingertips as he caresses the side of Bambam’s face.
His eyes open of their own accord and he stares down at the feather, a giddy smile on his face.
He’s never been to Occidens before. But, he thinks, there’s a first time for everything.