Chapter Text
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At twenty, Huang Renjun was no more special than his siblings as he had been at ten. Kun still remained with the handsomest air, Yangyang held the most conversation, and Chenle the most accomplished in musicality. That did not go as to say that Renjun had grown to be unaccomplished – he held just as much training and beauty behind the piano forte as his siblings, just as much loveliness as the eldest, and spoke with just as much intelligence and livelihood as could be conjured in one his age – he simply held no specialty unique only to himself.
His family held a great wealth, at least as great as one could imagine with a clergyman of high financial standing – earnings of seven hundred pounds per year in addition to the tutoring of schoolboys – and it seemed rather great in the small town located just west of Lacock, Wiltshire. They had a fine house, attended fine balls, and wore fine clothes. Though, still, none of the sons had managed to marry.
Kun was the eldest and a boy of the utmost beauty – his hair a sandy blonde that shimmered white like pearls and moonlight under the sunniest of summer evenings, and his eyes held a similar twinkle of light that accompanied his pale features like a reflection of their shine – yet, at his age he remained unengaged. It was no lie that at the age of four and twenty he had received his fair share of offers – but alas, he had remained a fleeting piece of heaven no one could conquer (or bring themselves to try).
Chenle and Yangyang had yet to be introduced into society, though Yangyang, at the age of seventeen, was to attend his first party alongside his elder siblings. Chenle had taken it upon himself to continuously whine against the fact of his staying home (the Langford’s let their daughter come out at fifteen, why can’t I?).
Renjun, however, was quite the family’s oddity. Having been introduced into society at the age of sixteen, a certain agility and angelic manner to his movements that entranced alongside his elegant features, Renjun had been offered merely one partner in dance and held scarce conversation with others since. “He had an air of snark,” as his mother would tell him, “that simply warded off all possible engagements.” He thought it quite untrue – Renjun was a quiet boy, and, whilst on occasion he would snicker behind a gloved hand into the ear of his brother, he had never paid insult to any kind of man.
That was, other than the man whose pursuits he repeatedly denied.
The air of the library was drafty; a peculiarity not dismissed by the boy as he flipped a page of the novel in his lap, and still the window remained perched open. It was odd, that the only warmth in the room was due to the fact of its being ajar as opposed to it providing a breeze meant to cool, and Renjun shifted in his chair closer to the spring shine. The only sound that resounded around him was the shuffle of parchment and the noises that usually accompanied the dry spring days of Wiltshire; birds fluttered past and leaves rustled alongside soft breezes. On occasion Kun would groan with the misplacement of thread over his embroidery work, to which Renjun would regard him with a snigger, and then the room would plunge once more into a dull and humming silence.
A piano key struck from the drawing room, the pluck of strings in a chord echoing vibrantly into the pair’s ears. A melody unfolded in the quietude.
Renjun looked up, staring to the distant wall with glassy eyes as his ears tuned to the notes that chased each other down each phrase and through each lilt, legato giving way to lively staccatos that should have belonged in an energetic waltz but still seemed to sit perfectly in the yearning piece of music. It stopped abruptly and Renjun stole his eyes away to his book, inferring the scribble of his youngest sibling’s kohl over sheet music before his appendages began to continue their bound over the keys. The house was no longer quiet.
The door sprung open and Renjun cocked an eyebrow to Yangyang as he dropped onto the floor beside his armchair. Kun set his needlework onto the arm of his futon.
“Am I to wear a gown?” he began, his chin rested upon the cushion beside Renjun’s thigh and he glanced upward to Kun as the boy stared toward him.
“You’ll wear as you please. Pants or dress is not of my concern,” Kun arched his brows as the younger spoke.
“Had not he better wear a dress when presented initially?”
“I wore a stock and cravat,” Renjun shrugged and Yangyang snorted from where he leant against the chair leg, his legs sprawled behind him.
“Very true; yet see how that has turned up so many offers,” Yangyang dodged Renjun’s swat. “Speaking of such – shall we see Mr. Wong? Upon my word, I do wish to see that interaction.”
“You’ll do no better than I by being so disagreeable. Do not speak of such that you do not understand,” he flicked his eyes toward Kun’s frown, “I propose we put him in that odd gown – rather unfashionable to make him off-putting.”
Kun smiled softly, stretching to grab hold over his embroidery once more as he began to work the fabric. With each push and pull of the pin over the cloth a soft pop filled the silence, working in a duet with the melody of the piano in the adjacent room. The warmth of daylight continued to stream in from the window beside him and he turned, stretching an arm to push the panes away further and bask in the warmth.
“Your silence speaks thousands, Kun. You are right – then we wouldn’t be able to get rid of him.” Kun laughed.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with him – what with your leaving for Bath.”
He hummed, “Very certain, indeed, so I suppose we shall dress him as such.”
Yangyang fell back onto the carpet with a sigh, his feet twisted awkwardly below him and Renjun looked down to him mirthfully. He prodded a finger into the strip of skin between his sock-clad foot and knee breeches and the younger twisted away, his nose scrunched in petulance as he stuck a tongue from his mouth in his direction. Renjun lifted a hand in threat.
The piano halted, the loud clack of its lid being shut resounding through the thin walls surrounding. Chenle’s footsteps entered the room and they all simultaneously turned to him. He wore simply undergarments, the pale white of the petticoat brushing across his calves as he halted in the doorway with a bright grin, and Renjun arched a brow as the boy swiped his palms against the thin cotton dress.
“Had we had company – what shall you have done then, Chenle?” Kun prompted, a small frown marring the angelic features of his face, and Chenle simply shrugged, dropping onto the space of the sofa at Kun’s feet. He grabbed his feet with a chuckle as the elder kicked away.
“I would not have come in, then.”
“You would not have known.”
“I am afraid I simply cannot be left here alone. A gentleman may come by and I shall greet him with vulgarity in my dress. I must attend the ball.”
“You shan’t,” Renjun countered, a grin over his face. “For the sole reason of your vulgar dress – impolite and unprepared for society,” he enunciated his words tightly with a grin as Chenle shot him a glare. A soft wind bristled over them in accompaniment with the cold walls of the room and diminished the warmth of outdoors. He shivered slightly and glanced out the window.
“I fear we may all catch cold. The house seems to believe it remains December,” he added as side thought, his eyes trained on the sprouting buds of distant trees.
“I am certain Bath holds pleasanter warmth.”
“No, indeed, Uncle Doyoung writes that it is very nice. I am afraid I know no one in such a multitude of people – I will miss you greatly in such solitude.”
“Oh, but you are sure to make some acquaintances – perhaps to even wish for a large acquaintance to join your company. You should be glad to soon attend such grandeur and fine parties.” Kun then held his needle over the fabric, and Renjun watched the thread as it pulled in lavender flowers over the beige cloth.
“Undoubtedly, though I still fear how very uncomfortable it may be.”
“There are few people that Uncle Doyoung and Taeyong do not know.”
Renjun hummed, dismissing the conversation and turning to glance back to the words that unfolded over the novel before him. He bent his knees, shoving his feet onto the cushion of the chair, and rested the back of his hands that held the book atop them. From the floor, Yangyang closed his eyes and Chenle set his chin over Kun’s shoulder to gaze over his needlepoint. The room resolved to silence with the occasional shift of parchment and rustle of wind.
The glow of candles was warm, the flames licking over the air on their wicks and casting shadows to dance alongside their silhouetted counterparts across the walls like magic. Renjun flattened the front of his gown and continued through the crowd, his shoulder carving space for his feet to tread by as he followed in pursuit of his siblings.
The dresses that swirled around him formed a palette of soft pales – pinks, greens and blues molding alongside trains of beige and ivory to smear across a canvas like oil paints depicting pastel water lilies over an expanse of blue. The room itself was scattered in gold, though just enough to remain tasteful and not overdone, the chandeliers dropping down in dewdrops of diamonds that glinted below the candlesticks built to glow ever more.
Renjun looked to his own dress, white muslin decorated in a swirl of blue thread that shone like sapphire – Kun had taken it upon himself to embroider the plain frock, as he had claimed with a scrunched nose had looked like a bed sheet in its simplicity – and he ran a finger across the blue ribbon of his waistline. It pooled down his hips to rest just brushing the floor with a drape similar to a bride’s veil. He thought it rather pretty, the neckline haloing around his shoulders to leave the thin of his collar bones exposed in want of cooler air, and he tugged the soft puff of a sleeve correctly over his shoulder before curling his hands to rest politely over his abdomen.
Kun stopped his ascent further into the dense room to drop onto a chair, Yangyang and Renjun collapsing just beside him. They could see, through the wax and wane of the crowd, a thin strip of those dancing. Renjun tilted his head and studied the company of the room with a keen eye.
Beside him, Yangyang tugged a stocking further up his calve, and surveyed the crowd alongside his brother.
“Miss Morton and the soldier seem a rather unlikely pair,” Renjun heard him whisper to the two and he glanced over, trailing his eyes to where Yangyang gazed.
“I suppose so.”
“I wonder at how they met. I would quite like to be introduced.”
“Well, I cannot do it.”
Kun hummed, glancing over the siblings beside him, “Indeed, we must await Father from the card-room.”
“I don’t suppose someone may approach us?”
Renjun hummed to the younger, scampering his eyes over tips of heads to spot the slowly diminishing candles. He spotted one being relit, the swirling of skirts and lively dance having extinguished it where it rested high above. The wick caught and it licked orange across the air.
Renjun lowered his eyes to the mass of people and his gaze caught on a head of dark hair, speedily approaching through the parting crowd. He cocked an eyebrow and let a small laugh escape the seal of his lips as the boy perched beside him.
“Renjun,” spoke the boy, his voice hushed to remain masked almost entirely by the flitting chatter around them, “will there be any harm in my leaving the party?”
He tilted his head, glancing over the boy beside him. His hair was pushed from his forehead near effortlessly, a few strands laid loose to curl just above the prominent arch of his brow, and the dark of his eyes were squinted into the populous crowd. Renjun knit his brow.
“Why – have you taken offence?”
Dejun scrunched his forehead, “Me? I take offence? An unlikely thought, my dear friend.”
“Nay, then why do you wish to go?”
The dark haired boy turned to face Renjun his chin lowered as he leant in as though to share many a secret. Renjun cocked his head to the side, turning to face Dejun’s cheek as he spoke with a slight breathlessness directed into his ear – the kind that accompanied sharing a wanton story in the presence of its culprit.
“I am afraid Mr. Ainsley has taken a liking to me.”
Renjun balked, pulling his head back harshly to blanch toward the elder. “Recently widowed Mr. Ainsley?”
“There is not another?”
“I am unsure of his kin.”
“He has no son.”
Renjun leaned in to continue in a whisper toward Dejun, “And he is taken with you?”
“Indeed. He asked to engage my first two dances and I said I already had such an engagement. I fear-”
“Nothing good is to come of two boys sharing secrets at a party. What do you whisper about?” Renjun snapped his eyes up, locking them with a similar pair of near black – though, ones that swirled in a softer shade, specks of brown enrapturing the dark pupil – and releasing a light chuckle as he shot Dejun a glance from the corner of his eye.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Wong, that such a question may be impolite.”
“Oh, mind my being improper – I do apologize – I simply could not resist my curiosity,” he bowed slightly, “Mr. Huang, Mr. Xiao – it is always a pleasure – you know my elder brother, Lucas Wong,” he lifted a hand to gesture to the taller gentleman beside him. Renjun shot him a tight smile.
“We are acquainted, yes.”
Renjun felt the boy’s eyes remain traced over him and he turned to Dejun, his mouth poised open as he grasped for words. Dejun flicked his eyes to the bench behind him and he widened them, jumping slightly. “My brothers,” he nodded his head in the direction of the two on the bench as he addressed Kunhang, “Yangyang and Kun Huang.” The two bowed slightly and the siblings opposite them mirrored in response. Yangyang’s mouth broke into a bright grin.
“Mr. Wong,” he spoke to Lucas, “it had been so long since you’ve called upon us at home – do be so kind as to visit.” Renjun lifted a foot, covered by the length of his gown, to kick against the bone of Yangyang’s socked ankle. The boy flinched and hissed at the elder, his eyebrows pulled together with the narrow of his eyes.
“You tumble my gown, Dear.”
“My apologies, Dear,” Yangyang sneered and Dejun giggled behind Renjun as Kun shot the pair a squint of disapproval. Renjun broke into a grin, morphing it polite as he addressed the pair of gentlemen.
“I do wish Dejun could dance,” he saw the boy’s eyes widen as he turned to face him. “He’d do well to have a partner.” Kunhang barked a laugh and extended a hand to the seated boy with a grin. Renjun watched Dejun fidget, pulling the sleeve of his jacket down slightly as he hesitated.
“Would you do me the honor, Mr. Xiao?”
It was most definitely not the first time Dejun had ever taken Kunhang’s hand in a waltz, nor was it anywhere near an extent of possible that it’d be the last, yet still the boy’s cheeks flooded with a darkened rouge – heightened by the dark glow of candles that casted his face in shadowy gold. Dejun was no stranger to dances – he’d been long since congratulated as splendid (such was to be expected of a child born to the wealth his familiar was accustomed) – and he made very little fault in the gentle steps and bows of such.
And there was no better match for him than Kunhang Wong.
Renjun watched as he slipped a palm into the gentlemen’s hand and pulled himself upward, the green of his trousers darkening in soft wrinkle. Lucas turned to him.
“Shall we go for tea, Mr. Huang?” Lucas’ own elbow was extended for him, an invitation to walk the expanse of the room to the tables for tea. Renjun hummed, slanting his eyes to Kun with a tentative air; desperate for an excuse to be provided as to why ‘no, I actually cannot’. Kun didn’t provide.
“Had we not better wait for when others retire from dancing – when everybody is in motion for tea?”
“Very true; let us take a turn about the room – you may admire the dancing.”
Renjun inhaled wearily, pushing up off the bench and flattening a hand over his skirts to settle them. He slipped his grasp over Lucas’ wrist and they continued forward, pushing through the mass of gowns and humans. He cleared his throat gently.
“People will think we are courting.”
“I am glad of it.”
Renjun stiffened, his footsteps faltering for a moment before he continued, his chin tilted high. “Do be conscious of your etiquette, Mr. Wong. You seem quite brash.”
Lucas stopped, tugging Renjun’s hand to pull him to a halt before him. He turned to face him completely. “I have made my intentions quite clear-”
“And I, mine, Mr. Wong. Have you misunderstood me since you last called upon us? You have my imminent refusal, Sir.”
“Renjun,” he stood uncomfortably close and Renjun stepped slightly back, his ankle near buckling behind him as his brow knit together. Renjun chest ticked with pity. “Would it not be a shame for us to part-”
“Mr. Wong-”
“Mr. Huang.” They stood in silence for a moment. “Does not your family enjoy my company? Do not I have reasonable wealth? Am I not an agreeable man? Your brother asks me to call upon your family – would I not be a pleasant husband, and an acceptable one to your family?”
“My family does not have a say in my courting. You make an agreeable husband, Mr. Wong, but not mine. I apologize,” Renjun stepped further away, narrowly missing a body behind him. Lucas remained where he stood, a soft frown marring his lips.
Lucas was a kind and welcome man – with that Renjun held no doubt – but he was not of a spectacular interest to the boy. He’d offered his hand to the younger a fortnight prior in the confines of their library bookcases and since the offhanded rejection at such a ridiculous offer he’d avoided any little encounter between them.
Until then, of course.
Lucas Wong was an amiable man – a model to his younger brother alongside two sisters – with reasonable wealth and unthinking kindness. He was well liked by the entirety of the Huang family – though Yangyang seemed the most affectionate in his regard to the other – to a point of his constant mention. And it wasn’t that Renjun found him dull – nor did he hold unintelligent conversation; he simply found he had no heart for the boy other than one which held a similarity to the pieces he handed to his brothers. Lucas was likable and rich and solely like a sibling to him.
The gentleman smiled tersely to Renjun, offering a forearm once more for his taking, and accompanied him to the seat that remained unoccupied beside his siblings. He presented them a much warmer smile that he had provided Renjun.
“Mr. Wong, do offer Renjun to dance,” Yangyang proposed and Renjun frowned toward him.
“I am afraid in doing so I may make him miserable.” He paused his speaking. “Why not I invite you, Yangyang? It would be unjust to allow a boy such as yourself to remain without a partner upon introduction to society.” Renjun glanced over the boy’s expression as he received invitation, noting the light dusting of pink settle over his cheeks like pollen.
“As it would be unjust, I am sure, to refuse.” Renjun felt it like a punch to the gut.
The pair stood, Yangyang trailing after Lucas’ taller form, his hand reached up to adjust the cravat that sat tight over his throat, and approached the still floor. A violin strung up and the pair bowed. Renjun turned to Kun in time to receive a small frown.
The carriage bustled under Renjun as he leant back in the chair.
The sun had barely risen to cast the sky in gray and the horizon hung heavy with threat of a storm. Renjun pulled the small curtains further ajar, though he moved deeper into the center of the carriage in an effort to separate himself from any possible storm.
Tempests, though they remained seemingly frequent happenings in Wiltshire, had never failed to put Renjun on edge. The weight of clouds in the sky muffled the sound of buzzing nature and the racket of horse hooves and wooden wheels over sodden tracks rang atrociously loud through the wood. Renjun set a hand to hang limply over the curtain as he glared into the still dark forest.
The Lee’s had sent Renjun a rather nice carriage; the windows draped in black curtains decorated in delicate, pale daisies to match its simple interior. The coachman had been kind, albeit unfamiliar, and had spoken merely once to the lone traveler as Renjun had boarded in and they’d set off in the breaking dawn. He was thankful for such; Renjun found that, had he been greeted continuously with awfully kind words and bland conversation, he’d have been uncomfortable in the company of a stranger.
The travel to Bath, a distance Renjun knew to be just over ten miles, would inevitably take the entirety of a morning. It wasn’t an uncomfortable distance for a young man as himself to take alone, the four hour trip in the company of the Lee’s personal escort giving way to no need for a carriage-hop, and Renjun knew that with the rising sun he’d have a moment to bask in the foreign nature.
The boy had never left Wiltshire. He’d had his fill of wanderings over grassy expanses that glowed jade in early spring mornings and stumbles over ill-set cobblestone whilst shopping through Lacock – and he was no stranger to society. Yet, still, Renjun had never travelled through a city with quite the population that Bath held.
With the invitation of their uncles that arrived by post and the realization at Renjun’s… unacquaintedness with the men of Wiltshire (read: unpopularity) but that of one, whom Renjun refused to not refuse, came his mother’s immediate acceptance – alongside her immediate urging of his departure. There was a belief within the older woman that, if she managed to succumb her child to the etiquette of elite and grand acquaintances in the city, he would himself become a boy of high societal propriety. And thus, Renjun was hurried into a darkened carriage by light of a candle and his mother in a petticoat a mere seven nights after invitation.
The blue of the woods lightened as it crawled past, trees jumping alongside the pop of each wheel over stones, and Renjun stared between the trunks and the green of underbrush. He could swear he saw jack-o-lanterns like that of which he read floated above marshes for several hours in the night; the distant light glinting in the deep of the forest like an ominous invitation of pixies and mischievous magic.
Renjun had been one for stories and tales since he was a child, books pulled over his lap and feet curled under his chair cushion as he poured over novels and scripts his father carried home from his travels. He fancied the stories of mystical creatures he knew not to exist but craved for. As a child he’d dirtied himself in the beds of soil deep in their gardens – searches for gremlins and boggarts scraping dirt across his hem and tears across his bodice. He knew himself then to hold rather enchanting conversation with the knowledge of magic and horror and travels as the novels he’d read had instilled in him – though his mother insisted it childlike and immature.
To her, his curiosity with the make believe had always been a shame that would turn away the company of gentlefolk – it was preposterous.
Renjun supposed he didn’t want their company.
He turned his eyes from the glinting lights, studying the soft, weed-like flowers of lilac and canary that grew in the grass beside the road. He thumped the top of the small compartment, shouting a soft order of stop before the rhythm of horse hooves on the dirt began to slow to a halt. Renjun pushed open the door.
“Do excuse me a moment,” he sent the man a curt bow.
Stepping over the grass, his trousers chafing against each other as he crouched low, Renjun plucked a small bunch of weeds. The bundle of small petals and vibrant colors was soft in his palm and Renjun grinned down at them as he rose once more, venturing nearer from the ditch toward the horse-drawn carriage.
They were hopeful and smiling in his eyes – happiness to a new beginning.
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