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Formal balls are so boring.
Jisung says this like there are informal balls. To which, and he can certainly attest, there are not.
Jisung's umpteenth drawn out sigh turned to a wince as he arched his back further, making his tightly-fitted waistcoat painfully pinch at his midsection.
His etiquette teacher would pitch a fit if she were to see him hunching like this, let alone in the midst of such an event. But Jisung is sitting alone on the grand staircase of his own family’s estate, watching the couples waltzing with palpable disinterest, and by God he's allowed to keep terrible posture for this one damn moment.
His suit jacket is verging on one size too small, and Jisung felt the ridges of his spine press uncomfortably into the fine stitching. He may just bust a seam or pop a mother of pearl button if he hunches his back another degree. That thought did not spur him to fix his posture, though.
Jisung blew a lock of hair out his eyes, and propped both fists against his fleshy cheeks. Viennese waltz became foxtrot, became waltz again. The whine of the string section in the orchestra is starting to give him a headache.
The ballroom is beautiful, undoubtedly, but Jisung has been forced here so many times, been subjected to it so many times that even the fissures in the marble tiles, the golden sconces on the walls, the teardrop crystals dangling from the chandeliers are grating to the eye. Sometimes Jisung finds himself looking longingly into the painted gazes of the noble portraits on the walls, as if they will somehow grant him salvation. He fought back a yawn and carefully stretched out his muscles, reveling in the subtle crackle of little seams tearing open.
Jisung sighed again, as the conductor eased into a slower piece. The floor-length skirts, tulle and satin and silk, which flew during the previous number are grounded with the sudden change in tempo. Luxe dresses with beaded bodices and embroidered hems twirl and shimmer under the chandelier lights, heels clack onto the marble as their partners parade them through the dance floor. They're all the grown up children of his father’s countless business partners, who, save for a few true friendships, Jisung would prefer not to associate too closely with. Vapid, the lot of them. Judgmental, to boot.
Jisung used to love watching the couples dance as a younger boy, and couldn't wait until he was of age to join the party. But now, as a twenty year old utterly jaded with the spectacle of it all, the pairs gracefully traveling from wall to wall mean nothing to him. They move, and he sits. They dance, and he watches from the sidelines. They smile, eyes twinkling with each song, and Jisung sighs.
He's already done his duty for the night, and completed a waltz as intended of the up and coming young lord of the estate. And, yes, he almost tripped over the lacy skirt of his dance partner, Lia, but he ultimately ended the routine in one piece (by some miracle, perhaps) . He's just lucky he and Lia are such long-time friends, and she kindly paid Jisung’s bumbling footwork no mind. He could feel the other attendees staring, though, as he scrambled to regain his composure. He could feel their judging eyes on him, and it made him uneasy.
His cheeks are still burning all these minutes later, for that very reason. Jisung hates when people stare.
He pulled at his stiflingly tight collar, desperate for some cross air. The guests have thinned considerably by this hour, his group of real acquaintances having bid him goodnight an hour prior, yet the dance floor could still be considered quite full. Jisung keeps compulsively checking the face of the handsome grandfather clock in the corner, as if it'll somehow take notice of his tedium and speed through the remainder of the evening.
He's never been one for balls, if that isn't obvious enough as it is. Jisung finds it all too artificial. Too polished. Where's the grit? The grime? The heart? The floors of the ballroom are never this clean on a normal day, trust Jisung. His father never smiles this much on a normal day. Trust Jisung.
So here he sits, stooped over on the second to bottom stair of grandiose flight leading into the ballroom, waiting patiently for tonight to be over.
The slower dance came to a close with a dramatic spin and dip, ending bows and curtseys cut short as the conductor wildly moved to a more lively piece. Jisung rolled his eyes as surreptitiously as possible.
He's been alone on the stairs for so long, been separated from the movement and action for so long, that the familiar thump of footsteps descending the grand staircase weren't even processed by his brain. They just blended right into the hum of the upright bass, and disappeared.
Until a broad blot black and white sunk down to Jisung's right, taking a seat on the very same step as the unimpressed boy.
“Good evening.”
Jisung startled, and his vertebrae noisily popped as he jumped. Ow. Maybe his etiquette teacher wasn't so off, with hammering in the virtues of proper posture.
He smacked a hand to his heart as he found the newcomer at his side, a respectful couple of inches away, and the rapid pound of the beats pumped straight into his palm.
Jisung stared, wide eyed, and consciously realized his heart refuses to slow despite the shock quickly wearing off.
The stranger on the stair with him is the most beautiful boy Jisung has ever laid eyes on.
“I-I’m sorry,” Said the boy, waving a pair of small, delicate, placating hands. His eyes are large in contrast to such dainty hands, dewy and brilliant from within, not from drops of chandelier light. “I didn't mean to scare you.”
Jisung gulped, as his own hand limply fell from his chest. His knuckles collided with the carpeted stair, and his chunky rings rang dully through his bones.
This boy is absolutely gorgeous, and Jisung doesn't know how to respond. He has no recourse. Well, he does, but...he can't seem to get it out.
So he gaped at him, unabashedly, as if Jisung has never seen another member of his own species before. This boy has perfectly parted, glossy brown hair that matches his glossy brown eyes. He has high cheekbones and a sharp nose and thin, incredibly pretty lips. He is incredibly pretty, in his quintessence. This beautiful stranger is wearing a form-fitting white blouse with a black waistcoat, accentuating the muscular dip of his midsection, and Jisung's tongue suddenly feels like a cut of slippery satin. His thoughts are waltzing like the couples before them, his brain a ballroom as his mindfulness twirls and swirls and dips as if being led in a dizzying dance.
“It, um,” Jisung’s breath is shaking. Every word feels unsteady in his mouth, as if his voice will physically teeter off his tongue, leaving him soundless. He soon swallowed down the quiver and tried to appear as normal and not socially awkward as possible, though. He laughed, none too nervously, “It's fine! I was just a bit surprised for a moment there.”
The boy’s angular features softened, as he gazed at Jisung. He shifted, the overhead light catching on his gold cufflinks, and they appeared as a pair of fallen stars pinned above his wrists. Who is he? Since when was someone like this on the guest list to Han family balls?
As if hearing such questions in Jisung’s head, the stranger extended a small, lovely hand. “Lee Minho. Pleasure to meet you,”
Lee. The name made Jisung jolt, as all those stories his father told him of his long standing relationship with the Lee estate came flooding back. They are old friends of the Hans, he knows that much. He vaguely remembers his family mentioning the Lee’s only son, quickly in passing, nothing ever too detailed, but this realization only made Jisung’s heart pound a beat faster out of rhythm.
The Lee’s only son is the most lovely boy to ever step foot in the Han estate’s ballroom.
Recognizing this is making Jisung feel lightheaded.
Jisung all but slapped his hand into Minho's, once his brain caught up with reality. He squeezed at Minho’s palm, much too tightly to be considered a standard handshake, and his heart billowed at the warmth stored between the boy’s fingers. Like reams of fabric caught on a breeze, Jisung’s heart flew.
“Jisung. Han Jisung. The pleasure is all mine, Minho.” Jisung said with a smile, possibly his first of the entire evening. He focused on Minho's hand, and his compacted nerves loosened.
How have they never met, until this moment? Their parents are so close, and Jisung can’t comprehend it, how it has taken this long for the pair of them to finally come together.
Though rather than pondering how and why, Jisung is more inclined to be thankful that, after all these fruitless, mind-bendingly monotonous formals, they have finally converged.
There's such a kindness in Minho, an authenticity that is so very rare in spaces like this. Jisung has a feeling this ball is about to pick up, now that he is familiar with him.
And Minho's eyes then went temporarily wide. Jisung felt his fingers tense for a moment, with how their hands are still clasped. He croaked, “Han? As in...this estate Han?”
Jisung giggled a bit, at how cute Minho looks when he's taken aback. Minho's eyes now mirror the hanging chandeliers above, and Jisung has never thought of the fixtures to be as beautiful as he did in that second. His grin bloomed bigger, “Yup, the very one.”
Minho’s throat bobbed, as he carefully pried his hand from Jisung’s. The temperature of the ballroom dropped by 30 degrees, 50 degrees as Minho’s heat left him. He quickly bowed his head, “I apologize for any disrespect I may hav—”
Jisung’s laughter boomed, not too dissimilar from the roar of the timpani drums in the music section. Jisung clapped a hand to Minho’s shoulder, forcing the other boy’s eyes off the shiny toes of his wingtips.
“Minho, please!” Jisung howled in between cackles, “I think it was more than clear to see I wasn’t having the best time before your arrival. I can bet I’ve been more disrespectful tonight than you could even imagine.” He removed his hand from Minho’s shoulder, his warmth, in order to wipe a tear from his lashes.
Minho’s smile returned, though fonder than before. He turned a bit on the stair, so as to face more of Jisung, and cocked his head a tad. “And why is that?”
Now Jisung’s forehead furrowed. “Why what?”
A new waltz began, pastel dresses and well-tailored suits blurring as bodies sway with the tempo. Minho and Jisung are static in comparison, might as well be a pair of statues a few feet away from the marble dance floor. Minho pieced Jisung apart with sparkling chestnut eyes, “Why weren’t you enjoying yourself tonight?”
Jisung clammed up at the question. His gaze darted to the organized chaos of the promenade before them, and his chest tightened when he is met with flowing skirts and starched slacks instead of Minho, Minho, Minho.
He found the boy again, after a beat or two. Jisung shrugged, bunching up his ill fitting suit jacket. “I’m not a fan of these things, I guess. They aren’t my scene.”
Minho nodded in understanding, and the feeling of such a simple gesture could not be denied. In a world like Jisung’s, being understood is terribly few and far between. Jisung suddenly feels increasingly hot under the tight collar of his blouse; from the inside, not from external heat pooling under stiff lambswool.
“They can be...a lot.” Minho admitted. His cheeks look a shade pinker than before.
Minho smiled genuinely at Jisung, who in turn smiled genuinely at Minho. From the gentle crook of his lips alone, Jisung knows he gets it. He understands.
And for someone in Jisung’s position, that alone is more than enough.
There’s never silence during a ball, not legitimately, but as the orchestra plays and the young heirs laugh, Jisung and Minho stay in as much sublime quiet as humanly possible. There’s a beauty to it, as they sit closer than before on the stair, taking it all in. Just breathing in perfect time with the other, as the conductor whips his baton about with fervor. They just met, yet the absence of small talk is decidedly not awkward in the least. Their lack of noise has become a song in itself, as far as Jisung thinks.
A couple pivoted mere feet from them, and Minho straightened his shoulders. Something about his stare became contemplative. He looked at Jisung unreadably for a split second, before offering him his hand once again.
Jisung merely stared at it, at the idle curving of Minho’s fingers, tangibly confused.
A new waltz began with a bow and curtsey, cyclical as if the changing of the season.
Minho scooted himself a bit further into Jisung’s space. “May I have this dance?”
Jisung’s breath hitched. Itching to hold that hand again, he fit his fingers between Minho’s, but stayed wordless in his acceptance. For a moment, Jisung simply existed with Minho’s hand in his.
Promenade, lunge, natural turn.
Jisung has never been the best at waltzing. There’s too many technicalities, too many rules that must be followed, and it always seemed like a waste of time. He’s taken hundreds of classes in this very ballroom, granted, though not like he had a choice. He’s stepped on his instructors feet hundreds more, as he clumsily followed their guidance.
Jisung was content to be a spectator, just a pair of eyes watching from afar, but, as he tightened his grip on Minho’s hand, it all fell into place. The notes, the tempo of his heart zooming past that of the music, the heat of Minho’s palm. The light of the chandeliers bending a halo around Minho’s caramel brown hair.
Jisung suddenly wants to waltz. Wants, not a subjection, for the first time in his life.
He looked into Minho’s eyes as if for confirmation, and God are they sparkling. Like a pair of fallen stars. Jisung nodded, welcoming of the smile growing as he meets Minho’s expression. He was positive his dance from earlier in the night would’ve been his last, was happy with such a thought, but now that very notion seems ridiculous. Maybe he can finally put all those useless lessons to good use, for once.
Jisung doesn't remember the last time he's smiled so wide, to the point where it ached so wonderfully. “You may.”
Minho matched such a blinding grin, and easily pulled himself and Jisung off the stair. Jisung’s knees cracked as he stood, releasing the tension stored deep in his joints, but, before he could work out the kinks in his muscles, Minho is dragging him onto the dance floor.
His hips and shoulders swaying with each step, Minho walks with more grace than a lion’s share of the dancers whirling about the room. Jisung’s heart is pounding by now, so hard it might just pop out from above his tailored waistcoat.
Minho turned Jisung around with a tug of their laced fingers, right in the middle of the ballroom. Couples are dancing in a perimeter around them, a languid tornado of shimmering satin and crinoline, practiced fingers laid on delicate waists and between shoulder blades.
Standing opposed now, Minho released Jisung’s hand and bowed first. Jisung squeaked, and frantically bent at his own midsection a second later. Damnit, he always forgets to bow! But Minho only giggled at this, and Jisung can say with certainty that it was sweeter than the orchestra’s suite by leaps and bounds.
“Do you want to lead?” Asked Minho, taking a small step forward. He's so calm and collected, whereas Jisung feels as if he'll faint to the marble any given minute.
Jisung quickly shook his head, “N-no, thank you. Would you mind?”
Minho smiled so gently at him, and placed a hand at the dip of Jisung’s waist. His touch is comforting in a sense, securing in another. He took Jisung’s hand back in his other, and adjusted their arms into proper hold. “I’d be honored.”
Jisung sucked in a breath, smoothed over his nerves, kept the tremor in his hands to a minimum as he latched an arm around Minho’s shoulder. He pressed his clammy fingers into the wiry muscle beneath the blade, the pads slipping against the rich satin of Minho’s black vest.
The tempo changed.
The dance has begun.
Minho stepped first, and Jisung concentrated more than he ever has to follow suit. He’s never waltzed with another boy before, but how much harder could it truly be? He remembered back on all those afternoons with his dance instructor, dug through the telling speed of his heart and the slosh of his thoughts to mimic what he’s learned with as much poise as possible.
One step, two steps, three. A chassé, a whisk, a closed change as they travel across the floor. Minho is startlingly talented, so elegant in his action that Jisung feels slightly guilty for hindering such perfection of movement with his patented awkwardness. Minho moves like a dancer. Not like a tired rich kid who is forced to be one, but like someone who is meant to be one. Like someone who loves to dance for the sake of it, not for what the routine may mean for your parent’s business relations.
He's never seen anyone dance like Minho, let alone danced with anyone like Minho.
Jisung yelped, hopping to keep time to the best of his abilities. “Y-you’re so good at this.”
Minho shook his head, and sent Jisung an incredibly coy wink. He kneaded a bit at his waist, “Thanks, but you aren’t so bad yourself. Really.”
He certainly begs to differ, yet refuses to argue. Jisung has never felt so happy, so honored to have been lied to.
Jisung sighed as Minho expertly led him, his hands a grounding anchor on his midsection and between his fingers, though this exhale is not from boredom, but from bliss. He grinned at Minho, softened the placement of his hand on the other’s shoulder as the dance progressed. Jisung quickly sunk into the choreography, into Minho, ignoring everything mingling on the outside. Minho spun him, the portraits and marble and sconces revolving in a whirlwind of glitter and gleam.
Minho then dipped Jisung without warning, the ballroom flipping upside down. He saw the chandeliers sprouting from the floor, weeping willows with hewn crystals for leaves, until Minho rights him once again. All the blood pooling in his head drained, leaving him giggling and giddy. Jisung has never loved feeling so woozy before.
But it is at this second, when his vision steadies, that Jisung feels something else. Something all too familiar and all too nauseating, it is the sensation of ants crawling beneath the seams of his suit jacket. And when Jisung momentarily tears his enamoured gaze away from Minho, all he can perceive is eyes.
All the other couples are staring at them, at their waltz, some eyes wide and some eyes narrowed and some eyes darkened until appearing black. Some seem vaguely proud, respecting, though a stare is a stare as far as he is concerned.
It just hit Jisung that they are the only pair of men dancing together.
His heart froze, along with his feet.
Jisung skidded to an ungraceful halt, soon bringing Minho with him. His hands dropped from Minho, instead balling up nervous fists at his sides. He can feel them, each pupil, each iris scratching down his back like the tip of a dagger.
He hates when people stare.
“Is that Mr.Han’s boy?” They whispered, veiling mouths behind lace fans.
“Isn’t that the Lee’s son over there?” They coughed into closed fists.
“Jisung?” Asked Minho, brows pinching at the abrupt pause. His voice above the orchestra, above the throb of his heart in his ears, above the murmurs, brought Jisung a quick respite from the countless eyes on them. “Why’d you stop?”
Jisung bit at his bottom lip as he collected his thoughts. He’s never been so happy and so terrified at the same time before. The floor feels uneven, suddenly. He feels that if Minho were to lead him in one more step, he’d plummet off a cliff. He also feels like, if he were to tumble, to fall, that Minho would be there at the bottom of the raveen to catch him.
He looked right into Minho’s shining eyes, and whimpered, “They’re staring. At us. Everyone is staring at us, Minho.”
Minho cocked a brow at this, and looked around the ballroom. He surveyed the couples surrounding them, meeting their varying gazes without fear, and hummed. “So they are.” He mused, audibly uncaring.
Bored with them, Minho refocused back on Jisung. He gently cupped his cheeks with both hands, undoubtedly feeling the burning heat of his reddened skin. More melodic than the music, he said, “Don’t mind them.”
How desperately Jisung wants to do just that.
Jisung’s eyes fluttered under the pressure of Minho’s hands bracketing his cheeks. He unconsciously relaxed, the drone of the orchestra fading into a distant buzz of strings and percussion. Those prickling eyes like thorns in his sides compressed and flattened until Jisung all but forgot them. Those glances which once sounded like a scream became a mutter, became silent.
Minho’s own eyes glittered that much brighter, more brilliant than the chandeliers. He stroked his thumbs over the apples of Jisung’s cheeks, and whispered, “Their stares can’t hurt us, right?”
Jisung let such words wash over him, bathing him from head to toe. He instantly came to a decision.
He nodded, bobbing Minho’s hands with him. “Right. They can’t.”
Minho seems appropriately satisfied at this. He smiled at Jisung, and it comforted him beyond measure. Minho replaced his hand on Jisung’s waist, the other gripping a bit tighter once he found his hand again. Jisung fixed up his hold after a final breath, straightening up as Minho got them back into position.
“Just look into my eyes.” Minho soothed, his voice like a pour of honey. Jisung thinks he can do that very thing. And he did.
Focusing on nothing but Minho, Jisung is calm as they begin again. Minho led him about the ballroom like before, a duo of pitch and ivory as they circumnavigate the opulent space. People stared. Jisung only has eyes for Minho, his jewel irises, his coiffed hair, his perfect posture as they promenade.
Jisung put more confidence into his steps, suddenly self-possessed in his two-left-feet shuffle.
He's never been the best at the waltz, but he's trying. For Minho, he is trying harder than he ever has.
“This is the last dance, I believe.” Minho observed, pressing delicate fingers into Jisung’s waist. Violins and violas sing as if with human voices, crooning from beneath bows.
Such a statement made his heart hurt.
“I believe you’re right.” Jisung sounds upset, looks it even moreso. He wishes they could go for one more. Two more. Infinite more.
Jisung tripped over his dress shoes after getting too lost in the other boy’s eyes, and Minho immediately caught him, held him firm, eased him back into the dance with care. The other couples parted, a shifting of the seas of tulle and velvet, as Minho and Jisung travel and turn.
A few beats later, Jisung whispered, “I don’t want tonight to end.”
He means it, despite how he couldn’t wait for tonight to end before he met Minho.
Minho’s smile fell a bit. Until he spun Jisung, and he appears happier when the revolution ends and they are facing the other again. “It doesn’t have to.”
Like before, Jisung is confused. He asked, “What doesn’t?” His fingers absentmindedly stroked down Minho’s waistcoat, feeling the tight muscle beneath the fabric.
The spindly hands of the grandfather clock ticked one minute closer to midnight.
The room is spinning as they waltz, and Jisung shudders to imagine the final song’s closing notes. Minho said, “Tonight. This is your estate, after all. Show me around, won’t you? Take me to your favorite spots.”
Jisung’s cheeks flushed considerably. Something fuzzy stirred in his chest. “That’s a good idea.” He admitted.
The conductor is bringing the song home, Jisung knows. But it didn’t make his heart sting, as he previously imagined it would. It merely made him excited for what's to come next.
Jisung posed, as their steps slowed with the encroaching end of the routine, “Can I show you the garden?”
It’ll be incredibly dark out, but Jisung will happily swipe a lantern from the foyer. The roses always look even more perfect in candlelight, to him.
Minho chuckled, “I’d love to.” His eyes are a honey brown wonder, glimmering with the crystal glow above.
“And the dining room?”
“Of course.” Minho squeezed at Jisung’s waist and at his hand.
Jisung is so hot, so dizzy, and it is beautiful. Everything is beautiful, he thinks. Even the ballroom. Even the satin dresses. Even his dancing. His expression became somewhat shy, “And...my room, after that?”
The other couples bowed and curtseyed as the final chords rang through the ballroom. Books of sheet music promptly flutter shut. Violin cases are unlatched.
Minho’s cheeks became that much rosier. “Did you really have to ask?”
He has a point there. The dance is over just like that, but Jisung didn’t waste a moment in silence, real silence, now that the music has ceased. As they broke hold, Jisung kept his and Minho’s hands interlocked. They didn’t even spare a second to bow.
He pulled, and Minho followed instantly. They grinned, as Jisung towed Minho through the crowded dance floor and back to the staircase on which they met. Their bubbling laughter became a new song, a new musical scale. People stared.
Jisung didn’t even notice.
“You know what?” Said Jisung, as Minho skipped to his side, still hand in hand.
His heart is beating, not faster than before in spite of the intensive choreography, but simply because of Minho. Jisung is aware of this, the reason beside him, and does not take any of the quickened pounds for granted.
Jisung is going to bring him to the garden first, just as he’d offered. He wants to kiss Minho behind their rose bushes.
“Yes?” From Minho, nudging Jisung with his hip. There’s something knowing and heavenly in his eyes. Jisung looked up to him, met his gaze, increased his grasp on Minho’s hand that much more.
The grandfather clock struck midnight. The formal has come to an official close, and this does not disturb Jisung in the least.
In fact, it only stoked the spark in his chest even hotter.
And he means it, as he swings their interconnected hands, eyes aglow from the refracting of chandelier light.
He means it, when he replies,
“Balls aren't that bad, on second thought.”
XII
Jisung does not understand why the expression is ‘fell in love’.
The word falling makes loving someone sound so...haphazard. Accidental. Painful.
And Jisung can assure you that finding yourself loving someone like Minho is the polar opposite of haphazard, accidental, and painful. Jisung did not trip over an untied shoelace into love. He did not misstep over his own feet and stumble into love. He did trip, he did stumble, but he was caught by Minho each and every time. He did not fall. Minho did not let him.
Tonight at the ball, Jisung skipped in love. He soared in love.
He danced in love.