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He was the beauty.
A thin, fragile-looking body with long, subtle limbs was moving with grace so bewitching, it left spectators breathless when he danced. With each swing of a hand that moved so smoothly like had no bones, each leap he made as if the gravity had no power over him, each spin a tiny story was told, a surge of emotions splashed over the silently watching people, it being saturated with all the senses he was overflown with. Sometimes, much rather during practices, however, he would let himself be picked up by the inspirational feeling and close his eyes as he gently glided on the scene, touching the floor carefully with the platforms of his pointe shoes. He was one with the music when he danced, one with the stage and the movements he was supposed to perform. He was a delicate butterfly, and the scene was his blooming garden he flew through, shining with delight of being alive.
Ranboo - a ballet dancer, notable with his conspicuous height and a double-colored hair, - was earning enough to keep doing the thing that brought him so much joy as a career, and other than that there wasn’t much he cared about. Which may sound selfish and insensitive, but the truth hid in his overly tender perception of society. When he first started performing, he was eager to catch a look at the audience, to see through their lit up eyes how everything he was giving them through the story of his character had touched their souls, made them emotional. His heart got a few scratches when the dreadful most of the time he saw the unaffected faces instead, heard dry clapping and watched, how they all hurried to leave after the end of the show, to resume the quick pace of their lives. His older colleagues revealed to him that ballet isn’t seen the way it was before and probably will never be again. And so, not without a flaming fervor of denial, he swallowed the bitter taste of acceptance at its fullest and decided to take his friends’ advice and not expect anything from the audience, saving the so delicate soul of his.
He armored his heart so firmly, he didn’t know how to react when a bouquet of flowers was brought to the dancers’ dressing room.
Girls received such gratitude for their performances very frequently - a woman’s grace has always been much more appreciated and admired than the man’s, Ranboo knew that well. He never got such a gift, and the first minutes after the bouquet’s delivery he spent in front of it, his gaze confusingly wandering between the gentle petals. There was no note, and the only message that the young man got was a simple “Delightful performance”, passed by the staff member. Ranboo stood, eyes pinned on them, face subdued with bewilderment. He loved the flowers indeed, but the thought of such a gift being given to him mistakenly hindered with enjoying the sight.
And after that, he started receiving the bouquets, accompanied by short complimenting messages, after every single show. “Confused” doesn’t even begin to describe the loss the guy happened to be at. He calmed himself with a thought that the gifts were from different people, but his amazement ignited with the former flame when the staff told him it was the same person each time. Ranboo rushed to them, asking about the giver agitatedly but discovering very little. Much to his astoundment, it was a man, a young man with unusually long and unusually pink hair, he appeared to be calm and courteous as he asked to give the flowers. When asked if he wanted to meet the dancer, softly refused, saying he didn’t want to disturb the young performer and thus leaving Ranboo with nothing but bigger turmoil. It must be noted that the bouquets themselves were frequently of imposing sizes. The guy wondered with worry how much those cost, and even more about why would someone spend so much on him, especially without a wish to meet him in person.
But Ranboo - he had such a wish. His curiosity and growing fear of it all not being meant for him took the lead, and so he tried to reach the giver. Which turned out to be unexpectedly hard, since the young man seemed to dissolve in the walls of the theatre right after passing the flowers. The dancer failed to catch him multiple times, sometimes getting only a glimpse of his back and indeed very long hair as he walked to the exiting doors, but not much more. And each time he missed the chance, was it his fault or not, the desire only rose. To thank him, to ask about the motives that governed him, dear, even to see him was something Ranboo craved for, his colleagues chuckling at him for taking it all that close to his heart.
The guy’s raptures were overwhelming him as he got to know the next show had a character for him, whose appearance ended much earlier than than the play itself. He was thrilled about receiving more time to change and thus have an actual chance of meeting his admirer, even though that was the term he refused to use.
He spotted the pink head among spectators and after finishing his role, dashed to the dressing room with fervor no one had seen him have when he wasn’t dancing. This time, he neglected showing on the scene for a final bow at the end of the play, as he was counting on a possible need of chasing the giver in the streets.
How agitated he turned after seeing him after the show, carefully giving a bouquet of gentle-pink flowers to one of the managers. The man could have been seen from the back only, and Ranboo rushed to follow after he exchanged a few words with the staff member and started a quick pace towards the exit. Passing the row of empty seats, he took the bouquet from the manager, dropping a polite “Thank you” on the way before they could even say anything, and directed himself towards the pink-haired giver.
Fearing of him escaping again, the young dancer exclaimed relatively loud in the empty walls of the hall “Excuse me, sir!”, hoping for it to reach the other. And it did, making him halt immediately, but before he could turn around, Ranboo appeared in front of him and had already inhaled to start the verbose expressing of everything he wanted to say when, suddenly, he froze.
The pink locks of the hair flew down the shoulders smoothly, framing the face so fine and seamless, it made the younger one forget what he was willing to even begin with. The man was looking at him with raised eyebrows, throwing a quick glance at the flowers and then moving it to study Ranboo’s face, fixing his eyes on his shortly afterwards. The dancer, in turn, got lost in the dark colors of the other’s irises, face expressing no less astonishment than the man’s. The heart that paced so fast in a rush to meet him seemed to stop for a moment, cooling the splashing fire and replacing it with something that felt a different kind of warm.
The man was dressed well, and the formal look of his finery was probably the thing that made him look older than Ranboo, for his face appeared to be very young, and if not the eyes full of calm composure, the guy would definitely have regarded him as his peer.
For a few moments, both were gazing at each other, and the rustling of the paper the flowers were wrapped in was the only sound between them. The giver was quick to relax his face, but the dancer took longer to return to reality. When he did, eventually, his voice sounded nowhere near as confident and firm as he had rehearsed while imagining what this meeting was going to be like.
“Um, you, uh… Y-you are the one who, um, sends them, aren’t you?..” he asked waveringly, dropping his glance to the bouquet.
The pink-haired one lingered to answer, eyes still on Ranboo.
“...I am,” he replied with little desire to focus on that specific aspect, voice unusually deep for a young man of such countenance.
The words seemed to crumble as soon as he thought of them, and finding the ones that stayed firm took longer than the guy would have expected to. Collecting himself, Ranboo lifted his look at the older one.
“May- May I ask a question, sir?”
The man’s eyebrows rose just a bit again.
“Sure.”
“Are they, um… Are they for me?..” the younger one enquired hesitantly, and, seeing the other’s amazement grow much bigger, hurried to explain. “I mean… It- It happens sometimes that flowers don’t get delivered to the right person by accident, a-and I wondered if, um, if those are meant for someone else.”
The pink-haired one inclined his head a little. He paused, and Ranboo tried to ignore the warmth that spilled in his heart as the softness of the other’s gaze touched it.
“They are meant for you.”
Time that the guy took to speak again he himself admitted to be of a completely indecent amount, yet he could hardly do anything about it. The nervousness of his was exposed through the crunching of the wrapping paper under then thin long fingers as he pressed the bouquet a little closer to himself.
“Please, don’t get me wrong,” he started, trying to hold himself from shifting on the floor out of uneasiness. “I am so, so grateful to you for them, I love them, I really do, but… Why?”
He thought like he needed to add more to the question, elaborate it, but all the words were prickly and unattractive. The man, however, seemed to have understood it without a need to second guess on its meaning. He looked at disbelief in Ranboo’s eyes, his bewilderment and, most notably - a striving to know the reason. Those eyes deserved honesty.
“...Because I haven’t met a lot of people of art who are doing it as a career yet remain passionate and thrilled about every single piece they do or perform. When you dance, you do it like there is no one in the hall, you make it seem like it is the fashion of your living, an inseparable part of your entire existence. You are touching without getting close, you are speaking without your voice, speaking something that words can’t even express. And it bewitches me, makes me feel … Um, I guess that is why. I heard from your staff that you like flowers, so that is the way of me expressing gratitude for everything you make me feel.”
For a while, they were silent. Ranboo was dazed, the first instants unable to do anything other than look into the dark eyes that gazed at him with modest adoration and genuineness, like he was an angel, an ethereal being from outside of this world. Something that ached after the scarring disappointment in people had risen again, turning however in every opposite of “hurt”. The once burnt out sentiments inside his heart have smoothly woken up from the dead, planting roots of flowers, just like the ones that he held in his hands carefully, and the flowers spread their growth all over his chest, gentle stems curling lightly on the bones of his ribcage. To be seen so deeply through felt strange yet so inspirational, Ranboo wondered if it was more than the pleasure from the idea of being so admired.
Suddenly, the man smiled.
“This is why I prefer short messages over the long ones. If what I said about you was overthought by my imagination, just take it as a flattery,” he uttered, and after a pause, his eyes have slightly narrowed for a moment after getting no reply or any visible reaction from the younger one.
He didn’t notice how started breathing quieter. The eyes or red and green didn’t look away from him for a second, filled with something the man couldn’t quite identify, but the feeling he got under the gaze reminded him of the sentiments he felt as the younger guy performed.
And Ranboo? Ranboo realized it wasn’t the idea of such adoration that brushed against his soul, but the idea of being seen in a way he stopped hoping to ever be seen. To bare the side of him that he hid from the eyes of indifferent ones in an imperceptible corner of his being, the only chance to spot it was when he danced. To be more than a performer or an actor. To be felt and responded with similar senses.
He looked at the man with tenderness, knowing well that he will, if hasn’t already, fall in love with him. It was one of those moments that you simply know that the person in front of you will touch your heart, will inflame the feelings of your soul and comfort you with their existence alone. Ranboo could feel it coming unhurriedly but unavoidably. And earnestly speaking, he wouldn’t want to avoid it, not in the slightest.
“May I ask what your name is, sir?”
The pink-haired one looked surprised for a moment, but didn’t linger to reply.
“Technoblade.”
The young dancer smiled, warmly and gently.
Dear, he really is in love. He was falling in it wholeheartedly with his arms spread out widely to expose his chest, inside of which a blooming soul was glowing.
The most beautiful way of falling.
“I am so glad to finally meet you, Technoblade.”