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Myeol feels the need to emphasize that he did not agree to whatever Phill had planned.
“Yes you did,” Phill affirms. Myeol glares, partially appalled yet unfazed at the audacity of this boss.
“I didn’t!” Myeol insists, tugging at the collar of the button-up, frantic eyes darting around at the surrounding extravagance, sleek dresses and tight fitting suits that would probably cost him more than what he can earn in ten years. And that’s only talking about the plainer-looking outfits, let’s not even go to the eye-catching, more or less scandalous ones.
On top of that, masks galore. Everywhere. Can’t recognize people up on that balcony, which thank goodness for that because Myeol was not interested in the identities of some strangers making out in semi-public.
“Too bad,” Phill chuckles as he lowers his voice, wearing a smug grin and all as he sounds like some kindergartener that was about to snitch for some petty little thing. A man in his thirties, everyone. “I remember you clearly said ‘no problem’ right before we went out. Now you’re tryin’ to go back on your word?”
Myeol sighs, movements quick as he moves back to avoid a wayward couple. They looked too tipsy for their own good. “It’s less about going back on my word and you not staying true to yours, Boss.”
Phill takes a sip—that lasts longer than usual—from his flute of champagne. “Nonsense,” he says, absolutely lying through his teeth.
“You said we would be in and out in half an hour!”
“Fooled, weren’t ya?”
Myeol slightly turns away with a huff. There was absolutely no way to reason with such a shameless man. Out of respect towards the higher position and pure goodwill of the heart, Myeol decides to put up with this horrible boss of his. But despite the accompanying promise of a hefty paycheck to tempt him into staying, it remains a demanding task.
This is a ball of honored guests, many of which are dressed to the nines, probably only came to flaunt their wealth and whatnot. Everything feels orderly, excessively so when one takes a second look at the tidy cuff of a worker’s sleeve or the unblemished gleam of a vase. The chandeliers hanging from overhead are reflected in the perfect shine of clear glasses of wine, trickles of red and yellows swirling around. Music plays in the background, a sort of waltz for the less intoxicated of the crowd, elegant and poised with every step tapping by their partner’s, bodies brushing against each other and coquettish apologies exchanged in between pleasantries.
In other words, a place where Myeol would admire from a distance. Phill looks like he fits right in though.
“Who’s the target?”
Phill sounds almost unconcerned. “Host of the party’s daughter. The client is her mother.”
“The host is your client?”
“Her husband.” Phill laughs, casually swirling the wine in his glass. “Embezzlement amongst the couple’s respective companies, client wants me to swindle her daughter while the lady’s guard is down.” Another sip of wine. “Helluva messy affair, if you ask me.”
“And we’re here because you’re trying to get information out of her?” Myeol takes a quick peek across the room, gaze falling upon a young lady whose pale blue dress outshone many others; simply put, the belle of the ball. Her mask looked like it was worth your typical white collar’s yearly wages, so Myeol didn’t dare assume a price to her gown.
Phill grins. “Take a guess?”
“Then what am I doing here?” Myeol fidgets, self-conscious, wishing to meld himself into the shadows against the walls. At least they were in an inconspicuous location.
“To help you let loose.” Phill’s smile, ever ill-intentioned and irritable, bodes no good for Myeol’s steadily rising panic. “Improve your socializin’ abilities in high society.” A load of bull. “Ain’t interested in any of ‘em?”
Myeol blinks when Phill gestures to… about the rest of the crowd, fraternizing with their prospective dance partners of the night.
“No.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought me.” Considering the fact that he has enough money for the month, Myeol thinks he doesn’t need that heavy paycheck. He turns on his heel, ready for a quick escape.
“Hey.” Phill raises an eyebrow and his grin grows roguish, then there’s a hand finding a grip around Myeol’s arm. Tightening. “Now where’d ya think you’re going?”
“… To the side.” Myeol decides to answer carefully, wary of the glint in the man’s gaze. His arm’s starting to hurt. “So you can focus on the mission at hand.”
Phill chuckles, handing his glass of champagne over to Myeol. It’s still half full. “Make sure to keep an eye on your surroundings. Security looks lax, but they’re actually tighter than ever.”
And with that, Phill quietly makes his way into the crowd, pulling off his usual nonsense. A wink here, some flirty remark there, a scoundrel’s grin greeting the interested and elegant smile crafted for the indifferent. His eyes pass over his newly adopted pursuers with no small amount of confidence, carrying an almost suggestive undertone. No matter what, there were always the flustered gazes of a few unlucky ones that continued to follow after the man, captured by his charms.
Unfortunately, Myeol was one of them. However, his eyes never leave his boss for other professional reasons. I’m doing this for his safety, he reinforces this thought. He’s not doing a very good job at convincing himself though. Myeol gets so caught up in the little show Phill puts on that he doesn’t notice when the object of his gaze has looked back. There’s a cheeky smile, as if he were showing off.
Right at that moment, the target and her little posse cross paths with Phill. Phill’s smile widens for a brief second, lost to all but Myeol.
Hook; Phill stumbling into the lady in the pale blue dress, a humble apology with the dip of the head. (“My apologies, little lady.”) He leans back just the tiniest bit, languid posture with a slightly sheepish expression. Gloved hands loose by his sides, before pressing his fingers to his chin in a thoughtful manner. (“Are you alright?”)
Line; the lady steps back with a youthful blush across her face, radiant and bright beneath the light of the room. (“Yes, I’m alright. Sorry, I wasn’t looking—” “Oh don’t worry little lady, I’m the one to blame.”) For some reason, the brightness is too dazzling for Myeol, an imagined glaring shine seeming to blind him. He’s tempted to look away, but he won’t because he’s a good subordinate that’s looking out for his idiot boss.
Sinker; introductions are exchanged, an embarrassed smile appearing more charming as the lady stares upon Phill in no small level of awe, maybe starstruck by his appearance. (“Are you McClane’s daughter?” “Indeed I am, how could you tell?” “Lots of people ‘round here tell me to look for the prettiest one.” “You flatter me much, sir.”) Phill’s lips curve up meaningfully, nodding along to the little lot of rich second generations as their words clamor over each other’s. No doubt they were dazed by this sudden casanova that slid in out of who knows where.
Right. Myeol smiles, wryly. He really wasn’t needed here, at all.
… Not that Phill was going to let him get away so easily. The constant warning glances across the ballroom clearly showed an intention to dock Myeol’s pay if the latter tried to leave.
And so, Myeol resigns himself to twenty minutes of watching Little Lady blush and dance, careful steps sweeping across the ground in small arcs, a pleasant smile directed at her dance partner. Playing a chivalrous gentleman that can do no wrong—an utter lie—meant that Phill smiles back, that careful upwards turn of his lips reserved for the young lady. She places a petite hand atop a broad shoulder, the fingers teasing across the line of Phill’s collar, playing bold but never pursuing further.
Phill’s lips move, barely. Myeol couldn’t read them this time, with the way the man keeps tilting his head down, but no doubt he was finally doing his job, probing around for answers. Thank goodness for that, Myeol supposes.
A few idle spectators find the dashing pair to be an interesting sight, almost like they were something that waltzed straight out of a fairytale. Something about a mysterious knight and the princess, Myeol hears from an onlooker.
Yet Myeol knows; here, there is no shine of a magical blessing like those in the stories. Maybe if they looked a little closer, they would see past the gentle exterior and find the rotten mess within. If they squinted, that tender smile would become enigmatic.
But alas; no one cares for the finer details of that unnecessary truth, and so Myeol keeps his words to himself.
The dance feels as if it drags on for eternity, with Myeol nitpicking at Phill. It all ends when the little lady is dragged away by her friends, a regretful smile following after Phill as he nods and turns away gradually.
“Did ya have fun?” Phill chuckles as he slithers to Myeol’s side. Who knows when he got here, Myeol could’ve sworn that his boss was still on the other side of the ballroom.
“Have fun watching you dance?”
Phill whistles before casually grabbing a fruit. “No need to sound bitter. Only askin’.”
Myeol tries to maintain a neutral expression at Phill’s words. “You’re good at dancing, I guess.”
“Yeah?” Phill leans in, wearing the grin of the cheshire cat. “Well I did mention before that I knew ballroom dancin’, or did you forget.”
Of course Myeol remembered it. “You look pleased with yourself.”
“Well my only job was to get information on some of the smaller details. I’ll report to the client later.”
“Didn’t think that dancing around for a bit was enough to finish this job.”
“Hey that’s not it!” Phill looks strangely offended. “You need to have a silver tongue for this too, ‘kay?”
“Mn, okay.”
Phill just stares at Myeol, something thoughtful turning over in his gaze. Whatever the hell it is, it certainly uneases Myeol.
“What are you staring for?” Myeol questions, peeved.
“Nah I'm just thinkin'.”
“… Thinking?” Any of Phill’s thoughts is a red flag.
“‘Bout how to convince you to let loose a bit.”
Myeol could almost see where this was going. “For the last time, Boss, I’m not touching a drop of alcohol tonight.”
Phill laughs, though his voice carried the slightest twinge of disappointment. “Not alcohol. You haven’t found a dance partner yet?”
“I don’t want to.” Myeol was not gonna like the direction of this conversation.
Phill is wearing that obnoxious smile, the one where he looked like the cat that got the canary.
“Then, why don’cha try with me?”
Myeol blearily gawks. “… Boss, I think you’ve had one too many drinks.”
Phill lifts an eyebrow in doubt.
“And,” Myeol adds with a slight strain in his voice, “even if I said yes, it won’t be enjoyable for either one of us.”
“You’ve never tried it, how would ya know? Ain’t you just chickenin’ out too early?”
Is this man a child? Myeol groans, “Did you not hear what I said—?”
“—I did.” Phill barely looks convinced. “But I think you just don’t have the guts to try.”
And Phill wordlessly stretches out a hand—not an invitation, but something almost like a demand—and Myeol feels a slight chill running down his spine. He really shouldn’t take it, and he knows this, damn it, Myeol is smarter than this. Or so he wishes to believe.
But to regret it now is weakness, and to pull away is to admit surrender. Pretty foolish to play up this calm facade, but their dignities are at stake.
And Myeol wants to win this, for once.
“… The moment you try to pull something, I’m backing out.”
Phill is absolutely beaming. In a near malicious way, one that makes Myeol quietly go, Uh-oh. “Sure thing.”
Myeol’s hand lands (read: is taken) in Phill’s, and the other man grins, leading their way. Myeol chooses to block out all sensations for a hot second, especially the feeling of the gloved hand pressing against the small of his back, steadying his stance and the steps that carry his feet—and his mind—off to la la land.
The current choice of music flows smoother than the piece that played when Phill was wooing the young lady. It’s another waltz, gentle steps matching the calm tempo of the piece, everything seeming to fall quiet for once.
Phill’s gaze is ever so sharp behind the mask, bright despite the lurking darkness always within his eyes. The intangible light of the room can not compare to those vivid eyes, which holds Myeol alone within the orbit of his vision.
It’s calming, almost. Frighteningly so.
Myeol trips a bit, and suddenly he can’t bring himself to lift his head anymore, gaze falling upon the other man’s shiny shoes. The voices of their surroundings rush back all at once, of laughter and gossip, breaking whatever spell Phill just used on Myeol. Fingers tense atop the man’s shoulder, Myeol suddenly finds himself at a loss of where exactly to touch. Or hold. Whatever, same meaning.
“Hey, stop starin’ at ‘em.” Phill sounds a bit impatient. “If you want new shoes, just say it.”
“Yours are new?” Myeol absentmindedly questions, steps awkward as his heart seems to seize in his chest; right, maybe he shouldn’t have said anything about dancing after all. The violin reverberates loudly against the walls, almost trying to lure Myeol back into whatever hypnotic state he was just trapped in.
Phill sounds exasperated. “Why d’ya keep looking down?”
Myeol becomes increasingly aware of the warmth over the small of his back, never straying above or below. Modest, almost cautiously so. As if afraid that Myeol would skitter away at the first sign of dishonesty. (Though did Phil understand how to be afraid of such trivial details?) The thought of this carefulness settles down Myeol’s nerves, somewhat. He finally lifts his head.
The light cascades along the broad figure before Myeol. With Phill’s gray hair dazzling under the chandelier‘s illumination, one would believe there was a halo atop his head, though he was most definitely far from an angel—a fallen one, perhaps.
“Hey.” Oh when did Phill get so close, hang on— “Focus.”
“… I can’t.”
Phill’s voice goes soft for a bit. Sort of loses its impatient edge. “Can’t what.”
Focus. Dance. Properly function with Phill so close, voice over his ear, breath tracing the side of his face. Can’t do any of those. Myeol’s throat feels like it’s squeezing in, face burning with embarrassment.
“I can’t dance.” Myeol’s voice is barely louder than a whisper.
Instead of the judgmental laughter Myeol expected, Phill just looks contemplative. Like he was thinking about how to get Myeol out of his anxious shell, with hesitance lying within its cracks. Seeing how far he can take this without scaring Myeol off. Pensive, because Phill’s steps still for half a second before carrying on, like there wasn’t a hitch in their rhythm. Continuing to sway steadily.
Myeol chooses to stay ignorant to the fingers stroking his spine. A difficult task indeed.
“It’s not that you can’t dance.” Phill takes Myeol in for a spin, who half-heartedly stumbles along. “See? You’re gettin’ the hang of it.”
“Thanks for trying to comfort me, but I really don’t know how to dance. I also don’t wanna step on your shoes ‘cause they look expensive.” Myeol continues to babble as he awkwardly bumbles around.
Phill, against all odds of Myeol’s awkward movements, can carry himself with finesse. There was no more of that former exasperation, just something tolerant and quiet. Of course, this man was anything but those two traits.
Myeol’s pulse jumps from where Phill presses a thumb against his wrist. Testing him.
Phill smirks. “Flustered?”
Myeol would like to say no, but his rapidly increasing heartbeat isn’t really helping him. He ungracefully chokes on nothing. Phill guides, steps swift as Myeol allows himself to get tugged along, increasingly desperate to deny the hand on his waist, how did it trail down to his waist, since when was Phill’s hand on his waist, why would Phill—
Myeol’s mind blanks out during another spin, the landing step making him trip. Feet, Myeol sternly reprimands himself, not your hand in his, nor the dishonest one on your waist. And most definitely not the way Phill feels like he’s towering over Myeol, nope, nada.
There’s a gasp when Myeol is lowered at a probably haphazardous angle, and he belatedly realizes that it came from himself.
“You’re gonna drop me!” is what Myeol blurts out in a panic, nevermind how unlikely it would be for Phill to actually do that to him.
“The lack of coordination in your body is a wonder to behold.”
“Thought you said I got the hang of it.”
Phill laughs. It sounds less harsh this time. “Hmm, I did. That was when you were payin’ attention to me.”
Myeol glares. Phill concedes.
“Come on now, I’m startin’ to feel a bit jealous.” Phill huffs in amusement. “Still findin’ ways to be distracted even with me?”
It’s snarky. Something of mock anger. Or playful, maybe. No; it’s teasing, like the way the surface of the water ripples when disturbed. The traces left behind as something skids across a surface that gives way.
It makes Myeol feel frail, for a bit. The stone skipping across the lake before sinking into his chest.
At some point, they’re dancing with their bodies far closer than what was considered professional. Faces a few centimeters apart, enough for Myeol to rest his head on Phill’s shoulder. Smell a faint trace of the man’s cologne. Enough to make his heart turn over and over again, hesitant and uncertain, thoughts bittersweet with the aftertaste of wine.
Myeol feels almost drunk like this. He ought to understand why, or how, but he doesn't. Or he doesn’t want to. The answer is—has always been there, if he allowed himself the revelation of it.
“Your face is red.” Right. And Phill just had to ruin it.
“Shut up.” Myeol’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, aware that his face was probably red. The violin rises in volume, and Myeol finds himself lowered once more, Phill’s shadow falling over him. Encompassed by the looming darkness.
“Stop doing this, you’ll drop me at some point.”
The darkness can not hide the faint smile on that man’s face. Silence meets Myeol’s remark, and the words fall empty.
And then Myeol thinks of how to be frail. How to let go, allow himself to fall and allow the other to catch him. It’s so easy to do so, isn’t it?
Instead, they dance on, in the only way they know.
(“If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, just tango on.”)
Myeol is a horrendous dancer, is what Phill first comes to terms with.
The second thought is, we oughta do it again.
The drive home is a silent one, with a certain indignant assistant refusing to respond to Phill’s coaxing. Phill did expect this though—it’s a risky thing to test Myeol’s tolerance for his antics, whether they be harmless or malicious. Of course, dancing around in a public place was the former for Myeol’s wellbeing, but the latter for Myeol’s dignity.
At some point, Myeol does speak up, though not too willingly.
“Why did you make me dance anyways?” Before Phill can get another word in, Myeol grumbles, “You know I can’t dance, but you still… and anyways, there are so many people you could’ve danced with if you wanted.”
Phill didn’t really think about what to say if Myeol asked this. And Myeol was right; he could’ve picked anyone and danced them into a fantasy, with only a few sweet words and the brush of gloves over bare hands.
But it wouldn’t be the same, if it wasn’t Myeol.
See, here’s the thing; Phill is a greedy man.
There is something about Myeol’s disgruntled reactions that scratches at some unknown part of Phill’s heart, be it curiosity or delight. The vulnerable moments, where Myeol wishes to shy away and is yet dragged back into the spotlight that Phill shines upon him. The startled expression, lips parted in shock as little gasps sound in the heavy air between them, defensive as always yet it felt as if something changed, shifted, tender and unguarded—
It’s the leniency of these moments that keep Phill’s mind off his job, the solace in between the danger at every turn. He wants it to last for eternity. Keep it in his empty heart. The dancing, the feeling of being grounded, Myeol in his arms, all of it. These little mercies are not enough.
But this is not an answer Myeol would accept, nor stay around for. And so Phill keeps it to himself. He just smiles.
“Hmm, dunno. Maybe I just like seein’ you flustered, that’s all.” It’s a part of the truth.
It's enough to get Myeol scowling and reddening all over again, and Phill tangles himself into the memory of it.