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Nobody lays an eye on him when he enters the ballroom, everybody too enraptured by the youngest prince and his wife opening the dance, a flurry of tailcoats and translucent veils that capture the attention of near every single person in the hall. He’s wearing light colours that make Hansol’s blood boil when he finds him immediately - because it is his sworn duty to seize up this man. For a moment, all seems to halt around him, from the enamoured song of the orchestra to the servants who are offering him and the eldest prince refreshments. All he sees is narrowing eyes and a contemptuous pull of the mouth, directed at the dancing couple - and then, at him.
In an instant, Hansol’s hand flies to cover Jeonghan’s chest, who flinches at the movement. His other hand goes to grab for his rapier, only to find his belt devoid of any weapon. No hidden pistol, either. Only the obvious guards, stationed along the walls, with their impractical, adorned polearms.
Jeonghan next to him makes a disdained noise. “What is it, Hansol? You know I’m all up for witnessing your mischievous side, but right now isn’t the most appropriate moment.“
“Mage,“ Hansol replies, clipped, as he waves for guards to join him and the crown prince. He is not taking his eyes off him, watching as the man schools a more calculating expression and takes a chalice of wine from one of the passing trays, the red liquid sloshing against its crystal walls.
Finding what Hansol is so intently watching, Jeonghan gasps. It doesn’t elicit any reaction from the man beyond the dancers, who holds Hansol’s stare. “What is he doing here?“ the prince whispers with urgency, looking around for more guards. “Hansol, did he make any allusions to coming here? Any announcements or threats? Why are we not prepared for this?“
Hansol takes a deep breath. One of Jeonghan’s personal guards approaches him, and Hansol quickly lets him assess the situation. The man is good at his job, and Hansol trusts him to use his hands and muscle to protect the prince’s life, should this turn into an ambush.
Should this turn into an ambush, Hansol needs to be the first man on the frontlines.
Colourful dresses and straightened suits sway past Hansol’s eyes, loud laughter nearly shatters his line of sight, unbothered by the trouble this immobile man is causing him. Hansol has barely drunken anything, but he still feels intoxicated. Is it the the hysteric joy of the party guests? Is it the heat from the candles trapped between his chemise and his adorned chest plate? Or is it simply the dangerous anticipation of laying eyes upon that man at the other end of the ballroom?
“I’m going,“ he tells the bodyguard, who nods with a curt “Sire.“
“Hansol, no, let the guards escort him out,“ the prince reproaches, but the beginnings of panic are audible in his voice. Despite meaning that he would let the enemy out of his eyes, Hansol turns to look at Jeonghan. His eyes are wide, worried, wary. They shouldn’t look like this at a ball.
“I’ll be quick,“ Hansol replies. “I know him well by now.“ It’s a truth, and a dangerous one at that. He shouldn’t have had the chance to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. His enemy should have been eliminated long ago.
"Don't let him under your skin, Hansol, I can very well order you to stay put as your Prince,“ Jeonghan hisses, but it's to late for that, because already does his hand fall from the prince's shoulder as he takes the first step, already is he splitting the unaware, giddy crowd like a saint splits the sea, already taking strong confident strides that barely mask the trembling of his balled fists. And before he notices it, he's close enough to see the muscles pull around the villain's mouth to form a barely there smirk, close enough to see the dark man's shoulders pull back, the enemy standing straighter.
When he reaches him, Hansol is breathless, and he is barely able to transfer the anger on his face into his voice when he starts to ask, "What are you doing here?"
Jeon Wonwoo just tuts.
"It's a ball, dear knight. I am here to dance.“
The world seems to crash with noise around Hansol. A young girl bumps into Wonwoo, and he quickly grabs her hand to twirl her past him without falling. She laughs delightedly, giving her impromptu dance partner a quick curtsy before flitting off with her friends. The court doesn’t know his face. Hansol knows it all too well.
“Leave, immediately,“ he tells the villain. They’re eye to eye, and Hansol can distinctly see how Wonwoo calculates, assesses him, computes a plan. It burns like fire behind his eyes.
“I don’t think I will,“ he replies. Slowly, he raises his hands, revealing them from behind his back. Both are empty, for once not holding the staff Hansol has had too many close encounters with. “I have something to discuss, and I’d like to become acquainted with the anonymity of the crowd.“ His smile has waned, but his expression still doesn’t match Hansol’s in seriousness.
Hansol scoffs. “Big words,“ he says. “Then talk.“
To his surprise, Wonwoo steps towards him, and his body is on alert when the mage lifts his hands towards Hansol, foot pushing backwards into a secure stance, ready to pounce. The dark man just chuckles at Hansol. His teeth match his suit as he grins.
“I told you, I am here to dance. It’s either you or some girl who will fall in love with me and desperately cling to the hope of my advances. Do you want to break hearts, Hansol?“
“Only yours,“ Hansol replies, and before he notices it, he’s taken the enemy’s hand in his own, he’s placed the enemy’s hand onto his shoulder, he’s taken a step towards the enemy and gripped his waist. Wonwoo easily follows his lead.
“Interesting answer,“ he murmurs, inclining his head. “I suspect this is about extinguishing any kindling of rebellion in my soul until I am complacent to your masters’ rule.“
It is. More than anything, Hansol wants to see Wonwoo crushed beneath him, defeated, unable to lay a finger on what he’s sworn to protect. More than anything, he wants the taunting to end, he wants this man to stop coming for him to fight him. If Wonwoo has a heart, Hansol seeks to destroy it.
“Talk,“ Hansol says instead of twisting the man in his arms until he is unable to move out of his grasp. His steps are calculated, deliberate, careful not to guide them too far into the crowd so Wonwoo can disappear out of sight. Over the villain’s shoulder, Hansol can see the guards on their posts, all observing them carefully. He doesn’t spin around to look at Jeonghan. Wonwoo would laugh at him.
“As much as I like that you are leading, I’d prefer actually dancing. It’s boring to move like a piece on a chessboard.“ Hansol doesn’t have the time to react before his enemy has slipped his hands to his waist and briefly lifts him into the air, ignoring the way Hansol’s hands fly his shoulder in a vice grip, thumbs too close to the hollow of his throat. Hansol feels like a puppet that is being thrown around, quite literally. It’s nauseating, but he manages to keep a little control in the ways he reacts. He could choke this man to death, if he wanted. Without hesitation.
The landing is gracious, but the mage manages to take the lead in the dance, pulling Hansol closer, their hands intertwined above their shoulders. His hand is warm on the small of Hansol’s back, not at all cold like the ones he’s used to feeling against his chest when they fight. Wonwoo is an icy adversary in the desolate forests and barren fortresses, but on the court, he’s new to Hansol. Their faces are too close for comfort, and he turns his away.
“I did not know that your Dark Court put any value on dancing,“ he huffs, trying to ease the tension.
His enemy merely nods, something grim and understanding. His eyes pierce.
“Now we’re talking. The dark court doesn’t exist, Hansol. All we are is desperate, trapped in a fight with your king’s propaganda against us.“
His name is sweet like honey in the enemy’s mouth, and Hansol can’t help to look back at him, not once allowing any cracks in his composure.
“He is also your King,“ he replies. Their steps are light over the parquet, their bodies waltzing in the heat of the candles. When Wonwoo gives a little push against his hip, Hansol easily follows and turns out of his hold, and lets himself be pulled back in to receive the dark man’s answer.
“He has not been our king for a long time,“ he says, and for the first time that night, Hansol sees true emotion in Wonwoo’s eyes. He knows these eyes, knows the hate they are usually filled with, the cunning pride when the defeats Hansol once again and lets him lay in the mud with one last blow of his staff to his chest, and he knows the rage that darkens them at mentions of the King. Tonight, Hansol is close enough to distinguish pain in those eyes, too.
“Your rulers are villains,“ Wonwoo hisses now, and Hansol wants to rip himself away from the mage to make him swallow these words, but his grip on his hand and waist is too strong to escape. Despite his forceful hold on Hansol, he still leads him like a feather, spinning around other couples without even looking. His eyes remain on the knight. “You have no idea how we live. You people starve us and then send out hounds to kill us. And you are always the first to swing your sword at me.“
“I do my duty to protect my Prince,“ Hansol spits back in offence. “You would not have gained a personal enemy with me if you had not tried to harm and abduct him so many times. I would be more than content without having to eradicate your evil.“ Hansol chose his words like daggers, yet he is still startled to see Wonwoo’s smile drenched in pain.
“Amusing, then,“ he replies, so softly that Hansol strains to hear him, “that you are the one clad in black tonight and not I. What a pair we make.“
In his enemy’s arms, Hansol’s blood runs cold. They dance silently as he desperately searches for an answer, tries to build a retort next to the castle of lies that Wonwoo built. He finds that his defences are weakening.
Wonwoo chuckles, directing Hansol’s attention fully back on him, on his features moved by their exchange. In a slight, swooping movement, his villain dips him back, careful not to let him slip, their gripping hands close to his chest.
“Dear knight, don’t take it to heart,“ he whispers, his eyes pinning down Hansol as if he were lying on the ground, dropped to the floor in this man’s arms. “You still look dashing as ever.“
Standing upright becomes hard when Hansol is swung back up by this dark man, who spins him through the room and glitters under the light of the candelabra, and he feels himself sway under his hold, following his swift steps. ‘Jeon Wonwoo is playing with you,’ his reason tells him, but the man’s searching eyes on his face tell a whole other story, one that he finds he is, for the first time ever, willing to listen to.
“What do you want,“ Hansol asks, breathless, “from me?“
A flash of ecstasy on his partners face fades just as quickly as it came, but the smile remains. “More than anything? Your understanding,“ he replies. After one more spin that pulls Hansol even closer to his chest, their noses nearly touching, he adds: “And furthermore, you with me.“
Hansol’s breath stocks as he stares at Wonwoo. The adrenaline makes his heart hammer against his iron chest plate, so hard that he fears the whole court can hear it, and his hand fists into the fabric of Wonwoo’s suit on his shoulder.
“What for,“ he says, nearly inaudible through the narrow of his throat, and he knows that in this moment, he would do anything for the right answer, kill anyone for the words this man is going to utter next. What he is hoping for though, he doesn’t know. The hand on his back tightens painfully as Wonwoo regards him with a fervent heat.
“Oh,“ he tuts as he turns away his face, “you’re dying to know and I would die if I tell. Hansol, you should know. There is only one thing in this kingdom I would go this far for.“
His words are honey, and Hansol is a bee trapped in the heat of summer, longing to return to its hive.
Over his partner’s shoulder, Hansol can see Jeonghan sitting on his adorned chair next to the vacant throne of an absent father, his wide eyes the only thing that give away the urgency of keeping that golden band on his head safe, and Hansol’s blood turns frigid in his veins. The Prince’s body guards are standing close to him, armed only with their hands, and still standing like they are carrying pistols on their chests. Jeonghan is safe, Hansol should know, yet there is a threat hanging close by, one that Hansol can’t clearly see with how the guards converge around his protege. Through Wonwoo’s incessant spinning, he tries to link eyes with the Prince. From the arms of the enemy, Hansol can’t know what Jeonghan is thinking. In the arms of the enemy, Jeonghan can’t know what Hansol is thinking, either.
Slowly, he turns to face the dark man once again. His eyes are already on Hansol. Or maybe they still are.
“What,“ he asks, “do you want from him?“
Instead of replying, Wonwoo looks up to the high ceiling of the ballroom, where the wealth of the kingdom twinkles golden in candlelight. His eyes shine with it.
"Have you ever considered, dear knight, that you were the one on the wrong side?"
"I am on Jeonghan's side."
"Hmm. But what side is the Prince on?“
Puzzled, Hansol tries to catch Wonwoo’s eye. He should be offended, affronted, outraged at the implication. He knows what Wonwoo is implying, he’s been spitting it into his face for the years they have faced off already, but tonight, it seems like Wonwoo means something more. It vibrates in his voice, a double meaning that Hansol is unable to catch. Powerless against the ranking lure of his partner’s words, he straightens up in his grasp, bringing space between them in an attempt to gain back control.
“His father the King’s,“ Hansol replies, the conviction of his statement taught to him in years of training.
“Oh, Hansol,“ Wonwoo says, his eyebrows knit in pity, and suddenly, with one last turn, Hansol stands in front of the steps to the throne, his feet still, and his hands no longer in position. None the wiser, he stares at Wonwoo, who leans close to him and anchors him with his eyes.
“I just want you to know,“ he whispers, so softly that Hansol inclines his head to still hold his look with a burning heart, “I just want you to know that tonight is not my doing.“
With that, the enemy separates from Hansol, stepping back and bowing before him. A wild fire roars in his ears as the man in white straightens himself, offering a curt nod to the court behind Hansol, and then Jeon Wonwoo turns and disappears in the still dancing crowd.
Behind him, Hansol can hear swift steps hurrying down towards him.
“What did he say?“ Jeonghan asks, close to Hansol. From his peripheral vision, he can see the guards approaching, and he shoos them away with a motion of his head. Jeonghan looks apprehensive, but of Hansol or his guards, Hansol cannot tell. His voice is urgent.
“Nothing,“ Hansol chokes out. “Nothing, Jeonghan, just his usual threats and riddles,“ he manages to continue, and despite it all, most frustratingly, his hand itches to hold his enemy’s again, as he watches him leave through the high doors and not turn back to look at him. As if straining against a magnetic pull, he turns to look at the Prince.
“He was no danger to you tonight,“ he says, and behind Jeonghan’s tense shoulders, he can see the guards’ hands move to their lapels and their lips mumble in response to commands that he isn’t receiving, and along the walls, he sees the royal guards steeling themselves for something that Hansol is not anticipating, and it makes him furrow his brow in confusion and trained instinct.
“Good,“ his Prince replies, looking at his fingernails. The way he turns them doesn’t hide the tremor of his hands. “I was scared. And now I’d like to dance.“
As Hansol bows and extends his hand to his protege in order to lead him onto the dance floor, he notices how the roar of fire has not ceased, now quiet under the excited chatter and music of the prestigious attendants of the ball. His skin still prickles, and he knows it’s the heat of the room and dozens of eyes glued on him. And he understands.
“Prince Jeonghan,“ he says, and on the far end of the ballroom, he sees that his dance partner never closed the door, “trust me and run.“
And behind him, from underneath the king’s empty throne, accompanied by shots and screams, erupts the blaze.