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The Wayne Manor ballroom has seen more use than most people realize.
For Gotham’s elite, it is a grand display of wealth, a place where laughter and champagne flow in equal measure. For Bruce, it is something else entirely. A carefully maintained façade. A stage for a performance that never truly ends.
He has danced in this room more times than he can count. Countless charity galas, political schmoozing, the occasional tabloid-worthy twirl with some model whose name he won’t remember in the morning.
But tonight, it is just him and Clark.
And Clark is struggling.
“ Again. ”
Clark exhales sharply, frustration rolling off him in waves. His shoulders are tense beneath Bruce’s hands, his steps uneven, too forceful. He is trying --God, he is trying--but there is nothing graceful about it. He moves as though each step is a battle, as though he is fighting against the very floor beneath him.
“I don’t get how you make this look so easy,” Clark mutters.
“Because it is easy,” Bruce replies, deliberately even-toned.
Clark glares at him. “For you. ”
Bruce doesn’t disagree. It is easy for him. He was raised on this--the rigid discipline of ballroom dancing, the effortless way he was expected to glide across the floor as though he belonged among Gotham’s finest. It was drilled into him at a young age, a lesson in grace and control.
Clark, on the other hand, has spent his life in the air. He is used to flight, to weightlessness. Here, in Bruce’s world, he is bound to the earth in a way that frustrates him.
Bruce sighs. “You’re thinking too much.”
Clark makes an aggravated noise. “You keep saying that like it’s something I can just stop doing.”
“You can,” Bruce counters, tightening his grip on Clark’s hand. “Dancing isn’t about thinking. It’s about feeling. Right now, you’re treating it like an equation. Like something that needs to be solved.”
Clark presses his lips together, clearly biting back a retort.
“Close your eyes.”
Clark’s brows knit together. “What?”
Bruce waits.
Clark exhales through his nose, then reluctantly lets his eyes flutter shut.
Bruce shifts his stance, adjusting their posture. He steps forward--slow, deliberate. Clark stiffens, but Bruce doesn’t let up.
“One, two, three,” Bruce murmurs, guiding him through the basic steps. “One, two, three.”
Clark’s grip tightens, but then--gradually--he starts to follow. The tension in his frame lessens, his movements smoothing out.
“There,” Bruce says, his voice quieter now. “That’s it.”
Clark opens his eyes. His gaze meets Bruce’s--blue and burning, like some small ember has sparked in the space between them.
Bruce swallows.
And then Clark trips.
It happens so suddenly that Bruce barely has time to react. Clark stumbles over his own feet, arms flailing for balance, and Bruce moves instinctively--his grip tightening, pulling Clark against him before they can both go crashing to the floor.
For a long moment, neither of them move.
Clark exhales sharply, breath warm against Bruce’s throat. His hands are braced against Bruce’s chest, solid and steady despite his misstep.
Bruce is acutely aware of every single point of contact between them. The way Clark’s fingers press into his jacket. The way his heartbeat is just slightly too fast. The way his breath catches, just for a second, before he pulls back.
Clark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I am never going to get this.”
Bruce exhales, slow and measured.
“ Again. ”
Clark groans louder, dragging a hand down his face. “I am never going to get this.”
Bruce ignores him.
He steps back, resetting his posture, and extends a hand. “Again.”
Clark stares at him like he’s considering snapping a ballroom heel in half and throwing it at his head.
“I hate this,” Clark mutters.
“No, you hate not being good at something right away,” Bruce corrects, tilting his head slightly. “Big difference.”
Clark scowls, but doesn’t argue. It’s true, and they both know it.
Clark Kent--the impossibly strong, near-indestructible man who can move faster than the eye can track-- hates feeling clumsy. He has spent years refining control over his strength, his movements. But now, here, in something as simple as a dance, he is fumbling, tripping over his own feet, losing.
And Clark Kent does not like to lose.
Bruce watches as Clark clenches his jaw, his gaze flicking down to their feet before he inhales sharply through his nose. Then--wordlessly--he takes Bruce’s hand.
Bruce doesn’t let himself smirk.
This time, he doesn’t give Clark a chance to overthink it. He moves immediately-- step, step, turn --pulling Clark with him in a smooth, deliberate motion. Clark stumbles slightly, but Bruce adjusts, tightening his grip just enough to steady him.
Clark exhales through his nose. Focused. Determined.
They move again--one, two, three--turn, one, two, three--Clark still hesitates on the back step, his weight shifting too late, but it’s better. Not perfect. Not even good yet, but the rhythm is settling into him.
And then--Clark mutters something under his breath.
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”
Clark exhales sharply. “I said you’re a terrible teacher.”
Bruce huffs a quiet laugh. “And yet, you’re improving.”
Clark makes a frustrated noise. “By force.”
Bruce allows himself the smallest smirk. “That is how most things in Gotham work.”
Clark glares at him, but there’s something lighter in his expression now--less stiff, less frustrated. He is still stumbling, but now it is accompanied by an exasperated chuckle instead of a groan of defeat.
Bruce takes advantage of the shift in mood.
“You’re still hesitating on the turn,” he notes, leading Clark through another step. “You’re expecting it to feel unnatural, so you fight it.”
Clark exhales, exasperated. “Because it is unnatural.”
“It isn’t.” Bruce turns them sharply. Clark nearly stumbles again, but Bruce steadies him. “You’re not supposed to force it. Just let it happen.”
Clark mutters something about how Bruce makes it sound like gravity isn’t real, but he adjusts. He stops fighting against the shift and lets himself move with it.
Bruce feels it the moment it clicks.
Clark’s steps smooth out. The tension in his frame eases. The hesitation fades.
Bruce doesn’t say anything, doesn’t break the moment--he just keeps moving, guiding Clark through the sequence again, again, again--until suddenly, they are dancing.
Not stumbling. Not fumbling. Not struggling.
Dancing.
Bruce feels the difference in the way Clark’s weight shifts with the movement, the way his grip steadies instead of tightens, the way his steps finally, finally align with Bruce’s.
It’s seamless.
Clark blinks, realization dawning across his face. “I’m--”
“Yes,” Bruce says before he can finish.
Clark laughs, a short, surprised burst of sound. “I’m actually doing it. ”
Bruce huffs. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
Clark grins, his face still flushed with the exertion of it all. His hair is slightly tousled, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie loosened. He looks--
Bruce swallows.
He looks good.
He always looks good, of course. But here, now, caught in the golden glow of the chandeliers, smiling like he just won something, breathing a little too fast, his hands still warm in Bruce’s--
Bruce exhales, steadying himself.
Clark tilts his head slightly, his grin softening.
“What?”
Bruce shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Clark doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.
Instead, he squeezes Bruce’s hand. “Okay,” he says. “One more time.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “You do realize you just said that without complaining.”
Clark groans. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
Bruce smirks.
And then they dance again.
The Wayne Manor ballroom is alive with movement.
Gotham’s elite swirl across the polished marble floor, gilded gowns and crisp tuxedos catching the glow of the chandeliers. The orchestra plays something slow, smooth, effortless. The air hums with quiet laughter, hushed conversations, the clinking of glasses.
It’s all so precisely controlled.
And yet, Bruce is aware--entirely, painfully aware--of the man beside him.
Clark stands tall at his side, every bit the part in his perfectly tailored tux, his glasses pushed higher on his nose, his dark hair neatly combed. Neat is the operative word--because Bruce can still see the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps adjusting his cuffs, the way his fingers twitch slightly against his side.
Clark Kent, for all his strength, is nervous.
Bruce leans in slightly. “Relax.”
Clark exhales sharply. “Easy for you to say.”
Bruce lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been in space. You’ve fought actual gods. You’re telling me this is what makes you nervous?”
Clark mutters something under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear.
Bruce smirks. “What was that?”
Clark shoots him a glare, but his lips twitch at the edges. “I said that at least when I’m fighting gods, I know I won’t trip and embarrass myself in front of all of Gotham.”
Bruce huffs a quiet laugh. “You won’t.”
Clark exhales, running a hand down his tie. “I might.”
Bruce shakes his head. “You won’t.”
Clark glances at him, searching his expression for something--reassurance, maybe. Whatever he finds seems to settle him, if only a little.
And then the music shifts.
A new song. A waltz.
Bruce turns to him, offering a hand. “It’s time.”
Clark hesitates for only a second. Then, with a barely perceptible inhale, he takes Bruce’s hand.
Bruce doesn’t let himself dwell on the warmth of Clark’s palm against his.
Instead, he steps forward, leading them into the open space of the ballroom.
Eyes turn to them immediately. A hush falls over the surrounding guests--just for a moment, just long enough for the weight of it to settle.
Bruce is used to it.
Clark, not so much.
But Bruce doesn’t give him time to dwell. He moves smoothly into the first step, guiding Clark with him.
Clark follows.
There is a brief hesitation--a fraction of a misstep--but Bruce adjusts, shifts, and then--
They fall into rhythm.
The music swells.
And suddenly, it’s just them.
Bruce doesn’t hear the quiet murmurs of the crowd. He doesn’t see the flashes of cameras at the edge of the room. He doesn’t even care about the watchful eyes of Gotham’s most powerful figures.
All he notices is the way Clark moves with him, the way his hands have steadied, the way his shoulders have finally, finally relaxed.
They glide across the floor--step, step, turn--Clark follows without hesitation, his grip firm but easy, his confidence growing with every step.
Bruce doesn’t smile, but something in his chest warms.
Clark meets his eyes, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Told you I might trip.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are.”
Clark exhales a soft laugh. “Here I am.”
The music slows.
The last turn.
The final step.
Bruce guides them through it effortlessly. And when the song finally, finally ends--when Clark stops moving, when they stand together in the center of the ballroom, eyes still locked--
Clark squeezes Bruce’s hand.
And Bruce--who has spent his entire life keeping people at a distance, who has learned to move through every gala, every dance, every moment like a carefully rehearsed performance--
Squeezes back.
The applause rises around them, a slow-building wave that crashes into the ballroom with murmured approval and lingering surprise.
Bruce doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care about the way Gotham’s elite whisper behind their champagne glasses, doesn’t care about the sea of journalists subtly reaching for their phones, doesn’t even care that this moment--the way Clark’s hand is still wrapped around his own--is about to be dissected and broadcasted to the world.
All he cares about is the man in front of him.
Clark, standing close, flushed with warmth from the dance, his blue eyes bright beneath the golden chandelier glow. Clark, who had once looked at this world of galas and expectations with a wary sort of dread, now standing in the center of it all-- with him .
Bruce can hear Clark’s heartbeat. It’s steady. Strong.
No nerves. No hesitation.
Bruce steps closer.
Clark’s breath catches.
And for the first time tonight, Bruce lets the rest of the world fade entirely.
The clinking glasses, the rustling gowns, the prying eyes--none of it matters.
All that matters is Clark.
And when Bruce leans in--slowly, deliberately, giving Clark every opportunity to pull away--Clark doesn’t.
Instead, he tilts his head ever so slightly, his fingers tightening around Bruce’s. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes-- God , his eyes--are so full of something deep, something warm, something Bruce isn’t sure he has the words for.
And then--
Soft. Warm. Steady.
The kiss is not a spectacle, not some grand, sweeping display.
It’s quiet. Sure. The kind of thing meant only for them, no matter how many eyes are watching.
Clark exhales against his lips, and Bruce feels it--feels everything.
Feels the way Clark melts into him, the way he lets go of the last of his tension, the way the whole world seems to still just for them.
When they part, the silence is deafening.
Then--
Someone claps.
And then another.
And then, all at once, the ballroom erupts into something that is half applause, half stunned murmurs.
Bruce doesn’t look away from Clark.
Clark--smiling, breathless, eyes soft--whispers, “Guess we really gave them something to talk about.”
Bruce smirks, thumb grazing the back of Clark’s hand. “Let them talk.”
And just like that, Gotham knows.
Knows that Bruce Wayne--the untouchable, unshakable, carefully curated billionaire--
Is in love.
And for once in his life, he doesn’t mind who sees it.