Work Text:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
His mother’s voice echoed in Ricky’s head as they entered the ballroom. He was grateful, truly. His mere existence had spared his sisters from a horrible fate he would not wish upon anyone. Longbourn House would not fall into the hands of some self-important, distant cousin and his sisters would be free to choose love—or to not marry at all, if they so wished. And yet, the security he provided for them came at his own cost.
An heir, a gentleman, the man of the house—all these things he was expected to be. But when he sat at the pianoforte, lost himself in the strokes of his paintbrush, he felt most himself. Alas, these were not the pursuits of a man meant to shoulder the responsibilities of an estate.
A man should fence and hunt. He should speak of investments and oversee family finances. He should look upon a ballroom such as this one and see a sea of eligible young ladies, each one a potential future mistress for Longbourn.
But Ricky saw none of that. His eyes found a pair of big, dark eyes almost immediately, as they always did. Dark brown hair that curled just slightly at the ends, always a bit untamed. And a smile that seemed to enchant every soul in the room. Gyuvin.
He moved through the crowd like a star in orbit and just as always, Ricky tried to not look too long, not let his gaze linger. He knew better, had trained himself in restraint. But even as he stared at the polished floor, he could feel the familiar ache in his chest.
From the corner of his eye, Ricky caught sight of his mother bustling toward him, dragging along some reluctant, poor girl who undoubtedly had been cajoled into dancing with "her very eligible son". Ricky sighed inwardly, preparing himself. But then, just as he braced himself for the forced smile, the gallant bow—
“Good evening,” came a voice, smooth and light.
When Ricky looked up, his eyes were met with the familiar silhouette. Gyuvin smiled—not the one he wore for others, but something softer, almost secret. "Would you," Gyuvin said, extending a hand, "honor me with this dance?"
Ricky could only stare, blinking as though he had imagined the question. Around them, music began to swell, the room continued. People laughed, dancers twirled past them in elegant pairs, but Ricky fell still. He glanced once toward his mother, who had stopped mid-stride, confusion on her face. The girl beside her looked more relieved than anything.
Ricky turned back to Gyuvin, whose hand remained outstretched, as if he had not just unraveled every rule Ricky had been taught to live by.
And for once, Ricky let himself want.
He took the offered hand, his own fingers trembling slightly, and let himself be led to the dance floor. Ricky’s senses sharpened and dulled all at once. Every laugh seemed directed at him, every turn of head like scrutiny. He could feel the weight of every gaze, real or imagined, press on his shoulders. But then, Gyuvin turned to face him, offering his other hand.
“Look at me,” he said softly, cutting through the noise in Ricky’s head. “Just focus on me.”
And Ricky did. He looked at Gyuvin and something inside him quieted. He stepped forward, letting himself fall into the familiar rhythm of a waltz. One step, then another. Gyuvin matched him effortlessly, guiding without overpowering, offering without demanding.
"You are doing great,” he whispered gently. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Ricky nodded, eyes locked on Gyuvin’s. He did not dare look at anyone else. All he could see, all he could feel was Gyuvin. The way his hand fit into Gyuvin’s, as if they belonged together, carved from the same stone.
For a brief moment, Ricky thought about what would happen when the music dies. When the final chord fades into silence and the spell breaks, what then?
But the thought passed like mist in the morning sun. Because right now, there was only the heat of Gyuvin’s palm resting against his waist, only the thrum of bodies moving in unison, curved toward one another like matching verses in a poem. Ricky just danced, with Gyuvin. The ballroom could crumble around them, the chandeliers shatter and the orchestra vanish into silence, and still, Ricky would hold on. For the first time, he did not feel like he was performing, pretending.
As the final notes of the waltz lingered in the air, pairs started bowing and curtsying. The spell, by all accounts, should have been broken.
But Ricky did not let go, and neither did Gyuvin. Ricky’s eyes searched Gyuvin’s face, unsure what to say now that the music was gone, but Gyuvin offered a small, wry smile. “Well,” he started, voice low, meant only for Ricky, “we have certainly given them something to talk about.”
Ricky huffed a soft laugh. “We have,” he murmured, “and I suppose I should be terrified.”
Gyuvin tilted his head. “Are you?”
Ricky considered it. The weight of the ballroom was still there, the eyes, the world waiting beyond the edge of the dance floor. But Gyuvin’s hand had not let go of his.
“No,” he said quietly. “I am not.”
Gyuvin’s smile grew. “Good. Because I was hoping you might consider doing it again.”
Ricky laughed then and it echoed softly between them. The orchestra began to tune again. The next dance would start soon.
“Tomorrow,” Ricky said, barely above a whisper. “Come find me in the garden. I’d like to... talk. Or walk. Or just—”
“I will be there,” Gyuvin cut in without hesitation.
And finally, Ricky let his hand fall away, but not before Gyuvin brushed his fingers softly along the edge of Ricky’s, a silent promise.
And perhaps, it was time to write a new truth.