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The banquet was too long, the speeches were too dull, and the wine was too good.
Seonghwa had endured three political toasts, two terribly off-key ballads, and a particularly long-winded joke from the Viscount of Windburry, whose mustache twitched like it had a life of its own as he delivered the punchline. Each twitch seemed almost conspiratorial, as though it were mocking Seonghwa directly.
Somewhere between the third and fourth glass of rose-colored wine, he’d slipped away from his table and wandered out to the garden balcony, robe askew and hair ruffled, the silk brushing against the marble in a soft whisper with each step. The warm evening air carried the faint scent of blooming jasmine and honeysuckle, mixing with the lingering aroma of roasted meats and candles from the dining hall. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, tiny golden sparks in the shadowed corners of the garden, and the distant chime of a bell marked the hour with delicate, musical precision.
Hongjoong followed, of course.
He always did.
When Seonghwa reached the marble railing and flopped dramatically against it with a sigh that sounded almost operatic in its despair, Hongjoong stepped into place just behind him, hands clasped behind his back, watching the moonlight glint off his Duke’s wine glass. The moon itself seemed unusually bright, silver light spilling across the garden and highlighting the pale sheen of Seonghwa’s flushed cheeks, making the contours of his face appear almost sculpted in the soft luminescence. Shadows of leaves danced across the balcony, brushing over the polished marble floor like fleeting ghosts, and a light breeze lifted the edges of Seonghwa’s robe, teasing at his collar with delicate insistence.
“They always talk too much,” Seonghwa muttered, not bothering to look at him. “I think they enjoy the sound of their own voices more than the wine.”
“You drank all the wine,” Hongjoong said calmly, his voice quiet, measured, as if the night itself were listening.
Seonghwa waved a hand in dismissal. “Because it was the only thing keeping me from screaming.” He turned halfway toward Hongjoong, cheeks tinged pink, eyes slightly glossy with intoxicated frustration and moonlight alike. The faint warmth of the wine still lingered in his breath, sweet and heady, adding a flush of recklessness to his words. “Tell me something, Joong.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Hongjoong exhaled softly, the sound almost lost in the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of water from the garden fountain. Night insects chirped in irregular symphonies, their delicate songs mingling with the soft clinking of the last glasses being cleared from the banquet hall. “What is it?”
“Do you think soulmates are overrated?”
That made Hongjoong pause. The question hung in the night air, sharp and sudden as a dropped glass. He could hear it echo in the stillness between them, pressing lightly against his chest. “I… hadn’t thought about it.”
Seonghwa huffed, resting his forehead against the cool marble. “Well, I have. And let me tell you, they’re just a source of pain and poetic nonsense. Who wants someone ‘destined’ for them? It’s terribly inconvenient.” His fingers traced idle patterns along the railing, leaving faint warmth against the cool stone.
“Inconvenient?” Hongjoong repeated, eyebrow arching under the soft moonlight, shadow tracing along the sharp line of his cheek like ink on parchment.
“Yes!” Seonghwa flailed slightly for emphasis, knocking the railing lightly. “Especially when yours is all noble and self-sacrificing and refuses to even look at you properly. Like he might combust if he makes eye contact longer than two seconds.”
Hongjoong went very, very still. “...Wait,” he said carefully, voice hushed, the leaves above them rustling as if urging him to speak. “Me?”
Seonghwa blinked at him, hiccuping once. “What?”
Hongjoong stepped closer, the subtle scent of his cologne and clean linen mingling with the night air. A faint shiver of anticipation tickled the back of his neck. “You’re talking about me?”
Seonghwa stared at him for a beat. Then hiccuped again. “Oh. You didn’t know?”
Hongjoong gaped at him, the silver light from the moon reflecting off the polished railing and glinting in his widened eyes. “No?!”
Seonghwa blinked again. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I thought-” He waved his hand in a lazy, uneven circle, “you knew. You’re so… quiet all the time. I figured you were ignoring it on purpose. Very tragic. Very poetic.”
“I wasn’t ignoring it,” Hongjoong said quickly, the words spilling out in a rare rush. “I didn’t know. You’ve never even touched me.”
“I was waiting,” Seonghwa said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “for the right moment. Something elegant. Maybe in a storm. Or a duel. Or-”
He stumbled slightly, and Hongjoong caught him by the arm, the warmth of his skin prickling where their fingers brushed. The mark on Seonghwa’s wrist, shaped like a little crescent where someone might grab him in a hurry, glowed softly, warm and unmistakable, casting faint rainbow sparks across the marble like spilled fragments of a captured rainbow. Seonghwa stared at it, caught between embarrassment and delight, as the warmth radiated subtly up his arm and lingered in the air between them.
“So… that’s that, then,” he said lightly, cheeks redder than ever, the color deepened by the moonlight and wine, “You’ve touched me in a moment of pure romantic panic.”
Hongjoong was still staring at the glow, his chest tightening slightly, as if the world had compressed around that one small pulse of color. The air seemed to thrum, every sound amplified, the distant whisper of a falling leaf, the faint murmur of water, the low creak of the balcony under their weight. “I can’t believe you got drunk before telling me.”
“I thought the wine would help,” Seonghwa mumbled, voice soft but audacious, leaning slightly into the warmth of Hongjoong’s touch. His hair brushed against Hongjoong’s sleeve, tickling faintly.
Hongjoong looked up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in a mix of amusement, disbelief, and awe. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m charming,” Seonghwa said with a drunken little bow, eyes glinting like starlight in his wine-colored gaze. “And yours, apparently.”
Hongjoong smiled, quiet, real, a little stunned, the curve of it softening his usually precise demeanor. His hand lingered near Seonghwa’s arm, hesitant to move, unwilling to break the fragile new intimacy of the moment.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “Apparently.”
The balcony was still, the only sounds the distant rustle of leaves, the soft trickle of the fountain, and the faint echo of laughter from the banquet hall, yet it all felt impossibly far away. Between them, the mark glowed steady and bright, a quiet testament to a revelation neither would soon forget. The night itself seemed to hold its breath around them, cradling the awkward, beautiful truth that had finally surfaced.