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Rui has spent his entire life perfecting his craft. Ever since his mother took him to that first ballet lesson.
Every movement measured and every posture elegant, sharp, yet still flowing like water. Easy. Calm. Performances polished until not a single flaw remains.
People call him elegant but cold, while most partners, old and new, consider him impossible to work with. He never cared. Nothing less than perfection was acceptable.
Then Hyun appears.
He is loud, awfully charismatic, and infuriatingly talented. The kind of dancer who can make an audience hold its breath with nothing more than a glance and a crooked smile. Unruly and never sticking to proper form.
His technique should not have worked as well as it did.
And Rui hated that it did.
Hyun knows exactly who Rui is.
Everyone does.
The prodigy. The reigning champion. The genius.
A man who dances as though he was carved from marble.
Hyun expects arrogance the first time they meet. An ego reaching the stratosphere, an attitude both dismissive and cold.
What he doesn't expect is someone so completely devoted to his craft that it borders on obsession.
But also, a man who, although he executes every move with perfection, shows no affection toward that craft.
His face is devoid of any emotion that would give away the rush of adrenaline, the dopamine of finishing a perfectly executed dance move or receiving an award.
Always composed, awfully polite, never a smile on his face.
Rui thinks Hyun is reckless and lacking self-discipline. His routines are always changing, some spontaneous move appearing out of nowhere and dragging his partners into almost-fumbled steps, only for the performance to somehow score even higher.
It makes Rui livid.Though he would never show it outright.
Hyun thinks Rui is insufferable and awfully stubborn. You couldn't move him with a bulldozer.
His obsession with perfection. The endless repetitions. The way he instructs his partners methodically, without regard for the other person's feelings, like a robot.
It's so obvious that Rui forgot dancing is supposed to make people feel something. It's supposed to make the dancers feel something. A thousand emotions in the span of a single performance.
Neither is entirely wrong.
They don't interact much.
Passing each other during competitions without a greeting. Refusing to participate in conversations about the other.
Then a prestigious international exhibition announces mixed-discipline pairings. Standard dancers paired with Latin dancers.
Who was behind the terrible idea, neither of them knows.
But Rui and Hyun are chosen to partner up.
Later, the organizers, stars in their eyes, call them the most exciting pairing on the roster.
Rui and Hyun know it is anything but exciting. This partnership was doomed the moment their names were written beside each other.
Still, it is good publicity and great exposure. In addition, the ticket sales are going toward a worthy cause.
So, they agree.
Reluctantly, of course.
With Hyun loudly voicing his inconvenience and how he will need every ounce of patience he possesses to deal with Rui.
Their first rehearsal ends in their first verbal argument.
It's not pretty. Repressed resentment and mutual dislike finally finding a way out.
But they try again. Both of them too stubborn and too prideful to quit.
The second rehearsal ends in an even worse argument.
Rui almost loses his composure. Almost.
Instead, he opts to storm out of the practice room rather than give Hyun the satisfaction of realizing he managed, spectacularly, to get under Rui's skin.
By the third rehearsal, the entire coaching staff is considering separating them before someone gets injured.
Or arrested.
"What are you doing?"
Rui's voice is, as always, measured and breathy.
"Dancing."
"Those are not how the moves go. You're improvising."
Rui steps closer, their height difference reflected in the wall-to-wall mirror.
He has to tilt his head upward.
But what he lacks in height, he makes up for with the intensity of his glare.
"And what is the problem with that?"
"We can't afford mistakes. This is important. You should be taking it more seriously. It's not just your reputation at risk here."
Hyun laughs.
Rui somehow finds that more irritating than the actual argument.
Yet the most irritating thing is the way Rui keeps noticing the precision hidden beneath Hyun's spontaneity.
The hours of work concealed beneath natural charm. The way Hyun never stops practicing once everyone else leaves.
The way he hides exhaustion behind a smile.
Rui wishes he would stop noticing.
Hyun can see that it isn't just Rui's inherent talent. There is hard work behind the perfectionist attitude. He notices it in the little things first.
The way Rui quietly stretches injured muscles when he thinks nobody is looking. The way he never complains or admits when he's tired. Never asking for help.
As though weakness is something that needs to be hidden. As though mistakes are unforgivable.
And it makes Hyun wonder how lonely someone can become when everyone treats them like a trophy instead of a person.
One night, unable to sleep after another exhausting rehearsal, Hyun makes the mistake of searching Rui's name online.
At first, it's exactly what he expects. Articles about awards and championship titles.
Interviews calling Rui a prodigy. The future of ballroom. A once-in-a-generation talent.
Then he starts clicking older links. As the articles get older the interviews and the photographs get older too.
And suddenly Rui is no longer the composed champion everyone knows.
He's just a kid with messy hair falling into bright eyes while holding trophies that look too big for his hands.
A child smiling so brightly it almost hurts to look at. Not the polite, practiced smiles he gives cameras now. Real ones.
The kind that reaches his eyes. The kind that makes it impossible to look away.
Hyun finds himself staring at the screen longer than he should, comparing the boy in those photographs to the Rui he knows now.
The man who treats every rehearsal like an examination. Who watches recordings with a critical eye even after winning.
The smile from those photographs is gone. So, Hyun keeps reading.
Every article tells the same story, how Rui is a one in a lifetime talent, expected to dominate the sport. Year after year. Competition after competition. Each year demanding more than the last.
The older interviews are different.
They are about joy. How much Rui loves dancing, the rush of competing, the excitement of learning. The thrill of stepping onto the floor. Then, slowly, the questions change.
How will you defend your title?
Can you stay on top?
Are you worried about challengers?
What happens if you lose?
Somewhere along the way, dancing stopped being something Rui loved. Bright smiles turning cold and practiced, answers rehearsed, no longer about reflecting his joy, but stating facts of professionalism.
It became something he felt he couldn't fail.
For the first time, Rui's perfectionism doesn't look like arrogance to Hyun.
It looks like a way of surviving, thriving in a hostile environment.
The desperate attempt of a child prodigy to remain everything the world expected him to be.
The realization settles heavily in Hyun's chest.
Because suddenly the endless rehearsals make sense. The constant corrections and obsessions over details nobody else notices. The fear hidden beneath perfection.
The next day Rui is reviewing footage again. Replaying the same sequence over and over.
Searching for flaws nobody else can see.
And all Hyun can think about is the boy from those photographs. The one who smiled like dancing was the happiest thing in the world.
And Hyun starts paying attention more, not to the champion or the prodigy everyone else sees, but to Rui.
And every now and then, when Rui forgets himself and laughs at something ridiculous, Hyun catches a glimpse of that kid again, buried beneath years of pressure.
A small smile after a successful rehearsal, or a laugh quickly hidden behind a hand.
The way Rui's eyes brighten whenever he gets carried away explaining choreography.
Tiny pieces of someone long forgotten.
And before Hyun realizes it, he wants to be the reason that smile comes back.
Necessity forces them together.
Long hours spent rehearsing. Stuffy media appearances where they are expected to smile for cameras and answer the same questions over and over again. Endless travel back and forth between competitions, judging events and coaching sessions. Teaching young dance groups at local dance schools and community centers as part of the charity initiative attached to the exhibition.
What begins as an obligation slowly turns into routine.
And routine turns into familiarity.
Suddenly they know each other's habits. Sleeping schedules. Favorite songs and coffee orders. The subtle signs that appear when either of them is reaching the limits of their patience.
The line between partner and something else starts to blur without either of them noticing.
Or perhaps they notice and simply choose to ignore it.
One evening Rui falls asleep in a practice room surrounded by notebooks, competition footage and scribbled choreography corrections.
When he wakes up, there is a blanket draped over his shoulders and a fresh coffee waiting beside him.
Across the room, Hyun is stretching in front of the mirror, pretending not to watch for Rui's reaction.
Rui says nothing. But the slight raise of his lips, an almost-smile gone before it can fully form, makes Hyun's heart skip a beat.
Another exhausting rehearsal ends with Hyun visibly wincing after an awkward step during a lift. He attempts to push through it. Too stubborn to stop and far too proud to ask for help.
Rui notices immediately. Of course he does, he knows exactly how much the injury must burn, how tempting it is to ignore pain when there is still work to be done.
In Hyun's place, he would probably do the same.
The problem is that Rui keeps on noticing things about him. Small irritating details that continue contradicting the image he had built of Hyun in his head. Hyun is always smiling, joking around with staff members, exaggerating movements to make exhausted assistants laugh.
Never taking media training seriously, or preparing properly for interviews.
Always somehow appearing like the approachable one whenever Rui's strict teaching methods are compared against Hyun's easygoing attitude during community classes.
A complete disaster.
And yet—
When it comes to practice, Hyun is never late. No matter how early the call time or how severe the lack of sleep. No matter how many flights, buses or car rides they've endured that week.
And then there are the observations Rui wishes he wasn't making at all.
The calluses on Hyun's hands grazing against his waist during routines. The bruises hidden beneath clothing, visible only when they change after practice. The exhaustion Hyun hides behind effortless smiles. The sacrifices he makes without ever speaking about them.
One night Rui returns to the studio after forgetting a notebook. He needs it for the class they are teaching the following morning.
The building should be empty. Instead, music greets him the moment he steps through the door. The lights are still on, and Hyun is there. Just sweat-soaked skin and exhausted breaths louder than the music itself as he repeats the same sequence over and over again.
Until his legs threaten to give out beneath him.
And for the first time, Rui realizes something.
Hyun doesn't dance because it comes easily, he does it because he loves it enough to suffer for it.
The realization unsettles him more than he cares to admit.
Because Rui understands obsession and the sacrifices needed to be made.
He understands devoting your entire life to a craft. But until now, he had never considered that Hyun might understand those things too.
Later, during an interview, a reporter asks Hyun a familiar question.
"What is your greatest strength as a dancer?"
Hyun laughs. The answer comes easily.
"My team."
The response catches Rui completely off guard. It isn't the answer the media trainer gave Hyun to memorize. It isn't about hard work, discipline or dedication to the dance community.
It is honest and unfiltered.
Every champion Rui has ever met talks about themselves.
Their achievements, victories and sacrifices.
But Hyun talks about the people who helped him get there.
And unexpectedly, the answer makes an old memory surface in Rui’s mind. His mother's hand wrapped around his as she led him toward his very first dance lesson.
The more Rui pays attention, the harder it becomes to dismiss Hyun, regardless of his talent, that much was obvious from the beginning.
But because of his kindness.
To assistants carrying equipment, to junior dancers struggling with difficult choreography, and exhausted staff members surviving on too little sleep.
Even to nervous competitors standing on the opposite side of the floor.
How is Rui supposed to keep disliking someone like that?
One evening, after a particularly brutal rehearsal, Rui asks a question before he can stop himself.
"How can you keep smiling?"
Hyun blinks.
"What do you mean?"
"You're tired."
"A little."
"You're injured."
"Only slightly."
"And yet you keep smiling."
For once, Hyun doesn't joke, or laugh it off.
He simply looks at Rui.
"Dancing is still my favorite thing in the world."
The answer follows Rui home and haunts him long after he climbs into bed.
Because he cannot remember the last time he felt that way.
After that, something changes in the way Rui looks at Hyun. He catches himself searching for him in crowded rooms. He sees how talented Hyun is, hardworking and infuriatingly attractive. How often he makes Rui laugh without even trying.
Most of all, Rui notices how alive Hyun looks when he dances. And for reasons he doesn't fully understand yet, he finds himself wanting to stay close to that feeling.
As though if he stands near it long enough—
Some of it might come back to him too.
The slow buildup of attraction becomes a problem. Especially because both of them are convinced it is entirely one-sided.
Rui catches himself staring. At Hyun's hands and the sinful sway of his hips whenever music starts playing and his body instinctively follows the rhythm.
At the strength hidden beneath lean muscles, thighs flexing with every powerful movement, shoulders broad and steady whenever Rui places his trust in them during lifts.
At his smile. Especially now that more of those smiles are directed at Rui.
It becomes worse whenever Hyun talks about his childhood.
About embarrassing competition stories and teachers, he admired. About the first time he realized dancing was the thing he wanted to spend his life doing. Rui could listen to him for hours.
And that realization alone is terrifying. Even more terrifying is the way his body reacts.
How every touch during practice lingers long after it should. Simple brushes of fingers leave warmth behind, Hyun's hand settling against his waist to guide a movement sends goosebumps racing across his skin. It borders on madness.
Because when Rui finally falls asleep after exhausting rehearsals, all he can think about is how much he wants morning to come faster, to be able to see Hyun again.
The ridiculous extent of missing him despite having said goodbye only a few hours earlier.
Meanwhile, Hyun is having problems of his own.
Because Rui somehow becomes more beautiful with every passing day.
Not only because of his appearance, though Hyun has long accepted that Rui is unfairly attractive. No. It is everything else. The gradual softening of his posture, tension no longer permanently holding him up.
The way he indulges Hyun's ridiculous conversations instead of immediately dismissing them like before, only rolling his eyes now, but staying in the end.
The way he laughs. God. Every time Rui forgets himself enough to genuinely laugh, something dangerous happens to Hyun's heartbeat.
The bright smile and crinkling eyes, flash of white teeth, makes his entire face transform, lightning up.
And, Hyun finds himself drawn toward it like a moth to a flame.
Dangerous.
Everyone else notices before they do.
The coaching staff, event organizers, rival teams. The journalists who start asking increasingly questionable questions during interviews, that leave both Rui and Hyun flustered despite their best attempts at professionalism.
And then there are the fans. The internet has already made up its mind. Entire forums dedicated to analyzing every interaction. According to social media, Rui and Hyun have been secretly dating for months.
The comments become impossible to avoid. The edits even worse. They laugh about it publicly. Privately, neither of them finds it nearly as funny, because a small, inconvenient part of each wonder if their feelings have become that obvious.
And even more inconveniently—whether the attraction is truly one-sided after all.
Time passes far too quickly.
Half a year disappears between rehearsals, interviews, competitions and travel schedules.
The main exhibition competition looms closer with every passing week.
Until suddenly there are only a few weeks left before everything ends and they no longer have an excuse to spend nearly every day together.
Neither of them likes thinking about it.
Rui becomes noticeably more irritable whenever someone mentions the event drawing to a close. Whenever staff members begin discussing future projects. Or someone casually comments on how strange it will feel not seeing them together anymore.
Meanwhile, Hyun masks his own anxiety with jokes.
Talking about all the free time he will finally have. About seeing friends and sleeping for a month straight.
About anything except the truth. Anything except admitting that the idea of returning to a life without Rui somewhere in it feels unexpectedly unbearable.
Neither says anything. And so, the tension continues to build.
Day after day. Practice after practice.
Lingering touches lasting a little longer than necessary. Stolen glances becoming increasingly difficult to hide. The awareness of each other growing heavier with every passing moment.
Until it becomes impossible to ignore. Until something finally has to give.
The breaking point arrives three weeks before the competition.
By then the choreography is finished. The costumes have been approved and the music has been finalized.
Every transition perfected through months of practice so everything should have been falling into place.
Instead, they keep arguing.
The highlight move of their routine had been perfected weeks ago, yet somehow during the last few days neither of them could execute it the way they wanted.
Rui had to surrender himself completely during the bridge drop, his body folding backward while Hyun remained the single stable point keeping him up.
Perhaps because it required more trust than any other part of the performance.
Or perhaps because neither of them could stop thinking about what would happen after the competition ended.
Whatever the reason, the move kept falling apart.
"The angle is wrong."
Hyun groans.
"The angle is not wrong."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"Your stance is too stiff."
"My stance is exactly the same as last week."
"It feels different."
Hyun throws his hands into the air.
"There. That's the problem."
Rui frowns.
"What problem?"
"You."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You overthink everything."
"And you don't think enough. This is the highlight of the entire routine. It needs to be perfect."
"It already was perfect."
"If we keep settling—"
"We're not settling."
Their voices echo through the empty studio.
The tension between them stretching thinner and thinner. Hyun steps towards him.
"It isn't the choreography or the move."
Another step.
"It isn't the performance.” A suddenly the distance between them disappears. Rui can feel the warmth radiating from Hyun's skin, can hear his uneven breathing, seeing every tiny detail in his expression.
"And you know that's not what bothers you."
Rui knows. Of course he knows. He has known for weeks, months, perhaps. The problem was never the choreography; it was the thought of losing this.
Losing Hyun and the routine they had built together. More importantly losing the version of himself that only seemed to exist when Hyun was around.
"What bothers me then?" the question leaves his lips as little more than a whisper.
Gone are the frustrations and the irritation, only leaving them with honesty.
Hyun smiles in that soft terrifyingly sincere way that is meant only for Rui.
"You care about us." Rui's breath catches.
Months of frustration. Admiration. Built mutual respect. Wanting.
Everything they've carefully avoided saying.
All sitting between them now, waiting to blossom into something more, and it all depends on Rui’s answer. If he admits it, even half as indirectly as Hyun just did, everything would change. And it’s both scary and exhilarating at the same time.
The silence feels endless.
Neither looks away or retreats. Just honesty pouring freely between them.
And for the first time since they met, neither of them is afraid of it.
Rui doesn't answer with words. He doesn't think he is capable of forming them. With Hyun looking at him like that, when his heart feels ready to break out of his chest.
Actions speak louder anyway.
Slowly, he raises his arms and loops them around Hyun's neck. Rises onto his toes and closes the remaining distance.
The kiss is inevitable. It’s messy and desperate. There is nothing graceful about it.
Weeks of tension finally snapping. Teeth knocking together and breaths stolen, lips bruising, hands gripping too tightly.
Hyun's arms wrap around his waist and pull him closer until there isn't a single inch separating them. Rui’s legs wrapping around his waist. The force of it sends them stumbling backward into the mirrored wall, almost cracking the fragile surface.
Neither of them cares. The entire world seems to narrow down to this single moment.
To the warmth of each touch. To finally having the thing they had both been wanting for far too long.
Afterward they stare at each other, bodies trembling, breathless, completely stunned at the intensity their bodies collided with.
Hyun starts laughing first, Rui is annoyed at him for it, right up until he starts laughing too. The sound of their laughter fills the studio.
The kind of laughter Rui hasn't allowed himself in years. And somehow that feels even more intimate than the kiss.
The funniest part?
Getting together changes absolutely nothing. They still argue, still compete and drive each other insane.
The difference is that now every argument ends with lingering smiles instead of slammed doors.
Every rehearsal ends with stolen kisses. And every morning begins with the quiet certainty that neither of them has to do this alone anymore.
The night of the competition arrives faster than either of them expects. The venue is packed with thousands of people filling the seats. Spotlights illuminating the polished floor. Months of work culminating in a single performance.
Yet neither Rui nor Hyun feels nervous.
Because somewhere along the way the competition stopped being the most important thing.
Their partnership became more important.
When the music begins, they move as one, every movement flowing naturally into the next.
And when the highlight move arrives, the one that caused so many arguments and sleepless nights, Rui falls backward without hesitation. Without fear or doubt. Because Hyun catches him and he always will.
The applause begins before the music even ends, standing ovation comes seconds later.
The victory itself almost feels secondary, because when they step onto the floor for the encore performance, everyone can see it.
Not just the perfect technique and chemistry. It’s unconditional trust. The kind they built one argument at a time, one rehearsal at a time, one impossible act of love at a time.
And for the first time in years, Rui finds himself smiling without thinking about it. The same smile from those old photographs, the one Hyun had spent months searching for.
Hyun answering grin is so wide it nearly ruins their formation.
By the time he dips Rui backward during the final dip, both of them are laughing so hard they almost lose their balance.
This is what true happiness looks like.
And for the first time in his life, Rui isn't dancing alone.
And for the first time in his life, Hyun isn't carrying the performance by himself.
They're partners.
In every possible sense of the word.
The end.