"fine," he says like it costs him nothing and everything all at once, "the secret is yours."
honestly, kentaro's first instinct was to say something deflective. you know, a dry and half-serious humor that'll turn the moment sideways before it gets too close to anything living. some stupid comment about organ failure or freezer burn, but then he feels yeonseok hooked finger around his. it's such a small thing, yet kentaro feels it everywhere. his brain (ordinarily dim but agreeable swamp) abruptly lights up with horrible clarity. he stares at their hands for seconds too long, expression flattening from the effort of containing a grin from forming and his cheeks from heating up. dangerous, he thinks absently. still, he lets yeonseok pull him a step closer to the doors. closer to the music bleeding faintly through the walls like his very pulse. yeonseok isn't trying to win him over so much as gently pry him apart at the seams to see what's inside.
the terrible thing is? kentaro likes the thought of him doing so.
his laugh comes quiet, "you make it sound easy." he tilts his head back slightly, eyes half-lidding toward the snow-choked sky above them. "i dunno," honest enough to hurt a little. "mostly i just feel like a haunted apartment someone keeps renting out despite the very obvious problems." the corner of his mouth twitches. there and gone. this time, he closes his hand properly around yeonseok's and gives him a tug toward the doors. "c'mon, then," he says. another tug, gentler. "where are we going?"
he pushes the balcony door open with his shoulder, warm light and distant music spilling over them again. "if you're gonna show you anything," he mutters, already steering yeonseok down the quieter hallway instead of back toward the ballroom, 'we need to escape the world's most irritating rich people. trick is, you can't let go of my hand."
yeonseok steps again through the threshold and back inside, where the world beyond the balcony is motionless and brittle. then and only then, and evidently for the first time that night, does he actually register the cold. the shells of his ears, his fingers, the tip of his nose— he feels them sting as they thaw out, leaving the skin there pink and prickling. warmth floods the rest of his body. he holds kentaro’s hand with a white-knuckled grip, clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, as he shudders through the torrent.
unlike kentaro, yeonseok does little to manage his expressions. he’s pleased to have been drawn back inside, and it shows. pleased, too, that kentaro hadn’t asked permission before taking his hand. that kentaro’s answers had made himself sound more a place than a person. and that kentaro had used the word yours. ( and yeonseok’s dark eyes had flitted down to catch the rounding of his mouth when he did. )
“you’re cute,” he says, finally. it slips past his lips like a confession. and for a single, electrifying moment, yeonseok pretends that it is. he presses himself against the length of kentaro’s side and leeches from him what warmth he can. “i won’t let go. but— d’ you actually know your way out of here? or is your haunted ass just gonna lead us deeper into this labyrinth?”
he pulls away, then. and his eyes gleam with equal parts amusement and adoration when he casts them down the remaining stretch of hallway. “i wanna do somethin’ stupid with you,” he murmurs, barely just audible over the sound of their footfalls. “when we get out of here, i wanna commemorate the night. maybe take a four-cut… you look good in a suit, hyung. ‘s worth celebrating.”
to an extent, mihyang did feel some pity for her brother. it was quite clear since he was born that he was never actually meant to continue the long line of won's in the academic field. he wasn't the brightest child, and it seems he never grew to be much smarter. if she wasn't a female, it's obvious that her parents would've chosen her to take the civil service exam, but that simply wasn't permitted. not now, at least.
she let out a sigh before looking down at the fan that is now in her lap. "the gates to our home are always open. you know that," she gently states, making it almost sound like a reminder that he could come visit whenever he wanted to. "and i don't mean to sound so rude, but i don't believe your brother will be passing any time soon either." mihyang lets it slip in a whisper, afraid that somebody would overhear them over the gates. "we shall have more than enough time with one another, don't you think? though, i do hope that they both do much better this time around."
yeonseong lays one hand against his chest and pretends to be scandalized by mihyang’s honest admission. “— oh. my lady,” he begins urgently, lowering his voice to match her in whisper. “you have so little faith in our yeonwoong… for his sake, i’ll have to keep this epiphany to myself. it’ll break his heart, to hear you say such things.”
the act quickly splinters before room is made for misunderstanding. the mischief that plays at the ends of yeonseong’s lips eases away, and before long, something thoughtful again takes its place. “… things are better off unchanged,” he concludes, resolute. “for the gates to your home may always be open, but without my brother here, i would not find my way back to you unchaperoned. my father would never allow it.” the mere mention of yeonseong’s father seems to spoil his good humor entirely, and he sighs. “i don’t want to imagine a future speaking to you in codes… the friends i have are so precious little. i should hate to lose you.”
singing and dancing at least have counts, shapes, a beginning and an end you can memorize until your body stops arguing. but standing in the same room as another person and not knowing when or where to look, when to speak, how long to pause before it becomes strange, that feels like being dropped into the middle of a song. at least she notices yeonseok before she decides to approach. he is rather… noticeable. loud, even when he's not speaking. sakura tells herself she will only pass by, maybe nod his way then her steps slow against her own reflexes and she comes to a full stop. after a small, silent negotiation with herself, she takes two steps closer than necessary. close enough that she can hear the faint sound of his breathing, which feels like an invasion, even if she is the one doing the invading.
"…hello," she says with a bow, a fraction too late. or maybe too early. it is difficult to tell. her hands stay very still at her sides, thinking if she moves them, something important will fall apart. "i was… observing," she adds, because it feels like an explanation is required. "you." that sounds wrong. she tries again like stepping across stones in water.
"you dance with… intention," she settles on saying something that feels true. "even when you are not dancing." sakura nods once, she has completed social task one of the day. "i would like to learn how you do that," she says rather matter-factly.
yeonseok is about four minutes into a fifteen-minute break when he hears sakura approach. he’s pink in the cheeks, dabbing distractedly at the thin sheen of sweat that rests right at the edge of his hairline, and initially, the look of him is preoccupied. unfocused, before his attention shifts without warning and the weight of it falls upon the semi-familiar face of his new brown-eyed visitant. “… hi,” he returns.
there is a brief pause. in it, yeonseok mirrors sakura’s posture and silently drops both hands to his sides. only when she reaches the end of her sentence does he work to piece it all together: hello, / i was / observing / you. it sounds almost like a threat. it probably shouldn’t, given that 1) sakura looks about as threatening as a haribo goldbear— which is to say she hardly looks very threatening at all— and 2) she seems to be having trouble with her words. even so, it’s yeonseok’s personal rule of thumb to never minimize a perceived threat, regardless of whether the person who’s issued it is profoundly reminiscent of bear-shaped gummies. both amusement and uncertainty cling to his mouth as it curls itself into a smile.
sakura concludes her series of declarations with a statement of intent. not a question. not a request. and yeonseok says, “thanks. i guess.” he takes a pause of his own. “… think my body drives me more than i drive it? dunno if i have any wisdom to impart, but, uh— well. how are your reflexes?” he mimes winding up to throw her a baseball pitch but then abruptly changes course half of the way through. instead— he leans down to scoop up some trainee’s neglected bottle of tea and, in that same, fluid motion, casts it to her in an underhand toss.
her family was supposed to have the midas touch when it came to setting people up. how many successful couples has she witnessed in her life time as she grew up in her lee household? one too many to count, and it was disappointing how bobae just didn't seem to have it. plus, her mother was slowly starting to back off for some reason—she said something about her getting older—which meant that bobae just had to get it together.
"oh, i would love to, but i am absolutely terrible at focusing on two people. i can barely even manage with one!" she exclaimed with another shake of her head. "of course, if i see a lady who seems to radiate as bright as you, i shall not hesitate to introduce you two at once!"
despite all this, she was doing a terrible job at finding her own soulmate. her aunts have told her that it wasn't something that she had to seek out, and that it came naturally. that spark, the aura match, they were all things she simply had to wait for, but she was getting rather impatient.
taking another scan around the room, she shuffled a little closer to yeonseong. "there is this one gentleman across the room. he is dressed rather clean compared to the other gentlemen here, but he's been glancing at every single lady who has walked by him, even the ones who have paid him no attention. that doesn't sound like a very good trait, right?"
something cumbersome wedges itself into yeonseong’s throat, and he lifts one of his arms to cough inelegantly behind the delicate curve of his wrist. — bobae has taken his facetious request in earnest, it seems. yeonseong finds this quality about her dreadfully endearing, even if it renders him wholly unable to gather the resolve to tell her that he hadn’t meant any of it, really. he’s already spent the start of the social season in exclusive pursuit of a benefactor with wealth to spare. power. freedom. securing himself a romantic match would only prove a momentary diversion in time. a waste of it. yeonseong flushes generously at the thought of being centered in bobae’s heartfelt enthusiasm and finds himself relieved as she quickly moves on.
when she speaks again, he notes that her voice sounds much closer now. he angles his head down to better hear her over the din of the room, then listens to her brief, in full. “anxious that he’s not just interested in ladies’ fashions then, i take it?” yeonseong punctuates the question with one end of a wry smile. “then how are you meant to determine what his glances mean? … that he’s inattentive? easily sidetracked? a well-dressed satyr?”
from across the room, he’s privy only to bobae’s observations. even less than that, if she chooses to be sparing with her details. he purses his lips before continuing, thoughtfully: “you’ll have to forgive my inexperience on the subject. i’m happy to accompany you, should you like to introduce yourself. it might even be easier to evaluate him that way… ?”
kentaro is used to people looking at him and seeing a deadline or a footnote or a really expensive haircut that doesn't look so expensive up close. riyan likes to boss him around for giggles, haru is the older cousin he never had, and seungho is a whole bully off screen (he's somewhat joking, he's just not used to frat-boy behavior), but yeonseok is looking at him like he's actually trying to memorize before the library burns down. it's a lot. it's too much. it makes the static in his brain get loud and fuzzy. yeonseok pulls the jacket back onto his shoulders and it's actually kind of terrifying. usually people would let him drift until he hits a wall. he stares at yeonseok's knuckle resting right against his throat and forgets how to breathe for a second. or maybe he just doesn't want to break the silence. his heart is doing this weird, syncopated thrumming. "you're a masochist, yeonie," he mumbles, throat full of dry leaves. "wanting the consequences..."
he looks away, out at the seoul skyline that looks like a circuit board someone spilled white ink over. he feels the weight of the jacket now—warm from yeonseok's hands and it lowkey feels like a bribe. a really effective one.
"ulsan, huh. i forgot you were a tourist in this disaster," he says, leaning his head, watching the snow fall between them, "the snow here isn't even a color. it's just... the absence of light. it's like the city's way of saying its too tired of being watched. i get it. i totally get it." for once, the exit signs don't seem as interesting as the person standing right in front of them.
"hey, i get you too. and i'm not going anywhere. i'm already mostly ice anyway, its a pre-existing affliction," he says, reaching out to tug at the edge of yeonseok's sleeve with a clumsy, frozen finger. "but if you're gonna stay out here, you're definitely gonna freeze too." his eyes go dark and tired and weirdly soft. "i guess i can hang out for a track or two. just don't tell anyone i'm being nice. it'll ruin my reputation."
yeonseok agrees that he probably is a bit of a masochist. punishment and praise are both consequences he enjoys in equal measure, so long as the voice that delivers the verdict is dulcet, and the mouth that it falls from, sweet. okamoto kentaro seems sweet. yeonseok has never claimed to be immune to the appeal of him. he sighs, reluctantly. “i’m worried you underestimate the kinda shit i get up to when ‘m not being chaperoned. if the city’s tired of being watched, then… let it watch me. i don’t wanna be a tourist, hyung. i wanna bring this place its color. light. whatever it wants— ‘s why i’m here.”
his eyes flick down to regard the innocuous little tug at the cuff of his sleeve. i’m not going anywhere, kentaro says. and yeonseok knows he means the words right now, yet his traitorous mind still thinks it necessary to retaliate: but you will. ( sooner or later, everyone does. ) a streak of something ugly and possessive tears through him, then, and he reaches up to hook one of his fingers around kentaro’s, childishly. it’s almost comical, feeling like this, considering the fact that none of it is his to even begin with.
“… don’t be nice to anyone else, then,” he hears himself say, after a pause. his eyes dart up to kentaro’s again, and he finds them soft and yielding behind a dark curtain of hair. arresting. something warm spills over and across the expanse of yeonseok’s chest. “your secret ‘s safe with me, as long as it’s mine.”
after a brief moment of consideration, he takes a step backward— closer to the set of doors that lead back inside, and gingerly pulls kentaro along with him. “but hyung,” he starts again. he is going to freeze if he stays out here, but even after his companion’s acknowledgement of the fact, yeonseok still finds himself feeling hesitant to return. “if you’re mostly ice, that means there’s still a small part of you made of something else. right? …… what is it, then? show me.”
"i'll be sure to put in for overtime when i'm back." minah groans, quite a theatrical sound of physical pain, and finally hauls herself off him. the loss of contact is immediate, like stepping out of a hot shower into a drafty hallway. she stands there for a second, adjusting her top and running a hand through her hair, then she moves over to the suitcase, looming over it like a judge passing sentence on a particularly pathetic criminal. it's a right state. some clothes, at least three different hair tools that she's definitely going to forget the voltage adapter for. she nudges a stray boot with the toe of her heel, and huffs; she actually wants to crawl back into bed.
"look at it. it's a funeral for my social life," she mutters, grabbing a handful of miscellaneous cables and stuffing them into a side pocket with zero finesse. "i'm going to get to the hotel, open this, and it'll just be a literal explosion of regret. and i'll have to call you, won't i? in the middle of the night, crying because i can't find my favorite lip oil you definitely took and the parisians are being mean to me about my accent..."
she turns back to him, one hand on her hip, her silhouette framed by the mess of her departing life. "you’re just stood there looking pretty. if you're not going to be a suitcase-dweller, at least be a pack mule. come here and sit on this lid for me." she gestures to the bulging suitcase, her eyes flashing, sharp wit that hides the fact that her heart is currently doing about a hundred miles an hour. she'll miss yeonseok a whole lot. "well? chop chop, yeonseok-ah, then we can head to the convenience store."
yeonseok is quiet, and it’s unusual. he doesn’t even have the heart to gloat about the fact that minah’s just called him pretty; he’s too busy trying not to imagine a future where she’s crouched down beside her detonated suitcase. crying in some gloomy hotel room and catching her reflection in one of the tacky, gold-framed mirrors mounted on the wall. cheeks stained with glitter and mascara tears— it’s all very dramatic. yeonseok will be 9,000 kilometers away, then, where none of minah’s hypothetical provocateurs will hear him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth, snarl at them all to go kick rocks.
he winds an arm around the narrow line of her shoulders and pulls her into his side. hears his own voice, low and with earnest candor: “take the first flight home to me, if you really end up hating it. i’ll meet ya at the airport.” he presses a kiss into her hair and then another. and the second is loud with exaggeration— an over-the-top smooch! near the crown of her head, characterized with an irreverent sort of nonchalance, because he’s not sure she should grasp the enormity of her absence just yet.
… so he lets her go. obediently parks his ass on the lid of her suitcase before immediately changing his mind and then hurling it open unceremoniously. he starts to reorganize its contents without asking, stopping only to gesture loosely at his bag, discarded at the foot of her bed. “you should take something of mine before y’ leave. rummage around. might have somethin’ in there to ward off bad luck or other annoying shit, ‘cause—” he’s managed to ferret out what must be her favorite tube of lip oil and holds it up to his face, triumphantly. “— i am gonna take this. thank you.”
kento stepped deeper into the boy's space. he was a black hole eclipsing a supernova, his presence a dark orbit that seemed to pull at the very gravity of the corridor. his dark gaze traced the path of their aura—that bruised violet that now kento could feel against his own skin like a fever. it was a silent scream of want in a world that demanded only stillness, a messy, beautiful rebellion of the soul.
"most men in this city trade in promises and jade," kento murmured, a subterranean rumble. "i trade in truths. and the truth is written in that flush across your throat." he leaned in closer, the scent of sandalwood and cold mountain air clinging to him as his scarred cheek hovered a hair's breadth from the boy's unblemished skin. the veridian light of his aura began to snake around them both, a green cage that shut out the rest of the world, "if I allow you to make things right," kento breathed, "i shall ask for the sight of your color again. i shall ask for the honesty of your light when the doors are closed..." a ghost of a smile, dark and dangerously charming, flickered across kento's lips. he allowed his hand to drift, so he stood there, the beast he is poised at the iron gate of a secret garden, waiting to see if he would be let in or cast back into the night. "or you could, perhaps, begin by granting me a name? unless of course you intend to haunt me.
kento waited for the silence of the pavillion to grow. he was no longer the guest, nor the prince; he waited, his head tilted in an elegant slant, letting the tension pull taut between them like a bowstring. he would not move first; he would see if the swan had the courage to truly answer the wolf's call.
yeonseong’s vision was submerged in verdant light— a deluge of something honest and unpretending, and there was a sacred sort of quality about it, an incandescence both empyrean and inviolable. its appearance felt much like the sharp end of a blade, pointed precisely at the center of his chest; one twist of the wrist of some beautiful boy, and maybe he would find himself bleeding for the rest of his meager little life. he was bleeding even now, the lavender grey of his aura flickering willfully against the soft pale of his skin. everything he’d managed to collect of this stranger, he found enthralling: the voice of him. the scent of him. the touch of him ( or, at least, the recent memory of it ). he was unable to see the lethal curve of the other male’s mouth, but he heard it in the inflection of his subsequent request and thought it nothing but a kindness. he cast his eyes downward in gratitude, lashes beating weakly against the skin of his cheek.
“my name is yeonseong. second son of the ryu family.” the smile he returned was small and faltering. “i’m sure you’re already aware, great trader of truths, but i suffer an impairment that extends others the benefit of anonymity. so, should you like to retain yours, please. by all means. even if i… find myself eager to know you.”
there followed a pause. after an aborted moment of deliberation, yeonseong reached his hand upward and into the light to finally bridge the gap between himself and his companion. the tips of his fingers clumsily skimmed the line of the other male’s jaw and then retreated promptly afterwards, as if the touch had set fire to his skin. “i apologize,” he began again. quieter now. “but i do find your proximity distracting. i… can hardly hear myself think.”
Jehwan regarded him in silence first, as though the act itself were a courtesy he could extend or withdraw at will. Up close, the other's features and composure revealed its seams and it was… disarming. The way true beauty was meant to disarm. His lashes lowered, a careful dimming. "A fortunate omission," he said softly, conceding a point that had never been pressed. There was the faintest bow in his posture — enough to acknowledge Yeonseong's bow, though not so deep as to mirror it. Politeness, he was taught, is observed at a fair distance.
He stepped closer. He doesn't want to intrude, though his presence could no longer be mistaken for a ghost carried by the wind. The space between them growing intentionally. "You ask for meaning, but I cannot give you one... I was simply uttering a verse I read in old maiden scriptures. Don't mind my tongue," Jehwan said, "but is it understanding you seek… or permission to name what you have already felt?" Jehwan liked to think he was a riddler of sorts that minored in mysticism.
Jehwan stepped closer. And Yeonseong felt all his senses sharpen to a single point— as if suddenly made aware of their arrangement on the balcony, the distance between their bodies. Everything unnamed and undefined surrounding the two of them, still. It would be imprudent to continue to humor the conversation at hand; Jehwan may not have been a ghost, but he was still a stranger, and Yeonseong could not help but feel as if he were being coaxed into admitting something neither of them could really and wholly comprehend. In spite of this, the insinuation that they had both left something behind— and that Yeonseong had lost the memory of it, even now— had felt reassuring somehow. A calm settled in Yeonseong’s blood. An avowal.
“I’ve long suffered this thought, that I am not quite where I should be. But I do not have the imagination to envision myself elsewhere.” His mouth curved into a slow, self-deprecatory smile. “Your delivery of this scripture has consoled me. Thank you.” There was a brief pause before he continued again. Hesitantly now, and almost abashed: “Is it foolish of me to wonder if it consoles you, too?”
the corridor of the moving pavilion was a treacherous thing, gearing its geography with fickle cruelty. for kento, the silence of the rotating wood was usually a sanctuary, but tonight, the air tasted of impending rain. he had been navigating the labyrinth to avoid a scheduled tea with a matchmaker, his right side pressed into the shadows of the screens, when the hallway elongated, spitting him out into a wing that smelled of fresh pine and expensive ink.
then soft, expectant, and dangerously oblivious voice calls to him.
kento froze. his gaze fell first upon the hand extended toward him—pale, delicate, and marred by the dark kiss of calligraphy ink. slowly, kento stepped out of the gloom. he was the "wolf," the scorched heir, a man whose very face was a map of imperial violence. and he had just been mistaken for a boy fetching a washbasin. so, he did not speak. to speak was to let the rasp of his voice betray the gravity of his station. he reached out and closed his fingers around their hand. his grip was firm, the callouses of a swordsman meeting the soft skin of a scholar. guided by silence, kento led him a few paces down the hall to where a stone basin caught the runoff of a hidden mountain spring. ice-cold and crystalline. kento dipped a corner of his own sleeve into the water and with the wet silk, he began to scrub away the pitch-black ink, the dark stains swirling into clear waters.
he worked until the pale skin was clean, his thumb lingering for a second too long against the others pulse, before he released them... "there. you are restored to the pristine order the court expects. go to your dinner, little swan. i should hate to ruin your evening."
little swan thrummed gently in yeonseong’s ears for a long, syrupy second— the rise and fall of its lilt sweet and honeyed— before it was punctuated suddenly by the panicked sound of his own heart, beating up and into the hollow of his throat. he’d made a terrible mistake. the stranger that now stood before him had been gifted a voice like silk gauze, soothing and soft to the ear, but unexpectedly heavy with the burden of tremendous reputation. authority. yeonseong could not imagine bearing even a fraction of the weight. he bent himself down at the waist, into a low, apologetic bow. “… forgive me, please, for the discourtesy.”
truthfully, he’d known something was wrong even before the unfamiliar voice had substantiated it. the attendants of the ryu family traditionally fulfilled their responsibilities with clinical efficiency. contact with them was meant to feel impersonal and coldly detached. but the grip yeonseong found himself caught in had felt, instead, … oddly secure. steady and strong. there was a warmth in it that lingered on the inside of his wrist, and yeonseong was so starved for touch that the heat of it crept up the length of his arm and began to sear through his skin in a mortifying glow. the color of his aura had once been described as mournful. the ever-present ache of a tender bruise, and yeonseong was flushed sick with it now— sick, also, with the shame of knowing he’d offer his hand again and again, if only someone would see fit to take it.
“you’ve shown a great kindness to me, even when i’ve been so ungracious to you. i will not take it for granted.” he did not lift his head. “i— am in your debt. and if you’ll allow me the opportunity to make things right, i will.”
bobae would like to think that she didn't stick out like a sore thumb in situations like this, but she'd only be lying to herself. a room filled with eligible ladies and gentlemen, all waiting for their auras to spark together and find them their soulmate. unfortunately, for bobae, she had made a reputation for herself as being a little silly? goofy? let's just say every adjective that didn't do so well attached to an unmarried lady.
she's lost in her own thoughts when a familiar face approaches her, and she gives a polite bow toward yeonseong before going off in a ramble. "i would have never introduced him to her if i had known!" bobae's trying her best to keep her voice down, hiding her mouth with her fan so only yeonseong could hear her, but she's still fuming about her last attempt at setting up her friend that she wouldn't be surprised if somebody else did hear.
"i think she's doing better than i am. i was far more upset than she was. i must have the worst eye for people," she says with a slight groan and shake of her head. "perhaps she'd do better without my help. i'm sure many gentlemen will approach her, anyway. she has that sparkle to me." bobae swallows the unlike me that threatens to leave her lips because she's not asking for pity. not in this moment. "but i won't let that discourage me. there has to be someone in the room worth her time, don't you think so?"
yeonseong frowns. “of course. the fault in this hardly lies with you; you were both victims of his insincerity. now you’ve made it plain that gentleman isn’t worth anyone’s time. much less anyone’s ire.”
still, it’s reassuring to hear that none of this has managed to splinter bobae’s unfailing optimism. ( at least not yet. ) having made her acquaintance some time ago, yeonseong cannot refute the idea that he finds something about her… unusual. spending time with her feels like being plucked from the present and deposited back into a time when he was still wide-eyed and soft-cheeked. giggling with yeonhee over destinies lustrated in pure white lights— nearly a decade ago, when love seemed so substantial a thing.
now, yeonseong only seems interested in an independence love cannot afford him. and yeonhee, who all but tore herself away to return to conversing with her suitors, acts as though she’s little more than a diplomatic offering for the future of their family.
yeonseong is desperate for something impractical to believe in.
“i do not think your friend is worse off for having brushed sleeves with someone who was wrong for her. she is nearer her happy ending than ever before, and it was you who delivered her there.” the curve of his smile stretches into something playful, then, and he continues: “… i expect you to do the same for me. hm? i’ve been eagerly awaiting the day you’ll introduce me to my soulmate, bobae.”
turning away from seeing her brother and yeonseong's, mihyang can't stop the sigh from leaving her lips. this was what? her brother's third attempt at the civil service exam? at this point, she thinks it'd be quicker for her to disguise herself as her brother and pass the test for him. though, that would be a disservice to whatever role they put him in if he were to pass.
"do you think they do better when they're studying together, or should they be separated?" she whispers to yeonseong with a slight chuckle hidden in her voice. yeonseong's brother wasn't the first person to come over to the won's to get help with his studying. with her family's reputation, there was always someone knocking at their door, begging for their help.
while her and yeonseong's brother were stuck getting lessons, she was given the lovely task as acting as babysitter for yeonseong. and she means it when she says lovely because one, he's great company, and two, with him around, her family has started nagging a lot less about her marriage.
mihyang's marriage was a hot topic for everybody, but that doesn't mean she wants to keep hearing about it. because her family cares so much about the judgment of others, they were pretty silent with company around. "i don't know when my parents will realize that, at this point, my brother will never pass."
in the eldest won’s inability to pass his civil service exams, there is a peculiar sort of poetry: that, as the world continues to turn— as matches are made and marriages arranged, as plum blossoms bloom even in the morning frost of early spring— it is, perhaps, one of life’s greatest comforts to hold fast to the belief that some things never change. yeonseong has spent years like this. sitting on his knees, across from mihyang. listening to the gentle soothe of her voice and enjoying the calm of her company. even if he finds himself standing at the edge of a precipice now, preparing to refashion the very course of his life, he suspects that all things meant to remain with him will remain. and he is almost certain that his friendship with mihyang will endure.
leaning in conspiratorially, he lowers his voice to whisper back: “i don’t mean to alarm you, but officer jeong of the investigation bureau passed the second stage of his examinations at age 63. if your brother is hoping to match that pace, he still has decades of studying to undergo.” his eyes crinkle into crescents. expression blithe and teasing, before it ultimately softens at the edges. “but i doubt his situation will be so dire— your brother has mine, and mine has managed a place in the royal academy. they will reunite there. and then?” he purses his lips, thoughtfully. “then, what of you and i? what excuse will i have to come visit you in the future? your intellectual capabilities are far better spent pondering questions such as these.”
YEONSEONG ISN’T SURE HE’S REALLY MADE FOR SPRINGTIME. as with all children of the ryu family, he’s expected to meet each of the seasons with a certain composure and presence of mind. find solace in the cyclical nature of the rhythm: the avidity of summer. aching of autumn. frigidity of winter and romance of spring. — it’s the last of these he still cannot comprehend ( and, with a considerable sort of dread, he worries he never will ). tonight, he stands obediently in the corridor outside his sleeping quarters. having spent the better part of his day trying to wring the art of calligraphy into muscle memory, his fingers now are stained with ink. his attendant has just left to retrieve a washcloth and a basin of water, and his father is getting ready to receive yet another distinguished dinner guest: progeny of an imperial line, a romantic prospect for their youngest. yeonseong cannot afford to be late. he was raised to know, and do, better.
he perks up at the sound of returning footfalls. and— if he were not so preoccupied with his own trepidation, it would not have escaped his notice that the weight and bearing of them did not belong to those of his attendant. “you’re quick.” however. a smile of misplaced relief crosses his features instead, and he extends one of his hands up and outwards to offer it: pale skin and pitch ink. an error of ample consequence, to mistake a scion of royalty for a mere servant. “i am comforted to be in your care.”
The pavilion had recalibrated itself by dawn by the groan of unseen gears. They now overlooked a valley where the plum blossoms were less like flowers and more like a collective gasp of pink silk against morning frost. Je-hwan stood on a cantilevered balcony, looking less like a nobleman and more like a beautiful architectural error. Below, the Spring Social Season was in full, suffocating swing. The elite of Hanyang moved in a synchronized ballet of choreographed bows and sly smiles, their auras blooming in a sickeningly sweet palette. It was all so curated, a high-stakes performance of "harmonies" that felt hollow to his eyes.
Je-hwan let his own light remain a stagnant. He was the beauty in the rafters, watching the clockwork of a society that had already declared him a unworthy. Then, the reflection of someone is caught in the polished silver of his ink-well, the ice in his chest finally beginning to scream as it splintered under their gaze. "The matchmakers claim that red is the only auspicious color for a destiny such as yours," Je-hwan chirped and turned around, "Tell me, does your soul recognize the world we left behind?"
Yeonseong had arrived alone, which also meant that he had arrived defenseless. He found himself at the mercy of sunlight, and although Je-hwan’s beauty was unfortunately lost upon him, Yeonseong’s eyes, set against the bleached expanse of morning sky, could still determine the faint outline of the other male’s silhouette. Could hear the resonant peal of his voice upon the wind. Yeonseong could not see him, and yet he was not at all immune to Je-hwan’s draw. He was unguarded against it, and he bowed his head down, low and courteous. “Red is not often a color I am associated with.”
Lacking any form of introduction, he had not even the vaguest of notions as to who he was speaking to: nobleman or servant, human or otherwise. Outside his family’s sprawling estate, he’d found himself more and more frequently in the company of sparrows and their benevolent keepers. And so— he did not think it a stretch to believe he was now speaking to something not entirely earthly. A seonnyeo, perhaps. Or a celestial who was exceptionally fond of riddles. “‘The world we left behind’... Do you speak of the capital?” Yeonseong was doubtful the answer could be so straightforward. “I’m afraid I do not recognize your meaning. Though, if you find me worthy of an explanation, I will do my utmost to understand it.”
IT ISN’T PARTICULARLY DIFFICULT TO FIND LEE BOBAE. in a room pulled taut with hollow gestures, vain repetition of the most nauseating of platitudes, the way bobae holds herself seems to saturate the entirety of her being in a crown of her own light. a halo of warmth. ring of petal. ryu yeonhee once heard her older brother call bobae the wildflower of the season. and now, wading through a crowded room with him in tow, anticipating the amicable curve of her smile, well. yeonhee is inclined to agree. “miss bobae,” she begins crisply. there’s something of a smile at the corners of her lips. “my brother has asked me to escort him over. i’ll have you know he was quite insistent.”
following this introduction, yeonseong dips his head into a sheepish bow of address. “yeonhee’s words often favor exaggeration, but her claims are not unfounded. i have been wanting to find you.” when he lifts his head, the arc of his mouth softens. “i’ve gotten word that your friend’s previous match was a bit… generous with his affections, bobae. she isn’t too disheartened by it, i hope?”
“if she is, please do let her know there are legions of bachelors to choose from this season,” yeonhee adds. “noblemen with positions of rank. royalty from overseas.” she’s no doubt thinking of her own romantic prospects, and yeonseong can hear the sulk in her voice as she continues, “a woman can afford to be picky. don’t you think?”
🌸 WHO ARE YOU IN THE LIGHT? ...
RYS180503_MEMO: will the drums yet beat for me?
🍃 SECTION I — The Identity
name: ryu yeonseong, the blind poet.
clan: scholars. the ryu family is one of high nobility— righteous and exceptionally loyal to the current crown. primarily known for their deference to ritual and their advocacy of high culture + the arts, they consider it absolutely imperative that their progeny be invited to participate in each and every social season, to act as exemplars of social grace and confucian virtue.
reputation: yeonseong suffers from a visual impairment that allows him only to perceive the presence, or absence, of light. it is a disability that has dictated the entirety of his existence, and beyond it, society has cared for little else about him. — however. in recent years, he has written a series of poems that has endeared himself to certain members of the royal family. and it is with these attainments now that his name is finally beginning to circulate among the plum blossom pamphlets once more.
🦋 SECTION II — The Aura
color: reminiscent of the pale wisterias that bloom in mid-spring. lilac ash. lavender grey. it is a soothing, milky shade that is notoriously difficult to read.
trigger: human touch. it's a complicated, fickle thing.
prior to his societal debut, yeonseong spent his life learning the art of distance under the guise of courtesy and consideration. now, as a consequence, propinquity unsettles him. intimacy terrifies him. and prolonged or particularly heated physical contact— especially that without warning— will have him knelt over a basin of water, trying desperately to wash the sensation of it away.
interpretation: his future prospects are often understood to be grim. utterly bloodless. the color of his aura seems to suggest a grief for everything that could have been, and to the matchmakers, it will always pale in comparison to the radiant glow, the vibrant casts of his noble peers. — but yeonseong can't help but wonder if maybe that's the heart of it all: that maybe he's not meant to be seen. the color of his aura sleeps under his skin, and it is tranquil and still. gentle and silvery. and no less beautiful, he hopes, to those who recognize where to really look.
🌷 SECTION III — The Heart
arrangement: he is an eligible bachelor, in theory. however, rather than a marriage partner, this season, yeonseong is much more interested in securing a wealthy patron to support his burgeoning career in the poetic arts. although young, he's already learned to regard his romantic prospects with heavy skepticism. sympathy, pity, commiseration— these are what he has historically been met with, but they are not what he desires. he longs only for his own deliverance, granted to him by way of inked verses and song.
memory: what good is there in remembering the privileges of another life?
yeonseong is only concerned with the waning freedoms of this one.
scandal: it is already starting to become apparent, what with yeonseong now openly courting potential sponsors, but the patriarch of the ryu family disapproves of his son's ambitions and is already making plans to send him far from the capital once the social season concludes. his reasons for doing so run deeper than anyone— even yeonseong himself— can ever know. but one thing is for certain: their lack of harmony is threatening everything this once-untarnished family has always stood for.
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