Chapter 8: The First Dance
The crush of well-wishers and the warm, wine-scented air of the reception hall hit them like a gentle wave. Hyukjae instinctively tightened his grip on the cloth-wrapped ducks, a tactile reminder of the quiet garden they’d just left. Before he could be swept into another round of cheek-kisses and back-slaps, Donghae’s hand on his elbow steered them left, through an open French door and onto a secondary patio.
Here, the string quartet was closer, their music weaving through the night air from a draped alcove. Fairy lights were strung in loose, glowing garlands overhead, illuminating a small checkered dance floor where a few other couples swayed. The moon was a clean, white chip in the velvet sky, casting the rose petals strewn on the ground into silvery relief.
“They can wait five more minutes,” Donghae said, his voice a low rumble near Hyukjae’s ear. He took the ducks and set them safely on a nearby cocktail table, next to a half-finished glass of merlot. Then he turned, offering his hand. No flourish, no question. A simple, open-palmed expectation.
Hyukjae looked at the hand, then at Donghae’s face, all sharp, fond angles in the subtle light. The frantic energy that had coiled in him all day—the need to adjust, to perfect, to control—was gone. In its place was a hollowed-out, peaceful sort of exhaustion, and beneath that, a steady, warm current. He placed his hand in Donghae’s.
Donghae pulled him in, one hand settling firmly on the small of Hyukjae’s back, the other clasping his hand against his chest. They weren't at the center of the floor; they were at the edge, near a planter of night-blooming jasmine that filled the air with a sweet, narcotic scent. The music was a lazy, romantic number, all sighing cello and playful violin.
For a few bars, they just moved. A simple shift of weight, a slow turn. Hyukjae rested his forehead against Donghae’s temple, closing his eyes. He could feel the crisp cotton of Donghae’s shirt under his fingers, the solid, reliable frame of him. He could feel the twin bands of metal on Donghae’s ring finger pressing into his own.
“Your mother’s handkerchief is in my pocket,” Donghae murmured.
“I know.”
“It’s very scratchy.”
A faint smile touched Hyukjae’s lips. “Suffer for beauty.”
Donghae’s chuckle vibrated through both of them. He guided Hyukjae into a slightly wider turn, his lead confident and unshakeable. Hyukjae followed, letting himself be directed. It was easy. It was always easy, when he stopped fighting it.
He opened his eyes, looking past Donghae’s shoulder at the shimmering lights, the dark silhouette of the garden arches, the blurred, smiling faces inside the bright hall. This was his life now. This noise, this man, these intertwined histories represented by carved wood and old lace. It was messy. It was imperfect. Someone inside was laughing too loud. A waiter passed with a tray of empty glasses, the citrus-and-alcohol smell cutting through the jasmine. The quartet missed a note, recovered seamlessly.
And none of it needed fixing.
The realization was quiet, profound. It settled in his bones. His fingers, which had been lightly resting on Donghae’s shoulder, curled, gripping the fabric. Not with anxiety, but with a sudden, fierce possessiveness.
“What is it?” Donghae asked, feeling the change in his posture.
Hyukjae shook his head, pressing his face into the curve of Donghae’s neck. He inhaled the familiar scent of his soap, the starch from his shirt, the unique, warm smell that was simply Donghae. “Nothing,” he mumbled against his skin. Then, clearer: “Everything’s just… right here.”
Donghae’s hand spread wider on his back, pulling him an increment closer. “Took you long enough to catch up.”
“I’m a slow learner.”
“You’re meticulous.” Donghae corrected, his tone affectionate. “You like to examine all the data before forming a conclusion.” He spun them again, a slow, graceful pivot that made the lights blur. “The data is in, Dr. Lee. The sample size is one lifetime. The result is conclusive.”
Hyukjae didn’t answer with words. He lifted his head and kissed him. It wasn’t a chaste or careful wedding-kiss. It was deep and lingering, a seal on the promise they’d made hours ago. He tasted like champagne and the mint from the dessert table, and home.
When they parted, Donghae’s eyes were dark, his smile softer now, less cheeky, more awed. The music shifted again, swelling into something richer, with a stronger beat.
From the doorway, Hyukjae’s mother let out a loud, theatrical wolf-whistle. A ripple of laughter followed.
“We’re being observed,” Hyukjae said, feeling a blush heat his neck, but he didn’t pull away.
“Good,” Donghae said, swaying them again, refusing to release him. “Let them see.” He dipped his head, his next words a warm breath against Hyukjae’s ear, meant for him alone. “Let them all see how much I love you. Let it be obnoxious and public and undeniable.”
The current inside Hyukjae became a flood, warm and electric. He laughed, a short, surprised burst of sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yours, though.”
The song began to wind down, the final notes hanging in the air. The quartet took a bow to scattered applause from the patio. The moment was ending, about to be swallowed by the next thing—the cake cutting, the toasts, the relentless, joyful march of the evening.
Donghae finally loosened his hold, but only enough to slide his hand down and lace their fingers together. He picked up the bundled ducks with his other hand. “Ready to go be the main characters again?”
Hyukjae looked at their joined hands, at the man holding his history and his future in each palm. The garden path behind them was dark and quiet. The hall before them blazed with light and sound.
He squeezed Donghae’s hand. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”