#mong rang

Unfortunately, the event that Mongrang is currently wasting away at meets all the said criteria… He checked. It's the day of the Dongzhi Festival, which means it's cold as fuck, dark as fuck, and everyone's stressed as fuck. He just wishes he was home, curled under a blanket by a dying fire, some lovely woman's hands rubbing soothing circles into his back. He sincerely hopes that the people who wrote the Code of Conduct trip into a ditch.

The palace's main ballroom has been made to resemble a frozen forest; done up in silvers and blues and glittering tinsel. The servants have done a spectacular job of it. Various crystal trees dot the space, carved from rare silver ore, and embedded with glittering gemstones. The centerpiece is a magnificent fir tree, carved completely from ice. It's almost tall enough to scrape the golden dome at the room's centre; the key word being: almost. Nothing can be tall enough to reach the cupola. That's another rule.

The lower ceiling is intended to emulate the night sky. The dark shimmery fabric has been draped from the upper balconies and crisscrosses the room, forming a perfect backdrop for the tens of thousands of twirling snowflakes. They don't melt, don't fall, only twinkle in place like baby stars, casting dappled light over the crowd.

It's truly a dazzling display.

Mongrang would like nothing more than to be able to fully immerse himself in the beauty of it all, but alas, the reality of his situation is far too damning.

Mongrang usually tries to make himself scarce for these events. He doesn't harbour a particular dislike for galas in general. But it was more of an issue with the attendees. From the moment he began avenging Byung Gu's death, an entire host of their nation's elite decided that he was the Jade Flower Palace's most eligible bachelor. They've been going out of their way ever since. Hoping to win his hand for their daughters.

And sure, while Mongrang loved to indulge in hedonism, these particular high-class women were not to his tastes. (He'd like to add that he means personality-wise.)

It's not that he doesn't understand their reasoning; He's young, physically attractive, influential, and wealthy. Marrying someone from within the Mong family would give any family a lot of influence.

Has he mentioned that he's by far the best choice out of the Mong family? Yeah. You'd have to be severely desperate to go after anyone else from his lineage. 

Now, just because Mongrang is the best choice, doesn't make him a good one. To be honest, the entire situation is a little sad. He's been introduced to hundreds of young women, and been wined and dined across all of the land. But he forgets their names, faces, and stories almost immediately; all blurring together into a mass of unrecognizable bodies.

Most of the women tend to swoon over him, in awe of his power, status, and other arbitrary nonsense. Some are a little scared, nervous that they'll fuck up and invoke the Jade Flower Palace's wrath. It doesn't really bother him. He, in theory, could reassure them that they'll be okay after his inevitable rejection, but he doesn't particularly care enough to ease their fears. 

Hey. If the entire family decides to sleep with pocket knives under their pillows for the rest of their lives, who is he to stop them? Not that that would make any difference in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Besides, if he were planning to put a hit on them, they'd already be dead.

Sometimes - people simply forget to use their brains.

Honestly, they truly needn't fret. He's not interested in any of that. He's got bigger things to think about. Like how he feels like he's carrying the entire world on his shoulders, how he's unprepared to be the next cult leader, and how the Mong family abhors him.

Mongrang is currently (trapped in) making polite conversation with a young lady. She's quite pretty, if not a little obnoxious. Her name is Skylar if he remembers correctly; the subordinate of some sect whose name continues to escape him. Skylar is clearly not interested in him, well, not in that way, anyway. From the moment they were forced into this social interaction, she’s been (not so) subtly stealing glances at one of the entertainers stationed at the Northern doors. 

Mongrang decides to put her out of her misery.

"I see that someone's caught your eye." He notes, voice only a touch above the steady playing of the orchestra. Her sect leader isn't nearby, probably engrossed in some conversation with another old man with avaricious hands and a giant stick up his ass. Mongrang nods his head in the direction of the entertainer. Skylar stiffens up, eyes widening.

Mongrang gives her a gentle smile. The kind he reserves for the civilians (especially the women (mostly the women)). The kind he practices in the mirror every day so he can come across as more than an empty shell of a person.

"Her name is Yerenica." He whispers. Tension drains from her shoulders. "She has one last performance left. Find her afterwards and ask her to dance." He suggests.

"But—"

"Don't worry about your sect leader."

He could easily have whatever sect leader she was under distracted for a couple hours. Slip a sleeping drug into his drink. Have an escort give him some extra attention. Lock him outside in the gardens. Hell, he could have his body dumped in a ditch somewhere if it'd make Skylar's life easier. 

"Mongrang, if I may ask." She pulls him from his scheming. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, trying to find the right words.

He nods. "Yes?"

"Are you... like me?"

Oh.

He pauses. No one's ever asked him that before. 

He really doesn't know, and even if he did, he probably couldn't tell her. But his thoughtful silence seems to speak for him. Skylar smiles, like she knows something he doesn't. It's her first real smile of the night.

"You are kind." 

He doesn't say anything in parting, and she slips away into the crowd. He wishes to tell her that he is not, and will never be kind, but he is almost certain that she already knows.

He digs his nails into his palm repeatedly - a nervous tick that he has been trying to get rid of for years. Many of his siblings have told him that it's unbecoming.

He can't help but stifle a scowl at the thought. Perhaps he should return to the bar. After all, he's far too sober to be here right now.

He makes his way over, narrowly avoiding tripping over the most inconveniently placed decorative bush he's ever encountered. He's been acting far too clumsy tonight. He's about to order however many shots of alcohol from the east he can reasonably knock back in one go when a distinctive, shrill voice breaks his concentration.

"Mongrang!" His blood goes cold. He knows that voice. He hates that voice. "Would you care to join us at our table?"

This particular girl has been a resident thorn in his side for the past year. She's wearing an ugly olive green hanfu. It clashes horribly with her skin. It has far too many gems, frills, and ornaments. Mongrang thinks it makes her look like a toad. Why did she insist on always wearing that hideous shade?

Her name is Mi-Cha or Mi-Hi or Yoo-Mi or something along those lines. He knows, for a fact, it has a Mi in it, but that's about it. He would ask her again, but he doesn't really want to use any of his already limited brain power to remember it.

"Of course! It would be my pleasure." He says, forcing his face into a familiar false smile. Be nice Mongrang. Be gracious. Smile. Show teeth. They're all watching you.

They walk to the table. The girl hanging off his arm like a noose around his neck.

He really wouldn't be that upset about the invitation if it weren't for the fact that he hates these people. He honestly wouldn't mind sitting down for a bit, but this woman and her father have been harassing him for half a year. He should've known they'd be here.

The girl, Mi-Cha, is delusional. There is simply no other explanation. She thinks he's in love with her. Unable to see that his compliments are surface level, his smile is fake, and his politeness is obligatory. Her father is the same kind of delusional. Mongrang can't stand people like him. People who are drunk on money, power, and social status.

Everyone at the table is delighted to make the acquaintance of a member of the Mong family, and if he has to feign interest in another person's narcissistic business venture one more time, it might just kill him, or them, depending on how well he can keep himself in check. This is why, for the past two years, his eldest brother has been effectively banned from these gatherings. You kill one party guest and suddenly you're benched. Hey. Now that Mongrang thinks about it. His brother might be onto something.

Right now, Mongrang is in Purgatory, sandwiched between the desperate duo. The father is to his right, talking to some other old fool about embezzling taxpayer gold or whatever people do nowadays to make their millions.

Yoo-Mi, yeah, that's definitely her name, sits to his left. She's exceedingly boring. She has the personality of a paper bag and talks in a high-pitched monotone voice that somehow manages to both be incredibly quiet and exceptionally irritating. Mongrang has to strain to hear her over the music. It's quickly starting to lull him to sleep, and if he has to listen to another story about her entirely unremarkable time at a Western boarding school he's going to throw up.

Furthermore, she's a horrible person.

She is mean to servants, rude to the palace staff, and is genuinely a bitch to everyone she deems lower than herself. He had to bite his tongue as she happily rattled off a story about how one of her handmaidens had accidentally shattered her favourite mirror, so she had the poor woman beaten until she bled.

She spends an absurd amount of time talking openly about the plague of poor people. How they're "leeching off" the nation's resources, and using the money of respectable taxpayers to avoid getting jobs.

On top of it all, she's incredibly handsy. Right now, she's using his arm as a makeshift pillow, leaning closer by the minute. It makes him want to peel his skin off. A little-known fact about Mongrang is that he loathes being touched without permission. Growing up being treated the way he was in the Mong family made everything feel wrong. Every little bit of contact burned if he did not initiate it himself.

It's not like he can make his preference known. Oh, how people would talk if they knew the great Mongrang is touch averse.

Just deal with it, the night's almost over.

Mi-Hi tightens her grip on his arm, and he cannot help the gooseflesh that crawls up the limb. His stomach rolls. He needs better company and fast before he loses his shit and does something he might regret. His temper may not be as short as some of his other siblings, but he's not exactly known for being patient.

There has to be someone else here he knows. One of his servants? An old sparring partner? Or better yet, the second Martial Master that had to come with him for the event. There has to be another one of his siblings here. That's the rule.

It's not that Mongrang gets along particularly well with any of his other siblings. But they are excellent at repelling unwanted conversation partners. You'd have to be mad to approach a respectable Mong family member (except for him, apparently) in the first place, let alone two.

He prays it's not his eldest brother. Talking to him makes him want to pull his hair out. Honestly, listening to this wet napkin of a girl might actually be a better choice than chancing an encounter with–

"And then there was this one time when my dorm mate Cho-Hee told me the most extraordinary riddle…"

Never mind. 

He scans the room, looking for another signature robe. No one on the dance floor. No one at one of the centre tables. No one mingling with the crowd. Damn, whoever is here right now might just be doing a worse job socializing than him.

"So there's a man and a horse, or was it a horse and a man?" Gods, Mi-Young! What difference does it make? 

He digs his nails into his palm again, this time hard.

Turning his attention to the outskirts of the grand ballroom, he checks all of the best hiding spots. The corners, the ceiling, behind an ornamental plant, under the buffet table. Gods, he was starting to feel like a lunatic.

Unfortunately for Mongrang, no one appears to be anywhere. He racks his brain, trying to figure out where else someone could possibly be hiding.

...

No way. Was he left here all alone? He should've known his siblings would forsake him in such a manner. Thus, he groans, resigning to his fate of spending the rest of the night with Mi-Whoever.

He tilts his head up to the stained glass ceiling in prayer. Maybe the Gods will have mercy upon him? Smite him down from the heavens above?

After a second of wallowing in self-pity, he turns to look back at the people seated at the table with him, and oh... Then he sees it. Salvation. In the corner of his eye, on the third balcony. Raven-black hair (which he's always thought of as too soft-looking) tied with a red ribbon he'd recognize anywhere.

He narrows his eyes and focuses on the figure. Yes, that's definitely him leaning against the railing. He knows exactly who that is, and he's never felt more excited to see him.

"And then, Mongrang, this is the best bit: he had actually given his horse the name Friday. So that's actually the answer to the riddle—"

Everything is suddenly too loud and darkness is starting to creep into the edges of his vision, the girl's hands on him feel like ice, spiders crawl from beneath them and he needs to get them off. 

A server refills his wine glass for the third time in 15 minutes and he chugs it, shrugging Mi-Sun off in the process. But before the waitress can leave, he catches her sleeve. 

"Bring me two shots of the strongest shit you have." He whispers, hoping against hope that his face conveys his desperation.

"Ah, Mongrang, have I told you of the time that—" That agitating voice starts up again, and the rich girl wraps herself around him once more. He imagines taking a knife and— shit, this was getting really bad.

"Actually, make those doubles." He pleads. The servant nods, seemingly understanding his predicament, and hurries off to the bar. Five painful minutes and one elephant dart to the face of a story later, Mongrang's saviour returns with two shot glasses.

"190-proof." She whispers. And, heavens, he's never wanted to kiss a woman more.

He stands abruptly, shaking the girl off of him for a second time. Oops. Everyone at the table turns to look.

"Dearest apologies, this has been lovely. But I've got another obligation." He feigns dismay. 

“Oh, Mongrang, you will come back, won't you?” Calls one of the women. 

"I'll make every effort to." I will not.

He snatches the two glasses and quickly takes his leave, weaving through the sea of people to the grand staircase. His saviour still hasn't moved when he gets there. He's leaning against the railing, looking like he's contemplating throwing himself off.

"Country bumpkin!" He calls. 

The raven-haired man looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Mongrang stiffens just slightly. But quickly, a smug smile makes its way upon his face when he notes an entire empty bottle of wine on the floor next to the man. This might actually work.

Mongrang holds the shot glass at arm's length, willing the other man to take it. He does. Thank the Gods. 

"What's this?" Jaha asks dully, swirling the liquid around the cup. He narrows his eyes in distaste, looking between Mongrang and the glass as if they're both bugs and he's deciding which one to take a shoe to first.

"A peace offering." Mongrang shrugs.

"I guess you've finally started using your brain. " He smugly smirks, then sniffs the liquor and furrows his brows. "Shit dog, this is rubbing alcohol."

"Almost." Mongrang grins.

"Are you trying to poison me?"

"Wanna find out?" Mongrang raises his glass, and for all his posturing, Jaha does the same. They clink the shot glasses together before lifting them to their lips and knocking them back.

It's absolutely foul. Mongrang coughs and sputters, eyes threatening to bulge out of his sockets. He looks like he might puke. Though, he does hold it down. He threw a shot up once, way back in basic training, and never heard the end of it. He can't risk that again.

To his surprise, Jaha's countenance remains as nonchalant as ever. Mongrang wonders if during their time apart, Jaha lost his sense of taste, because surely no normal person would be able to down something as vile as this with such an expression on their face.

"Are you aware that people get thrown overboard for serving shit like this?" Jaha glances at Mongrang. Mongrang grins in turn, did Jaha just make a joke? "Also, I have to ask. What part of me standing alone in this corner implies that I wish to hold a conversation? Especially with the likes of you?" He just had to throw an insult in there, didn't he?

"A sense of kinship, perhaps." Mongrang gestures to the ball going on below them, specifically on the people in the crowds. "I hate these too."

The orchestra is on a break. Now, a vocal soloist has started a set. She's singing an aria, coloratura soprano voice ringing high and clear over the din of the party. Jaha seems to be enjoying it, though. Contrary to Mongrang, whose shoulders tense every time she goes above a G#.

"Maybe I don't hate these? I might be perfectly content right now." He huffs. "How did you even find me here?"

"Your hair." Mongrang smiles, as if proud of himself. Jaha makes a repulsed expression, then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "weirdo".

"I know you're having a shit time too, you're making that face you make when you absolutely abhor something."

"And what face is that?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"Your eyes get all hard. And then you draw your lips into a thin line. It looks like you're trying to vaporize everything and everyone in your line of sight." Mongrang describes, all the while his eyes trail over every contour of Jaha's face.

"That sounds like my usual expression."

"Well, to some. But it's different. I can tell."

"You sure pay a lot of attention to my face." Uh oh. Mongrang had not meant for the conversation to go in this direction.

"Why are you even here?" Mongrang attempts to change the subject, and wow, that did not come out right at all. He has no idea why he's tripping over his words like this in front of this country bumpkin. It's not like he's afraid of him.

Jaha seems to get what he means though, even if he furrowed his brows at Mongrang's harsh tone. He's almost never at these festivals. But It's not that he particularly dislikes them. On the contrary, he's quite fond of them. It's just that he simply has no time to attend them because everyone seems to constantly be up his ass about one thing or the other. Thus, his time is usually spent taking care of the working class and dealing with his enemies.

"I'm on a mission." He sighs, resigned. "My subordinates are here too. I'm here in case everything goes to shit."

Ah, that actually makes a lot of sense. From what Mongrang's amassed about the man is that he's always doing something. He can never just idly sit by and relax. There's always a reason for his actions. Still, though, Mongrang fails to understand just what could be so dangerous about a festival such as this?

"What about you?" Jaha unexpectedly asks, and Mongrang can't stop his face from brightening.

"Due to the palace's code of conduct. It's an obligation." Mongrang wistfully sighs. He'd truthfully rather be indulging in some wine with some pretty women.

Jaha hums in affirmation. Misery loves company. The soprano finishes her performance to the light applause of the audience. There's the scraping of chairs as the orchestra gets into place.

"You're making that face again." Mongrang says, which is a grave mistake because Jaha's expression breaks into a smirk.

"Honestly, shit dog, I'm more interested in why you've spent enough time studying my face to make that little observation." Shit. He's really dug himself into a hole here.

"I—'' Mongrang stutters, pink gathering on his cheeks. Later he'll blame the flush and the stuttering of his heart on the alcohol. Like he hasn't just been caught admitting he stares at this country bumpkin a bit more than is appropriate for their current relationship.

"Oh? Have I rendered the Great Mongrang: Lord Unable to Shut Up, speechless?" Mongrang rolls his eyes. "You can tell me. Don't be shy." Gods, is the other man usually this, for lack of a better term, flirty? He can't have been; Mongrang would've noticed. Although he supposed they never really talked much, or so he'd like to think. But somehow they always end up sharing a drink or two during every encounter.

Jaha smirks. Childish. Mongrang doesn't like how it makes his mouth go dry. Doesn't like that at all. He swallows thickly.

"You're um... well." He tries to think of a way to phrase his sentence in a way that won't dig an even bigger hole for him, but... "It'd be impossible not to stare at you." Fuck. That's arguably one of the worst things he could've said.

It's true though; Jaha is objectively handsome. Mongrang wishes he wasn't such a dick so that rich men and their daughters could fawn over him instead. He wishes he could bear at least some of the burdens of being known.

"Hmm?" Jaha croons. Mongrang can tell the other man is laughing at him. Because Jaha knows. He knows that Mongrang is watching every movement of his throat as he speaks, and tracing the contours of his jaw with his eyes. He probably thinks this is exceedingly funny, and Mongrang gets ready to be teased mercilessly for the rest of his miserable life and–

His salvation and damnation arrive in the same form: He hears them coming first. That soulless monotone, the clacking of high heels that she has no idea how to walk in, the sound of stupidity. You don’t always need to hear what somebody is saying to know it's idiotic.

Mongrang groans. "You've got to be kidding me." Walking up the stairs is the same girl he's avoiding, and this time, she has her father in tow. He pales. Mongrang tries his hardest to disappear into his robe, ignoring the static that threatens to creep into his vision.

"Shit dog?" A cold voice snaps him out of it. Oh. Mongrang forgot that he was having a conversation. Jaha glares at him, but his face is also laced with concern. Mongrang feels a twinge of guilt for dragging him into this.

"It's stupid. But you see them? 12 o'clock." He tilts his head in their direction. 

"The girl in the dress that makes her look like a toad and the old man?"

"Yeah. They've been on me for months. Won't take no for an answer. She's in love with me, convinced I'm her future husband."

Jaha bursts into laughter. "You're right. That is fucking stupid. Would've thought you'd have her in your bed by now."

Mongrang frowns. He may sleep around a lot, but even he has his limits.

The orchestra is back, the music picks up, and at the same time, he accidentally locks eyes with Satan herself. She waves and starts to tug her father in their direction.  Mongrang's eyes widen in horror.

"Shit. She saw me!"

"So?" Jaha is unimpressed. "What exactly is the problem here?"

"I don't want to be anywhere near her. She's the worst." Mongrang huffs, exasperated. 

"Tell her to fuck off then." Jaha says - like it's easy. He raises an eyebrow. "You're a member of the Mong family. Act like one."

"I've tried. But she's so dense, and she's always all over me, and I don't know what to say, and I just–" Mongrang's heart beats fast and he feels his breathing start to pick up. This is so embarrassing.  

He's so fucking itchy and he doesn't know why. He wants to tear his skin off. Or hers. Or someone's. He needs to do something. Would it be asking too much for the ground to open up, swallow him whole, and shroud him in its quiet darkness once and for all? If he asked nicely enough, would the abyss swallow him whole?

That would save a lot of people some grief.

"Fuck, shit dog, you're a mess. Does it really bother you this much?" Jaha asks. Mongrang realizes he's been frozen for a good ten seconds. The shorter one doesn't seem to be mocking him like usual. Right now, he sounds like he's underwater; he's so very far away, even though he's right there. This is stupid. Be a man, Mongrang. Just say fucking no. 

The girl and her father creep closer.

Mongrang nods. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. Be kind. Be gracious. Be strong.

"I'm afraid I'll kill them." He admits. And Jaha's brows immediately crease. Ah. Now Mongrang understands why Jaha's here.

"Mongrang!" Great. In the time it's taken for Mongrang to pull himself together: Thing One and Thing Two have made their way across the balcony and are now even closer than before.

"Dear God, they're bold." Grumbles Jaha. And with the way Jaha turns, it almost seems as if he's about to leave and throw Mongrang to the wolves.

Mongrang is about to open his mouth and say something, anything, to make the other stick around for a while longer. Maybe he should start a fight with him—

But before he gets the chance, Jaha turns to Mongrang, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the toad and her father halt their movements.

"Mongrang, may I have this dance?" Jaha asks, voice like honey. He holds his hand out expectantly. His eyes betray him, though. Get me out of here. Mongrang instinctively reaches to take it, and Jaha grabs his wrist and tugs him away.  

"This is torture. You owe me in blood for this." He grumbles, before interlacing their fingers properly and leading them down the grand staircase, uncaring of the hundreds of eyes locked on them. Mongrang is pretty sure he sees one of the guards stationed at the entrance do a double take.

Truthfully, even Mongrang is stunned. He's so stunned that he has not yet spoken a word to Jaha. But how could he?

The crowd parts like a sea, erupting in a chorus of whispers as the two men take to the dance floor. Everyone tries to pretend like they're not watching, but they are. He can hardly believe it himself. He's not quite sure this is real life. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Skylar speaking with Yerenica, who is still in her performance attire. He catches Skylar's gaze, and she smiles. She looks from him to Jaha, and back to him again. She nods.

"Well?" Jaha's icy voice snaps him from his stupor. "Are you planning to lead or must I do all the work?" Right, they're dancing, apparently, how could Mongrang forget when Jaha's struggling abysmally with moving his feet in time with Mongrang's?

"Oh, were we actually going to dance?" He asks, slightly nervous.

"If we weren't, I wouldn't have asked. You should know that I don't commit to things halfway." He glares, it doesn't really have any bite behind it. Mongrang stares blankly.

"But you really suck at this, so I didn't think you..." Mongrang cuts himself off. The country bumpkin had just saved him; he better not mess this up. After all, even he could appreciate help. Thus, he sighed.

"I'll tell you what to do. Just keep up." He quickly plasters on his signature smirk, which earns him a glare. "Keep one of your hands holding mine like this."

But even as he says this, he hesitates for a moment. Reminds himself to breathe. It'll be okay. He then places his palm against Jaha's, lightly. He waits for the inevitable lurch in his stomach, the feeling of maggots crawling under his skin from the touch. But it never happens. He feels fine. In fact, there's a pleasant warmth where their hands meet. That same warmth spreads through his arm and settles in between his ribs.

Mongrang stuns for just a moment, but the way Jaha is focusing on his instructions makes him smile, and he can feel himself relaxing.

Jaha hums, and asks. "You're supposed to put your hand on my waist, right?" Mongrang blanches. Jaha is unimpressed.

"Shit dog, you're an adult. Don't be a baby and grab my fucking waist."

This makes Mongrang relent and place a hand at his waist, pulling Jaha closer to him. He doesn't miss how the other man's eyes widen just a bit, how his breath hitches at the contact. Jaha is stiff and awkward as Mongrang guides him through the steps. Around them, couples dance without a care in the world. In a room full of people, they each have a moment to themselves, carving out their own slice of paradise. But even still, Mongrang can't help but eye their surroundings, looking for the toad.

"Relax." His dance partner breathes in his ear, tone irked. "You're far away from her already."

His words go straight to Mongrang's gut, and he complies. Jaha is right, after all.

Mongrang leads them through the waltz, whispering instructions over the orchestra. Gradually, they begin chatting, easing into the dance. It felt oddly effortless to dance with Jaha. And at some point, Mongrang realizes he's no longer listening to his words. Instead, he's hyper-fixated on the rasp of his voice. 

"Are you even listening to me?" Mongrang's been caught. He smiles sheepishly and shakes his head.

"You're insufferable." Jaha looks at him with an aloof frown. "You never answered my question, you know. How can you distinguish my pissed-off face from my regular one?"

"It's simple, really." Mongrang chuckles. "You make the pissed-off one at me all the time."

Jaha blinks for a moment before a small smile makes its way to his face. "Can't argue with that."

"Hey, country bumpkin? Can I ask you a question?"

"Clearly, you're already doing so." His dance partner frowns. "But go ahead if you must."

"Why did you help me back there?"

"I don't know, I just felt like it." He answers too quickly to be sincere.

"That's not true. If I had tried to attack them, you would've loved fighting me. So why did you keep me in check?" Mongrang quickly added. "And don't try to bullshit me by mentioning something about my ice arts."

"If I tell you the real reason, will you get off my ass?" He says, exasperated.

"Yes." Mongrang says immediately.

"You're not going to like it." He pauses, hoping that Mongrang will back out, but if anything, it seems to make him more eager.

"To be honest." He starts. The music swells. "I saw an expression on you that I'd never seen before." Mongrang is confused now. What is he talking about? "For a moment there… you looked afraid."

Mongrang tenses. At this rate, his heart is going to leap from his chest and roll across the floor. 

Would Jaha pick it up? 

It'd be better not to think of that right now.

"Country bumpkin, are you admitting that you study my face too?" He grins, regaining his composure. Jaha stomps on his foot.

The dance ends and the alcohol must be getting to Mongrang's head because before they part completely, he brings Jaha's hand to his lips and kisses it gingerly. He's kissed the back of so many hands before, but this is the first time he's done it out of genuine desire. Mongrang doesn't miss the flush across Jaha's neck and ears, and an emotion that Mongrang barely recognizes flashes across the other's face. It takes him a moment to realize that the country bumpkin is embarrassed.

"You—" He starts to say, but Mongrang sees a flash of brown hair and a ghastly green dress. His heart drops.

"Seriously?!" He whisper-yells. Jaha's gaze follows his eyes to the form of the woman near the edge of the dancefloor.

"Ignore her. She's not even looking over here." Jaha urges. "Focus on me." Mongrang obliges. His eyes really are stunning. "Okay?"

"Alright." Mongrang sighs. How can he say no to him? "Are you sure you can't scare her off?" Mongrang looks at him, almost pleadingly. Jaha laughs at this.

"Oh? Do you think I'm scary, shit dog?" He smiles. It's brilliant. And all of a sudden, it's just the two of them again. Souls twirling, twirling, twirling under the glittery ceiling.

"Terrifying." Mongrang plays along with a smile. "You frighten me more than anyone else I've ever met." The words tumble out, soft, genuine. And if only Jaha knew just how dangerous Mongrang finds him to his heart.

Jaha looks at him fondly, like he's the stupidest person he's ever met.

"Want to get out of here?" He asks. Mongrang nods. Jaha starts to move, and Mongrang is afraid that he'll let go. Please don't let go. But Jaha simply grips his hand tighter and drags him away from the dancefloor.

--

Now it's just the two of them.

The two men stare at each other for a moment. There's a pregnant pause, and Mongrang is pretty sure neither of them breathes.

Mongrang doesn't know why he does it. Perhaps it was the absurd amount of red wine he'd polished off over the course of the night, staining his lips blood-red. Or was it the two shots of glorified lighter fluid he poured down his throat? 

Could it have been the way that Jaha's hair seemed to glow in the silvery moonlight as they waltzed? People had stared; spoken about them in poorly concealed whispers; judgement heavy on their tongues. They danced in spite of it all.

Maybe it's the way that Jaha looked at him, and only him with those big clear eyes, in a way that made Mongrang want to claw them out -if only to keep them forever.

Gods. The man is beautiful. Mongrang knows this now and mentally chastises himself for not noticing it sooner. For never truly taking a moment to just look at him.

Something warm and pleasant settles in Mongrang's stomach. It heats like liquor, but it doesn't burn. Whatever it is claws its way up to Mongrang's chest and settles comfortably between his ribs. He's coming to the startling realization that it's not only the alcohol that has him intoxicated.

Mongrang still can't get over the way his skin buzzed as they interlaced their fingers and twirled away from the covetous man, and his imprudent daughter, and all of their respective responsibilities. He can't get over the way he felt when their hands touched. There was no urge to tear off his skin, to retire to the bathrooms and scrub himself raw. That was new. All of this is so new.

Mongrang doesn't know why he does it. All he knows is that he makes a decision he can't take back. 

He steps forward and lightly presses Jaha into the smooth stone wall, and Jaha looks at him with those ridiculously pretty eyes. The ones that held the stars themselves. His lips are parted in shock, and Mongrang thinks they look exceedingly soft and–

You know what? Fuck it.

Mongrang leans down and captures the shorter man's lips, guiding them into a tentative kiss. Jaha freezes, and goes completely rigid, hands flying up to press against Mongrang's chest. 

Mongrang makes to pull back. Worries that he might have gone too far. Gotten too greedy and ruined what has objectively been the best since who knows how long ago.

And there's that static again, threatening to drown out his thoughts. I am no better than that girl.

But then.

Then.

Jaha's fingers catch in his shirt, and he kisses him back. 

"Don't say I never did anything for you, shit dog."

Mongrang's heart soars, and he can't help the relieved laugh that escapes from his lips, right into Jaha's mouth.

The kiss quickly turns bruising. There's fury in the way their lips move together. They fight each other, even in this. Grabbing at each other's clothes and dragging their war-torn hands over every tiny bit of exposed skin. There is violence in everything they do.

Because what are they if not killers at heart?