#LKFGJKLHGLJ I HOPE??? I HOPE THIS IS OKAY?? I HOPE IT'S NOT TOO MUCH? HAN JUST??? THE WAY THEY SHUT DOWN IDK IDK

[mythvoiced]

@theimpalpable​ | "We're two slow dancers, last ones out." Hanyong-Yohan? IDK JUST...FOLLOWING THE DANCING THEME 🥺 MITSKI LYRICS

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It’s not quite laughter, Han has yet to acquire the vocal powerful of throwing their head back and burst their voice in staccato reverberations of amusement out into the night-sky, for only the stars and Yong to hear.

But it is a chuckle, and perhaps warmer than whatever boisterous equivalent anybody else could have offered, as Han keeps their gaze locked with Yong’s as if there is no other place and no other being more deserving of their attention.

Not that it is attention to be praised or longed for. A soul curator has so very little to offer to the world, and what they do offer is teachings to those that arbitrate beyond what mortals can see or should even want to witness. They offer to the world the same vital importance air does, with the same likeliness to be forgotten even while fulfilling their duties, constantly working towards a goal that sees no end, to make sure others can.

And yet, here they are. Slow-dancing as if they’d ever learn it, not so cold for once with their hand in Yong’s and his body held near, the warmth of a living being and the warmth of something else, sometimes that inadvertently made them think of ashes at one point, and the swirling of smoke as it falls apart to allow whatever buried beneath it to break through.

Ashen is not what they’d describe Yong, though, no. He seems to glow like birthing embers, the soft yet brilliant presence of his smile and the equally non-imposing presence of his self, blown closer as if the wind had looked at them once and wondered why they hadn’t danced yet.

Han had no idea they could dance at all. Why know? How could they have discovered this?

Well, they’re not cutting the rug, that’s for sure. The music’s too mellow, barely louder than the gently shifting of their sole on the floor beneath them, the atmosphere is too akin to the methodical and heavy moving of clouds as they sway away to leave more space to the sun to warm the earth.

There’s no rush, nothing that would have Han wondering whether they could keep up.

There’s just the sensation of a bit of fabric and a bit of skin under their fingertips, the warmth of Yong as it moves along with him, and the small question at the back of their head if perhaps they aren’t taking more than any curator should be granted.

There is something about Yong’s smile that makes them wonder why they’d never danced before. And not in the passive curiosity of someone wondering how it had never come to it, not when they knew the answer to that.

No, it’s the blooming curiosity of a smile one day bright enough to rival Yong’s. It is the blooming something inside Han’s chest that prompts them to pull Yong closer until talking above a whisper would disrupt the air left between them, until their chests are flush and Han has an excuse to scout Yong’s features with the dedication of an art critic.

“We can stop whenever you’d like.”

But don’t ask me. Don’t ask me if I want to stop.

I’m not ready for my own honesty.