#strya kids multishots

[foolishlovebugbaby]

moonlight melodies | part 1

princess!reader x scholar!chan

Summary: dancing, unfortunately, was not apart of the list of things you’re good at. luckily for you, chan’s adamant on changing that.

Word count: 9.8k

a/n: so just imagine chan’s a brunette and that this didn’t take me a century and a half to write. enjoy :))

“And five, six, seven, eight- a one, two, three- no! Step with the left foot! To your left your highness!- Maestro if you would please cut the music.” Your dance teacher stood at the far end of the ballroom, ears a blazing red as he frustratedly rubbed his temples. You could only mimic his level of frustration- God, did you have to have two left feet? You had passed through all your levels of etiquette training and learning how to formally address your subjects, courters, and members of the monarchy with perfect diction and fluency, but gracefully learning how to perform the waltz in a ball gown too poofy for its own good would be your royal demise. 

So you stood in the center of the dance floor, face contorted in a mixture of frustration and humiliation at your dance capabilities (or lack thereof) while your practice partner bit down harshly on his lip to mask the profanities wanting to come out as a result of the blistering pain shooting from his feet that your heeled ones mercilessly stomped on.

“Your highness,” The instructor breathed out through tight lips, closing his eyes momentarily. “The masquerade ball is but a fortnight away, and we have yet to progress onto the promenade chassé! You’ve barely grasped the basics- I have no clue how on earth you’ll be able to dance the Viennese Waltz come the gala.” He rubs his cheeks frustratedly, and you snort at his vexation. 

“Chill out, Minho, will you? I’ll be the one making a royal fool out of myself, so you’re safe.” You chuck off your practice heels to the side and stretch your toes in content. “These galas have always been a royal pain in the ass, so I don’t see why this is any different.” You huff, annoyed at the grandeur of it all. 

Sure, being a princess required you to attend every gala, ball, party, whatever, as a way to make your presence known, but it had a way of turning mundane awfully quick. Like, by the second one, you were already over it. Dressing up and chowing down on all the hors d'oeuvres were the only highlights to any event that you went to.

“Madam, it is not just any other sissy gathering,” Minho said, standing straighter and looking quite offended. “It is a ball thrown in your honor. You’ve come of age to be courted, and all the finest young men in the kingdom and beyond will be attending in hopes to get a chance to dance with the Princess of the South.” He says that last part in a posh tone, and you can’t help but gag. He picks up the heels and dusts them off, walking over to hand them to you.

“Forgive me for being a smidge bit repulsed by the idea of having to find my one true love in a sea of stuck-up, unseasoned boys in order to be deemed worthy enough to rule my kingdom.” You say exasperatedly, head hot at the mere thought of it all. Since you were the sole heir to the crown (and you so happened to house a vagina instead of the preferred penile organ) people expected that you be married before ascending to the throne- which, to be frank, was a load of cow manure.

 “Even you can agree that having a grand ball for men to seduce their way to the crown is getting pretty old.” You said, in a matter-of-fact tone. Minho sighed. 

“What I believe is irrelevant, your highness. But tradition is tradition.” He kneels down, lifting up your leg to put on a heel. 

“Traditions are meant to be broken.” You mutter, pouting incredulously.

“Perhaps. I’m not asking that you not break tradition, my lady.” He slips on the other heel as well. “Just that you try and look graceful while doing so.” 

“Well if you put it that way...” You make a face, feeling bashful at yourself for being so indignant. 

So maybe appearing at these dull parties were apart of the duties of being a royal, and, as luck would have it, meant that you had to learn how to waltz through the evening. But you supposed dancing with kiss-ups was a lot better than engaging in meaningless conversations with them.

When Chan became an Academic Scholar for the palace, he didn’t think becoming best-friends with the Count’s son was apart of his education plan. But alas, fate works in mysterious ways.

“Remind me again as to why we need to be present in the palace of the South two weeks before the gala.” He draws out, exhausted from what seemed to feel like an eternal horse ride to your kingdom. He had learnt two things on his journey; the first being that horse back is possibly the worst mode of transportation, and the second being that Princes’ are possibly the worst company on impossibly long journeys. Well, at least, the one he was riding with is. 

From the Prince’s incessant whining to his numerous periodic ‘potty and tea’ breaks, Chan could’ve sworn he had died and gone to hell, and was living out his eternal suffering as a punishment for god-knows-what. But, then again, the sunny-side up to his grievances was that he could at least voice them out loud without fear of a public execution. 

“We are going for the formalities, laddy. As well as for the diplomacy. Father says I need to be the face of the North in order to maintain active peace between our kingdoms, but if you ask me I call a load of horse dung on it.” The prince scowls. “It’s so blatantly obvious that he just wants me to lock it down with the Princess before the ball in hopes to gain an advantage over her other suitors.”

Chan furrows his eyebrows, “Are my ears deceiving me? Does the Prince Hwang Hyunjin detest the prospect of wooing a lady?” He mocks, and Hyunjin sneers at him.

“Keep running your mouth like that Chan and I’ll make sure the people have the juiciest tomatoes in the kingdom to chuck at you.” He says pointedly, “But if you must know, I’ve already met the Princess- a less than pleasant experience. She was always so... aggressive whenever we played hide and seek-”

“Wait, so you’re telling me you’ve completely discarded the possibility of romancing the only Princess in this bloody kingdom because of her attitude whilst playing hide and go seek when you were toddlers?” He says, astounded at the stupidity of his friend. One of the knights once said it always seemed like the Prince had a stick up his royal behind, but Chan could confirm that it was, in fact, excalibur up in there.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know what I mean. So far, as a result of all the collective impressions she has made, she definitely is not my type.” He puts emphasis on the word ‘not’ and Chan scoffs at him. “But perhaps my opinion will change come the masquerade ball.” Hyunjin raises an eyebrow to himself and momentarily thinks it over. “Hm, perhaps not as she did pin me as a joke during pin the tail on the jester.”

Chan could only roll his eyes. While he could understand astronomy and classical literature and the fundamental workings of the telescope, Aristocracy was a concept he would need 4 lifetimes and a half in order to grasp.

The rest of the last leg of their journey went just the same, with Hyunjin and him exchanging sarcastic banter while the entourage of the Prince tailed not too far back. Moments of silence were a rare occurrence, but Chan figures it was better than nothing at all.

“Gates up ahead!” A knight yells from behind as the metal monstrosities came into view. Sure, war and sieges were a quiet yet possible danger, but really? To have borders built that outlandish with that much security? 

The foundations were made of thick slabs of rock stacked up on top of each other, chiseled to have some sort of semblance to a cuboid, and stretched out on either side to what seemed like the edge of the world. On its sides were two flagpoles bearing the royal family crest up high and mighty. The wooden grid gate was a dark mahogany reinforced with steel, adding to the overall undaunted demeanour the structure exuded. The tops were adorned with metal spikes with more miniature flags of the royal family crest peaking through the breaks, a gentle juxtaposition to the otherwise severe facade. 

It was definitely a lot more intimidating and fortified that what the North had, and the entire entourage could only gulp in anticipation. While many had visited the kingdom before, Chan was a first-timer, and his dazed expression certainly gave it away. He always heard stories about the South and how it was known to be the more liberated state in comparison with the two, and how his nature professors raved about how lush the kingdom was. 

The guards at the top of the watchtowers stared intently down at them, and soon enough even more come bursting through the side gates, ready for inspection. A knight from behind emerged and presented papers with the Northern royal insignia, and the two guards exchanged mutual greetings. 

“Open the gates!” A southern guard shouted up to the men in the watchtowers, and slowly, the inside of the kingdom came into view. 

Brick houses and quaint village shops lined the cobblestone streets, with children running up and down tirelessly playing under the spring sun. The air smelled heavenly- the scent of freshly baked Sunday buns coming from the village bakery. On the side, the morning market bustled with townspeople negotiating prices with sellers to get a better deal on the vibrant fresh produce. The villagers yelled out brightly, a mix of greetings and laughter and heated negotiations, and Chan’s never seen somewhere so alive before.

Chan’s in awe at the picture-perfect scene in front of him, and they haven’t even rode into the main square yet.

 If you were to be nit-picky about the most dreadful stage in preparing for an event, it wouldn’t be the entrance practices, or the dance training. It wasn’t even the horrid memorising of the monstrous guest list, though that certainly was a close second. Oh no, it was the absolutely abominable dress fittings that you swore took a lifetime and a half to finish. It was a mystery as to why it took that long, really, because you’d gladly walk out in anything- even a nightgown.

Which is the exact reason as to why your seamstress was unbelievably burdened by your lack of active input. 

“Would your highness prefer satin or silk?” The seamstress seethes with tight lips, more so out of frustration and anger, and you look at her sheepishly through the reflection on the mirror. 

You stood on a raised platform situated directly in front of an obnoxiously big mirror with a corset cutting off your circulation and a large crinoline fastened onto your waist to see how different silhouettes would look on your figure. Not the prettiest sight, admittedly, as you held semblance to a skeleton rather than a lady. 

“Uhm, silk?” You say diffidently. In your defence, you had never been taught Fabrics 101 and so you supposed that you didn’t exactly qualify to have an opinion on what fabrics or cuts or colours a debutante princess should wear.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a breath through her gritted teeth, and you swore you could see smoke steaming from her ears. 

“Silk it is.” She said curtly and you nod along. 

She hung her measuring tape around her neck and stalked over to the side of the room, where a large wooden trunk sits collecting dust. With much effort and a stream of mumbled profanities, she dragged it over to you and opened it with a click. 

“Does your highness have any preferences on a structure of mask?” You peered down at the box, viewing all the old and used masks stacked haphazardly on top of one another. Some with elaborate feathering attached, others with an assortment of austentatious jewels from rubies to jade lining the frame. Some were vividly emerald with a delicate satin sheen while others were a somber matte black. How could you possibly choose, you thought to yourself, when a myriad of masterpieces sat before you? 

“Surprise me?” You quipped, unsure of yourself, knowing for certain you wouldn’t mind the final product as you knew the craftsmen were masters at their art. “Just make sure it’s not too… wild I suppose.” You added and the seamstress nodded, slightly pleased that you gave a single specification in your 5-hour session. An improvement from the last indeed. 

She began to hold up numerous plain full-face masks up to your head, each a different size from the last, in order to find a suitable size that complimented your features well. 

You were giddy in place at the thought of the process coming near to an end, wanting nothing more than to go back into your library and read another Jules Verne novel, when, “Master Minho had instructed me to send you back to the ballroom for more rehearsals, my lady. And he requests that you remain in your fittings.” 

You wanted to curse, but there wasn’t a word that had been conjured up as of yet to fully encapsulate the amount of apprehension that bubbled inside you. So you groaned excessively, slumping where you stood. 

“But I was so excited to get these contraptions off! Please please please at least take the crinoline off? I feel like a Leonardo Da Vinci project in the making.” You whined and made puppy dog eyes at her, and she looked at you with pity. 

You could practically see the amount of protest and conflict that went on in her head through her expressions, because dealing with a displeased Minho was a terror and a half, but how could one resist the puppy dog eyes of the palace treasure? 

Clearly, not the seamstress. “Okay, but you better do exceptionally well at practice today.” She huffed and began unclasping the abomination around your waist, as well as loosened up the damned corset which you were very much grateful for. 

“You’re the best!” You yelped, and she looks at you with a hint of a smile on her features but masked it with a roll of her eyes. “You still need to wear a practice mask on.” She commented, but you were just happy you didn’t have to wear a cage around your legs. She handed you a black satin mask that only covered half of your face, and sent you off. 

You always loved walking through the palace hallways. It felt like they were endless, going on and on until they reached the other side of the world. If you tried hard enough, you could get lost in them. But that sort of bliss would remain utterly untouchable, however, as Minho came into your line of view with his hands on his hips and an impatient scowl on his features. 

“You’re late.” He said monotonously, and you’d be scared if it weren’t for the fact that he looked like a kitten. A very hostile one, but a kitten nonetheless.

“By, like, a minute.” You brushed his accusatory glare off and saunter into the ballroom. 

“Just for that I’m making you wear your event heels.” His head was held up high, and you wondered if you could indulge in exercising authoritarianism just for this moment. 

“Sometimes I wonder whether I’m even royalty anymore.”

“Not with those dance skills you’re not.” “Minho!”

As a scholar, Chan had the privilege to travel far and wide, experiencing and immersing himself into an array of different cultures, cuisines and religions, only to come back and record his stories of his wondrous adventures and teach all that he had learnt. His favorite part, however, was being able to hear copious amounts of unique dialects and tongues and how the people of the world conversed. 

He’s a language nerd, to keep it frank. 

Which is why, after 6 excruciating hours of dress fittings, Chan could spew every single profanity known to mankind in all the 7 languages he knew without being called out for being a foul mouth. 

Even then, none could encompass the amount of maliceness he held for dress fittings.

Mumbling a string of incoherent obscenities under his breath, he kicked the rocks beneath him and he walked along the palace grounds, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“God, I can’t even count on both hands how many times I’ve been poked by those damned sewing needles... “ He sneers and kicks at the ground beneath him, disorienting a few pebbles. “At least the tailor called me fit.” Silver linings were for hopeless optimists, and so, naturally, they were for Chan.

As he entered the palace’s garden walkway, he could hear faint humming in the distance. If he were any more distracted, he would have missed it- but he didn't. He was certain he could hear an obscure melody floating through the air- pitchy? Yes. But a melody nonetheless, and Chan was not about to judge the person when he could not put a face to the music.

Cautiously, he followed the string of faint notes through the garden’s meticulous and intricate landscape, being careful not to take a mis-step and ruin the delicate conglomerate of ornate flora and fauna. It didn’t help that it was the dead of night- the sky a misty navy blue with the pale crescent moon being the only source of light illuminating the fields. But, Chan being Chan, continued his peculiar late-night quest to find the out-of-tune songstress. 

And find her he did. 

He reached the center of the garden- a large, octagonal marble platform with large, renaissance limestone pillars on each point and an extravagant two-tiered fountain smack dab in the middle of it all. But it wasn’t the luxurious marble or the fountain with vines and flowers of all different kinds lining its base that had caught his attention- it was the barefoot maiden in a white tunic and burgundy midi-skirt dancing as if she had two left feet, to the tune of her own voice that did. Her back was facing him, so she had yet to acknowledge his presence, but he was fine with just watching. 

She stumbled clumsily, every beat horrendously off while her toes betrayed her as she attempted to recall the music. Was that Johann Strauss? He couldn’t be sure, for her humming could be mistaken for the monotonous hum of a metalloid contraption. It amused him, really, how talentless one could be when it came to a simple one-two-step. He couldn’t help but lean on a pillar and watch her from afar, silently chuckling to himself when he heard her slew of profanities each time you messed up. He liked her determination, he concluded, and her efforts to improve despite all her errors.

There was a brief moment in time where she twirled around and Chan got a fleeting glimpse of her face- only, it wasn’t her face. It was partially covered in a mask, the black satin glimmering in the moonlight, and chan’s hand instinctively went to his back pocket where he had shoved his own as he hurried out the fitting room a couple of moments ago. He decided that if she was disguised, he would be too- for the sake of the enticing mystery, of course. 

“You’re terribly off beat.” She gasped, startled, whipping around to look at him and he could only chuckle at her appalled expression, lips agape and eyes wide. “Excuse me?” Her tone was defensive, accusatory, confused and terrified all at once.

Remarkable.

“You move after each count, when you should be moving with the count.” He explained, standing straighter and slowly made his way towards her. She raised a shaky hand up.

“Don’t come any closer,” Her tone was timid, but there was an edge to her voice. “Who are you?” She questioned, looking straight into Chan’s masked eyes. Her gaze was strong and curious behind her mask, and he stared back with the same intensity.

“Who are you?” He questioned back teasingly, and she scoffed. She crossed her arms, “I asked first.” She said pointedly.

He bit back a smile, enjoying the teasing a little too much for his own good.

“Okay,” He looked around in contemplation, “I’ll give you a hint. I’m not from here.” He shoved his hands inside his pockets casually. “Your turn.”

“I am from here.” She replied back, annoyed. “You must have come from the North, correct?” 

“Perhaps.” He shrugged, slightly taken aback by her sudden assumption. 

“Well, I’m not offbeat.” She huffed and a pout made its way onto her lips. Chan couldn’t help but chuckle at her denial. “How long have you been standing there anyway?” She asks, and he suddenly felt bashful at the realisation of how creepy he must come off after observing her like that. He thanked the Gods that his mask covered his crimson cheeks. 

He cleared his throat and swallowed down his embarrassment. “Long enough to know that you are offbeat.” He retorted, and she scoffed again at his reply, rolling her eyes.

“I didn’t know that you were a dance prodigy.” She mumbled under her breath, offended and humiliated at the thought of a random stranger watching her stumble over herself. Her gaze shifted from his eyes to the flower vines, and she couldn’t help but curse at the Gods for making her so talentless.

“I’m not, but I know enough to get by.” He took another step closer to her, until they stood at arms length, and stretched out a hand. “I could teach you.” He didn’t know why he offered, but the urge to help her learn the waltz was compelling. At least, that’s what he told himself as he nervously peered into her masked moonlit orbs. And anyway, what was a scholar supposed to do in the dead of night? Sleep? Unheard of.

Her eyes went wide at the suggestion, “I don’t even know you- h-how do I know you’re not going to kill me?” She stammered and took a step back. He recoiled his hand.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. But I understand your hesitation.” He began to slowly back away, knowing that when he reached his room he would be staring at a tomato in the mirror. “My offer still stands.” With that, he turned and walked off.

She didn’t know why her breath hitched in her throat and why her mouth felt dry and scratchy as her mind debated on whether or not to accept his offer. She always thought she was logical and smart, but as she yelled “Wait!” she couldn’t help but feel reckless and everything but.

“I-I accept.” She stammered, her heart hammering in her chest. 

He turned around shocked, “What?” He heard her loud and clear, but the mere likelihood of her accepting a strange masked man’s offer to teach a dance class was, statistically speaking, zero to none and went against all the maps of logic and reasoning that the universe laid out. But I digress. 

“I said I’ll accept your offer.” Her voice was timid yet confident, an air of intrigue and uncertainty swimming around her. “But just know that if I’m found hurt, the castle would have your head.” Of course there was a catch, and Chan did not know what to make of that statement. Was she an important person? Was she bluffing? So many questions, not enough dancing.

He walked towards her for the second time that night. “You can trust me,” He held out his hand, his eyes trained on her own curious ones that peered up at him. 

She took a breath and gently laid her hand in his. “Okay. This is me trusting you.”

Mornings are always difficult. 

You always found it hard to get out of your thick comforters and ‘seize the day’, as they say. You would rather seize your dreams by the neck and hold onto the fleeting adventures in your brain. You could be a traveler, a dragon and a knight all within the span of your six-hour slumber rather than a princess in a castle too big with walls too high. 

That night you had dreamt you were in the palace gazebo with a masked man so handsomely illuminated by the moon that you thought your mind had conjured it up as a result of your lackluster experience when it came to men.

Only, it wasn’t a dream. He was doubtlessly there, as solid as the ground you stood on- you’d know that because your felt the firmness of his shoulder against your palm and the calluses on his fingertips against your own. And it was everything but lackluster. 

You sat up from your bed, the haze of last night’s endeavours fresh and vivid as though they were playing right before your half-lidded eyes, and you couldn’t help but groan at yourself.

“Reckless and stupid…” You mumbled, rubbing your temples vigorously while trying to suppress the growing grin forming on your lips. Spoiler alert: you failed to do so even as your teeth clamped down on them. You let out a dreamy sigh and crashed back down onto your pillows. 

You closed your eyes, recollecting the moonlight of yesterday as it played back in flashes.

“Okay. This is me trusting you.” The Gods upstairs must be frowning down at you and your carelessness, you thought to yourself as you held onto the strange man’s hand. But screw the Gods- if Jules Verne had taught you anything, it’s that you need to be reckless in order to find an adventure. 

A smile graces his plump lips and you can’t help but admire the cute indentations on the sides of his cheeks, taking note of the faint red tint seeping from under his mask. His hands, you realised, are much more bigger than yours- they engulfed yours in a stomach-turning warmth and felt sturdy against your shaky ones. 

“Well then, shall we begin?” He says, his voice deep and thick with an accent you had never heard before. You nod and gulp, slightly in awe at the whole ordeal and impossibly nervous. You grew increasingly aware of how clammy your hands must have felt and how hard your heart was pounding in your chest- you might just go into cardiac arrest, you thought, but that was a risk you clearly were willing to take. 

He held your hand firmly in his and proceeded to place your other one onto his shoulder. “May I?” He asks cautiously, his free hand ghosting over your side and you nod, feeling another round of heat spreading through your cheeks and neck. His warm palm rests on the small of your back, and you can’t help but have your mind go into a frenzy at the feeling. You felt utterly thrilled and stupendously stupid all at the same time. 

“I’m assuming you know the basic movements and foot placements, correct?” He asks again and you snort. “Of course, I’m not that bad.” You defend and he smiles. “That is for me to decide, m’lady.” You scoff and squeeze at his shoulder, not being able to control the bashful smile making its way onto your lips. 

He hums the song you attempted just moments ago, and the air fills with his melodic voice. He had the voice of an angel, you thought to yourself as he bobbed his head to fall into the proper count. 

“And one, two, three-” He takes a step back, then to the left, and another to the right and you realised how much of a narc your feet were as you continuously missed each beat and stomped on his foot. Your eyes are trained to the floor where your feet are, and you thank the Gods that you are barefoot- had you been in anything else, he would have entered a different world of pain. 

You shoot your gaze back up at his contorted face and you could not help but wince. “So maybe I am that bad.” You quip, and he only chuckles. “Yes- but don’t worry. You just need to relax, loosen up. Don’t be so nervous.” He says calmly, and your mind teeters at the thought of him knowing how fast your heart rate was going. “Just follow my lead.” His gaze never trains off of you, and he begins humming the same tune. Only, you could not just relax and loosen up given the situation you were in, and so your eyes immediately darted to the floor below you in hopes you would not mess up. 

He stops his humming. “Eyes on me,” His voice is soft and gentle as he brings his hand up to your jaw to lift your gaze to his. You gulp and bite down on your bottom lip out of sheer restlessness. “You need to trust yourself- here you are trusting a complete stranger and yet you can’t even count on yourself to go with the music.” He says teasingly, and a displeased pout forms on your lips. “Easier said than done.” You mumble.

“You’ve got this,” He says with an encouraging smile, and you puff out your cheeks. “I hope you’re right for the sake of your feet.” He laughs. 

His humms fill the air again, and it took all your mental capacity to keep your eyes steady on his. You blamed it on your second nature to look down at the floor whenever you danced- it certainly was not due to the fact that his soft brown eyes remained constantly on yours. Definitely not because his features- at least, the ones visible- were incredibly distracting in the moonlight. Oh no, none of those. At all.

He moves steady and slow, allowing you to pace yourself throughout the steps which you were incredibly grateful for- something foreign to you thanks to the trauma of Minho’s fast-paced counts. His body is sturdy and confident, guiding you through each stride with such ease and elegance. And before you knew it, you were both moving in sync- your legs naturally following and mirroring his own movements each time. Albeit shaky and far from elegant, it was definitely a level-up from the previous endeavour. 

He smiles at you and you can’t help but beam back, “See? You’re doing it,” He says mid-hum and resumes right from where he left off, a proud grin on his face. Just like your movements, your lips mirror his elated ones and you continued to move through the platform for a few more paces until he finished the last note. 

You were slightly out of breath- partly because of moving that briskly for the first time and also because the man before you managed to take your breath away simply with his gaze- and, involuntarily, you let out a quiet squeal. “I can’t believe I just did that,” You say in shock at yourself, a sense of pride filling your chest. 

He only laughs at your epiphany as he held onto you, “I told you~” He sings, and you pinch his bicep playfully for his teasing. “I totally could have navigated through it by myself.” You say sarcastically, and he snorts at your comment. “You’re welcome.” He says pointedly. 

“Thank you, I really mean it.” He smiles at your gratefulness, “Don’t mention it.” 

You both stood towards the edge of the pavilion, your hand still in his and on his shoulder whilst his arm encircled your waist. Both of your chests rose and fell in sync, and for a moment you’re both silent- eyes still trained on each other while the crickets sang in the background. Of course, with all things exciting, the Gods decided that awkwardness was a must. 

He steps back and clears his throat, his arm letting go of your waist and his hand falling back to his side, after realising just how close your bodies were to each other. You almost shiver at the loss of contact, feeling cold in the absence of his warmth. You scratch the back of your neck and wobble back and forth on your heels, feeling the air become dense with awkward tension.

“S-so uhm, you’ve definitely improved a lot since, well, since the last time I saw you- which really wasn’t that long ago so I’d say that’s a win.” He rambles, his gaze darting towards all eight corners of the gazebo, trying to look everywhere but at you. Which was fine, since you were doing the exact same thing. 

“Y-yeah- still got a long way to go before the ball.” You say sheepishly, leaning back on a pillar to your left and twiddling with your thumbs. 

“You’re going to be at the ball?” He questions, with a cute tilt to his head and you nod. “Will you?” You’re slightly hopeful- what are the chances of ever meeting this strange, alluring man again? “Maybe.” You can see him wink behind his mask and you roll your eyes. 

“I could teach you again, if you want.” He suggests from beside you, and you hear his breath hitch. Your mind goes wild- what does one even say to that? Yes? No? Absolutely? Absolutely not? “I don’t want to waste your time with this though,” You settle on the courteous thing to say, even though your heart yelled at you to be selfish and seize the opportunity before it went away forever.

“It wouldn’t be a waste of my time- I could teach you at night, the same time as now.” He insists, and there’s a war going on in your head to accept. “And anyway, you’re still terribly ungraceful.” He smirks playfully, and you roll your eyes at his incredulousness. 

“Well, if you insist.” You retort, and he grins. You could feel butterflies flare in your stomach, the buzz of the situation at hand making you feel absolutely wondrous. The masked stranger was charming and enthralling, and if you didn’t know any better you would have thought he was an apparition-a trick of the moonlight. Maybe you didn’t know any better, but that's besides the point. 

“Well, I’ve got to go now.” You say wistfully, wanting to stay longer but knowing that the palace would be turned inside-out if you weren’t back in your chambers before midnight. His expression falls, much like yours, but his eyes are hopeful. “Tomorrow, same time?” He asks, and you bite back a smile. 

“I’ll be here.” You drag your feet along the marble slowly, still facing him as you back away, before sending a final smile and turning around to walk off, your heart doing back flips in your chest. You don’t even make four strides when his warm hand wraps around your wrist. 

“May I please know your name?” He breathes out, and you’re at a loss for words. For the first time in your life, someone was not bowing to you every time you made eye contact. For the first time in your life, someone could tease you and make playfully snide remarks without hesitation and fear. For the first time in your life, someone was unapologetically straightforward with you. And for the first time in your life, you were able to detach from your identity as a princess and remain completely you. 

“Try again next time,” You say playfully after contemplating. 

He sighs with a smile, and you head back to the palace, a skip in your step and the feeling of his hand still wrapped around your wrist. 

You have a stupid smile on your face at the breakfast table, much to your parents confusion and delight. “What’s got you so elated, dear?” Your mother questions with her brows furrowed, chewing on her omelete. 

“Oh nothing, just a book I read.” You lie on the spot and feel your face heat up, turning your gaze back down onto your plate of breakfast pastries. “Must be some book.” Your father says, and you let out a knowing chuckle. 

“Sweetheart, some troops and dignitaries of the North have come for the ball, and so has the Prince, so I’d suggest you make yourself well acquainted with them during their stay at the palace.” Your mom quips and you sit up straighter. “Hyunjin is here?” There’s a displeased tone to your voice, and it’s clear that your mom doesn’t appreciate it. 

“Yes, and I expect you to make nice, just like old times.” She says pointedly and you puff out your cheeks. You see, it’s not that you didn’t like the Prince, but you didn’t exactly like him either- he always seemed rather... displeased by your antics and so you never really moved past royal formalities. 

“How are your dance lessons going, dear?” Your father asks you in his booming voice, and you have to laugh. 

“How do you think they’re going?” You retort and he makes a face at you. “I do hope you’ve at least improved from the last time we saw you dance,” You parents exchange looks, “It’s high time that the Princess is able to dance through the evening without ripping the ends of her gown.” You roll your eyes at that and groan. 

“That happened only twice, father, and if you ask me, those gowns needed some edge to them.” It was your parents’ turn to roll their eyes at you. It was no secret that you, the Princess, resembled a dismembered horse whenever you danced- even if it were a secret, it clearly was not a very well-kept one. Which was fine, since the subject of your blundering dance capabilities only saw the light of day whenever an event as grand as a ball became the talk of the town. But jokes get old, and so do the labels that deemed you nothing more than an ungraceful royal, so your determination to prove anyone and everyone wrong grew more and more each day.

Your masked dance instructor certainly increased your will tenfold. 

After breakfast, your parents wasted no time in shooing you off to the dance hall, saying something along the lines of “a full stomach means bountiful results of labour.” much to your dismay.

Time is money, and that certainly was the mantra that Minho exuded as he wasted no time in directing you through all the warm-ups and floor routines with your dance partner. You took a deep breath and imagined that you were back at the gazebo, in the arms of someone you didn’t fully know. 

Trust yourself.

Do you trust me?

You’re doing well, just remember to count each beat in your head.

I told you you could do it.

Eyes on me.

It felt like you were floating as the maestro played each melody, your eyes dazed as your mind played back each step on repeat. Unbeknownst to you, you had successfully ran through the routine without stepping on your partner and staying on count- for the most part.

“Well, my lady, I am pleasantly surprised at this drastic improvement,” Minho’s eyes are wide and sparkly and full of shock at the fact that you stayed on beat for the majority of the dance, and you can’t help but chuckle at his dramatic bewilderment. “What in heaven’s name has gotten into you?” He questions genuinely, and your mouth goes wide in disbelief. 

“Don’t sound too shocked, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve stayed on count.” He makes a face. “Okay, so maybe it is.” You mumble curtly and proceed to fold your arms over your chest like an offended child- which you were, but that’s besides the point. 

“Does this improvement call for a celebratory, well-earned 2-day break?” You ask, half jokingly and half absolutely serious, and clasp your hands together hopefully. His face goes back to blank and he straightens up.

“Absolutely not- you’re still astonishingly shabby and lumbering, your posture is horrendous and-”

“Okay I get it, a simple ‘no’ would have been sufficient, thank you very much.” You sneer, and he smiles sarcastically back at you.

“You’re welcome.”

Minutes, seconds, hours, days, months, years- you didn’t know just how long practice took until you stepped out of the ballroom, feet covered in blisters and an ache in your back, to a haze of purple and orange in the sky, the sun just about to touch the horizon. You’re exhausted and drained, and, if it were up to you, you’d have ran away right there and then but you couldn’t, because the sores on your feet laughed at your futile attempts to even walk. 

Okay, that was a tad dramatic. You could walk, but you figured playing it up a little would somehow garner the attention of your very powerful parents to do something about Satan’s Incarnate, Minho, and get you a few practice-free days. 

But of course, your parents were not in the throne room, or the dining area, or even in their chambers- the reason being an impromptu visit to the eastern provinces for diplomatic purposes as you later came to find out. You could almost hear the Gods snickering at your turmoil. 

So you dragged your sore feet to the palace library, ready to delve into another chapter of another book that peaked your interest even though your mind would betray you and saunter back to your masked instructor gleaming in the moonlight. 

He was all you thought about, even as you vividly imagined strangling Minho, he remained in the back of your mind. If you tried hard enough, you can almost feel him again- firm arms and everything. Your heart raced at the thought of meeting for the second time tonight. 

A loud thump echoed through the library, and you freeze in place, a hand outstretched towards a bookshelf, your heart startled from the sudden noise. “Who’s there?” You question loudly.

“Sorry!” A muffled and strangled voice yells from the other side, and your head darts in all directions to get a glimpse. 

You clamber down from the step-stool you had been on and investigate, peeking your head through every aisle and row from the piles of encyclopedias to the endless collections of literature. But, in an aisle labelled Astronomy, a pale, curly-haired stranger sits disheveled with a thick volume of books strewn on the floor, pages exposed haphazardly and face-down. You raise your eyebrows, and he smiles sheepishly at you. 

“The collection fell as I was trying to get it out.” He explains, cheeks tinted rouge while he bent down to pick them up. You bend down as well, gathering as many as you can and flattening out the bent pages. 

“Thank you for your help,” He says gratefully, and you smile at him. “No problem.” You’ve come to the conclusion that you absolutely have no recollection of who this is, and what his name is or where he’s from, but there’s a strange sense of familiarity that wrecks your brain. The way he talks sounds so familiar, but you can’t quite put a finger on it. He’s clad in a white dress shirt and a burgundy vest over top, with black slacks to match, and you notice the insignia on the left side of his breast pocket. A Northerner. 

You notice as well that he’s handsome- thick dark hair that curled at the tips with rosy skin and eyes that looked as though they were dipped in honey- but nevermind that.

“May I please know your name?” He asks and you’re snapped out of your analytical trance. You say your name, and he looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

“Y-your highness- forgive me, I did not know it was you,” He’s kneeling on one knee and his head is bowed, and you feel bashful at the sudden formality. Princess. Right.

You curtsy and nod your head, “It’s okay, my apologies for not introducing myself. May I know your name?” 

He’s about to speak when, “Channie boy! Where are you? The palace has got so many great-” You can immediately imagine a face to match the voice, and your suspicions are confirmed the moment his tall figure saunters into the aisle.

“Ah, Princess y/n. Delighted to see you again.” He cuts himself off and stride over to you, bending to bow and taking your hand to place a chaste kiss on the back of it. He does this because he knows how squeamish it makes you feel, and your distress entertains him too much. 

“The pleasure’s all mine, Prince Hyunjin.” You curtsy and fold your hands over each other behind your back, shooting lasers with your eyes at the boy in front of you. “Chan, I see you’ve met Her Royal Highness.” Hyunjin says that last part pointedly and sarcastically, and you feel like shoving him into a pit of snakes. 

“Indeed I have.” The stranger, Chan, says curtly with a tight smile, obviously noticing the blunt tension between the two of you. 

“Well, Princess, unfortunately my scholar and I have some business to attend to,” Hyunjin and Chan are exchanging a conversation with their eyes and you find it amusing how strange it would look out of context. “So we shall bid you farewell for now. Hope you have a good night.” You exchange bows again and soon enough the two men were off, their seemingly hyper conversation being drowned out by the enormity of the library. 

So he’s a scholar, you repeat in your head and smile in amusement. Since when did the prince hang out with scholars?

There’s nothing more nerve-wracking to Chan than having to wait. But in retrospect, he did come a little too early than what was expected, his excitement and nervousness not allowing him to sit still until he found himself in the grandeur of the palace gazebo. 

Could you blame the guy? His mystery woman was all he thought about, even as Hyunjin dragged him around the palace to look at god knows what, and he could not help but hope to see her in the palace by coincidence even if he did not fully know what she looked like. Consequently, he ended up looking like a fool on a wild goose chase, with Hyunjin interrogating him about why he looked like he was after hidden treasure more than he would have liked. 

So he walked around a few times, then another few times, with each time eliciting a sigh from his lips and a puff of his cheeks, until the golden hues were long gone and were replaced by a dark night sky looming above him. He was wearing the same mask again, even though he felt as if he looked absolutely stupid in it, and made sure he practiced the routine a few times so that the information he parted wasn’t complete and utter horse dung. 

Thanks to the fact that the palace clock tower was easily seen from his vantage point, it felt as though the clock hands were mocking him, saying ‘ha! It’s been two hours, get a grip!’. Any rational person would have left after thirty minutes- an hour, at most, but rational was not apart of Chan’s dictionary. 

Maybe she’s not coming tonight, he thinks to himself, and he can feel the heat stain his cheeks for being so hopeful. 

“I’m sorry- have you been waiting long?” She’s panting and there’s a sheen of sweat slick on her forehead, but she’s here. He jumps slightly, startled by her sudden and unexpected appearance, and scratches the nape of his neck.

He smiles sheepishly, “Not at all, just got here a few minutes ago.” Yeah, if one hundred and thirty eight minutes were considered as ‘a few’. She smiles at him with her half-covered features, and he thinks the wait was worth it. 

“Shall we begin?” He nods, finding her straight-forwardness cute, and takes her hand in his. 

-

“Will I ever know your name?” 

They’re sitting side by side on the steps of the gazebo, and Chan’s slightly out of breath from all that dancing. It had been a good couple of hours since they had started the night, the dark starry sky freckled with stars blanketing their horizon, and neither of them had any plans to head back to the palace.

“That depends,” She chuckles from beside him, “Will I ever know yours?” She says playfully and turns to look at him, her masked eyes gleaming with the slightest crescent-moon curve to them. He’s dying to know what she looks like, but he guesses time will only tell. 

“Alright then. What’s your relationship with the royal family? I’m assuming you’d have to either work under them or be apart of them to live in the palace.” He doesn’t notice her gulp out of nervousness. 

“You could say I know them, sure.” She says half-heartedly.

He contemplates her response, “Do you know the princess?” Though brief, his run-in with the Princess was one he had yet to live down, with the embarrassment of questioning who she was a complete blunder on his part. It was so obvious she was goddamn royalty, what with her stately attire and astonishingly regal features- were all royals exceptionally good-looking? Was the good-genes pool reserved for the throne? Chan’s certainly met a fair amount of underwhelming-looking aristocrats during his time, but the Princess of the South was definitely not classified as such. 

He doesn’t know that her heart beats a million miles a second at his question. 

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” She says playfully in attempt to mask the irony. “Why? Do you know the Prince?” She challenges. “What if you are the Prince?” She says exaggeratedly and he can only laugh. 

“Ding-dong your answer is wrong,” She laughs. “I could never last being a royal.” He says and she tilts her head to the side.

“And why is that?” 

“Well, I just don’t think being at the receiving end of a life of servitude is my sorta thing. And, between you and me,” He leans over playfully, “It seems like all royals do is demand this and demand that, since they’re born into a life that requires them to not work for anything.” It’s not that he hates royalty with every fibre of his being- and he isn’t one to complain, since he has basically been interwoven into that lifestyle after joining the Scholar’s court. But seeing life from the perspective of someone who has had to work for everything and of one who has had to work for nothing unsettles him- the unfairness of it all leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“I think you’re mistaken,” She replies with conviction, and he turns his gaze onto her. “They never really asked for that life, and, sure, being born into something makes you ignorant but to assume that all of them are the same is ignorant as well. Maybe some are waiting for their turn to make an actual difference, and maybe some are doing their best behind closed doors because everything they do and say is recorded by everyone around them.” She rambles, staring at the ground with her fist clenched on the marbe below it and Chan stares in awe. “I mean, that’s just my take. Just a guess.” She follows up quickly, the tips of her ears turning red. 

He’s floored by her response, mostly because he’s been surrounded by people with the same ideology (save for the royals themselves, of course) that it’s refreshing to hear something different. His curiosity towards her only skyrockets.

“I’ve… never thought of it that way.” He says slightly dazed as he stares at his outstretched, boot-clad feet. 

“Well, you learn something new everyday.” She says, bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek on them, facing him and flashing a small smile. It makes his heart skip a beat, but he shrugs it off as the pollen grains triggering his allergies. 

They stay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, his eyes never leaving hers and letting the autumn air breeze by them, until the clocktower rumbles, signalling that midnight has fallen. She breaks their gaze and looks up, “I’ve got to go.” She sounds unwilling to, and Chan almost tells her to stay. Almost.

“Will I see you again tomorrow night?” He stands up along with her, his voice hopeful, and her eyes answer for her before her voice does. “Yes.” 

“Well then,” He takes a step back and grabs her hand in his, “This is goodnight.” He bows like a gentleman and leaves kiss on her knuckles, his heart soaring at the feeling of her soft skin against his lips. He looks up to see her biting her shy smile away and a grin makes its way onto his face. “Goodnight to you too.” She squeaks out and looks him in the eye one last time before scuttering off into the garden, her silhouette shrouded by the trees.

He already misses being close to her.

You’ve come to the conclusion that only a specific stranger in a mask can make the butterflies in your stomach act as though they’re on acid, which is completely fine with you.

“Good evening Princess, fancy seeing you here.” Hyunjin greets dryly, his straight posture making him look as wound tight as ever, and you quirk an eyebrow at him. 

“I sort of live here, Prince Hyunjin.” 

It amazes you how you had managed to run into him out of all people within the enormous palace, but you figured that it was punishment for all the immature pranks you had pulled on him when you were younger. In your defense, scaring him was the only pleasure you took, not the crying and screaming part.

“I know that.” He retorts just as dry. “Why are you lugging such a big record player around? And why the mask?” His head tilts perplexedly at the machine twice your size cradled in your arms, and you gulp- how were you going to explain your way out of this one?

“My dance instructor is making me practice in my chambers?” It comes out more like a question and you thank the gods you have a mask to cover the sheer audacity on your face. His face contorts even more in confusion, as if it were even possible. “But your chambers are that way?” He points directly behind you. God dammit Hyunjin, can’t you just let a girl live?

You clear your throat, “Well, I meant my other chambers.” You don’t have a second room, but you’re relying on his gullibility to save whatever dignity you have left. “Anyways, can’t chit chat, I must get back to practicing my dance moves.” You excuse yourself quickly and start making a beeline around him.

 “But it’s late-”

“Have a good night!” You’re desperate at this point- you were already running late thanks to having to find and carry your father’s record player around your obscenely large palace, you didn’t need a nosy Hyunjin interrogating your motives to add on to your tardiness. 

“Oh, Princess! Before you go, have you happened to see Chan around by any chance?” Hyunjin yells from behind you, but your foot is already halfway through the exit.

“Nope!”

-

“Wow.” He says, his eyes glinting with amusement and shock behind his mask. You stand there panting, slightly sweaty and extremely eager to show him how the contraption works. But the moment you settle it down, he’s already tinkering with it. 

“I’m guessing you’ve brought this to aid in our lack of music?” He smiles up at you humorously and you grin sheepishly. 

“Figured you’d appreciate a break from having to hum all the time.” You mumble and fiddle with your thumbs. It was a gesture that you had been conjuring up ever since you noticed how fatigued he would get trying to hum and dance simultaneously, and you figured you needed an arm workout anyway. 

“I don’t mind the humming,” He stands up and takes your hand in his. “But thank you anyway.” His smile is perfect, and you thank the heavens it’s not covered by the mask. 

“So, shall we begin?” You nod and he places a hand on his shoulder and his hand around your waist and flips a switch on the player with the tip of his boot.

“One, two, three…” The music fills the air softly, a mix of static and melodies while he guides you around the courtyard. You’re still not yet used to holding his gaze- mostly because he makes your heart do things it shouldn’t, but you blame it on your lack of habit. 

Each step is just as smooth as the previous and there’s no denying the massive improvements you’ve made. “You’re doing excellent,” He compliments in-between counts and you grin. “I have a great teacher.” 

He spins you out and you twirl back into him, your back pressed against his chest and you can feel his breath ghost over your neck. It sends shivers down your spine, and you’re praying he doesn’t see the hairs standing up at the back of your neck. 

The moment  is gone as quick as it came, however, and you’re back to facing him. You notice the red tint on the tips of his ears and something inside you becomes giddy at the thought of making him blush. 

But of course, the gods hate you, so they decide to mess with your record player. “What’s happening?” The tunes become slower and slurred, the periods of static becoming prolonged, and what once was a harmonious symphony has now become nothing but noise. 

You both stop in place momentarily, your gaze drifting towards the turn-table across the courtyard as you curse it out for ruining the mood. Out of all the times it could’ve picked to malfunction, it chooses now to act up? Blasphemy. 

A finger is placed on your chin and brings your gaze back to his. “Well the music is, technically, still playing and you know what they say- The show must go on.” There’s a smile on his face and you look at him, puzzled. 

“But the music’s off beat?” 

“The music is never wrong- we’re simply too fast.” He says wittily. You’re still confused, but he takes extra slow steps and your mind puts two-and-two together. 

After being so accustomed to moving as fast and as accurate to the beat as possible, the slow counts are ones you can barely get used to- heck, you can barely count in the midst of the skewed melodies and scrambled music. But you keep your eyes on him and he brings your body closer to his until you’re flush against his chest, and suddenly the music doesn’t even matter any more. You’re moving aimlessly with him with every slow step that passes you by, and the music melts into the background until it becomes lost with the crickets and trees. His gaze is soft and gentle with a comforting firmness, just like his grip, and you’re so entranced with the stranger before you that you don’t even hear the clock strike twelve.

There’s a myriad of synonyms that are along the lines of ‘perfect’, but you’d have to spend a lifetime trying to find the one that perfectly encapsulates this moment.