Initially, it’s anti climatic.

You’re expecting an agonizing build up, everything moving in a slower motion before the showdown; there’ll be the echo of a fork as it drops and hits the plate beneath it, with no doubt in mind who the owner of the aforementioned happens to be. 

Footsteps will follow, heavy footed, almost aggressive in their nature, much unlike the grace that usually accompanies his every move. In turn, he’ll catch a neighboring table cloth under his shoe, and with his next step, accidentally pull at it a little too hard, having no time to turn around and stop the accident in its wake, nor even a care. A shrill like gasp, perhaps a scream, will echo out of the mouth of the guest sitting at the table of choice, scathing remarks already being thrown his way.  

But he’ll pay no mind as he makes his way over to where the real argument is going to lie, to where the vicious spat is about to come into fruition. 

…Perhaps the throwing of fists. 

But as entirely over the top these parties are, they’re elegant. Even if such a situation were to take place, as it does in the movies, it wouldn’t happen the way you’re expecting. It’d be lavish, elegant in nature. A tense build up that wouldn’t end in the throwing of fists of the supposed rivals, but guarded remarks, vicious digs that on the surface level seem as innocent as can be. 

There wouldn’t be a strand of hair out of place, their tailored suits as pristine as the moment that they first lay their eyes upon them. 

With these parties and these people, the detail lay beneath the exterior, beneath the guarded expressions and cleverly placed sentences. The mocking raise of an eyebrow that goes amiss to all but those studying the face of perpetrator in great detail, the clenched fist by the side that he thinks no one will take note of, the slow but poignant dig at class and character, ever building throughout the night.

They’ll stay within close vicinity as the party goes on, they’ll keep an internal list of who’s ahead in terms of sentence structure and level of poised viciousness, but to actually get into a physical spat?

Not in a million years.

Does your entrance cause the commotion you’re envisioning in either sense? 

Not exactly. 

At least, not initially.

Sure, there are vulture-like stares from already seated table occupants, scrapes of knives echoing throughout the room as they tear into their food, as if in preparation for the theoretical chew up they’re going to give you once they start firing questions yours and Jongin’s way, Jongin sure to tell them what they’re wishing to hear, you on the other hand…

You’re a lot less confident of such.

You glance at Jongin momentarily, then at your linked arms.  The second you’re in the grande hall, it dawns on you why it’s so anti climatic, in essence of what you previously envisioned. 

It’s because he’s not yet here. 

It hits you the second your heels click against the marble floor, sound seeming to echo in the circumference of the room, but you know no one’s paying attention to that, rather at yours and your faux boyfriends’ entrance, the mannerisms that accompany it.  

It takes him longer to note, or at least to point out what you’re both thinking. 

“He’s not here,” Jongin voices what you’re mulling over, but continues with a latter half you could much do without. “What a shame.”

“Drop the sarcasm,” you mutter, but follow along as if you’re his personal lap dog as he leads you to the table he’s been assigned, or rented. You’re not too sure of the protocols of such parties. 

You stand as still as a log, daring not to glance ahead or behind, still feeling eyes burning into your back.

It could be because of the image of sophistication you presently present of course, but you’re sure that image will fade if they’re continuously monitoring your mannerisms, something you’re sure you’re going to lack in comparison to your faux-boyfriend and the other party-goers. So you hope the stares will cease. Soon. 

Jongin pulls out your chair for you, demeanor as it usually is, elusive, mysterious, though there’s also something merry about him, as of the current moment. You can’t place the reasoning behind it, nor can you decipher if it’s simply an act, but he seems as boyfriend-like as one would assume in such situation. 

As you take your seats, he holds eye contact with you. You try not to get lost in the endlessness of his gaze, but it’s difficult. As you’ve said before, he’s attractive from a distance, but up close, he’s almost ethereal. 

“If we think on the bright side,” he begins, and you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be focusing on the way his lips move as he enunciates his syllables. But there you are. “Assess the situation, what we know of it. He saw you, had the freight of his life at the thought of you with another man and the implications that sharing a room with one at such a party implies and made for the door, heartbroken. So utterly heartbroken.” He lets out a lilting chuckle. “Crisis over, game over. It turns out he’s had a thing for you all along, thus meaning, I’m able to read my book in peace with no distractions.”

You send him an incredulous stare. Just how interesting was this book of his? 

“Where’s the nervousness I should be noting in your tone, my dear?” It’s flirty, but there’s a demure note beneath it that Jongin hasn’t yet heard from you, which has him pausing in his wake. “Aren’t you scared of a fist fight, of receiving a black eye?”

“Only from you,” he chuckles. But the usual seriousness returns a beat later. "He’d never do that in public.”

Confirming your assessment. “Then don’t walk into any dark alleyways~” 

“What, when there’s likely to be bugs lining the walls? Just the thought would have him shaking in his boots.”  

You blink, eyeing him curiously. “How do you know that he doesn’t like bugs?”

You knew that they knew each other, heavily disliked the other, but fears were a quirk that weren’t meant to be discussed with an enemy, were they not?

Jongin could read people very well, but he worded his last sentence as if he had intimate knowledge of Taemin’s dislike of bugs, and that’s what throws you off. 

Perhaps it came up in conversation one day, or through encounter, you reason.

But how many encounters were they having…? And how did Jongin become so hidden to you throughout your time with Taemin that he was almost a mythical creature, mentioned in passing and passing alone. It was only after Taemin and your own encounters dwindled in number did you start encountering Jongin more often, even in school. 

Just what didn’t you know about your best friend? It had you wondering. 

You then find yourself wondering what Jongin’s fears are. Though make no move to ask. 

Jongin shrugs simply. “How does one know half the things they know, what makes a thing knowable to begin with?” Demeanor giving nothing away. “If we ponder such queries, we’ll be here all night.” Jongin edges the utensil he’s been preoccupied with – throughout the duration of the conversation – closer, urging you to try the treat that lay atop it.

Your eyes widen when you do, the treat melting in your mouth. Coating your taste buds in the warmest, most comforting texture you’d consumed to date. It’s heavenly. One could decide to make appearances at these parties for cuisine alone, it could be argued.

Jongin appears to hesitate before murmuring a soft, “my father’s own.” 

You blink. His father made this?  As he says this however you notice the distance in his voice, like he's simply telling you a fact, not that he holds any personal sentiment over the prospect. 

You mull over this, mind wandering to his mother. You hadn't heard much about his father, so would that mean that he's also...? But would that make sense if the treat was newly baked? 

As if he can see the question in your eyes, Jongin shakes his head. "Simply preoccupied.” There’s a pause. Suddenly he feels a little too far away, sitting at the opposite end of the table. You almost want to edge closer, offer some form of affection, encouragement.

It’s almost like he’s thinking the same thing, in bridging the distance, until the moment is interrupted. 

“Mr. Kim,” a grave voice starts, capturing the aforementioned attention. A tall, slightly aged man dressed in a suit as pristine as Jongin’s stands at the foot of the table. Acquaintance or familiar to Jongin you have no idea, it’s just evident he’s met him before. “Who is this lovely lady that accompanies you?”

The shift in your faux-boyfriend is swift, posture perfect, he leans in ever so slightly as he greets the man of obvious importance, and you watch as the words roll off his tongue effortlessly, fluidly. The definition of smooth. Which you’re not saying he isn’t usually, at least to some degree, but it’s never to this level. “This is ____. Highly academic, well-educated, spotless reputation. One should expect her to make quite the name for herself in future. Definitely one to look out for.” 

“Beautiful too,” the man lulls, eyes transfixed on you. It’s almost as if he hadn’t paid heed of what Jongin said previously, or that the latter matters much more in comparison.

You almost sigh.

Jongin crinkles his nose, noticing this as well. “As much is obvious in face,” he says, quite softly. As if the words taste a little unfamiliar on his tongue – complimenting you so openly, though the man doesn’t take note. “Extends in heart also.”

And as if you’re not meant to hear it, or as though you’re not even in the room, let alone beside him, the man continues, “And in body surely.” And you try not to cringe. He turns back to face you, a wicked smile appearing on his lips. 

“Though much too young for the likes of myself.” Though worded in a sense that seems to imply that he’s challenging this sentiment. 

You’re not sure if you’re meant to respond. So you sit still, composed.

Jongin nods in reference of the man’s previous words, something of a warning behind the movement. The man appears to back up a little, taking note of this.

“Are you courting?” He then asks. 

Jongin shakes his head, the words rolling off his tongue so believable, you almost find yourself in agreement. “We’ve been together six months to the day.”

You nod, add in a something of a shy smile for effect. 

“Six months,” the man mulls, glancing over at you once more, eyes trailing your body for several seconds longer than necessary. “Then I hope you enjoy your anniversary.” With certain intent behind the words. Before he walks away, leaving the two of you alone.

“You know,” you draw the syllables out, an obvious playful note to your words. “We can certainly celebrate our sixth month anniversary tonight.”

“Tempting,” he says, suppressing a sigh. Perhaps an eye roll. Either way, it’s exasperation. But effortlessly seductive. Or maybe you're just extra thirsty at the sight of him, who knows. “But no.” 

And for a while, as you’re tucking into the small meal provided, to sustain until later throughout the event, you talk. Simply talk.  

“I feel like I could probe your mind all night and not tire of it,” you mull, at one point.  

He glances at you, blinking. “Hm?”

You shrug, but don’t deny the words. They’re the truth, after all. “I’m curious, I suppose. About you. You’re an interesting being. There’s so much under the surface, as elusive and mysterious that surface may already be.” 

“Likewise,” he whispers. 

A moment passes between the two of you, no one saying anything, eye contact not breaking. You swear your heart skips a beat. 

“But we can talk later,” he continues in that same hushed tone. “When the sky darkens, people make their way out of this hall and the atmosphere changes – for the better, there’s a certain beauty of the night. But for now–” he stands, offering you his hand. “Let’s dance.”

And though you take it, you come to a halt. “D-dance?”

The closeness of your bodies and the inviting scent of him that’s invading your nostrils at this proximity has  your eyes fluttering closed, leaning in closer. Not to kiss, or touch him in a more inappropriate sense, just to be held, encased in his arms. 

“Jagi,” he says teasingly, though he makes no move to push you away. “Watch your step.”

You’re really close by this point, chests touching. “You’re so polite,” you whisper, in reference to his hands and the fact that they haven’t wandered. That he’s truly focusing on the dance, and making sure you stay in line, avoid bumping into another couple, that you don’t fall over yourself in your heels or catch your dress. He’s patient with you, and gently reprimands your steps, if they go out of line, teaching you the correct move.  

“A gentlemen is simply a patient wolf,” that same tone from before resurfaces, only this time, it certainly is intended to be seductive. “Or so they say.”

Just as you edge to pull him even closer, he separates the two of you, leading you back to your table. “Taemin will be here soon.”

And he’s deducted this because his girlfriend Min-seo is making her way inside the grande hall, every step she takes shimmering. More so than have time to wonder where her boyfriend is, you’re in awe as she makes her way in.

Her dress, as magnificent as yours in detail, is entirely contrasting. Where yours is sleek, elongated, and blood red, hers is ruffled, incorporating sheer elements in its length and peachy in its coloring. Her hair has recently been dyed a different color, lighter. She looks beautiful, but so very gentle. 

Like an innocent newcomer at an award show, wide eyed and bushy tailed, or better yet, a young princess who’s yet to learn her way in the world. Who’s all but asking for direction from the elder and more experienced gentlemen, in exchange for a dance. Unaware she’s walking into a pit of rabid wolves, who want much more than just to lead her, and much, much more than just to dance with her.

You almost want to protect her. 

Which is a strange thought, considering she’s the girlfriend of the man you’re in love with, and technically, by such terms, your 'rival'. 

Which in essence is also a strange thought, because as much as she occupies the position you dream of in terms of Taemin’s life, she’s barely a second thought to you. At least, her, as a person. It’s always her position you’re thinking of, talking about. Never her individual self, which when you let yourself think about it, you don’t know all that well, but you certainly don't wish any bad against.  

“She’s beautiful,” you whisper. 

Jongin’s looking her way too, and you find yourself observing his reaction closely, but you’re left with nothing because his expression is so guarded, so impassive, so difficult to decipher. 

“A very different kind of beautiful than you,” he finally says. 

You sigh. “But the exact kind of beautiful Taemin’s attracted to.” You glance at your palms. “Innocent.”

Jongin glances at you.  

“As much as he doesn’t know about the occasional encounters, he’s never considered me innocent, you know?” Because suddenly everything feels so stifling, the ground below you shaking, maybe it’s your legs, thankfully you’re on a chair. “The kind of girl that’s wined and dined, chased after, time and time again, regardless of how many rejections she gives, because that’s half the beauty of it, at least with the one she truly wants. The girl you bring home to your mother and proudly show off, not just in looks, but achievement, personality. The wife,” you whisper, trying to disguise the croak in your voice. “Never the one night stand.”

You look to the side, avoid making direct eye contact with him or with anyone. “I’m just that… ‘hot’ girl you encounter at a party one night when you’re inebriated, that you’d do anything to sleep with at that moment in time, but nothing to convince her to stay the next morning, unless it’s to arrange a no strings set up, convince her that love is just a silly little ideal, that the only way a man is ever going to love you is if you take your clothes off for him.  And you’ll forget that she’s young, too. Much younger than you. Forget that she can be innocent too, that maybe, she could love. Love as if you light the stars in the sky.” 

Jongin looks somewhat peeved at this, when you next look at him. “Based on your small sample size of men seeking one night stands, am I right?”

You let out a breath in frustration, curling up further into yourself. “What does it matter? It’ll be the same wherever I go, or try to branch out to. Whether it’s the boss with the wandering eye who expects his secretary to do more than just the errands and paperwork, that to b