Kyungsoo doesn’t know how to tie a tie. That’s what he realises as his fingers fumble with the dead knot screwed hideously upon his black tie.

Then Jongin approaches from behind and trails his palms across yearning muscles and shoulder blades—he tugs at the knot and it crumbles into a smooth entity of silk.

There is no denying that Kyungsoo is nervous—about the shortening moments of time, about the continuous hum of clockworks.

“It’s just a dance, you know,” Jongin mumbles as he stares at Kyungsoo’s reflection on the mirror.

“It’s not just a dance, Jongin,” Kyungsoo’s eyes widen, “it’s your prom night. And everything’s got to be perfect. But it isn’t. Because I at dancing and you at cheesy pick up lines and we both . You don’t get it. It’s more than just a dance.”

Jongin’s dark eyes meet hazelnut ones. And for a moment, they stand there—in the middle of Kyungsoo’s room—awkward and wordless.

“Care to practice, then?” Jongin simply asks, his hand outstretched in response.

And so their bodies eventually press together—tuxedos draped against two bony shoulders and sweaty palms—in a waltz that melts day into night.