He was here again.

Even before he set eyes on him, he’d felt him: his presence. He always did. That gaze, the intensity behind it, was like a beacon.

It was easy to find him. He sat where he always did: second row, third table from the middle, directly in line with his cage. He had his usual drink in hand: something dark and rich, swirling around and between crystals of ice. Whiskey, he knew, because he’d asked the waitress after his third appearance. He was clearly a creature of habit.

He swayed to the music as he watched him watching him, his hips a smooth, silken swish cased in gold lamé. He preferred spandex, personally, but when it came down to the details, the lamé provided slightly more coverage – as in barely so– than the stretchy, revealing fabric.

He gyrated his hips as he sank to one knee, a cyclical decline to the bottom of the cage, to allow a patron to tuck a bill into the waistband of his shorts.

Five dollars.

To some it wasn’t much; to him it was everything. Every bill, every cent counted. Every five dollars was another month’s rent guaranteed, food in his stomach, another semester’s tuition. To him, there was no such thing as a meagre amount. People gave what they wanted and it added up at the end of the day.

As he hula’d to his feet once more, throwing his arms above his head to grip the cage, back arched and pelvis forward, his eyes sought and met his admirer’s once more. He flashed a knowing smile and was rewarded with a tip of the gentleman’s glass.

And he was a gentleman, he knew.

The club hosted an eclectic mix of members, from the filthy rich to the barely scraping by. There was minimum riff-raff, however. The absolute poor couldn’t afford to pay the membership fees the club demanded on a monthly basis so the clientele tended towards the upper echelon of society. Which didn’t mean that there weren’t dirtbags. Indeed, there were. All sorts of criminal types frequented the club, rubbing elbows with the wealthy and, at least on the surface, conservative. But they were respectful, mostly, and well behaved, adhering to the club’s rules, so no one cared. It was one of the things that had drawn him to the place. He had a look that was in high demand – male with a feminine/adrogynous slant – and the place offered both the security and paycheque he needed to get the job done. Win-win.

He always knew what was what, who was who. No matter how much glamour and sophistication the unsavory sorts tried to roll themselves up in, it never quite seemed to dim the dirty sheen that surrounded them. His admirer didn’t fall into that category. He was well dressed, but simply so. A stark white shirt, turned up at the cuffs, gray pants and a jacket to match. However, it was obvious that the suit, unassuming though it might be, was tailor-made just for him if the way it clung to his long, lean frame was anything to go by, and probably cost a pretty penny to give the impression of such simplicity. The way he walked, casual yet with intent, as if the world really were his oyster, also belied his social status. He was money that didn't feel or see the need to look like it.

His gentleman was a Chebol.

He’d only suspected at first but after that third day, when he’d asked the waitress what his admirer usually drank, he’d also asked his name. A simple online search later had revealed a lot, yet far too little. Knowing a man’s family, his networth, didn’t say much about the man himself. And yet, he was intrigued. Not because he had money. Seventy-five percent of the men in the club could count themselves above middle-class, whether by legal or illegal means. No, he was intrigued because he was. Despite the fact that he hadn’t made any attempt to talk to him, he also never looked at anyone else. None of the other dancers seemed to catch his eye. He was, dare he say, loyal. It was a rare trait to come by in anyone, much less a stranger, much less someone who came to an establishment such as this where flesh was on constant display and, in the backrooms, literally paid for.

It made him wonder why him. Why did his admirer admire him? What was it about him that had drawn his notice to begin with and what had kept it?

Perhaps it was his own vanity but he felt it a natural curiosity. And the more his admirer looked at him, the more he looked back. Sometimes when he danced, he imagined that he was dancing just for him, that it was just the two of them in the room, and he felt that his admirer, his gentleman, knew that. That he probably thought, wished, the same.

They hadn’t spoken a word to one another yet but they’d exchanged so much.

The rest would come, he supposed, in time. But for now, they both enjoyed playing the game far too much to end it so soon.

Perhaps then, when he had his answers, the intrigue would die and the world would once again lose all and any interest for him.

Now, however, he had to get to his other job.

He let himself out of his cage, climbing down the steps quickly as another dancer took his place. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and blew a kiss in his direction.

Until next time, Park Chanyeol.

He hated having to leave, especially when his admirer had stuck around for his entire shift this time, but it was a must.

A Sleeping Beauty shouldn’t keep her, his, prince waiting.

A/N: Lots of "hes" in this. Try not to get confused. The actual chapter will have their names, this is just to whet your appetite a bit.