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The air inside the banquet room is thick with smoke from the cigarettes held between the fingers of elegant women and swanky men. It makes Jongin’s head feel woozy, just slightly, and the smell of burned tobacco is almost cloying.
By his side, Sehun asks him something that he doesn’t quite catch over the roar of voices and the music from the orchestra, but he is holding out a cigarette, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess the rest.
“No, thanks,” Jongin says, shaking his head for good measure. Sehun just shrugs and lights one for himself. He takes a long drag and then exhales smoke away from Jongin’s face, which he appreciates.
Sehun leans in close, lips almost touching his ear, to say, “So, what do you wanna do?”
Survive, Jongin thinks with a small portion of chagrin.
It had been Sehun’s idea to attend the banquet, and his insistence that eventually broke through Jongin’s resolve. Jongin’s parents had been overjoyed when he told them he was going and made sure he was well-dressed for the occasion.
“A young man such as yourself would be wise to attend these functions whenever the opportunity arises,” his father had said and clapped Jongin’s shoulder. “Mingle with your peers, son. Make a good impression.”
“Perhaps you may find your future wife there,” his mother had said and patted his cheek. “Oh, this is so exciting, darling! Your first banquet! I cannot wait to hear all about it.”
Had they not been abroad on business, they would have been here themselves.
Jongin withholds a sigh and wrestles his lips into a smile for Sehun. “You’re the expert. What do you suggest?”
Sehun hums, eyes skirting around the room. He snatches two flutes off a passing waiter’s tray and shoves one of them into Jongin’s hands. The sparkly liquid sloshes dangerously within the bowl, but Jongin makes sure none of it spills.
“Drink this,” Sehun says, “and then we introduce you.”
★
Parties have always drained Jongin, and this banquet is no exception. Almost two hours in and he’s fidgety. His clothes feel too stiff, the air is too thick, and he thinks he is a little dizzy, albeit that may just be the three glasses of champagne Sehun has forced on him.
The orchestra has stopped playing, at least. Sehun is nearly giddy with excitement as he drags Jongin off to the side, but he refused to tell Jongin what it is when he asked, so Jongin has resigned to his fate as a ragdoll.
He doesn’t wait for long.
A man walks between the guests who part for him like the Red Sea. He is the cynosure of all eyes. No one speaks, and Jongin finds himself holding his breath as the man comes to stand in the centre of the room, which has been cleared just for him.
He is dressed in a fantastic costume dominated by red and black and splashes of gold. His eyes are lined with kohl and red eyeshadow, his skin like the finest china.
He extends his arms in front of himself, a staff held between his hands, and closes his eyes. The silence is deafening.
“That is Zitao,” Sehun whispers; Jongin has to strain to hear him. “He’s a performer of martial arts and dance.”
Curious.
The orchestra starts playing, a lone note lingering in the air for a long moment, and when it drops, Zitao drops with it. There is another silence, but it lasts a significantly shorter time than the first one, and then the music picks up the pace.
Jongin finds himself arrested by the grace of Zitao as he swirls and jumps. His every move is carefully perfected, powerful or soft, and his gaze is fierce. Even without the music to accentuate his performance, Jongin thinks he would be blown away.
Zitao is like nothing Jongin has ever seen.
The performance ends, and Jongin has no sense of time. It feels like only five minutes, but it must have been more. Surely.
Sehun is snickering by his side as the guests slowly fan out and the orchestra prepares to play something less dramatical. “Oh, he got you bad.”
“That was amazing,” Jongin says, not bothering to hide the wonder in his voice.
Sehun hums and pinches Jongin’s cheek; Jongin squawks in indignation, but Sehun only smirks. “He always returns to the room for refreshments after a performance. Perhaps you can catch him later and tell him how much you enjoyed it.”
Sehun has always known too much about Jongin’s preferences, and it strikes him that, perhaps, Sehun had been so adamant that he attended this banquet because he knew Zitao’s performance would catch his fancy.
“I would like that.”
★
Jongin has sought reprieve on one of the balconies a few hours later. The fires from the torches send smoke into the air, but that aside, he is relieved to have a moment for himself even if the night is a bit chilly.
A presence comes to stand by his side, and from the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of dark hair and kohl-lined eyes and red eyeshadow. The costume is gone, exchanged for another formal attire much like Jongin's own.
Zitao looks at him askance, piercing eyes languidly trailing down his face. The corner of his mouth lifts in what Jongin thinks might be a smile. Up close, he looks younger than Jongin first assumed, skin still like porcelain. Something sparks within his chest.
“I watched your performance, earlier,” he says, haltingly, but when Zitao’s mouth curls into what is most definitely a smile, Jongin feels emboldened. “It was remarkable. I really enjoyed it.”
“Thank you,” Zitao says, and his voice is somewhat softer, lighter, than Jongin imagined with such a face.
Jongin smiles. “I’m Kim Jongin. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Zitao,” Zitao says. He procures a package of cigarettes from a pocket and offers Jongin one. “Do you smoke?”
“No,” Jongin says, but accepts it anyway.