The waltz's first notes vibrated through the floorboards, up through the soles of Beck's shoes, settling somewhere in his chest like a second heartbeat. The hall stretched around them, vast and glittering, the obsidian chandeliers throwing shards of light across the polished marble. He had danced a hundred formal dances in this hall—had been drilled in the steps since he could walk, had learned to count a waltz in his sleep. But this was the first time the dance meant something. This was the first time his hand had a purpose.
His palm pressed flat against the small of Topher's back, feeling the fine wool of the midnight-blue robes beneath his fingers. The fabric was cool, almost impossibly smooth, but beneath it he could feel the warmth of Topher's body, the faint tremor of a muscle that hadn't quite relaxed. The constellations embroidered there shifted under his fingertips with every turn—silver thread catching the light, the pattern of some distant sky he'd never learned to read. He wanted to trace them. He wanted to learn every one.
"You're staring," Topher murmured, and Beck felt the words more than heard them, the vibration of them traveling through the hand on his shoulder.
"I'm memorizing."
"The constellations?"
"You." Beck's voice came out rougher than he'd intended, and he felt Topher's steps falter for just a heartbeat before they recovered. "I spent six years not looking. I have a lot of catching up to do."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. The silver rings on his fingers caught the light. "Beck."
"I know. I know, I'm—" Beck shook his head, a small, almost helpless motion. "I'm not going to be very good at this."
"At what?"
"At not saying it. At not looking at you like you're the only thing in the room. At not—" He broke off, his jaw tightening. The corset creaked as he turned, a sound only he could hear, the stiff boning pressing against his ribs. He'd worn it because the formal attire demanded it, because his mother had insisted, because he'd thought it would help him hold himself together. It hadn't. Nothing could hold him together tonight.
"At not what?" Topher's voice was soft, almost shy, and Beck could feel the question in the way Topher's fingers curled against his shoulder blade.
"At not kissing you again." The words came out before Beck could stop them, and he felt the heat rise in his face. "Sorry. I—that's not—I'm not trying to—"
"Don't apologize."
The music swelled, and Beck spun them, the marble floor sliding beneath his boots. They passed his mother's table, and he caught the sharp edge of her gaze—assessing, calculating, weighing the political worth of the son she'd spent years trying to control. He didn't look away from Topher. He didn't need to. He knew what she was thinking. He knew what everyone was thinking.
Let them think it.
"Your mother looks like she's doing arithmetic," Topher said, his voice barely audible above the music.
"She always does. I think she's been doing arithmetic since I was born."
"And the Kaelen matriarch?"
Beck glanced past Topher's shoulder, catching the calculating smile on the face of the silver-haired woman who had raised the man in his arms. She was watching them the way a jeweler watches a gem—assessing its cuts, its flaws, its worth on the open market. "She looks like she's already planning the wedding."
"She's been planning the wedding since I was twelve."
"Twelve?"
"She had me fitted for my first formal robe at twelve. She said I needed to be ready." Topher's voice was dry, but there was something softer underneath it. "I didn't know what I was being readied for. I thought it was just—the way things were."
Beck's hand tightened on Topher's back, pulling him a fraction closer. The constellations shifted under his fingers. "And now?"
"Now I know."
The words landed somewhere in Beck's chest, warm and heavy. He wanted to stop dancing. He wanted to stop the music, stop the world, stop everything except this moment—except the feel of Topher's body against his, the weight of his hand on Beck's shoulder, the way the light caught in his silver-blond hair.
He didn't stop. He kept dancing.
"How are you so calm?" Beck asked, the question slipping out before he could catch it.
Topher laughed, a quiet, breathy sound. "I'm not."
"You look calm."
"I've had years of practice looking like things I'm not." Topher's hand shifted on Beck's shoulder, his thumb brushing against the collar of Beck's coat. "You think I'm not terrified right now? You think I'm not—" He broke off, his jaw tightening. "I'm standing in front of the entire realm, dancing with the man I've loved for six years, and I keep waiting for someone to wake me up."
"If this is a dream," Beck said, "I don't want to wake up."
Topher's steps faltered again, and this time he didn't recover. He stumbled, and Beck's arm caught him, pulling him close, steadying him. For a moment they were pressed together, chest to chest, and Beck could feel the rapid beat of Topher's heart through the layers of wool and silk and corset.
"Sorry," Topher breathed. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize." Beck's voice was low, rough. "I've got you."
They stood there, frozen in the middle of the dance floor, as the couples around them swirled past. The music continued—a waltz, always a waltz, the same three beats repeating into infinity—but Beck couldn't hear it anymore. All he could hear was Topher's breathing, quick and uneven, and the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.
"I used to dream about this," Topher said, his voice barely a whisper. "At university. I used to dream about dancing with you. I used to imagine what it would feel like, to be this close, to have you hold me like this."
"And now?"
"Now I'm terrified I'm going to wake up."
Beck's hand came up, cupping Topher's jaw, tilting his face up. The light caught his eyes—pale gray, like a winter dawn, like the sky just before the sun breaks through. "You're not dreaming," Beck said. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched the words form in his throat, watched them travel up and die before they could reach his mouth. He wanted to ask. He wanted to know what Topher had almost said, what words had been too heavy to carry.
Instead, he let his thumb trace the line of Topher's jaw, and he felt the shudder that ran through him.
"We should keep dancing," Topher said, but he didn't move.
"We should."
Neither of them moved.
The music swelled again, and Beck felt the floor vibrating beneath his feet, the rhythm of it settling into his bones. Somewhere behind them, he heard his mother's voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. He didn't turn to look. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything except stand here, holding the man he'd spent six years trying not to love, and wonder how he'd ever been strong enough to let him go.
"Beck." Topher's voice was soft, almost tentative. "How many more dances until we can leave?"
Beck's grip tightened, pulling him closer as he spun them past his mother's sharp gaze and the Kaelen matriarch's calculating smile. The constellations of Topher's robes shifted under his fingers, silver thread catching the chandelier light, and Beck felt the warmth of Topher's body through the layers of fabric, felt the faint tremor in his hand as it rested on Beck's shoulder.
"Three," he said, his voice low. "The toast, the second dance, and the formal farewell." He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Topher's ear. "Then I'm taking you somewhere the stars can't watch."
Topher's breath caught. Beck felt it—felt the sharp intake of air, felt the way Topher's hand tightened on his shoulder, felt the way his body leaned in, drawn by something he couldn't resist.
"Where?" Topher whispered.
"Somewhere quiet. Somewhere private. Somewhere I can tell you all the things I held back for six years." Beck pulled back just enough to meet Topher's eyes, to watch the way the light caught them, to see the vulnerability there. "I promised you, remember? I said I'd spend the rest of my life proving how much I love you. I meant it."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched the words form—watched them rise and catch and die in his throat. His hand came up, fingers brushing against Beck's collar, tracing the line of his jaw. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid Beck might disappear if he pressed too hard.
"I love you," Topher said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "I love you, I love you, I—"
Beck kissed him.
It wasn't the kiss from the dais—the kiss that had sealed their betrothal, the kiss that had been witnessed by the entire realm. This was softer. Slower. This was a kiss that said I've waited six years and I can wait a little longer, but I need you to know that I'm here, that I'm not going anywhere, that everything I said was true.
Topher made a sound against his mouth—a small, broken sound, half gasp and half sob—and his hand fisted in Beck's collar, pulling him closer. The music continued around them, the other dancers swirling past, but Beck couldn't hear any of it. All he could hear was Topher's breathing, quick and uneven, and the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest.
When they finally broke apart, Topher's eyes were wet, and his lips were parted, and he was looking at Beck like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"You keep doing that," Topher said, his voice barely a whisper. "You keep kissing me like you're afraid I'm going to disappear."
"I am."
"Beck."
"I know it's stupid. I know you're here. I know you're not going anywhere. But I spent six years convincing myself I couldn't have this, and now that I do—" Beck shook his head, a small, helpless motion. "I keep waiting for someone to tell me it was all a mistake. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Topher's hand found his, threading their fingers together over the wool of Beck's coat. The silver rings were cool against Beck's skin, grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of that spiral. "Look at me," Topher said, and Beck did—forced himself to meet those pale gray eyes, to let himself be seen. "The only mistake was waiting six years to do this. And I'm not going anywhere either."
Beck's throat tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to point out all the ways this could still unravel—the political fallout, the hundred-year rivalry, the mothers watching them like hawks from the edges of the dance floor. But Topher was looking at him with that quiet, earnest intensity, and Beck found he couldn't summon the words. Instead, he squeezed Topher's hand and let himself be pulled back into the rhythm of the waltz.
They moved together again, and this time it was easier. The steps came without thinking, their bodies finding the rhythm together, the space between them shrinking until there was barely room for the music. Topher's hand rested at the nape of Beck's neck now, his thumb tracing small circles against the skin there, and Beck felt each touch like a brand—not painful, but permanent, marking him in ways he couldn't undo.
"You know," Topher said, his voice low enough that only Beck could hear, "I used to practice this."
"The waltz?"
"Dancing with you." Topher's lips curved into a small, almost shy smile. "In my room at university. I'd clear the furniture and practice the steps with a pillow."
Beck laughed despite himself—a startled, genuine sound that drew a few glances from the couples nearest them. "A pillow?"
"It was a very well-danced pillow."
"I'm honored to be replacing it."
"You're taller than the pillow." Topher's smile widened, and Beck felt something loosen in his chest. "And you're considerably better at following my lead."
"I'll try not to hold that against you."
The music shifted, the tempo slowing, and Beck drew Topher closer, letting the movement carry them into a gentler turn. The chandeliers caught the silver thread of Topher's robes, scattering light across the marble floor like a handful of stars. Beck watched the way the light moved with them, the way it seemed to follow Topher's steps, and he thought—not for the first time—that the man in his arms was made of something other than ordinary flesh and bone.
"You're doing it again," Topher said softly.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're memorizing me." Topher's voice was quiet, almost wondering. "Like you're afraid I'll change if you look away."
Beck didn't deny it. "You might."
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do." Topher's hand tightened on his shoulder, his fingers curling into the fabric of Beck's coat. "I've been the same person for six years, Beck. The same person who loved you from across a lecture hall, who watched you laugh with your friends and wished I had the courage to walk over and introduce myself. The same person who—" He stopped, his jaw working. "The same person who's been waiting for this. For you. For longer than I'd ever admit."
Beck's steps faltered, and this time it was Topher who caught him, steadying him with a hand on his chest. They stood there, frozen in the middle of the dance floor, and Beck felt the words settle into him like stones dropped into still water—ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
"I didn't know," Beck said, his voice rough. "I never—I thought you were just being polite. I thought you were just—"
"Polite?" Topher's laugh was soft, almost disbelieving. "Beck, I wrote you a poem. In our second year. I spent three weeks on it, and then I burned it because I was too afraid to give it to you."
"You wrote me a poem?"
"It was terrible."
"I don't care if it was terrible. I want to hear it."
Topher shook his head, a flush spreading across his cheeks. "It was terrible. It rhymed 'starlight' with 'all night.' I was nineteen and hopeless."
"I want to hear it anyway."
"No."
"Topher."
"It rhymed 'ember' with 'remember'." Topher pressed his face into Beck's shoulder, hiding. "Please don't make me recite it. I'll die. I'll actually die right here in front of the entire realm."
Beck laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest, and he felt Topher's answering laugh against his shoulder—a small, helpless thing. He tightened his arms around him, pulling him closer, and for a moment they just stood there, swaying slightly, the music washing over them.
"I would have loved it," Beck said quietly. "Whatever it said. I would have loved it because you wrote it."
Topher went still against him.
"I would have kept it," Beck continued, the words coming easier now, looser, like something had cracked open in his chest. "I would have read it until the paper wore thin. I would have memorized every word, even the bad rhymes, especially the bad rhymes. I would have—"
"Beck."
"I would have told you." Beck pulled back just enough to meet Topher's eyes. "If you'd given me that poem, I would have told you everything. That I'd been watching you too. That I'd been dreaming about you too. That I'd been—" He broke off, his throat tightening. "I would have been brave. If you'd given me a reason."
Topher's eyes were wet again, and his hand came up to cup Beck's jaw, his thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "You have a reason now."
"I know."
"I'm going to give you a thousand reasons." Topher's voice was fierce, almost defiant, and Beck felt the words hit him like a wave. "Every day. For the rest of our lives. I'm going to give you so many reasons to be brave that you'll forget you were ever afraid."
Beck kissed him.
It wasn't the kiss from the dais, and it wasn't the soft, slow kiss from moments ago. This one was hungry, desperate, full of all the words they hadn't said and the years they'd wasted. Topher made a sound against his mouth—a small, startled gasp—and then his hands were fisting in Beck's collar, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a ferocity that made Beck's knees weak.
The music continued around them, the other dancers swirling past, but Beck couldn't hear any of it. All he could hear was Topher's breathing, quick and uneven, and the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest. The corset creaked as he pressed closer, the stiff boning digging into his ribs, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. All he could care about was the man in his arms, the taste of him, the way he fit against Beck like he'd been made for it.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard, and Topher's lips were red, and his eyes were bright, and he was looking at Beck like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"We're going to cause a scandal," Topher said, his voice breathless.
"Let them talk."
"Your mother is going to kill us."
"She'll have to get in line." Beck's thumb traced the line of Topher's jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor that ran through him. "Let them talk. Let them whisper. Let them plot and scheme and try to tear us apart. I don't care. I've spent six years caring about what everyone thought, and I'm done."
Beck kissed him again, softer this time, gentler, a kiss that said I know, I know, I love you too, I've always loved you, I'll always love you. Topher's hand fisted in his collar, holding on, and Beck let him, let himself be held, let himself be wanted.
When they finally broke apart, the music had shifted again, the tempo quickening, and the couples around them were moving with renewed energy. Beck didn't want to move. He wanted to stand here forever, holding Topher, feeling the warmth of his body against his, watching the way the light caught in his silver-blond hair.
"How many more dances?" Topher asked, his voice barely audible above the music.
Beck's grip tightened, pulling him closer as he spun them past his mother's sharp gaze and the Kaelen matriarch's calculating smile. The constellations of Topher's robes shifted under his fingers, silver thread catching the chandelier light, and Beck felt the warmth of Topher's body through the layers of fabric, felt the faint tremor in his hand as it rested on Beck's shoulder.
"Two," he said, his voice low. "The second dance, and the formal farewell. Then I'm taking you somewhere the stars can't watch."
Topher's breath caught. Beck felt it—felt the sharp intake of air, felt the way Topher's hand tightened on his shoulder, felt the way his body leaned in, drawn by something he couldn't resist.
"Where?" Topher whispered.
Beck's grip tightened, pulling him closer as he spun them past his mother's sharp gaze and the Kaelen matriarch's calculating smile. The constellations of Topher's robes shifted under his fingers, silver thread catching the chandelier light, and Beck felt the warmth of Topher's body through the layers of fabric, felt the faint tremor in his hand as it rested on Beck's shoulder.
"Two," he said, his voice low. "The second dance, and the formal farewell. Then I'm taking you somewhere the stars can't watch."
Topher's breath caught. Beck felt it—felt the sharp intake of air, felt the way Topher's hand tightened on his shoulder, felt the way his body leaned in, drawn by something he couldn't resist.
"Where?" Topher whispered.
Beck kissed him again, softer this time, gentler, a kiss that said I know, I know, I love you too, I've always loved you, I'll always love you. Topher's hand fisted in his collar,
holding on, and Beck let him, let himself be held, let himself be wanted. The kiss lingered, a slow ember that neither of them wanted to let die, and when Topher finally pulled back, his lips were flushed and his eyes were bright with something that looked like wonder.
"I could get used to that," Topher murmured, his voice rough at the edges.
"Good." Beck's thumb traced the line of Topher's jaw, feeling the faint tremor that ran through him. "Because I'm planning on doing it a lot."
The music swelled around them, carrying them into another turn, and Beck felt the rhythm settle deeper into his bones. The chandeliers caught the silver thread of Topher's robes, scattering light across the marble floor, and Beck watched the way the light moved with them—the way it seemed to follow Topher's steps, the way it caught in his hair and made it glow like moonlight on water. He wanted to memorize this. He wanted to remember every detail of this moment, every shift of light, every breath, every beat of his own heart.
"You're doing it again," Topher said softly.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like that." Topher's voice was quiet, almost wondering. "Like you're memorizing me."
Beck didn't deny it. "I am."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. The silver rings on his fingers caught the light as he curled them into the fabric of Beck's coat. "You don't have to memorize me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." Beck pulled him closer, feeling the warmth of Topher's body through the layers of wool and silk, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his own. "But I've waited six years to look at you like this. I'm not wasting a single second of it."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched the words form in his throat—watched them rise and catch and die before they could reach his mouth. His hand came up, fingers brushing against Beck's collar, tracing the line of his jaw. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid Beck might disappear if he pressed too hard.
"I love you," Topher said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "I love you, I love you, I—"
Beck kissed him, cutting off the rest of the sentence, pouring everything he couldn't say into the press of his lips against Topher's. The kiss was soft, slow, a promise rather than a demand, and Topher melted into it, his hand fisting in Beck's collar, pulling him closer. The music continued around them, the other dancers swirling past, but Beck couldn't hear any of it. All he could hear was Topher's breathing, quick and uneven, and the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest.
The music carried them through another turn, and Beck felt the shift in Topher's body before he understood it—the way his steps quickened, the way his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder, the way his breathing had gone shallow and fast, like a man running toward something instead of away.
"Two dances," Beck murmured against his ear, low enough that only Topher could hear. "The second dance, and the formal farewell. Then we're gone."
Topher's fingers curled into the fabric of his coat. "You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
The waltz was ending—Beck could feel it in the way the tempo stretched, the way the musicians began to draw the final notes out like taffy. The couples around them were already beginning to slow, preparing their bows and curtsies, the polite choreography of a formal evening. Beck didn't want to slow. He wanted to keep moving, keep spinning, keep Topher in his arms until the world ran out of music.
The final note hung in the air, and Beck felt Topher's hand tighten on his shoulder, as if he too was bracing against the silence that would follow.
It came. The hall filled with the rustle of fabric and the murmur of voices, the sound of a hundred nobles resuming their conversations, and Beck felt the space between them shrink as Topher stepped closer, unwilling to let the dance end.
"One more," Topher said, his voice barely audible. "That's all. One more dance, one farewell, and then—"
"Then I'm taking you somewhere quiet." Beck's hand found the small of Topher's back, his palm pressing flat against the wool of his robes. "Somewhere I can tell you everything."
The musicians began the second dance—a slower piece, something with more ache in it, a melody that seemed to wind through the hall like smoke. Beck heard the first few notes and felt something loosen in his chest. This was the dance before the farewell. This was the last one.
He held out his hand, and Topher took it without hesitation, their fingers threading together. The silver rings were cool against Beck's skin, grounding him, and he felt the faint tremor in Topher's hand as they settled back into position.
"You're nervous," Beck said.
"I'm always nervous." Topher's smile was small, almost apologetic. "I've just gotten better at hiding it."
"Don't hide it from me."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. They began to move, slower this time, the steps more deliberate, and Beck felt the weight of the moment settle over them like a blanket. The hall seemed to recede around them, the voices fading to a distant murmur, the chandeliers blurring into points of light.
"One dance," Beck said, his voice low. "One dance, and then the farewell, and then we're gone."
"You're counting down."
"I've been counting down for six years." Beck's hand tightened on Topher's back, pulling him closer. "I'm not going to stop now."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched the words form—watched them rise and catch and die in his throat. His hand came up, fingers brushing against Beck's collar, tracing the line of his jaw. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid Beck might disappear if he pressed too hard.
"What are you going to tell me?" Topher asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "When we're somewhere quiet. What are you going to say?"
Beck's throat tightened. He had imagined this moment a thousand times—had rehearsed the words in his head during long nights at university, had written and discarded a hundred versions of this conversation. But now that the moment was here, the words felt too small, too clumsy, too inadequate for the weight of what he felt.
"Everything," he said finally. "I'm going to tell you everything."
The music swelled, and Beck spun them, the marble floor sliding beneath his boots. They passed his mother's table, and he caught the sharp edge of her gaze—assessing, calculating, weighing the political worth of the son she'd spent years trying to control. He didn't look away from Topher. He didn't need to. He knew what she was thinking. He knew what everyone was thinking.
"Your mother is going to corner us," Topher said, his voice dry. "Before we can leave."
"She'll have to catch us first."
"She's very fast."
"I'm faster." Beck pulled him closer, feeling the warmth of Topher's body through the layers of wool and silk. "And I've been waiting six years for this. I'm not letting anyone get in the way."
Topher's smile softened, and his hand came up to cup Beck's jaw, his thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
The music continued, the melody winding through the hall like a thread, and Beck felt himself being pulled into it, drawn deeper into the moment. The other dancers faded into the periphery, their movements blurring into a haze of color and light. All he could see was Topher—the silver-blond hair, the pale gray eyes, the way the chandeliers caught the constellations embroidered on his robes and made them glow.
"I used to watch you dance," Topher said, his voice barely audible. "At university. At the formal balls. I used to stand at the edge of the floor and watch you move, and I'd think—I'd think about how it would feel to be in your arms."
Beck's steps faltered, and he felt the heat rise in his face. "You watched me?"
"All the time." Topher's smile was small, almost shy. "I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew."
"I didn't know." Beck's voice came out rough, cracked. "I never—I thought you were just being polite. I thought you were just—"
"Polite?" Topher's laugh was soft, almost disbelieving. "Beck, I wrote you a poem. In our second year. I spent three weeks on it, and then I burned it because I was too afraid to give it to you."
"You mentioned that."
"I'm going to keep mentioning it until you understand." Topher's hand tightened on his shoulder. "I was hopeless. I was completely, utterly hopeless, and I thought you were too beautiful to ever look at me."
Beck's throat tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to point out all the ways Topher was wrong, all the ways he had been blind, all the ways he had wasted six years because he had been too afraid to say the words out loud. But the words wouldn't come. All he could do was hold Topher tighter, pull him closer, feel the warmth of his body against his own.
"I'm looking at you now," Beck said finally. "And I'm not going to stop."
Topher's eyes were wet, and his hand came up to cup Beck's jaw, his thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
The music swelled, and Beck spun them, the marble floor sliding beneath his boots. The chandeliers caught the silver thread of Topher's robes, scattering light across the floor like a handful of stars, and Beck watched the way the light moved with them—the way it seemed to follow Topher's steps, the way it caught in his hair and made it glow like moonlight on water.
"One dance," Beck murmured against his ear. "One dance, and then the farewell, and then we're gone."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. "You keep counting down."
"Because I keep meaning it."
The music was drawing to a close—Beck could feel it in the way the tempo slowed, the way the melody began to fade, the way the other couples were already beginning to bow and curtsy. He didn't want to slow. He wanted to keep moving, keep spinning, keep Topher in his arms until the world ran out of music.
The final chord landed and Beck let it drag him to a stop, his hand still pressed flat against the small of Topher's back, unwilling to be the first to break the frame. Around them, the hall exhaled—the rustle of silk, the scrape of a chair, the low tide of a hundred conversations resuming. He felt Topher's fingers loosen on his shoulder, then tighten again, as if the release itself was a betrayal.
"We could stay," Topher said, so quietly Beck almost missed it. "Right here. Just—not move. See how long they let us stand like this before someone makes a speech."
"Tempting." Beck's thumb traced a slow arc across the wool at Topher's back. "But your mother's already rising from her table."
Topher didn't turn to look. His eyes stayed on Beck's face, and something in his expression shifted—a flicker of defiance that Beck had only ever seen once before, in a university courtyard at midnight, when Topher had stood between him and a professor's wrath. "Then we have maybe thirty seconds before she reaches us."
"Twenty, if she's wearing the good shoes."
Topher laughed, a short, startled sound that cut through the murmur of the hall, and Beck felt it land somewhere in his chest. He wanted to bottle it. He wanted to memorize the exact pitch of it, the way Topher's nose crinkled, the way his hand came up to cover his mouth as if laughter was something to be ashamed of.
"Don't do that," Beck said.
"Don't do what?"
"Hide it." Beck caught his wrist, gently, and pulled his hand away from his mouth. "I've been waiting six years to hear that sound. I'm not letting you swallow it."
Topher's eyes went wide, and for a moment Beck thought he'd pushed too far, revealed too much. But then Topher's fingers curled around his, and the smile that spread across his face was slow and warm and entirely unguarded. "You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?"
"Completely."
"Good." Topher squeezed his hand. "I've been insufferable about you for years. It's only fair."
Beck opened his mouth to answer, but the words died in his throat as he caught a familiar flash of movement at the edge of his vision—his mother, cutting through the crowd with the kind of purpose that parted nobles like water. She was wearing the deep burgundy gown she always wore when she meant business, and her eyes were fixed on them with the precision of a hawk sighting prey.
"Twenty seconds," Beck said.
"She's got the good shoes on."
"I noticed."
Topher's hand tightened on his. "What's the plan?"
Beck didn't have a plan. He had a lifetime of training in diplomacy, a mother who could negotiate a treaty out of a stone, and a betrothed whose hand was trembling slightly in his own. He looked at Topher—at the silver-blond hair falling across his brow, at the pale gray eyes that held six years of unspoken things—and made a decision that surprised even him.
"We dance," he said.
"The music's over."
"Then we start it again."
Beck turned to the musicians before Topher could argue, catching the eye of the lead violinist—an old man with silver hair who had played at every Marlow function Beck had ever attended. Beck didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He simply tilted his head, a fraction of an inch, and the violinist's bow found the strings.
The first note was soft, almost tentative, a single thread of melody that wound through the hall and made the conversations falter. The second note followed, and the third, and suddenly the music was there again—a slower piece, something older, a waltz that Beck had heard his grandmother hum when she thought no one was listening.
"Beck," Topher said, his voice catching. "What are you—"
"I'm not letting her corner us." Beck pulled him into position, his hand finding the small of Topher's back, his other hand lifting to cradle Topher's fingers against his chest. "Not yet. Not tonight. We've waited six years for this. She can wait six more minutes."
Topher stared at him for a long moment, and then something in his face softened—the tension draining from his shoulders, the careful composure slipping away like a mask. "You're going to start a scandal."
"I'm going to start a dance." Beck began to move, and Topher followed without hesitation, their steps finding the rhythm as if they'd been dancing together for years instead of minutes. "And if that scandal means I get to hold you for one more song, I'll take it."
The hall watched them. Beck could feel it—the weight of a hundred eyes, the whisper of a hundred voices, the sharp, assessing gaze of his mother, frozen mid-step at the edge of the floor. But none of it mattered. All that mattered was the way Topher's hand fit in his, the way their steps moved together, the way the music seemed to wrap around them and shut out the rest of the world.
"You're reckless," Topher said, but his voice was soft, almost reverent.
"I'm in love." Beck pulled him closer, feeling the warmth of Topher's body through the layers of wool and silk. "There's a difference."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. They turned, the marble floor sliding beneath their feet, and Beck caught a glimpse of his mother's face over Topher's shoulder—her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glittering with something that might have been anger or might have been pride. He couldn't tell. He didn't care.
"She's not going to let this go," Topher murmured.
"She never lets anything go." Beck spun them, the chandeliers scattering light across the floor. "But she's also not going to interrupt a dance in the middle of her own betrothal celebration. That would be bad form."
"You're using her own etiquette against her."
"I learned from the best."
Topher laughed again, that same startled, unguarded sound, and Beck felt it resonate through his chest like a struck bell. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it a thousand times, a million times, until the sound of it was as familiar as his own heartbeat.
"What else did you learn?" Topher asked, his voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. "All those years at university. All those formal balls. What else did you learn that you never told me?"
Beck's throat tightened. He could feel the weight of the question, the weight of six years of held-back words pressing against his ribs. "I learned the steps to every dance they taught us," he said slowly. "I learned how to bow, how to curtsy, how to make small talk with people I couldn't stand. I learned how to smile when I wanted to scream."
"And?"
"And I learned how to watch you." Beck's voice came out rough, cracked. "I learned how to find you in a crowd without looking. I learned the exact shade of gray your eyes turn when you're thinking about something you're afraid to say. I learned that you bite your lip when you're overwhelmed, and that you always, always stand at the edge of the dance floor, like you're waiting for someone to ask you to move."
Topher's steps faltered, and Beck caught him, his hand tightening on the small of his back. For a moment they stood still in the middle of the floor, the music swirling around them, and Beck watched the emotions play across Topher's face—surprise, disbelief, something raw and vulnerable that made his chest ache.
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched him try to find words, watched him fail, watched him try again. The music moved around them, patient, and Beck let it hold them there — two dancers frozen in the middle of the floor while the rest of the hall spun on without them.
"That's not fair," Topher said finally, his voice rough at the edges.
"What isn't?"
"You can't just —" Topher's hand came up, fingers pressing against Beck's chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath the wool. "You can't say things like that and expect me to just keep dancing. Like nothing happened. Like you didn't just —"
"Like I didn't just tell you that I've spent six years memorizing the exact way you bite your lip when you're overwhelmed?"
"Yes. That." Topher's thumb traced the line of Beck's collar, a small, unconscious movement. "How am I supposed to dance after that?"
Beck caught his wrist, gentle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it — the thin skin where the pulse jumped. "You're supposed to dance because it's the only way I get to hold you without causing a scandal."
"And when we're not in public?"
The question landed between them, heavy with implication. Beck felt his throat tighten, felt the heat rise in his chest, felt the weight of six years of wanting pressing against his ribs. "When we're not in public," he said slowly, "I'm going to tell you every single thing I've been holding back. And then I'm going to kiss you until neither of us can remember our own names."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. "That's — that's a lot of kissing."
"I've got six years to make up for."
The music swelled, and Beck spun them, the marble floor sliding beneath his boots. They passed the edge of the dance floor, close enough to the tables that Beck could smell the wax from the candles, could see the half-empty glasses of wine catching the chandelier light. He caught a glimpse of his mother's face over Topher's shoulder — her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glittering with something that might have been anger or might have been pride. He couldn't tell. He didn't care.
"Your mother is going to corner us," Topher said, his voice dry. "Before we can leave."
"She'll have to catch us first."
"She's very fast."
They turned again, and Beck caught the eye of the lead violinist across the hall — the old man with silver hair who had played at every Marlow function Beck had ever attended. Beck didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He simply tilted his head, a fraction of an inch, and the violinist's bow found the strings.
The music shifted — a slower piece, something older, a waltz that Beck had heard his grandmother hum when she thought no one was listening. The melody wound through the hall like smoke, curling around the dancers, drawing them closer together. Beck felt Topher's step falter, felt him catch himself, felt his hand tighten on Beck's shoulder.
"What are you doing?" Topher asked, his voice barely audible.
"Buying us time."
"You're starting another dance."
"I'm starting another dance." Beck's hand pressed flat against the small of Topher's back, pulling him closer. "The second one. The one before the farewell."
Topher stared at him for a long moment, and then something in his face softened — the tension draining from his shoulders, the careful composure slipping away like a mask. "You're going to start a scandal."
"I'm going to start a dance." Beck began to move, and Topher followed without hesitation, their steps finding the rhythm as if they'd been dancing together for years instead of minutes. "And if that scandal means I get to hold you for one more song, I'll take it."
"One dance down," Beck murmured against Topher's ear, close enough that the words were for no one else in the hall. "The second one is just beginning."
Topher's breath hitched — that same caught sound from the first dance, the one Beck had already memorized. "You're counting."
"I've been counting for six years." Beck's hand pressed flat against the small of his back, guiding them through the turn. "Counting the days until I could touch you like this. Counting the hours of every ball we stood on opposite sides of. Counting the minutes I wasted being afraid."
"Beck."
"Two dances," Beck said, and the words came out rough, scraped raw. "That's all that's between us and the door. The second dance, and then the farewell. And then I'm taking you somewhere the stars can't watch."
Topher's hand tightened on his shoulder, fingers curling into the wool of his coat. "You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it."
"The farewell —" Topher's voice dropped. "The herald has to call it. The whole hall has to watch us bow to each other and pretend this is just politics."
"Let them watch." Beck spun them, catching the chandelier light across Topher's hair, silver and gold and impossible. "Let them watch me look at you like you're the only thing in this room worth seeing. Because you are."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched the words form and die in his throat. The music moved around them — that old waltz his grandmother used to hum, the one that wound through the hall like smoke through candlelight. Beck felt the weight of a hundred eyes on them, felt his mother's gaze like a pin pressed between his shoulder blades, felt the whisper of the crowd ripple at the edges of the floor.
None of it touched him.
All that existed was the circle of his arms and the man inside them.
"You're going to make me cry at a betrothal ball," Topher said, and his voice cracked on the last word.
"Then cry." Beck's thumb traced the line of his spine through the midnight-blue silk. "I'll catch every tear and keep them. I've been collecting moments of you for six years. I have room for more."
Topher's laugh came out wet, startled, unguarded. "That's — that's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, and also the strangest."
"I'm a romantic man with strange impulses." Beck pulled him closer, feeling the heat of Topher's body through the layers of silk and wool. "You should know that about me by now. You've been watching me just as long as I've been watching you."
The words landed, and Beck felt Topher's step falter. He caught him, held him, guided them through the turn as if they'd been dancing together for decades instead of days.
"You knew," Topher said, and it wasn't a question.
"I knew you watched me." Beck's voice dropped, low and private, meant only for the space between their mouths. "I knew the way you looked at me across the lecture hall. I knew the way you always found a reason to stand next to me at the formal balls. I knew —" He stopped, swallowed. "I knew you wrote a poem once. I found it in the library, tucked into a book of star charts."
Topher went still in his arms.
"You found it," he repeated, his voice barely a breath.
"I found it." Beck's hand slid up his back, settling between his shoulder blades. "I read it. And then I burned it, because I was a coward who didn't know what to do with the fact that the most beautiful words I'd ever read were about me."
"You burned it."
"I memorized it first."
Topher's eyes went wide, silver-gray and shining in the chandelier light. "You —"
"'Your hands are fire,'" Beck said, and Topher's breath caught, sharp and audible. "'And I am the sky that burns around them. I have watched you set the horizon alight, and I have never once looked away.'"
"Beck."
"'I am the night that waits for your dawn,'" Beck continued, the words falling from his lips like a prayer he'd been holding for years. "'And I will wait forever, if that is what it takes to see you rise.'"
Topher's hand came up, pressing against Beck's chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath the wool. His fingers were trembling, and Beck caught them, laced them with his own, held them tight against his sternum.
"I never —" Topher's voice broke. "I never thought you'd read it. I never thought —"
"You never thought I'd feel the same."
"I never dared to hope." Topher's thumb traced the line of Beck's collarbone, small and unconscious. "I spent six years convincing myself that loving you was enough. That I didn't need you to love me back. That I could be content with watching you from across the room, with memorizing the way you laugh, with —"
"With standing at the edge of the dance floor, waiting for someone to ask you to move."
Topher's laugh came out broken, wet. "Yes. That."
"I'm asking." Beck pulled him closer, until there was no space left between them, until he could feel the rise and fall of Topher's chest against his own. "I'm asking you to move. To dance. To never stop dancing with me, if I have anything to say about it."
Topher stared at him, and Beck watched the emotions play across his face — surprise, disbelief, something raw and vulnerable that made his chest ache with the weight of it. The music swelled around them, the old waltz building toward its final movement, and Beck felt the seconds slipping away like water through his fingers.
"One dance left," he said, and the words felt like a countdown. "After this, the herald calls the farewell, and we bow to each other like strangers, and then —"
"And then?"
"And then I take your hand, and I walk you out of this hall, and I don't let go until we're somewhere the stars can't watch."
Topher's breath caught, and his hand tightened on Beck's shoulder. "And when we're there?"
"When we're there," Beck said, and his voice dropped to something low and rough, "I'm going to tell you every single thing I've been holding back for six years. And then I'm going to kiss you until neither of us can remember our own names."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched him try to speak, watched him fail, watched him try again. The music moved around them, patient, and Beck let it hold them there — two dancers frozen in the middle of the floor while the rest of the hall spun on without them.
"That's — that's a lot of kissing," Topher said finally.
"I've got six years to make up for."
"And you think one night will be enough?"
Beck's heart stuttered in his chest. "I think one night is where we start."
The music shifted, the final movement of the waltz building toward its close, and Beck felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He could feel his mother's gaze on them, could feel the sharp, assessing eyes of the Kaelen matriarch, could feel the whisper of the crowd at the edges of the floor — but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the way Topher's hand fit in his, the way their steps moved together, the way the music seemed to wrap around them and shut out the rest of the world.
"Two dances," Topher said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent. "You counted them."
"I counted every second of every dance I ever watched you from across the room." Beck's hand pressed flat against his back, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his body through the layers of silk and wool. "I counted the steps I never got to take with you. I counted the songs I never got to hold you through. And now that I have you in my arms, I'm counting every single second I have left before I have to let you go."
Topher's eyes went bright, and Beck watched him blink, watched him swallow, watched him fight to keep the tears at bay. "You can't — you can't just say things like that."
"I can." Beck's thumb traced the line of his jaw, gentle, reverent. "I've been holding them in for six years. I have a lifetime of things I can say."
The music swelled toward its final notes, and Beck felt the moment stretching between them, the last few seconds of the second dance slipping away like sand through his fingers. He didn't want to let go. He wanted to hold Topher here, in this moment, forever — the chandeliers scattering light across his silver hair, the music wrapping around them like a promise, the weight of six years of wanting finally, finally released.
"The farewell," Topher said, and his voice was barely audible. "The herald's going to call it."
"Let him call it." Beck's hand slid down to catch Topher's fingers, lacing them together, holding them tight. "Let him call it and watch us bow to each other like strangers. And then I'm going to take your hand, and I'm going to walk you out of this hall, and I'm going to show you every single thing I've been too afraid to say."
The music ended.
The final note hung in the air, vibrating through the floorboards, through the marble, through the space between their bodies. The hall erupted in applause, a wave of sound that crashed over them, and Beck felt Topher's hand tighten on his, felt the tremor run through his fingers, felt the weight of a hundred eyes pressing down on them.
But he didn't look away.
He didn't look at his mother. He didn't look at the Kaelen matriarch. He didn't look at the herald, already stepping forward, already raising his voice to call the farewell.
He looked at Topher.
And Topher looked back.
"One more," Beck said, and his voice was rough, cracked, raw. "One more song. Just one more. And then I'll let you go."
Topher's lips parted, and Beck watched him try to speak, watched him fail, watched him try again. The applause was still ringing through the hall, the herald's voice rising above it, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the man in front of him, the man he'd loved for six years, the man he was about to have to let go of — even if only for the length of a formal farewell.
"One more," Topher said finally, and his voice was soft, almost a whisper. "And then I'm yours."
Beck's breath caught.
"And then I'm yours," Topher repeated, and his hand tightened on Beck's, his thumb tracing the line of Beck's knuckles. "For as long as you'll have me."
The herald's voice cut through the noise, calling the farewell, calling the end of the second dance, calling them back to the formalities of the betrothal rite. But Beck didn't move. He stood frozen in the middle of the floor, Topher's hand in his, Topher's words echoing through his chest, the weight of six years of wanting finally, finally released.
"You're mine," he said, and the words came out raw, broken, fierce. "You're mine, and I'm never letting you go."
Topher's smile was like dawn breaking over a winter sky — slow, radiant, impossible. "I know," he said. "I've known since the moment I saw you across the lecture hall. I've known since the moment I wrote that poem. I've known since the moment you burned it."
Beck's throat tightened. "You knew?"
"I knew you found it." Topher's voice dropped, soft and intimate. "I knew you burned it. And I knew — I knew you memorized it, because the next week, at the formal ball, you recited it back to me. You thought I didn't hear. But I heard."
Beck stared at him, his heart pounding against his ribs. "You heard."
"I heard every word." Topher's hand came up, pressing against Beck's chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath the wool. "And I've been waiting six years for you to say it again."
The herald's voice rose, calling the farewell, calling the end of the second dance, calling them back to the formalities of the betrothal rite. But Beck didn't move. He stood frozen in the middle of the floor, Topher's hand in his, Topher's words echoing through his chest, the weight of six years of wanting finally, finally released.
The herald's voice rose above the noise, calling the words that would end the dance, that would begin the farewell, that would mark the final formal moment of the betrothal rite. But Beck didn't let go.
He held Topher's hand.
And he counted the seconds until they were gone.