Dancing Like Butterfly Wings 🦋 yungi [▶]

34

"Jesting about the sale of souls, about exchanges made in jest ... As if nothing were sacred. Oh, mighty ruler, your triumphs are fleeting. They worship you—yes—but only for now. Let us laugh, then, at the sun itself, striving not to ask, For how long? It is not tired. But you are ..."

Yeosang didn’t even flinch when Jongho stepped out of the bathroom—shirtless, towel slung low on his hips, droplets trailing down his sculpted chest like lines of a battle map. The younger man’s damp, jet-black hair clung to his temple, as if in reverence to the strength it crowned.

But Yeosang’s mind was far removed. His hands clutched the crumpled script of the play he was rehearsing, lips moving through lines not yet meant to be delivered aloud. He gestured, expressive, theatrical—each motion of his hands and arch of his brow calculated with surgeon-like precision.

Drama was not just an art at Cooperstone Institute. It was rebellion. It was sanctuary. A burst of color and life in a campus overrun by thesis deadlines, divine politics, and semi-immortal expectations.

This year, for the annual non-academic festival, the drama club—Yeosang’s newest venture—would present a musical set in Victorian England. He had Choi Yeonjun to thank (or curse) for convincing the director to cast him in a key male role. “Crossdressing would have slayed,” Yeonjun said. But not this time. The gods had smiled on Yeosang, sparing him the heat of wigs and the torment of fake breasts and stilettos.

"What are you performing?" Yeosang paused his monologue just long enough to glance at Jongho.

"What else? Martial arts."

"But there has to be something new, right? A club can’t keep doing the same routine every year—especially not your precious Taekwondo squad."

And of course, he was right.

Once Yeosang and Jongho had been textbook wallflowers—class-home-class-repeat. No clubs. No frills. Yeosang chased academic excellence with a thirst for perfection; Jongho? He just wanted the degree. But as Yeosang neared a GPA of 3.9, the promise of graduation opened the door to exploration. Drama called.

And Jongho, well ... Yunho and San had dragged him into Taekwondo. Apparently, the Ares-born needed someone to break bricks at open house and entice fresh blood.

"This year will be different," Jongho said with a smirk. "Because I’m in it."

"Oh? Show me." Yeosang’s voice danced with excitement, eyes sparkling like stage lights.

"Nope." Jongho’s smirk widened—half mischief, half war. "Then it wouldn’t be a surprise."

Yeosang pouted dramatically. "That’s cheating! And you always eavesdrop on me rehearsing my lines!"

“Not my fault you rehearse in front of me.”

The gall. The absolute nerve. Yeosang scowled, scooping up his pages in melodramatic protest. "Fine. I’ll practice in Yeonjun’s room!"

But before he could storm off, Jongho reached out and wrapped a hand around Yeosang’s wrist—his grip gentle, but firm.

"Who said I wanted you to stop rehearsing in front of me?"

Ares’ son, rough around the edges, wrestled with his softness like a reluctant poet. He couldn’t string flowery words together like Hongjoong did for Seonghwa. But he could ask for one thing,

"Could you dry my hair? Please."

Gods. Please. He said please.

Yeosang should have walked away. He wanted to walk away. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was Kang Yeosang, child of Aphrodite. Regal. Demanding. Worshipped. And completely enslaved by Jongho’s quiet requests.