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Plum colored twilight gathers over the fairground, but the noise and shimmer of life do not fade. Instead, the amber glow of lanterns strung high on poles burns brighter and brighter, painting the air in shades of copper and gold, where crimson flags and silk banners shimmer as they sway in the spiced wind. Hundreds of voices merge into a layered chorus: merchants call out to customers, offering fabrics, spices, sweets, pottery, and colorful toys; musicians pluck string instruments, flutes and drums beat out a rhythm; children shriek with excitement, darting between stalls, while the smell of roasted meat, fish patties, and bitter wine drifts through the rows, tickling nostrils and making heads spin. A little further away stand the circus tents, enormous, painted in red, blue, and gold patterns, with tall flags gleaming against the deepening violet sky, and from there come the muffled thud of drums, laughter, the sighs of acrobats, and the occasional shout of trainers practicing on their day off. Between the tents wander guards in dark uniforms, lazily keeping watch, while circus apprentices scurry nearby, carrying buckets, barrels, and bundles of rope like ants whose work never ends. The dusty ground trembles beneath countless footsteps, shadows grow longer and twist together, and in this many-voiced sea of light and scent lingers a kind of magic that promises wonders and marvels found nowhere else.
Jisung creeps along the edge of the square, keeping to the shadows of the tents and thick bushes so as not to draw the attention of guards and circus workers too absorbed in their duties yet still alert. His steps are light and cautious, his breathing uneven but controlled, because this is not his first time taking this route. He knows every gap, every hidden corner where he can avoid curious eyes. Once he presses himself against the wall of a wooden stall, waiting for a guard to turn the corner; another time he freezes behind a barrel to let a boy with a basket of juggling balls pass. His heart beats faster, threatening to betray him with its echo, but in that rhythm there is a peculiar anticipation, hungry and sweet, that drives him forward. At last he reaches the right tent, where the fabric near the ground has long come loose from the pole, and kneeling down, he carefully lifts the edge, trying not to make a sound. His hand trembles slightly, his breath comes in shallow bursts, as if his body itself knows that behind this curtain waits something he is willing to risk his peace for, and when his gaze slips inside, his heart starts pounding so violently it feels like the whole world must hear it.
Inside, under the high dome of the tent, in the amber light of dozens of lanterns hanging from the roof, Minho swings, wrapped in long silvery ribbons that fall from the ceiling like streams of moonlight. He is wearing a loose black shirt that moves softly with every motion, and tight leggings that highlight the strength and endurance of his legs. Light shoes cling to his feet, and his walnut colored hair is tied in a neat knot at the back of his head, with just a thin strand escaping, glinting in the firelight. His face looks as though carved from stone, sharp and cold, not softened by even a hint of a smile, and his eyes are feline, piercing, dark, and magnetic, as if hiding an abyss you could never escape once you slipped and fell in. Every movement of his body is a ritual. Sometimes he bends gracefully, spreading his arms and stretching his spine like a bowstring. Sometimes he flips sharply, letting the ribbons coil around his wrists and ankles. Sometimes he hangs upside down in midair, holding himself steady through sheer strength and perfect balance. He spins, rolls like a wave, glides along the ribbon, then freezes suddenly, arching his body in a curve, and the light catches every muscle, every tense tendon, showing how much power lies hidden in that elegance. The ribbons quiver and sing through the air, the fabric whispers, and he, like a bird, commands the height and freedom, toying with gravity as if it were a plaything.
Jisung watches him, and his chest tightens so much he can barely breathe, because the sight is too mesmerizing, too unreal, as if what stands before him is not a man but a spirit descended from the moon, just like the tales and legends his grandmother used to tell him as a child. He remembers the day he first saw Minho, on his birthday, when his friends had convinced him to go to a show as their gift. That night dissolved into applause, laughter, and light, but only one moment stayed in his memory: Minho, suspended in the air, with catlike eyes full of mysterious gleam. Since then, Jisung has not been able to forget him, has not been able to erase that vision from his mind, and every evening it returns to him like a sea wave crashing on the shore again and again.
Jisung, a simple fisherman who sells his catch at the same fair, is used to modest earnings and dreams of one day saving enough to buy his own piece of land, to build a house, and live a quiet life. He cannot afford to spend money on circus tickets; every coin matters, every bit saved counts, and yet his heart yearns to see Minho again. So he has chosen another way, sneaking to the tent, hiding in the shadows, stealing those precious minutes when he can freely watch the acrobat in his element. And now, watching the ribbons wind around Minho’s body, the play of his muscles, the fire in his eyes, Jisung realizes that this addiction only grows stronger, that each time he sinks deeper into this spectacle, with no way out of this mad captivity. All he can do is sigh quietly to himself and imagine how Minho’s skin might smell, how his slim waist might feel under his hand, how his laughter might sound.
"People pay for that, you know."
The quiet voice with its clear ringing tone suddenly cuts through the rustling silence of the tent. Jisung’s insides turn to ice, almost cracking under the frost forming inside him. His muscles turn to metal, locking him in place. His eyes dart around the tent, hoping the words were meant for someone else. But a moment later, Minho, hanging in the air as if he were resting in a hammock instead of ribbons that support only his waist and feet, slowly turns his head and opens his catlike eyes.
"Here to stare again, you pervert? You think I’m blind?"
A spring in his legs threatens to snap, pushing him to bolt and get out of here before he gets a beating for his actions. At the same time, he wants to hide from shame, washing away the disgrace of being caught like a boy trying to peek into a women’s bathing area. Still, his twitching limbs freeze again, refusing to let him run. His breath catches, his palms break out in a cold fine sweat. After a few seconds, Jisung squeezes forward and straightens to his full height, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and scraping the sole of his boot against a notch from an old screw fixture. Maybe his conscience stirred. Or maybe it was the simple thrill of being spoken to by the one who has haunted his thoughts for weeks.
"You are very beautiful."
Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Minho smirks. His arms shoot out and grab the ribbons hanging from the ceiling. Hooking himself on them and bending his legs, pointing his toes, the acrobat sits in midair, spinning on the hook and narrowing his catlike eyes as he tilts downward.
"Didn’t your mother teach you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?"
"Sorry. Really, I… I just saw the gap and wanted to check it out, and then… I saw you and… I couldn’t resist. I am sorry."
Minho stays quiet for a while, continuing to swing in the air, and the light of the oil lamps burning in the corners of the tent picks out the sharp cheekbones, the shimmer in his walnut hair, and the shadow of his long lashes falling across his catlike eyes. He looks down at Jisung as if he were a tiny fish that wandered into someone’s net, and in his gaze there is either irritation or mockery. The ribbons whisper quietly as he spins around himself, wrapping them around his wrists, and every movement is so precise and graceful that even the threat in his words cannot erase the mesmerizing beauty of what is happening. Jisung stands frozen, unable to tear his eyes away, feeling his throat dry, and he has to swallow.
"If I call the guards, you will spend a week in the dungeon for wandering around our territory, and on top of that, peeping."
"Sorry, I know it’s wrong, it’s just… I really wanted to look at you. I want to."
Jisung clears his throat and lifts guilty eyes to him. He decides not to dodge and to say it all as it is. It is awkward and shameful, but he prefers truth and not hiding his feelings. That is just how he is. Especially since he has this chance to talk directly to this mesmerizing guy, it feels like a gift from fate itself. Jisung absorbs every word, catching himself thinking even the acrobat’s voice is enchanting and intoxicating. Minho exhales through his teeth, frowning. It seems he cannot decide what exactly he feels: anger, puzzlement, or curiosity. His mouth opens to say something, but at that moment the curtains at the tent entrance rustle and approaching voices sound. Following his gaze and realizing that someone from the other circus performers is coming, Jisung finally bolts. He slips through the gap and bursts back into the spiced cool evening of the fair, racing across the field, leaping over bushes, and disappearing into the shadow of the trees.
He runs almost blindly, ignoring the path, until his lungs start to burn and his heart thunders as if it is about to burst from his chest. Only then, hiding in the thick shadow of an old elm, does Jisung stop and press his hand against the trunk, gulping in the night air. His palms shake, his legs wobble, but the tremor is not from fear. On the contrary, some wild, racing feeling pounds in his chest, as if he is flying, suspended on the same ribbons that wrapped around the other’s hands and wrists. Every time he closes his eyes, Minho’s face appears before him, cold, mocking, yet too alive to forget.
Jisung wraps his hands around his head, trying to calm down, but instead catches himself smiling. He was caught, he could have been punished, fired, even thrown in a cell, yet he feels no humiliation. It is as if he has touched something forbidden, frightening, and irresistible. Thrill grips him from within. Again and again he hears in his memory the soft clear voice saying, "If I call the guards," and even the threat sounds like something he wants to return to, to hear more, anything at all.
He knows that anyone else in his place would have kept their distance. That would be logical, right. But Jisung has never been able to turn back if his heart clings to something painfully important. And so, the very next evening, he slips along the familiar paths again, creeps between the tents, ducks under ropes, and slides toward the same gap. And it yawns there again, as inviting as ever, as if no one noticed his nightly visit. As if it had been left open on purpose, to let him in.
Inside, the air smells of oil, dust, and heavy sweat from training. Lamps burn in the corners, bathing the space in warm trembling light. In the center, high under the dome, Minho spins. His body arches, then straightens swiftly, ribbons wrapping around his waist and shoulders, each movement slicing through the air, leaving a trail of light and shadow. Jisung freezes, forgetting to breathe, and everything else disappears, leaving only this mesmerizing sight. More beautiful than any sunset, more graceful than the slyest twisting snake. Minho rolls smoothly over his shoulder and releases one of the ribbons, catching it deftly with his legs, sitting in midair as the fabric beneath him forms a kind of swing. His arms cross over his chest, and his gaze fixes downward, right into the gap where the uninvited guest hides.
"Here to stare again? You wanna end up in the dungeon that much?"
Somehow he has been noticed again. Though Jisung is almost ready to swear he gave no sign of his presence and no one even looked his way. It is as if Minho can feel another heart on his territory. This time Jisung does not twitch, does not flinch back, and does not try to melt into the shadows, even though his chest still throbs with a furious hum, like someone is beating a drumline straight under his ribs. He breathes in deeply, burning with the heavy warm air of the tent, and finally tears his gaze from Minho to slip inside through the gap without looking back, determined now that there is no turning back. The canvas swings behind him, muffling the sounds of the fair, and the space seems to close in around the two of them. His boots step softly on the packed sand of the arena, and Jisung, trying to look more confident than he feels, moves a few steps forward and carefully sets down the wooden bucket with a lid he has carried through the bushes.
"This is for you."
Minho, sitting under the dome on his strange weightless throne of ribbons, tilts his head, narrows his eyes, and wrinkles his brow. His gaze is sharp and skeptical, as if trying to see exactly what this daring little fish has brought, daring again to invade his silence.
"What is it?" the voice carries a cold curiosity mixed with slight irritation, like a cat noticing something unusual in its own cage.
Jisung reaches out and lifts the lid. Inside, the fresh catch glistens damply - silver fish bodies shimmering in the flickering lamp light, eyes clear and clean, the gills still lacking any bright redness. The smell of sea and river fills the tent, weaving through the oil smoke and sweat, creating a harsh yet surprisingly fresh contrast.
"Good catch, fresh, this is a gift for you. I want to apologize for peeking. I really… I did not do it for anything bad. I really like your performances."
He lowers his gaze to the bucket, fingers still resting on the lid as if to prevent the fish from jumping out, and feels his ears start to burn. Not because of shame over the catch, the catch is good, worthy. But because in front of him is this person, glowing in the lamp light, as if the light itself were made to settle smoothly on his cheekbones, along his curves, on every line of his body. Jisung steps back, leaving the bucket at the arena, and only then lifts his eyes again, trying to meet the sharp, icy gaze from above.
"You have money for fish but not for a ticket?"
"I caught it myself. I’m a fisherman, my father’s a fisherman, I know where the fish is fresher, younger, where it eats small prey not rotten but good. This one has good meat, it falls off the bones on its own. Keep the bucket too, it is solid, I made it and treated it so it does not rot. I stand by my craft, my hands are skilled."
"Look at you praising yourself," Minho snorts, winding the ribbon around his right wrist and leaning forward. "Complimenting yourself with heart."
"Why lie if I have the skills? I may not be rich yet, but I am resourceful. I can get food, patch a house, build furniture too."
"And why do I need this information?"
"Just because. So you know something about me. I am Jisung, by the way."
Minho exhales sharply through his teeth and seems to run his tongue along the inside of his cheek, thoughtfully. The ribbons sway slightly on the hook, sending amber glints across his walnut hair, a few thin strands around his face fluttering in the draft. From behind one of the tent walls comes the clang of weapons hanging on the guards’ belts. The catlike eyes dart toward that direction, then return challengingly to Jisung, who waits humbly for a decision. He could escape through the gap, but if Minho calls the guards, they will chase him to the very edge of the settlement.
"The fish saved you. Next time you try sneaking a peek, you will end up in the dungeon."
"Understood."
Jisung nods, tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looks at the thin pale ankles peeking from under the leggings, which stand out charmingly against the dark clothing. Then, catching Minho’s demanding gaze, he steps back, bends down, and disappears into the rustling grass of the fragrant night. Every encounter, however brief, leaves a strange, burning aftertaste in Jisung. He returns to his place through the tall grass, listening to the river rush at night, the waves breaking on the stones, yet Minho’s voice still rings in his head, cold and cutting like a blade, yet soft and smooth, like silk. He knows that any intrusion into the tent could have ended badly, that a single shout and the guards would have dragged him through the dirty streets to the dungeon. But it does not happen. Minho has let him go again. Not spared, not softened, no, rather indulged himself in a whim, postponed the punishment, and that excites Jisung more than any tender words could.
He finds himself waiting for the evening to come again. His hands smell of fish as usual, mending nets, hammering boards, but all these familiar tasks feel like empty shells because his thoughts keep slipping back to the tent, to the swaying ribbons, to the light of the lamps playing across Minho’s cheekbones. Jisung tries to push the obsession away, tries to convince himself that it is all trivial, but the more he thinks, the stronger the pull becomes. He is drawn not only to the acrobat’s beauty but also to the danger, to that feeling of breaking the rules, of defying fear. The next evening his legs carry him automatically along the paths leading to the circus tent. He creeps through the grass, freezes as guards with spears pass by, and waits until their footsteps fade before slipping toward the familiar slit in the canvas. Inside, it smells of smoke, sweat, and the sweet fat of the braziers used during the day. Again there is the scent of oil from rubbed ropes, the shimmer of lamps, the swaying shadows on the dome. There, high at the top, the body moves again as if it does not belong to the earth. Minho, wrapped in ribbons, spins in the air, sometimes opening his arms, sometimes twisting sharply, like a bird trapped in a golden beam.
Jisung stands, forgetting to breathe, watching every muscle shift under the tight fabric of sliding clothing, watching the hair fly when he makes a quick turn, feeling his heart beat not in his chest but somewhere in his throat. He knows he should leave before being noticed, but he cannot. His feet seem rooted to the ground. And at one point Minho’s gaze suddenly falls downward again. He, of course, somehow senses him. The ribbons slow their movement, the body hangs in the air, then slowly descends closer to the ground.
"Do you like to tempt fate?" his voice is muffled, but a hint of mockery runs through it. "Or do you really want someone to break something on you?"
Jisung does not feel any real threat in this, even though he does not know this person, does not know what he is capable of. But he senses that if Minho had really been angry at him for bursting into the tent some time ago, he would have disposed of him already. He would not have bothered with ceremony or small measures that compromise his own comfort. Sand crunches under his boots as well as some nuts fallen from someone’s bag. A hand reaches behind his belt and pulls out a small bundle, unwraps the cloth, and takes out a delicate carved hairpin. The wood is polished to a shine, carved with a pattern of intertwined fish tails. He lifts it, catching the soft golden glint in the lamp light, and suddenly tosses it upward.
"This is for the intrusion."
The hairpin soars and cuts through the air with a glint. Minho stretches his hand and catches it between two fingers as easily as if it had jumped into his palm by itself. The hooks of the ribbons click lightly, sending a faint echo under the dome. He examines the ornament slowly and squints in puzzlement, running his thumb along the carving.
"Why all of a sudden? Spending to make amends?"
"I didn’t spend anything. I just took it."
A pause falls over the tent, thick with confused bewilderment. Then it is broken by a sharp and entirely unexpected sound. Not a rebuke for theft. Not an order to leave. Laughter. Minho throws his head back and laughs, bright and light, completely unlike the voice he had used before. The laughter is pure, without venom, without bite, as if it has escaped spontaneously, and this is exactly what strikes Jisung. He stands, enchanted, unable to look away. His heart seems to tear at the sound. This laughter is worth more to him than any praise, any recognition, more than the warmest glance. Because it carries something alive, something real, and Jisung feels that for the sake of this sound, he would come to the tent again and again, risking everything, fleeing angry merchants, hiding in thorny bushes.
"You’re fucked in your head, fisherman," Minho pronounces his verdict, tossing the hairpin and swaying slightly in the ribbons. "Making up with offerings."
"Well, seems to work so far."
"Next time I call the guards."
"Then I have to find something that outweighs it."
And Jisung keeps his word. Fueled by that laughter, which struck him to the very depths of his soul, he no longer doubts that he will find his way to the tent again and again, and no thicket, no darkness, no risk will stop him. He notices: Minho may threaten, may throw cold words about the guards, but he never moves toward the entrance, never calls someone from outside, never patches the slit in the canvas, and even in his voice there is no real intention to rid himself of the persistent fisherman. Jisung senses this and clings to that thread, which seems to connect them - a thin but resilient thread, like the ribbons on which Minho sails through the air every day. And so he starts coming to the tent more often: every evening when there is no performance, he sneaks to the familiar slit carrying something that he thinks might catch Minho’s interest. Sometimes it is a bag of nuts from the distant mainland, snatched from merchants’ boats while they loaded sacks. Sometimes it is a new hairpin, a brooch with colored glass, a ribbon for hair or clothing, candies he has collected one by one from the market. Each time Minho frowns, threatens to call the guards, but the threat does not fall, the words remain just words. And always, as if on purpose, he lets Jisung watch for a while, see how he works on the ribbons, how his body curves, cuts through the air, reaches for the light, and only after sensing the gaze does he descend, meet his eyes, and say with dry irritation, "Why are you here again, fisherman?" But beneath the irritation there is no cold anger, and Jisung feels it, which makes his heart beat every time as if it will burst.
Today he comes again, sliding along the familiar route, avoiding the guards and hiding in the thick bushes. In his hands this time is not a bag or a brooch but a small silver ring, cold and slightly heavy, with a sapphire that trembles with the lamp light. Jisung, after admiring the show, hearing the sarcastic greeting as usual, and stepping into the arena, skillfully tosses the ring upward so that it glints and arcs directly toward Minho. He catches it effortlessly in midair with two fingers, just like he did with the hairpin the first time, and a flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, far more genuine than before. He examines the stone, and a faint smile touches his lips.
"Where did you manage to snag this trinket?" his voice is teasing, but there is real bewilderment in it. "Aren’t you afraid the palace guards will cut you to pieces for this?"
"I didn’t take it, I’m not that crazy," Jisung smirks, circling in the acrobat’s shadow and brushing his fingers along the tips of the ribbons above him. "It just floated into my hands. Can you believe it? I was gutting fish, all as usual, back and forth with my knife, and inside one of them, this beauty was hiding. Probably someone dropped it from a boat, and boom, it got swallowed. Two birds with one stone. So I didn’t steal it, I found it."
Catching Minho’s interested gaze, Jisung cannot resist and begins telling the story like a true performer. He throws his hands up, mimicking the fish swimming along the current, minding its fish business, when suddenly something from the higher world glints before it. His mouth stretches into a grotesque grimace, eyes wide as if he himself is living every twist, shoulders jerking to the imagined movements of the fish. He steps forward, showing how the fish opens its mouth and swallows the precious jewel, not realizing with its tiny brain what slides into its belly, only for it to drop straight into his hands, landing in the net. Jisung bends, mimicking the weight of the catch, almost falling backward, winking at Minho as if sharing a secret story, and tosses the tiny ring from finger to finger, as if it chooses its path in the air. His voice shifts from fear to awe, and laughter escapes him at the absurdity, softly spreading through the tent.
Minho, initially frowning and stern, unconsciously squints, then the corners of his lips twitch into a slight smile. He watches as Jisung exaggerates every movement, turning the simple possession of a ring into a captivating spectacle, and something inside the acrobat relaxes. The ribbons sway beneath him as he leans slightly, seemingly trying not to miss a single gesture, a single grimace from the fisherman, and with each new illustration from Jisung, the smile grows wider, almost involuntarily, quietly and surprisingly warmly. Minho feels how the weightlessness in the air mixes with the gentle humor and charm Jisung brings into his strict, training world.
"Idiot."
"Why idiot again? Look at this trinket I brought you. At the market, they would’ve given me a whole sack for it."
"I didn’t force you. Go sell it."
"Why take someone else’s money? Keep it for yourself, you like trinkets anyway."
"And what?"
"And that. I want you to have it. To treasure it."
Minho stares at Jisung for a while, at his face, kind, soft, already familiar, almost like home in its simplicity and honesty. The lamp light falls gently on his honey-colored skin, highlighting the smile lines, gliding over a mole near the left corner of his lips, reflecting in the shine of his round eyes, which unconsciously follow every movement of the acrobat. The ribbons sway slowly under the tent dome, creating a gentle rustle, like the breathing of a large animal, blending into the warm mix of smells, oil, dust, fresh fruit, and steamed corn from outside. Everything around seems frozen in anticipation of the next breeze. Lamps glow steadily, the canvas trembles at the slightest draft, shadows flicker across the walls like dancing ghosts. Jisung feels his heart tighten with tension while simultaneously growing a hot, vague desire, a desire to come closer, to touch, to be near, even though the whole world seems to keep him at a distance.
The cloth flaps, the hooks click. Suddenly Minho descends smoothly, much closer to the ground than usual, the ribbons rustling under the weight of his body, and each second of flight stretches into infinity. The acrobat hangs almost level with him, his catlike eyes studying him attentively, as if trying to pierce into his thoughts, and his breath mingles with the smell of household soap and the fish scales ingrained in the fabric.
"Close your eyes," he says quietly, almost a whisper, but with the command certainty that makes Jisung obey instantly without asking questions.
Jisung shuts his eyes, and the tent becomes thick, enveloping, filled with expectation. Seconds crackle, trembling and scattering in fragments. His ribs hum. Then he feels a light touch on his lips, cautious, almost weightless, yet sharp enough to make his insides ring, his blood hum in his temples, and his heart leap in his chest as if it will burst out. Everything around dissolves, lamps, ribbons, scents, the gentle rustle of fabric, only this touch remains, a tiny but all-consuming spark igniting something ancient and powerful inside him.
When Jisung slowly opens his eyes, Minho is already rising back up, his hands gripping the ribbons, his feet pressing into the fabric, and he hangs with his back to him, hiding his face and taking refuge in the unreachable safety of his familiar dome. Jisung’s pulse races, his breathing still uneven, but he smiles softly and genuinely, startled by the unexpected kiss and by the feeling that now he is closer to Minho than ever before, even despite the distance that has formed again. The lamps cast a gentle amber glow across his face, highlighting the redness of his cheeks, a mix of excitement and joy, and the warm scent of the acrobat: skin, citrus candies, and the ribbons’ fabric, - all of that seems to flow straight into his veins, sending shivers across his body.
"Do you wanna go to the fair for dinner with me after the performance tomorrow?"
Jisung’s question somehow lifts the weight of having to comment on what just happened. Yet he does not cut it off, instead building a bridge toward the new tent of something that is beginning to grow between them. Minho stays silent for a moment, still hanging with his back to him, swaying slightly, bending and stretching the foot that presses against the ribbon. The lamp light highlights his neat but strong figure, gilds his chestnut hair, and softens the contours of his skin.
"I’ll see how I feel. Now get out, or I’ll call the guards."
Jisung cannot hold back a silly smile. He knows that Minho will never actually call the guards. He looks once more at the acrobat, at his weightless body, at the ribbons, the flickering light and shadows, at the thin strip of bare skin along his lower back, and with a light, warm sense of satisfaction, he turns and steps outside. The spicy night breeze ruffles his hair, the scent of the forest and the fair blends into the mixed aroma of oil and fabric, and Jisung walks through the grass, feeling that this entire evening, every moment, every breath, and that first touch have become something real, intimate, and surprisingly precious, something he will carry inside himself until he can come again and meet Minho under the tent dome among the glittering ribbons.