“Don’t you know why?”
A brown man rejects an English rose. Robin watches, wonders, asks why; Ramy knows that Robin has an answer. Around them, the ball carries on, sounds of merry music and gleeful chatter mixed with the taps of dress shoes against the floor. The girls were nowhere to be seen, twirled away by their dancing partners into the waves of dark silk and bright satin; they were alone in their corner of the hall, encased in the soft buzz of fairy lights and the smell of nameless delicacies.
***
Robin knows the answer. He could feign ignorance only for so long before he loses that option; it’s the easiest and safest way out for both of them. He was too familiar with the explanation of racism, of colonialism, that could justify Ramy’s refusal as an act of self-preservation: he was a brown man, and beyond the utopia of Babel, he could never compare to Letty. Him laying hands on the precious blonde was equivalent to brutalizing the boundaries of civilization, an inferior race claiming a dangerous equality with the likes of Pendennis and the Sharps.
But deep down, Robin suspected that Ramy’s rejection was just as personal as it was socially rational, if not more so. There was a missing piece to the puzzle of twinkling fairy lights and sparkling wine, of rare delicacies and obnoxious Oxford boys. If anything, Ramy dodged the question and left Robin to piece together and narrate the truth.
Robin could grudgingly admit to his actions, sulking like a self-centered twat and drinking too fast like a stupid undergrad, but he cannot afford to question further. The unacknowledged truth rests between them, charged with possibility and peril, echoing through their overlapping breaths and heartbeats.
The silence between them dragged on, as if they were enclosed in a sphere above the din of the hall. He caught himself purposely avoiding Ramy’s eyes and looking into the far corner of the hall, to the wavering dance of candlelight and shadow. Taking a deep breath, Robin turned back to Ramy. He was dressed in the same attire as Robin, evening jacket over the server’s uniform, edges no longer as crisply ironed as they were at the start of the night, but still looking put-together and refined. Trailing his gaze upwards, Robin appreciated his strong jaw and square features. His golden-brown skin shone warm in the candlelight, as Robin watched, mesmerized by the deep bronze of Ramy’s cheeks and the matte glow of his lips. It was only then that Robin dared meet his gaze, dark and vulnerable, shining in anticipation of an answer even though the question was rhetorical. Robin noted his brows, furrowed into a silent question, and his insanely long lashes, downturned to frame his eyes at a perfect angle. Within Ramy’s expression, Robin saw expectation, an unnamed mixture laced with equal parts fear and hope. Just as he found both emotions within himself, he suspected that he was unconsciously mirroring the exact expression.
Reciprocity. Perhaps that was their answer, Robin thought through a wine-colored daze. The fear from this realization threatened to push his fragile life off the edge of a precipice; the hope murmured fantasies of dark willows, vibrant flowers (柳暗花明), of finding life in a desolate place (绝处逢生). The intensity of his realization took him by surprise. He wasn’t sure if Ramy knew, but from the way his eyes softened under Robin’s gaze, he trusted that Ramy came to the same conclusion.
Robin opened his mouth and realized his lips were stretched taught. Embarrassed, he attempted another sip at his glass of claret, only to find it empty save for one drop at the bottom of the glass. Rami chuckled gently, and Robin wondered if he noticed the alcohol was burning a flush on his cheeks. Finally, it was Ramy who broke eye contact first, looking towards the direction of the bar: “We should get you a glass of water. To clear up your head, Birdie.” Nodding slightly and clearing his throat for no particular reason, Robin acquiesced as Ramy guided him by the elbow through the hall.
The moment had passed without either of them acknowledging the unsaid. Robin tried very hard to ignore the warmth at his side where Ramy’s fingers held his arm, telling himself it was a side effect of the claret coursing through his system. Nevertheless, his breath hitched when Ramy moved his other hand to rest on his shoulder. They wove their way through the crowd, evening jackets whispering softly against each other.
***
At a quarter to midnight, the cohort unanimously decided that they had better places to be. Rami led them to the tower, which, to their surprise, was hosting a Babblers’ party of its own.
Robin and Victoire were carried away by the camaraderie and champagne, while Ramy swapped the latter for sparkling water and syrup. After two rounds of toasts to the miracle that is translation, Letty was finally eased back into a festive mood. One more cup of strong ale, however, rendered her a crying mess. She sat at the foot of the staircase, sobbing and hugging Victoire until Cathy suggested that they bring her to rest on the cot upstairs. Robin and Ramy’s polite offers to help were sternly declined by the tipsy ladies, on the flimsy pretext that the girls needed to work some magic on Letty’s platinum curls before she slept (the knowledge of that magic was apparently restricted to the female gender.)
Once again, they found themselves alone, this time in comfortable silence. A lively jig was playing somewhere, pale ale flowed freely from a barrel in the corner of the lobby. Familiar laughter drifted around beneath the chandelier, its crystals refracting light in fantastic patterns across shelves and faces.
Robin glanced at Ramy, feeling more sober despite being a few drinks deeper than an hour ago. He caught Ramy looking at the dance floor with vague interest, his lips turned in a genuine smile, watching the fourth years attempt a dance line but failing miserably to keep up with each other’s rhythm. He turned around to face Robin, his smile unwavering: “They’re all such terrible dancers.” The glint in his eyes was mischievous, fully aware of the social taboo of expressing one’s genuine opinions without filter. The crowd, however, seemed to think the same, laughing and cheering good-naturedly at every stumble and misstep of the performing fourth-years.
“I suppose you should go show them how to dance.”
“Not this time, Birdie. See, I’m simply a critic when it comes to jigs. Too fast and loose, not enough power nor grace.”
That drew a laugh from Robin. “So what is your specialty, Mr. Mirza, master of all dances except for one?”
The jig came to a chaotic end, the similarly chaotic twist of limbs across the dance floor drew bouts of applause and cheering.
“Waltz is my strongest suit, if only they had some consideration for this poor sober soul in their company.” Ramy made a face, straightening his jacket and puffing out his chest, as if to lend more gentlemanly credibility to his previous statement. I believe that, Robin thought to himself.
Without realizing what he was saying, he blurted out: “Let’s call for a waltz number.”
Ramy turned to look him in the eyes, and Robin realized belatedly that the twinkle of mischief was tinted with something else. Careful but teasing. Cautious but loving.
“I thought you didn’t know how to ask for a dance, Birdie.”
Robin took a deep breath, processing what had just transpired between them, as if he was about to dive into the depths of an unknown river. There was no denying his own blush this time, he realized belatedly. He couldn’t bear to look away from Ramy’s dazzling grin, his dark curls catching the multicolored light of the chandelier made it seem as if he had a halo. He was definitely drunk, too drunk to make the rational decision, which was to pull back.
Ignoring their conversation, he reached out to touch Ramy’s hair.
The tactile feeling of well-oiled curls under his palm seemed to jolt him back to reality. Robin barely had the time to gasp out an apology when Ramy grabbed hold of his wrist, bringing it down to cup the area above his heart. All Robin could feel was the strong and steady pulse of a heartbeat, and the gentle pressure of Ramy’s fingers over his. He found his voice again, quivering slightly but reassured by the rhythm beneath his palm.
“I suppose tonight will be a learning experience.” He had not forgotten about his inexperience in dance, but he trusted Ramy to teach him the steps as they go. There was so much surety that after a leap of faith, he could soar.
A warm laugh rumbled out of the man in front of him. “I’m sure they could indulge us this one time.” His eyes darted towards the cavernous space upstairs, and Robin understood. It felt inherently wrong for one to flaunt what another could never have. For now, however, they were absolved of this guilt.
***
Dawn was breaking by the time they departed for Magpie lane. Cathy came downstairs in the small hours of the night, and reported curtly that she and Victoire have succeeded in placating Letty. The girls were snuggled comfortably on the cot upstairs, and the boys were free to leave without worry.
His waltz with Ramy started out awkward, as Robin had expected. Yet as the music progressed, and other couples joined the floor, Robin found himself flowing to the music, extending his limbs freely to match Ramy’s graceful movements. Nobody commented on their presence together in a dance, and everyone seemed to be too absorbed in their own merrymaking to care that someone in a gentleman’s jacket was dancing the lady’s part of the waltz. They ended up sharing more than one dance, and by the end they were simply swaying to the music, with Robin leaning his head against Ramy’s shoulder, his arms against his broad shoulder.
The eastern sky was bright and rosy as they turned onto Magpie Lane, and the first rays of the sun shone across the horizon as they climbed the stairs to their rooms. Robin was practically floating, almost dizzy from the exhilaration of the night. He could swear Ramy had been wearing the same satisfied grin ever since they started dancing. The narrow window at the end of the hallway let through shafts of golden light, showering everything in its path with an undulating vibrance.
They stopped wordlessly in front of their respective doors. This was where they could retreat into their own spaces, into themselves. Something inexplicably tender rose in Robin’s chest, tightening around his chest and catching in his throat. Without a word, Ramy turned around to face him, a familiar look of silent expectation written across his expression.
Robin spoke despite the dryness in his mouth: “You know, there’s a Chinese saying, literally poking through , or breaking through the window paper (捅破窗户纸) . ” He extended his index finger, to which Ramy offered his open palm. Robin gave it a playful poke.
“I suppose you have a brilliant match-pair in mind.”
“Not yet,” Robin smiled, “even if I did, this might be too long a phrase to fit on a single bar.”
“Are you ever going to explain what it means?” There was more hope than fear in Ramy’s eyes this time around, Robin thought. He kept his breath steady, his gaze fixed on the warm brown of Ramy’s pupils.
“It roughly means to reveal a truth of some sort, to express what one never dared to express.” He saw Ramy nodding intently. “Actually? It’s not all that positive. It could mean exposing a flaw, a problem. An unwanted truth.” Brittle window paper. That was all that was left of his defenses.
“So what is on the other side of our window?” Our. These words sounded like a challenge. A plea.
Robin hummed thoughtfully. “I think we already know.” Robin’s mind ran through everything in the past three years, the happiest years of his life. Of sunsets on the lawn, skin the color of burnished bronze, elderflower syrup sweet and heavy on his tongue.
He leaned in to close the distance between them, briefly meeting Ramy’s lips halfway. They were just as delicate as he had imagined, tasting like honey and cream and a million possibilities.
“Remember when I said it’s like I’ve known you forever? We’re well past having a window between us.”
Ramy smiled. “I know. I think we’re just perfect.”
