Hearts by schedule

The Palace

The Mistake of Almost

Setting: The palace library-turned-sangeet-prep-room, late night. Rain taps against the windowpanes. Music testing thumps faintly through the floor.

Arcon hadn’t planned to stay this late.

But one of the dancers had sprained her ankle, a decorator misplaced the table linen samples, and now the monsoon rain had decided to add its own mood to the chaos.

He sat barefoot on the floor, surrounded by scattered cushion fabrics and swatches of silk. His hair had slipped from its clip, and for the first time in months, he looked—undeniably—tired.

And that’s exactly how Art Kapoor found him.

Leaning against the doorframe, holding two cups of something steaming.

“Guessing you didn’t eat dinner either?”

Arcon looked up, startled. “You don’t sleep, do you?”

“Only when the universe behaves.” He walked in, casual as ever. “So… not often.”

He handed over a cup.

“Ginger tea. The real stuff. From the chef who’s still scared of you.”

Arcon took it, blinking. “I’m not scary.”

“You’re terrifying,” Art replied, settling down across from him. “But in a holy kind of way.”

Arcon frowned. “What does that even mean?”

Art shrugged. “Like you were born with a spine made of deadlines and a heart too soft to show people. It’s complicated. I like complicated.”

Arcon stared into his tea. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… careful.

“You flirt with everything that moves, don’t you?” he asked eventually.

“Only with things that make me nervous.”

Outside, the rain thickened, tapping harder against the windows. A bolt of thunder cracked overhead, close enough to feel.

“I was engaged once,” Arcon said suddenly, voice low. “Two years ago. He said I chose work over him. Maybe he was right.”

Art looked up, slower this time. “He definitely wasn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I’ve seen how you give yourself to everything you touch. You don’t love halfway, Arcon. That kind of love—it scares people. Not everyone can hold it.”

Their eyes locked.

No charm. No banter. Just two truths colliding.

“You can’t say things like that,” Arcon whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing them.”

Art reached out—gently—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“You should.”

And then… he kissed him.

Soft. Careful. Like someone who knew he was holding something already cracked.

Arcon didn’t stop him.

But he didn’t kiss him back either.

When they pulled apart, the air felt too loud. The rain outside couldn’t cover the silence between them.

“I can’t do this,” Arcon murmured.

“I know,” Art said, nodding. “But I had to try.”