Dangerously yours

The dance didn't stop. Couldn't. Every step they took was a negotiation without words, a blade passed back and forth with the care of two men who knew exactly how deep it could cut. The music wrapped around them like smoke—heavy, coiling, knowing. It pulsed with their silence, conducting a symphony of tension strung between their bodies, taut as a tripwire.

Dazai's thoughts spiraled—elegant, erratic. Like the curve of his partner's wrist, or the way Fyodor's eyes never once left his. There was no map for this territory. It was dangerous, dark, and unfamiliar—not hatred, not quite. But not trust either. Something in between, something razor-edged and far too tempting.

Fyodor's presence was a shadow pressed to Dazai's skin. His touch—light, almost ghostly—meant less than the weight behind it. That gaze. That calm, knowing stare that seemed to unravel threads Dazai hadn't even realized were fraying.

It wasn't the kind of animosity he'd built strategies around. This was quieter. More patient. A slow poisoning made sweeter by the taste of it.

Then—subtle, almost imperceptible—the music shifted. A change in rhythm, unexpected. Just enough to tilt the floor.

Dazai adjusted instantly, seamless as ever, all instinct and experience.

But Fyodor... Fyodor didn't need to adjust. He was already there. Perfect. Poised. As if the song had changed just to meet him.

Dazai's smile returned, languid and sharp. "Impressive," he murmured, voice trailing between notes. "Didn't know you were such a devotee of finesse."

Fyodor's response was a slow, deliberate smile—like a blade slipping free of velvet. "I've always appreciated control. The quieter kind. Like you, Dazai... you dance even when you pretend not to."

The ballroom had begun to notice now. Eyes followed their movements, hushed whispers rising like static. Two men at the heart of it all—not dancing in harmony, but orbiting one another like stars destined to collide. No one interrupted. No one dared.

Dazai's gaze swept the room and then flicked back, his voice softer now, darker. "And what exactly is it that you think you control?"

Fyodor didn't blink. "The game," he said. Simple. Certain. "As do you."

It wasn't boasting. It was truth passed like a secret. And Dazai felt it settle between them with the weight of inevitability.

This wasn't a dance anymore.

It was a war.

A test of who could hold their breath the longest while smiling. Who could bleed without letting the other see the wound. And maybe—just maybe—it was something neither of them had prepared for: connection.

A tremor passed through Dazai's chest. Not fear. Not weakness. But something too old and too human to be named. His grip tightened, just slightly. His mask stayed fixed, but there was a crack forming behind the eyes.

The world faded to the rhythm of their footwork, a blurred canvas of gold and shadow. The only clarity: Fyodor.

"I wonder," Dazai said, voice laced with amusement that didn't quite touch the chill underneath, "who's going to break first?"

Fyodor's smile widened—slow, indulgent, merciless. "Oh, Dazai... I don't intend to break. I intend to watch you unravel."

The words wrapped around him like silk soaked in venom. A promise. A threat. An invitation.

And Dazai—damn him—he didn't recoil.

He leaned into it.

"Then it's a matter of time," he said quietly. "Until one of us decides to stop dancing."

They spun again. The music climbed—strings aching, breathless—as if the orchestra itself sensed the gravity of what passed between them.

And in that moment, amid all the chaos and elegance, Dazai realized something that rattled him more than the game itself.

He didn't want it to end.

Not the music. Not the dance.
Not this.

Not yet.

The real game had only just begun.