Archive of Our Own

Ni vivir puedo en tu ausencia,

ni vivo cuando te veo,

ni es del mundo este deseo

que consume mi existencia.

Nieve soy en tu presencia

y volcán lejos de ti,

y es que tienes sobre mi

tal poder que dudé al verte

si era el amor o la muerte

lo que en el alma sentí...

Tango dancing began with the culture of visteo; grace born from the training required to handle a weapon made into a chivalrous embrace, fierce and elegant at once.

That is what fighting alongside someone else is, ultimately: a dance. It's precision, energy, strength, trust. It's meeting with the deepest instincts of one another. The rhythm is frantic, the music unforgiving; but wounds can build just as much and as beautifully as art does. That is what Atsushi and Akutagawa have learnt over time.

Their sparring sessions are as intense as their usual fights, if slightly less nerve-wracking, without the weight of the whole city on their backs. They train near the city's containers, where the waves crashing against Yokohama's port can hide the beasts' howling. They adapt to each other uncannily quickly through tempo changes and dissonant chords; Atsushi's fierceness keeps the foundation afloat, Akutagawa's agility keeps them from slowing down.

Ryuunosuke sends the first pack of blows. He floods Atsushi's senses with rashoumon, waves and blades of cloth keeping the confrontation in a middle distance. The tiger punctures through the black fabric, dodges and runs over it like earth on a landslide.

The atmosphere fills with the complaints of the pavement breaking beneath them as they settle into close combat. It's frantic, but calculated. A shin striking a torso, a forearm shielding the head from a fist, fingers on the throat and knuckles on the chest.

The dragon's head flies back with a grunt, hungry fangs he usually hides peeking through ashen lips. He doesn't wait to retaliate, taking hold of Atsushi's arm and forcing him to twist in place, only to dig his heel on his lower back. The tiger springs back, landing a kick on his opponent as he pushes against the floor.

They stand face to face again. Akutagawa dodges two round kicks, answering with a cross punch. Atsushi answers with a storm of blows, his speed unmatched, but rashoumon grabs him by the elbows and gets him out of Akutagawa's face. He attempts to kick again, only to get yanked by the ankle, Akutagawa's boot landing firm on the mouth of his stomach.

"Are you intoxicated? Your movements are sluggish today." The mafia's dog points out, voice even and dignified, using the second it takes Atsushi to process his statement to drill rashoumon into his abdomen.

Atsushi barges forward, cursing his partner as he jumps back out of the way. Tiger stripes mark his cheekbones as he packs all his strength into the next attack. Akutagawa has the nerve to smile at the sight, to say "That is what I like to see" proudly as he blocks a blow with his ability. "Don't you dare hold back on me, Weretiger."

They clash once more, and it's fist against fist, armor of fiber made into a demon against the very strength of the moon. The tiger's hind legs are more potent, but rashoumon's support is sturdier. They break apart on beat, and black spades staccato through the salty air of the city.

It occurs to Atsushi, as his claws sweep rashoumon's spears out of the way, that the thought of seriously hurting Ryuunosuke has become distressing. He keeps throwing punches at the man anyways, striking with paws as big as his face, and his mind travels to when the claws on his fingers were an extention of his partner; the culmination of their alliance, how they became unstoppable only after transforming into one.

A kick throws him back into the nearest wall. It's a split second between his organs' collapse and their regeneration. He stands up while his lungs are still recovering their shape, the pain shocking him into awareness as he grabs at rashoumon and pulls, bringing his partner forward to receive another punch.

They defeated the closest thing there is to God together, dammit. All the possible stakes were on the table then. But it is now, under the pale morning sun, that seeing blood dripping from Akutagawa's nose scares him. His cheekbone is already swollen, his jaw stained green and purple, and Atsushi wishes his own wounds could last half as long as Akutagawa's so maybe the guilt pooling on his stomach would subside.

Ryuunosuke clicks his tongue, annoyance coating his face. He slaps Atsushi across the face with a black tendril. It feels like a caress compared to everything he received earlier.

"Your thoughts are focused elsewhere," he drawls, "we cannot train like this."

They're not elsewhere, Atsushi thinks, they're completely consumed by you. But that gets brushed aside as quickly as it came and he sits back on the pile of debris where he had crashed before.

Akutagawa turns away as a coughing fit seizes him, and that's the sign that his adrenaline has died down. Byakko comes to Atsushi as a cold relief, stitching his skin and settling his bones back into place, soreness and fatigue replacing his wounds.

"When rashoumon touches something, do you feel it?" Atsushi asks, voice strained with exhaustion, not before making sure there's no blood on the forearm where Akutagawa coughed.

"I do," he cocks his head to the side, twisting the ends of his sleeves as he picks the right words. "But it is different from normal contact. It's… Distant, if you will. Like a limb with bad circulation. But also more precise."

"Distant?" Atsushi walks to stand at his side, hands behind his back, tiger tail still out and swaying absently with his steps. "So… When you lend me your coat to fight, what is it like?"

The mafioso goes still, eyes impossibly round. He turns his face away, covering his mouth with his hand, but Atsushi can still make out the pink tint on his features.

"I'm sure you've seen the way I control it perfectly well."

"That's not- You-"

"Do not let those mundane musings interfere with our training again."

"Stop talking like you're my teacher. Your hits were weak too! It's like you didn't eat breakfast."

"I had a perfectly balanced meal before coming here. I was just having mercy on you."

"What, as thanks for taking time out of my day to hang out with you?"

"You were the one to suggest we start training together."

"…"

"Shall I tell Kunikida about the lack of improvement in your sudden bouts of stillness during battle?"

"Don't blame it on me…" He answers through gritted teeth.

Akutagawa raises an eyebrow. "Is there a problem? What is the matter?"

Atsushi huffs. He moves to stand in front of his partner and raises a hand at chest level. When he doesn't protest, he moves it closer, until his fingers rest over the lace of his cravat.

Akutagawa is warm. Sweat makes his clothes cling close to his skin, and yet the musk doesn't take away the sweet and herbal notes of his smell.

Akutagawa's jaw works as he examines his partner's face. "I was starting to think you were scared of me."

"Why would I be? I wasn't!"

Ryuunosuke points to the space between Atsushi's eyebrows, making him conscious of the tension in his face. "Your left eyebrow moves lower than the right when you're scared." His finger moves to point at his mouth. "And your lips quiver."

"No, they don't-"

"You also sway back and forth, which might be the worst thing to do when you're trying to land a proper blow."

"Okay, okay. I get it."

"So, what had you so frightened?"

"It-It's nothing…"

He takes a step forward, toward that scent that haunts him at night, when he dreams of split throats and swaying boats at sea. Akutagawa grips his wrist, staring at him with a strange amazement. He doesn't pull him away, doesn't punish his boldness with a twist of the arm or a bitter sentence; it's more like he's pretending to be offended by the gesture. As if he could hide his jittery heartbeat— That makes Atsushi smile.

"You know, it feels safe," The weretiger sighs, gaze fixed on those long fingers circling him. "When you lend me your coat, I mean. It makes me feel strong."

"Fool," Ryuunosuke huffs, "you are strong." He replies, knowing Atsushi needs the reminder.

"Yes..." He pulls back, only to take the other man's hand in his. "And so are you."

They press palm against shaky palm, wide fingers over nimble fingers. There's a lifetime between them; manicured nails with black lacquer and maroon animal claws waiting to come out; smooth skin, healed a hundred times over, and rough, split skin, perpetually recovering and scarring; fingertips that go cold with the slightest slow of bloodflow, hands with so much warmth they almost burn what they touch… And yet they fall perfectly into place, like they had no other choice but to find each other.

"… But that strength will never compare to what we are together."

¿Cómo vivir en tu ausencia,

si no merezco el infierno,

que el deseo es fuego eterno

y yo mortal existencia?

¡Si he perdido la conciencia

del tiempo y de mi razón,

si es la vida mi prisión!

¿De qué sirve el albedrío,

si yo ya no tengo mío

ni mi propio corazón?

Rashoumon's tendrils shoot hastily in all directions. Spider legs discard obstacles, reaccommodate objects from the floor, they nudge civilians out of the way, pull at loose clothing and push at Atsushi's waist and shoulders to redirect him.

And Atsushi? He might as well be walking with his eyes closed, too caught up in his anecdote to even realize that Akutagawa's attention is split on making sure he doesn't bump into anything while they walk together.

"So, Kunikida's yelling at all of us, because we're behind on paperwork and that stresses him out."

"Mhm."

And Akutagawa's surpressing the urge to yell too as he pulls him by the suspenders to get him back inside the limits of the sidewalk.

"And Dazai still hasn't even mopped the coffee he spilled."

"Of course."

And Atsushi doesn't realize the traffic lights have switched to green and keeps walking forward.

"So, Kyouka and I are recovering as much of the printing paper as possible, and Tanizaki is convinced that we could fix the printer by ourselves and trying to pull Yosano in on his plan…"

"I see."

"… and Kunikida's freaking out about how to tell the director that we need a whole new printer and how to fix the budget for the year."

Finally, Akutagawa misses and Atsushi trips on a rock on the road.

"… So Kenji starts telling him a story to calm him down, and at this point I'm convinced he'd be more willing to get all the pieces needed to fix the printer from his notebook than to listen to it." He continues without problem after recovering his balance. Akutagawa's eyes widen with obsfuscation.

"What is it?" Nakajima asks through a small giggle.

"Nothing, keep talking."

"… Right. So Ranpo walks in, and he doesn't notice the puddle of coffee on the floor…"

Akutagawa's focused scowl is cute, Atsushi thinks. He's biting his cheek. It makes him look pouty as he pulls the weretiger by the belt loops to make him turn a corner.

"And I'm the closest to the door but my hands are full of paper."

"Ah."

"… So we call the director to ask about our vacation trip to Ireland."

"Of course." Akutagawa mutters, finally giving up on not touching Atsushi and placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him across the final street on the way to the Oka Kōen.

"And he says we're gonna need to sell a hundred more of Poe's novels to pay the Uzumaki without going bankrupt." He turns to face his partner, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Mhm."

"Akutagawa!"

"What."

"… So, what do you think about it?"

"About what?"

"The thing I was talking about."

"…"

"You weren't paying attention!" Atsushi holds back a laugh.

"I was busy preventing you getting killed by a taxi!"

"There's a very simple way to prevent that without leaving me talking alone."

The tiger laces their arms together. Ryuunosuke's first instinct is to pull away, but he stops himself and sighs, adjusting his posture so Atsushi can hold onto him comfortably instead.

He rubs at his eyes "… So, Poe fixed the printer?"

Atsushi laughs heartily. "Yeah, yeah…"

Rashoumon undulates beneath his hand, a steady pulse of excitement to quell its user's poker stare. They start talking again while they stroll, and now it's his turn to not pay attention. Or rather, to shift it to what he actually cares about.

After just a couple minutes, Ryuunosuke drops the pretense of annoyance, too caught up in their bickering to suppress the urge to hold tight onto his partner. His grip is firm, imploring, sweet and disconnected from his steady step through the park; his fingers dance on the frayed hem of his sleeve, a murmur over his skin, but not nearly loud enough to quell the thirst, ever so urgent, ever so gentle.

"But if you take that attitude every time, they're going to kick you out!"

"I will start going somewhere else if they can't do their job correctly anyways."

"Still, you could give them some grace."

What would have usually been Akutagawa turning away with a scoff shows up as a bump of the shoulders that makes Atsushi stumble. He gets pulled back close again, so he doesn't complain.

"If I am trusting them to take care of my garments, I expect certain standards to be met. That is all."

"Jeez. You wouldn't survive with our dorm's washing machine then."

Ryuunosuke pauses, glancing at him like he said the wrong thing. Atsushi squeezes his arm in a silent apology. The man shakes his head, black hair rippling softly over his sharp features.

Silence envelops them like the evening sun, making Atsushi's skin crawl with the too-hot air.

Too-hot air, too-busy place with people crowding around them, too-long minutes between words, too many thoughts and none of them will quite do as a sheath for his partner's unintelligible silence.

And yet the man keeps him at his side, no matter who they walk by, or which flowers adorn their path, or how hard he digs his fingers into his weathered palm. They squirm with the closeness. They bask in the intimacy of inexperience— Until the silence is broken.

"Who are you loyal to, Weretiger?" The dragon asks somberly.

Atsushi swallows. The Detective Agency is, of course, the first answer that comes to mind. But is it the right one?

"… Why do you ask?"

"Just answer the question."

He stares ahead to hide his expression, but the tiger knows what the tension on his shoulders means too well.

His coat hums, moving like waves, like blood rushing through someone's veins; rashoumon voices his anxiety, and he doesn't hush it. Ryuunosuke's armor bares him in front of Atsushi. It's a silent plea, it's the trust that he will be understood.

It's the dread that drives them to fight; the gaping wound that unites them, damage they heal around time and time again with no relief; the part they never speak out loud.

"I wouldn't leave you behind, Akutagawa. There's no way."

Ryuunosuke stops walking. His throat works through the relief he won't admit to, sleeves settling back down over his arms. Atsushi aches at the awareness of the barrier between their skins.

Grey, bottomless eyes meet his own, and reverence envelopes him. He doesn't notice when his hand gets picked up; chapped lips land like a butterly over his war-hardened knuckles, the world condensed into their tenderness and the rumble of Ryuunosuke's voice as he promises:

"I wouldn't leave you either, Atsushi."

¡Si pienso con tu razón,

si respiro con tu aliento,

si el tuyo y mi pensamiento

fundió en uno la pasión,

si duda mi corazón

dónde su huésped anida;

si dudé en la despedida

entre quedarme o partir, 

porque no sé definir

cuál es tu vida o mi vida!

(Blanca de los Ríos)

The tiger and the dragon look as out of place as they could, with their torn up clothing and uncombed hair, the dried blood clinging to their bodies, the dust scattered like crowns over their heads, their steps too woobly over the neat grass to pretend they have a normal life. But normal conversation becomes less difficult as they walk deeper into the tranquil garden and all shades of green, red and yellow decorate their peripheral vision.

"What is your favorite flower, weretiger?"

"Hmm, i like the little white ones that look like bells."

"You don't know their name?"

"No... Ah, kyouka said it's a type of lily."

"Lily of the valley?"

"I think so!"

"I see."

"You like flowers, Akutagawa?"

"I do."

"What are your favorites?"

"I like anemones."

"Anemones are flowers?!"

"... Yes?"

"The orange sea thingy is a flower?"

"Oh, that. No, that is an animal. There's a flower with the same name."

"Ah."

"I'll show it to you some day." 

And why shouldn't teasing become easy as well?

Atsushi's hand travels down over his partner's forearm. He takes the time to feel the change in fabric between his coat and his shirt's cuff, to tease the white ruffles a little before slipping his fingers onto the other man's palm.

"You're gonna get me flowers, Akutagawa?" he asks with a knowing smile.

"... I might."

"Would you get me some roses too?"

"Why would i get you roses if i'm trying to show you anemones?"

"Because i like roses."

"Of course you like roses."

"What's wrong with that?!"

"They're... no, nothing."

“Well, I think they're beautiful.”

“You think everything is beautiful.”

Atsushi shoots him an unamused look, making a slight move to retreat his hand, but Akutagawa curls his fingers around it and clarifies "that is not a bad thing."

"You don't have to reassure me."

"I mean it. Your joy is enticing."

"... T-thank you" he stammers, avoiding the black of Akutagawa's eyes to stare at the black of his shoes.

"Why are you nervous?" he asks, half-amused.

"I should give you a compliment now, shouldn't I?"

"Not necessarily."

"..."

"What, is it that hard to find something you like about me?"

"No, it's not that!"

"... Okay."

That lapse between them builds up in the middle of Atsushi's chest like grime. He can think of at least one word of praise for each part of Ryuunosuke he knows, he can think of at least one hundred hurtful things to say to bring him to a boil if he so wished to do.

"But I did realize there's a lot about you I don't know. I mean, I didn't even know you like flowers."

"Not many people know that."

"Well, it feels like I should."

"It's okay that you don't."

"Well, I want to."

"I appreciate that."

He knows the doorway to their hearts is unlocked for either of them to step through at any moment, patiently waiting for their courage to turn to action. He wonders if he'll ever not be scared of the effort it takes to be known, if he'll ever tame the uncertainty that keeps them from filling the silence between their heartbeats.

"Hmm, what kind of stories do you like, Akutagawa?"

"I like beautifully written stories."

"Like, flowery prose?" 

"I think good form is the most important part of a piece of literature."

"I see."

"But Dazai taught me to read philosophy too."

"I can't recall him recommending me a single book, to be honest."

"He also taught me to play chess."

"Did he?"

"Mhm," a gentle crease appears between Akutagawa's eyebrows, "I couldn't win a single match against him."

"Did you enjoy playing with him?"

"I cherished every moment with him."

"He can be... a lot, sometimes."

"... Does he train with you, or is it only Kunikida?" 

"Ah, it's mostly Kunikida. sometimes Kenji as well. even though I'm technically under Dazai's care. He mostly just gives me advice and work to do."

"I suspected as much. You haven't got any of his technique."

"Huh?"

"But you talk like him sometimes..."

"Do I?"

"Yes, when you..."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"... So, you learned to fight from him?"

"I did."

"Jeez, he really shaped you up on all fronts."

"... The only thing I did better than him was playing the piano."

"You play the piano?!"

"Shouldn't you stop being surprised at this point?! Yes, I play the piano."

"And you play better than Dazai."

"He taught me the basics and I took off from there."

They let the waning sun slow their steps down; Ryuunosuke's voice drops to a bittersweet strumming that makes Atsushi shiver.

"We used to sit together for some songs... He likes Stravinsky, I prefer Debussy. It was peaceful to play together after a long day. Even when he would nag me about my faltering in rhythm, or when I didn't turn the music sheet in time..."

Ryuunosuke stares at their joined hands. He brushes the little white hairs on Atsushi's knuckles, featherlight and vulnerable.

"When neither of us could sleep, and he allowed me, I would sit by the window and listen to him for hours. One day, he asked me to play for him instead. He said 'I prefer how you interpret this piece', I think it was the first arabesque... Do you like classical music, weretiger?"

The familiar nickname makes him blink. "Ah, I do, but I don't know much about it..." he forces the words through his throat.

"Of course."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Oh, I'm sorry my taste isn't as refined as yours, Akutagawa."

"I did not utter those words. You did."

"What's wrong with my music taste?!"

"Am I wrong to think that it's all pop music?"

"I- no, but! The fact that it's popular doesn't-"

Akutagawa tuts, shaking his head.

Atsushi tugs at the lapel of his coat. "Don't interrupt me! It's good music!"

"Is it?" Akutagawa swats his hand away, which only gets Atsushi to tug again, this time with both hands, exclaiming something about his "closed off brain" and arguments he doesn't need to put weight behind as he gets lifted up by the shirt and thrown onto the floor, not before dragging the aggressor down with him.

Nakajima's white shirt gets stained with grass and dirt, flower buds crushed beneath his weight as Akutagawa tries to keep him down by the wrists. Even with no intention to harm one another, they can't help quarrelling, can't keep their banter restrained to words. They communicate with blunt force, through sharing hot air and digging bones and muscles as deep as possible into one another. They allow themselves to leave the steps they know so well from their previous fights aside, all need for caution forgotten as they figure out how to translate a dynamic born from duty into play.

They tug at each other's hair, Akutagawa's coat ends up half on the floor, nails full of earth and itching to break under that pristine skin. But they don't break skin; neither of them bleeds, neither of them bruises. They push on each other's palms, fingers entwined, locked onto one another, and they pretend it's a hassle; that unity, the easy slotting of knuckles and phalanges, the marks on their palms drawing the map of their shared pain, one wrist on top of another bringing phantom weights they've carried together- until one of them forces the other to the side, they roll, and the weretiger finds himself on top.

He laughs heartily, bewildered, but not for long, as his partner wastes no time digging his fingers on his sides, making him yelp, and the shock makes it land for him that this is actually happening and he's not just daydreaming. They're play fighting in the far part of the park, where they can't be spotted, without drawing anything other than laughter and...

Awe, is the word that comes to Atsushi's mind, when he sees Akutagawa sprawled on the floor, scowling at him. Not the usual stern scowl, like he's perpetually inconvenienced by the world; he's squinting from the sun getting into his eyes. His cheeks are stained pink, lips half parted as he pants with one of those tender, rare smiles that Atsushi cherishes so much.

He looks coy, he looks disheveled; undone by Atsushi's force alone, the outline of his bony shoulders showing through the fabric of his shirt, just transparent enough to make out some of the scars on his torso under the bright sunlight. The man bites at his lower lip, chapped and split and so pretty it feels like mockery, for someone to look so worn down and so beautiful at the same time.

He lifts a hand up to block the blinding light from view, the other firm on his partner's waist, and the weretiger presses his palms on his clothed chest, urgently, firmly, like he wants to pass through the layers of clothing and muscle and hold the other's heart in his hands.

It occurs to him that he could, technically, do that. If he was willing to deal with the consequences of it afterwards, if his partner didn't put up a fight- because Atsushi's greedy, but not enough to take something like that away without permission. The surge of bloodthirst makes him pause nonetheless, guilt pooling between his ribs and making it hard to breathe as he itches for his partner's pulse.

"Weretiger?" Akutagawa's smoky voice calls to him, a rashoumon tendril tapping on his cheek to bring him out of his frozen stupor. "What's the matter?"

Fear follows Nakajima wherever he goes. Fear of what he can do, fear of doing more harm than good. Akutagawa's hands find his own again and, now that the excitement of play has died down, it feels too intimate. He holds them anyways. Shaking and hesitating, but they hold each other. Thick fingers press on thin skin, nerves melting into one another until Atsushi can welcome this reality in, the fact that they could have had this so much sooner, and they foolishly didn't.

Atsushi shakes his head. His mouth curls up into a boyish smile. "Nothing, I just…"

The sudden change makes Akutagawa huff. He sits up, demanding "do not say it's 'nothing', you only make that face when something really bad happens", squeezing his partner's hands with urgency, like it's the most natural thing in the world to communicate that way, and the tiger goes blank again at the closeness.

The man's breath smells of green tea; he can see every twist of his features as he travels from worry to annoyance to bewilderment; every shade of grey in those hungry eyes; he can hear the soft whistle of his breathing without even using byakko's help…

And that's when it lands on him, when he's most aware of Ryunosuke's life in front of him: It's not just the need to hold him, it's not just the desire to have him; it's the joy at the fact that they're sharing this moment, that they can bask under the same sun and blow on dandelions from the same patch of grass. It's the fact that he's here another day to leave him speechless, be it through laceration or astonishment.

"It's not a bad thing happening, I'm just sappy today."

"Sappy?"

"Yeah… emotional."

"Oh."

"Akutagawa, would you play the piano for me one of these days?"

"I…"

"You don't have to! but I'd love to listen to you."

"I've never played in front of anyone else."

"But you're not scared of trying things out with me, are you?"

Ryuunosuke narrows his eyes. "I don't have any reason to."

"Then-!"

"But you've got to treat me to nice tea after."

"And the bakery you like and I definitely don't have the budget for too!"

Rashoumon flicks Atsushi on the forehead. He pretends to be hurt by it and lets himself fall on Akutagawa, nose buried on the curve between his neck and his shoulder, where he's not protected by his coat and the warmth of his skin spills through the cotton of his shirt. The man allows it, so Atsushi allows love to lead his actions and envelops him in a hug.

He nuzzles softly, delighted at the blush spreading down his partner's skin; he feels himself a small child, covered in mud and chasing the fuzzy, warm affection blooming in his chest like it has all the answers one could possibly ever ask.

"The only music we were allowed to listen to at the orphanage was classical music," He tells in a soft whisper. "It still helps me sleep some nights, when the nightmares get bad."

"So they left you something good, at least."

Atsushi giggles. "I don't think we would have met if they hadn't also given me… Everything else."

Ryuunosuke's voice softens. "Some people shouldn't go through that… 'everything else.'"

"… The world doesn't comply to what should and shouldn't be."

Ryuunosuke's arm shakes when he lifts it up to hug the weretiger. The weight of it on Atsushi's middle is hesitant, but natural. Complementary.

"Then, should we allow ourselves this joy?"

"I don't care if we should or not. I'm not giving this up for anything in the world."

Akutagawa lifts his other arm to wrap around his partner too. His back hits the ground and they laugh again; it's irrational, it's careless, it's fangs bare to the springtime sky, it's dew sliding down a leaf to nourish the earth.

It's Atsushi mouthing "I love you" on Ryuunosuke's neck, too scared to let his throat make a sound, then letting himself fall beside him to get swallowed by the cold relief of that gaze.

It's the man's chest rising and falling, it's him turning his head to breathe better, then turning it back again to meet Atsushi's eyes. It's two hands reaching out at the same time, aware and accepting of their need for one another. It's the bandoneón taking over to build the melody and give the dance its soul.

"… Have you listened to Elgar?"

"I'm not sure."

"Don't look him up, that is what I will play for you."

The tiger gently pulls the dragon's hand to his lips. Smiles bloom on their faces. It's a promise, it's a compromise.

"Same time, next week, then?"

"Or whenever you wish."