Chuuya Nakahara had been raised with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, but no one had prepared him for the kind of war that bloomed quietly in his chest the moment he met him. It had been three years since that fateful evening—a diplomatic ball of all things, laced in gold and politics, where every word carried consequence and every glance had meaning. Chuuya had worn his finest black velvet, tailored to the inch, diamonds on his cuffs and his mother’s careful warnings echoing in his ear: Smile, speak gently, make them like you. But not too much.

And then he saw Dazai.

Crown Prince Osamu Dazai of England had been lounging against a marble column like the heir to chaos itself, all sharp smiles and unbothered charm, dressed in navy and silver, hair a little tousled, expression unreadable. His presence pulled the room like gravity—effortless, magnetic. And when their eyes met across the crowd, something in Chuuya’s carefully constructed world cracked. Dazai had tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk curling his lips like he already knew every secret Chuuya was trying to bury.

They'd talked, danced once—only once, under the guise of diplomatic formality—but in that waltz, Chuuya had felt it: the thrill, the fear, the undeniable want. He hated him, maybe, just a little—hated how easy he made it to forget everything Chuuya had been taught. And yet… from that night forward, not a day had gone by without Dazai lingering in his thoughts like a beautiful thorn.

The years after were slow torture. Distance, duty, diplomacy. They wrote sometimes, coded letters hidden behind royal seals and forged excuses. Every visit between countries held the faint hope of seeing him again, however fleetingly. And every time their paths crossed, it was harder to pretend. They were supposed to be future kings, leaders of powerful nations, bound by tradition and the unrelenting expectation to marry women of noble blood. To bear heirs. To be examples. There was no space in the world they lived in for the kind of desire that lit up his chest when Dazai so much as smirked in his direction.

Chuuya had tried to ignore it. He’d dated girls, smiled for the cameras, sat through endless talk of alliances and engagements. But nothing felt real. Not compared to the stolen moments they shared: a pressed palm in a hidden hallway, a whispered joke at a gala, the way Dazai’s voice dipped just for him.

And yet… they were stuck.

Two crown princes. Two futures carved in stone. And no matter how much Chuuya wanted to be selfish—wanted to take Dazai’s hand and run—he knew that love, in their world, had always been the one luxury they couldn’t afford.

Still, every time their eyes met, it whispered of something dangerous and beautiful.

Maybe… maybe someday.