The Strivers - 36. Chapter 36 - The Choice is Made

Misha had Alexeï pegged from their first glance. The kid was a magnetic puzzle, wrapped in electric vibes. Misha’s chest tightened, a raw, almost painful pull. Alexeï’s eyes were a silent invite, a promise unspoken. His frame, carved by the light’s play, whispered possibilities, and in Misha’s gut, a fever flared, wild and untamed.

It wasn’t just lust or basic urges. Nah, Misha wanted closer, to cross that invisible line. Not too loud, but enough to test the edge. Not gay… but damn, I’m hooked, he thought, a fleeting smirk on his lips.

Gotta get him up there… once we’re in the apartment, it’s a whole new game. A shower, like Volkov always demands. And knowing him… together’s a no-brainer.

The room’s heat was stifling, saturated with basslines pulsing like a shared heartbeat. The air buzzed with hype, unspoken expectations. Misha felt the plan grow, a bold thrill pushing him to move.

He turned to Alexeï, eyes sharp with calculated confidence. Leaning back on the couch, he traced the ceiling’s light beams, like he was lost in another world. Then, voice low, just for Alexeï:
“We play this right… I swear, he won’t look away. I know you’re his type. Bet you ten stacks he’ll pull you upstairs just to see more.”

Alexeï froze, words hitting like a shock. His throat dried up, heart hammering too fast, like it might burst. The idea was terrifying, magnetic, impossible to shake.

Across the couch, Yuri watched, brows furrowed, not getting Misha’s game or why Alexeï looked so wired. Their vibe, charged with weird energy, threw him off.

Misha didn’t wait for an answer. He stood, fixing his hoodie’s collar with a quick flick, flashing Alexeï a cocky grin before dipping toward the control booth. His silhouette, shaped by shifting lights, oozed provocative ease.
“Gonna drop a hint… just enough to spice shit up,” he muttered, more to himself.

Alone in the chaos, Alexeï felt the world blur. The bass vibrating the floor sounded distant, like an echo. His eyes hit the podium, washed in harsh light. The shadows dancing there gave him chills. Am I… really doing this?

The room hummed with whispers and laughs, a heavy backdrop. All eyes locked on the stage. Alexeï felt the pressure build, crushing, forcing a choice.

Step up or stay… lose or risk…

The spots flared, bathing the empty podium in blinding light. The bass dropped deeper, pounding the floor like a taunt. In his gut, fear churned, mixed with a gnawing curiosity. If he stepped up, nothing would be the same—a heavy, irreversible call that pulled him as much as it scared him.

Under the Lights

Alexeï felt Misha’s firm grip on his wrist, a surprising anchor in his spiraling thoughts. The music throbbed, a deep pulse echoing in his chest. He wavered, but Misha, unfazed, pulled him through the loud, packed crowd. Each step was a test, a gauntlet under heavy stares—curious, judging, expectant.

Lights burst in sharp fragments, splashing their faces with shifting glows. Alexeï felt like a target, the crowd’s eyes piercing his last shred of resistance. Whispers, real or not, mixed with the music’s roar and a voice in his head screaming to bolt. But there was no out. Not with Misha. Not under the blinding light dragging them to the podium.

His heart pounded, breaths jagged. His sweaty hands made Misha’s grip slick, but it was his only tether against the vertigo. They reached the podium. Alexeï’s foot grazed the first step, and his breath caught. The music seemed to slow, each beat mirroring his racing pulse. The lights surged, bathing the stage in golden fire. Misha let go, but Alexeï still felt the burn of his touch. Legs shaking, he fought to stand, his mind a mess facing what was coming.

Misha’s voice cut through, soft but sure: “Chill, bratan. Trust me.”

Without pause, Misha launched into a fluid, gripping dance, every move syncing with the beat. His arms sliced the air with grace, hips hitting the rhythm with natural precision, pulling every eye. He owned the stage, his confidence a magnetic pulse. Alexeï, rooted a few steps back, watched, frozen. His feet felt glued, unable to look away from Misha’s commanding presence. A mix of awe and dread locked him in place, caught between light and shadow.

Misha glanced back, a smirk half-teasing, half-hype. “C’mon, Alexeï!” he called, diving back into his flow with effortless swagger.

But Alexeï, paralyzed by the crowd’s weight and his own doubts, stood rigid, heart slamming. The gap between them wasn’t just space—it was confidence, and it only made Misha’s pull stronger.

Misha turned again, his smirk softening, losing its edge. He stepped closer, offering a hand with no room for hesitation. “C’mon, let’s do this.”

He grabbed Alexeï’s hand gently, pulling him into the rhythm. At first, Alexeï’s steps were clunky, stiff under the crowd’s stare. But Misha didn’t let go, guiding him with patience. Something shifted. A spark of confidence lit Alexeï’s eyes. His muscles, trained in weekly ballet at Sevastopol’s cadet gym, woke up.

His awkward steps smoothed into fluid moves, laced with an elegance that flipped his shaky start. The crowd’s surprise was clear. Whispers died, replaced by hooked stares. Misha, seeing the shift, stepped back, letting Alexeï own the space. His growing confidence spread to his moves, turning the stage into an impromptu show.

Grinning, Misha tossed out: “See, bratan? You had this in you. Now own it.”

For the first time that night, Alexeï felt like more than a nervous bystander—he was a player, drawing eyes not for judgment but for awe.

As he leaned into the music, his moves gaining flow, the crowd faded. The stage was his, each step a line of confidence, a silent convo between his body and the beat. Misha, a few steps off, watched with a glint of amused pride.

Then, subtle as a breeze, Misha closed in. As Alexeï danced, locked in his zone, Misha’s hand grazed his Takini jacket’s edge with disarming softness. His fingers slid to the zipper, a faint clink lost in the noise. The move was deliberate, almost choreographed, like a new act in their weird play.

Alexeï, jolted by the touch, felt his cheeks heat but kept moving. His steps slowed, thrown by the surprise. Still dancing, he shot out, voice shaky: “What’re you doing?”

His eyes met Misha’s, catching a mischievous spark. Misha just grinned, fingers working the zipper, like the music guided him too.

He eased the zip down, revealing a plain tee that clashed with the scene’s intensity. The light played on the fabric, catching shadows from Alexeï’s moves. Misha, still close, tilted his head, his grin half-tease, half-hype.
“Trust me, bratan. Work the shirt.”

Alexeï frowned, his steps faltering again. “Work it how?”

Misha, unfazed, showed him. He grabbed his own shirt’s hem, tugging it up in bursts—first to his navel, then higher, before letting it drop slow. The move was smooth, almost a dance, capped with a pointed look at Alexeï.
“Like that. Your turn. Start at the navel.”

Alexeï looked away, scanning the crowd for an out. Still moving to the beat, he shook his head. “Nah… I can’t…” he muttered, hands glued to his sides.

Misha didn’t back off. He edged closer, voice softer, coaxing. “It’s just a game, bratan. C’mon, trust me. They’re already eating up what you’re doing.”

Seeing Alexeï still waver, Misha’s tone sharpened, eyes locked. “You wanna get to Volkov’s place? You said you’d do whatever. To win this podium, you gotta play, bratan.”

The words hit like a punch. Volkov’s apartment—his goal, his mission. It’s why he was here, diving into this world that shook him every second. He dropped his gaze, fingers trembling as they gripped his shirt’s hem. No choice. Not if he wanted to win.

Misha, sensing the shift, pushed gentler: “I got you, yeah? We’re in this together. You set the pace, but show ‘em you can hang. This is your moment.”

Alexeï took a deep breath, the crowd’s weight still heavy. Slowly, he tugged his shirt up, higher this time. The crowd’s murmurs grew, eyes sharpening. He tried to keep the beat, hold control despite the flush creeping up his face and his heart’s wild thump.

But as he hesitated to push further, he let the hem drop, shaking his head. “Nah… I… I can’t…” he gasped, eyes dodging Misha’s.

Misha’s grin returned, a mix of hype and challenge. “Aight, we’re cranking it up.”

In a swift, calculated move, Misha’s eyes dropped to Alexeï’s waist, fingers landing on his track pants’ elastic. The music pulsed, each beat spiking the moment’s heat. Alexeï, eyes wide, lost his voice in the deafening sound. Still moving to the bass, he blurted, frantic: “Misha… no, I don’t want… Stop!”

But Misha didn’t pause. Eyes down, he murmured, voice blending with the beat: “Only way, Alexeï. Wanna go upstairs? Gotta show something. Volkov’s gotta see you.”

The blunt truth hit hard. Shame and heat flooded Alexeï’s face, and he dropped his head, dodging the crowd’s stares, each pair of eyes a silent judge. The murmurs, real or not, echoed like a tide of scrutiny.

Against his will, his shoulders sagged, beaten by Misha’s logic. His hands hung useless as Misha, steady, kept going. The elastic gave, sliding slow to reveal the boxer’s edge. Alexeï, out of fight, shut his eyes briefly, trying to escape the moment.

Misha, focused, whispered again, softer: “Trust me. Don’t look around. Just keep moving. It’s nothing.”

Defeated, Alexeï swayed his hips faintly, a desperate stab at keeping up appearances. Misha, precise as a surgeon, kept at it. The music, hypnotic, wrapped the scene, amplifying every shiver. The crowd’s stares weighed the air, almost solid.

Slowly, with the beat’s pull, Misha eased the elastic down. The track pants revealed the boxer’s worn, grayish band, stretched and frayed from years of wear.

Misha’s fingers stayed firm, pulling the pants lower, inch by inch. The boxer, plain and beat-up, came into view under the spots. The worn elastic, barely holding, told a story of overuse. The light hit every detail—the fabric’s creases, a shadow here—laid bare to the crowd’s gaze.

The glow traced the boxer, highlighting the bulge beneath the thin, worn fabric. The material, frayed by time, gave way under Alexeï’s calculated sways, letting his free-moving junk shift with a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. The spots, complicit, played up the subtle but provocative dance, locking every eye. Misha, steady, guided the moment like a director, each move precise. Alexeï, red to his ears, felt every stare, every whisper hitting like a spark. He kept moving, more reflex than will, hips chasing the beat, but his breath grew short, panic loud.

The room’s tension spiked as Misha stopped, leaving the pants at mid-thigh. Alexeï’s pale, toned legs gleamed, years of training clear. The crowd’s murmurs hit fever pitch, and a clear voice cut through:

“No way, check that…” a teen girl said, her curiosity raw.

Another, closer to the stage, chimed in, awed: “He’s kinda cute…”

After a beat, the same voice, bolder, added with a giggle: “And look… it’s swinging so nice every time he moves. Bet it’s big when the boxers come off!”

The words, tossed with casual shock, sank into Alexeï’s head like lead. Each syllable fueled the stares burning into him. His moves, still tied to the beat, became a paradox: the more he danced, the more he fed the comments tearing him apart inside.

Misha stayed cool, his smirk almost daring the room. He shot Alexeï a conspiratorial look. “You’re killing it, bratan. Keep going. Let ‘em see.”

The words, meant to soothe, didn’t land. Alexeï, spiraling in shame and doubt, shut his eyes, praying for an end. But no escape. Not here. Not now.

Misha stepped back, leaving Alexeï alone in the spotlight. The music slowed, like it was milking the moment’s drama. The crowd formed a living wall of stares, each projecting fascination, curiosity, judgment.

A buzzer blared, slicing the thick air. Their set was done, taking the crushing vibe with it. The room, silent for a split second, erupted in claps and chatter. Misha, triumphant, gave Alexeï’s shoulder a light pat as he yanked his pants up, cheeks blazing.
“Nailed it, bratan. We’re done.”

They left the stage, the music’s thump fading as they stepped away. Alexeï, panting, kept his eyes on the floor, trying to ground himself after an eternity up there. Misha’s voice pulled him back.
“C’mon, we gotta greet Volkov.”

In the shadows, a figure stood out, still but commanding. Volkov, hands clasped behind him, sized them up with a sharp, silent stare. Alexeï’s spine tingled. This was the moment he’d dreaded—and needed. They gave a quick nod before heading back to their couch. Yuri waited, his wide grin screaming hype.
“That was fire, guys! You owned it like pros. Volkov’s gotta be drooling.”

Misha chuckled, slinging an arm around Alexeï, pulling him close. “Admit it, you freaked when I dropped your pants.”

Alexeï looked away, mind scrambled by the rush. But something in Misha’s vibe, in the room’s electric hum, made him feel a line had been crossed. The adrenaline ebbed, but one question lingered: what now, with everything in Volkov’s hands?