Upon his arrival to the New York City Ballet, Arthur Kirkland quickly became the newest and hottest topic of discussion. Being widely discussed wasn't new for Arthur; it seemed to be a quality that followed him all his life, through a series of circumstances. However, it wasn't often that he was admired so obviously by those whom he himself admired. The NYCB felt almost like a club that he'd been dying to join for his whole life, and now all of the members were waiting for him at the door with open arms. Best of all, the first one waiting to welcome him was none other than Alfred F. Jones.
Alfred F. Jones was, in all likelihood, not a real person. It was simply impossible for someone like Alfred F. Jones to exist. He was a fantasy that Arthur had dreamt up. He was a complete American Alpha: blonde hair, blue eyes, rippling muscles. The kind of attractive man who you would innocently flirt with while he flipped burgers at the Independence Day Barbecue, but then later learn that he had definitely been spotted nearly naked in three Calvin Klein advertisements. And yet, while Alfred F. Jones was the charming boy-next-door type, he wasn't a secret underwear model: he was a principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. And he was kind. Unrealistically kind. Stupidly kind. Arthur knew he was no match for a man like Alfred F. Jones. He had attempted to keep his distance, but Alfred had insisted upon introducing himself. Arthur could barely keep himself together.
"You're Arthur Kirkland!" Alfred had said, smiling brightly with those Hollywood white teeth. "Dude! I've heard so much about you! I can't wait to get to rehearsal. I've never partnered with a guy before, but I'm guessing you'll make it real easy."
Arthur had been momentarily stunned. "Well," he finally managed to choke out, "It should feel virtually the same as dancing with a woman. I-I've trained exactly how they have, that's... sort of my, erm, style of ballet."
Alfred was quickly moving his hands in flailing defensiveness. "Oh, dude, I know! I heard that you, uh, y'know, trained and did en pointe stuff with women for a lot of your life, it's - it's super cool, for sure. I just haven't met anyone who does that!"
A pause: Arthur stared blankly for a moment before blushing and responding. "I know it's a bit odd." No one had ever made Arthur feel so uncomfortable about a talent that he was literally world famous for.
"Nah, nah, dude, it's amazing!" Alfred had insisted. "You're amazing." Arthur was starting to feel faint with all the charm and charisma surrounding his senses. "I'm so psyched to be working with you."
And work together they did. Their first ballet: quite a contemporary version of The Sleeping Beauty. Arthur as Princess Aurora, and Alfred as Prince Désiré. Arthur supposed he wasn't thinking about what walking into a rehearsal space with Alfred would mean, because seeing the American in his dance belt and tight pants was somehow not what he was expecting. In fact, it caught him very off guard. Needless to say, had Arthur not been so professional, it would have been very hard to keep focused.
Their immediate rapport was unbelievable. It certainly did not go unnoticed how well they got along. For all their tiny arguments and disagreements (Arthur quickly made a habit of calling Alfred an "idiot"), everyone could see how much they liked each other. One didn't even have to watch the rehearsals: while simply watching them perform, their adoration and understanding of each other became obvious.
The rule is simple: "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." An expression unfitting for the beautiful and artful dance of ballet, but an expression that remains true nonetheless. Alfred and Arthur were inseparable, both in the eyes of their friends and in the eyes of the NYCB producers. They danced together for performances upon performances, pas de deux after pas de deux.
"Al, you should give me a massage," Arthur smirked. They were getting out of costume in their shared dressing room after one of their many performances.
"What? Why?" Alfred all but whined from his chair. "I totally had to carry you for so long, and I did weights yesterday so my arms were super sore. You should give me a massage."
Arthur pouted. "My back hurts! Come on. I'll be very happy with you."
"Ugh," Alfred groaned, slouching over his desk. "That's not a good enough reward."
Arthur turned to look at him over his shoulder. "Well, if I were to become injured, you'd be out of a job."
Alfred scoffed, offended. "Uh, no! They'd just replace you!"
Arthur laughed, turning back to his mirror. "Please, you know you're nothing without me, love." He paused for a moment. That wasn't supposed to come out of his mouth. He quickly grabbed another (unnecessary) make-up wipe and proceeded to cover his face with it. He jumped when he felt calloused hands smoothing over his shoulders.
"You're probably right," an uncharacteristically soft voice murmured. Arthur blushed hotly, sparing a glance at Alfred through the mirror before looking away shyly. He couldn't resist a small smile.
"I'm always right, idiot."