A/N: Hello~! This is my very first fic, and why not kick it off with some sweet, sweet FrUK?! Oh God, I swear this is the best pairing. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
WARNINGS: Smut, yaoi, lemon and personified countries (albeit in an AU).
Hetalia does not belong to me.
/
'No fame
All there is, all there was
On the second lady
Can't take a cent
Take a cut
Of that kind of rent…'
The pole was all that was on his mind, right now. The delightful feeling of chrome against skin, the sound of his body sliding and flicking across the metal, the tangy taste of sweat mixed with steel as he ran his tongue against it, eyes half-lidded, the sight of his limbs twirling around it to create seductive, acrobatic shapes, the acrid and unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol… This is what he lived for, concentration like this.
He was a professional pole dancer, at the local gay strip club, The White Swallow. He was Arthur Kirkland.
As the music suddenly rushed into focus, catching up with his other senses that had previously isolated the blonde from reality, absinthe green eyes scanned over the crowd, positively drinking in the reaction of the enthusiastic patrons that surrounded the semi-circular stage. The lazy and slow-paced strains of 'Down Boy' that finally reached his ears, playing loudly in the background, could only encourage Arthur to please his doting crowd even more, for it was a song he most cherished. Of course he would cherish it – he had been performing to it in his very first debut, when he was clumsy, nervous and, above all, new. Now, he couldn't help but relish his experiences, taking into stride the amount of times he had performed for so many different men, each man loving him more than the next. This music was his trademark – teasingly slow, building up to sensual crescendos and letting Arthur truly work the pole.
"Is that all you got?!" a faceless voice coaxed from the depths of the flushed crowd, the low lighting (save for the concentrated beams of light skimming across Arthur's twirling body as he danced) giving Arthur no indication of whereabouts the voice was located. Letting a laugh escape from his gracefully outstretched throat, the Briton shook his head and curled one leg around the warm, chrome pole, balancing just perfectly so that he could shake off the unbuttoned shirt that had clung tightly to his skin for the past few minutes, bound to his flushed body by a thin veil of sweat. Tonight, Arthur was performing in one of his most beloved costumes – his policeman outfit. Letting the light material slither to the ground, he winked at the audience before continuing his performance, his slightly feminine curves doing all the speaking he could ever need.
Soon enough, the crowd were on their feet, and more garments lay on the floor, Arthur's demeanour still ever-evolving as he leant away from that pole he had grown to adore so much, the pole that made him feel desired, lusted after, and seductive, mouth slightly agape and eyelids shut in bliss, the raucous applause that assaulted his ears spurring him on until the only things that remained on his body were his navy hat, matching tie, tight-fitting undergarments and a pair of sparkling steel handcuffs, embezzled with diamante gems, swinging around on his fingertips. Before he knew it, his time was up, and in the adrenalin rush of his performance, Arthur had failed to notice. As he padded off the stage, he caught the eye of one of his fellow co-workers, who, however, was not a performer – rather a backstage manager, of sorts. Smiling gratefully for the presence of someone he knew, he crossed the contrasting brightly-lit backstage area, letting his fingertips trail across the various costumes lined together on a rack, his hand brushing across leather, feathers, cotton and even PVC before dropping back to his side, a little smirk playing on his lips as he pitied the poor sod that would have to try and perform whilst clad in the constrictive, hot and tight material.
"Matthew." He said in greeting, finally reaching the other man who had been lingering at the opposite side of the room, clipboard in hand and trying desperately to get his performers to pay attention and stop messing around, right before their shows. "Holding up alright, lad?"
Matthew puffed an errant curl out of his line of vision, letting out a sigh – no matter how long he worked at White Swallow, he would probably never gain adequate control over his performers.
"S-Struggling, but coping." He replied, smiling reluctantly and motioning to the men laughing and drinking from glistening bottles which, strictly speaking, were prohibited backstage, especially before a show.
Arthur idly chatted with the other blonde for a little while, sometimes exchanging humorous stories of days past and events gone wrong, other times simply voicing opinions about whatever drifted to mind. Slowly, but surely, the lust and music-driven animal that had driven crowds beserk slipped away, replaced by a more reserved frame of mind. It never ceased to amaze those who beheld the sight, as well as Arthur himself, to see the dancer completely transform from his on-stage persona that simply exuded passion, lust, and wilderness, to his regular self – seemingly docile, but with a hidden spark in those emerald green eyes that, if correctly approached, was easily found.
It was with those eyes that Arthur first spotted a distinctly different individual stroll calmly and confidently down the lavishly decorated and luxurious hall, lined with ornate doors that branched off into private parlours for anybody that wished to pay a higher price and hire a performer and a room for a night. He was simply trailing after Matthew, who had invited Arthur to keep him company as he walked around the establishment and kept an eye on everyone there, and had been distractedly listening to Matthew happily chat about his lack of staff for the day, and had nodded and batted away his statement of 'It doesn't matter, as long as I have my star performer available' with a an elegant waft of his hand. The Canadian noticed, much to his amusement, the concentrated and rather shocked look on Arthur's face, and chuckled softly to himself.
"He's attractive, isn't he? Kinda makes you wonder why he's coming here to get his fix…"
Arthur's head snapped round to face the thoughtful Matthew, realising straight away that his friend had cottoned on to his rather obvious staring.
Of course, the Canadian was right. Painfully so.
Trying to put the handsome stranger out of his thoughts, the Briton instead parted ways with his manager and made his way down the plush hallway, never once looking back to catch a glimpse of the man until he had left the corridor and closed the door to the quiet piece of haven he called his changing room, exhaling and sliding down the shut door.
/
'From one metal to the other.' He silently remarked, not half enjoying the feeling of a simple, almost cheap feeling aluminium tray against his smooth palm. A waiter, now. Not a sensational, seductive and sexual dancer. Not for a few hours. Just a waiter.
Placing a cold glass full of something cheap and lethal in front of a patron (and promptly ignoring the sharp smack against his behind on retreat, with an accompanying sarcastic and smug smile on his end), Arthur let out a sigh as he prepared himself for another few hours of the same – shifts like these were nobodies favourite, but they had to be done regardless.
"Kirkland!" came the call of a boyish, excitable voice, tinged with a distinctly American accent.
"Jones!" came back a sarcastic reply, the accent unmistakably English.
"Dude, if your sorry ass thinks it's gonna be running booze orders all night, it's sorely mistaken!" Alfred replied, calling Arthur over to the bar whilst wearing a knowing grin on his lips.
Brother to the complete polar opposite personality-wise in Matthew, the energetic bartender bore an uncanny resemblance to his sibling, and was one of the rare people that truly got on with Arthur, despite their grating personalities. Weaving his way through the various tables, dotted across the well-decorated and plush lounge, Arthur finally stopped at the bar, leaning his elbow on the counter and shaking his head at the offer of a drink from his well-established friend – he wasn't good with alcohol, even at the best of times.
"Well? If I'm not on drinks duty, what am I doing?" he enquired, genuinely puzzled as to what else there was for him to do.
As he finished serving a flashy drink with a garnish to another customer with a grin, Alfred casually let out his answer.
"You've got a private show, dude."