Stepping through the front doors of club, Arthur's thick brows furrowed as a wave of hot air washed over him, carrying with it the scent of sweat, liquor, lust, and the familiar perfume of desperation. The sound, which out on the street had been merely a pounding beat that was more about feeling than hearing, was now nearly deafening and each pulse of the pounding drum and strumming bass reverberated through his body, thrumming along his skin and through his blood.
Moving past the black clad, heavily muscled bouncer, Arthur gave the man a cursory glance, taking in the tattoos and the scars and smirked to himself as he started down the cement stairs towards the dance floor, and more importantly the bar. After being to countless punk shows back home, it was going to take more than some tattoos and a smattering of scars to impress him.
Tonight, he'd dressed as though he were planning to go to such an event, with spiked hair, ripped clothes, enough metal in pins and piercings to set off a detector from three yards, and enough kohl 'round his eyes to be riding the line between purposefully wicked looking and blatantly homosexual. Looking around as he reached to bar, he noted that his sense of fashion was a bit out of date, as everyone here seemed to favor the blinding neons, ridiculously teased hair, and shoulder pads that had come with New Wave.
Then again, he thought with a sardonic grin, the folks this side of the pond never did have any sense of taste.
He'd just taken a sip of his scotch when his eyes, wandering aimlessly over the scantily clad, over cosmetic-ed bodies on the dance floor, lit upon a familiar form. Nearly spewing the alcohol, he cursed his fortunes. The low lights still managed to light a glow upon the blonde hair, longer now than last time he'd seen Alfred, Arthur noted. Cor, but he was handsome. The tall American was obviously taking to the style and sensibility of the 1980s, if his ripped and splatter painted jeans, tight tank and…really, was his denim jacket truly bedazzled? Arthur shook his head and tried not to snicker, also noting the other man's large dark shades. He was the sort of prat to wear sunglasses in a dark club, wasn't he.
Of all the shite luck, he purposefully swallowed, the liquor burning as it went down too hard and too fast, I had to pick the one bleeding club amongst hundreds of clubs that that arse haunts.
His initial reaction was to leave, straightaway, before the other noticed him. Turning, he set the unfinished drink on the sticky bar, and then moved to push his way to the door. Probably, he could have succeeded in escaping without detection, had he not spared one last glance towards the dance floor, hoping for a final fleeting glance of the American.
Not being able to pick him out from the swarm of bodies, Arthur paused midstep, forcing people moving around him to grumble and flow around him. A sudden grip on his shoulder made the Brit startle and spin around, putting him face to face with Alfred, whose shit-eating grin was right in character.
"Arthur!" the taller man exclaimed, nearly vibrating with his usual jubilant attitude, like a young puppy with a new toy, "I thought it was you!! What're you doing here? Still in that whole punk scene, huh? You look badass! I could still kick your skinny Brit butt though!"
Refraining the urge to duff up the younger man, Arthur gritted his teeth and took a breath. He made an obvious point of looking Alfred up and down before replying.
"Don't be daft," he retorted and waved at the other, "Have you gotten a look at yourself in the mirror? That getup is complete rubbish."
Alfred cocked his head to the side, as though watching a vaguely entertaining but completely bonkers show. His hair spray or gel was apparently beginning to lose it's hold in the heat of the club, as blonde locks were drifting their way down to hang in his face, giving him a rather endearing look, if Arthur were to admit it to himself. Then the American opened his mouth and chased away such tender sentiments.
"Dude, speak English will you?" he whined, "I've no idea what just came outta your mouth!"
"Speak English??" Arthur sputtered, looking disconcerted, "What the bollocks do you think I'm-" He shook his head, rubbing his temples with two fingers as Alfred just gazed at him, smirking.
"I think you should talk less," Alfred somehow managed to purr over the roar of the music, pulling Arthur away from the exit and onto the dance floor, pressing the smaller boy dangerously close against his body, "and dance more."
"Alfred…" he managed to murmur, certainly not to the decibel level he'd be heard and, indeed, Alfred appeared to not have heard, losing himself in the music, head bobbing, lips in a gentle, somehow secretive smirk.
A part of him, likely the prudent and more educated part, told him he should interrupt this now and bugger off, before things got out of hand which, around Alfred, they were undoubtably likely to. There were good reasons the two of them were no longer together, though they'd likely forever share a special sort of relationship.
Lamentably, the larger part of him was already entranced by the younger man's charisma and, let's be truthful, his sexual magnetism. Which, it should be said, he was doing a rather marvelous job of flaunting presently, pressing himself up against Arthur and managing to move both their bodies fluidly in time to the beat.
How simple it would be to just submit to Alfred's flirtations, siren song though they might be. No matter how much time progressed between dalliances, and no matter the wounds to his heart and ego, Arthur always seemed to find himself back in the other man's orbit; a fragile moth to a hungry flame.
Not this time, the sandy blonde thought to himself, and moved to pull away. Today, today he was going to assert himself, have a bit of dignity and pride. Alfred might be the paramount power now, but Arthur had been sovereign once. He was through letting Alfred exploit his benevolence and he was of a mind to tell the cheeky bastard so. Opening his mouth, he took a breath to begin what promised to be a lengthy tirade, but, seeing Alfred's uncertain frown, he close his mouth once more.
How did the American always manage to look so very like a kicked puppy? Arthur couldn't even see his eyes, but knew they'd be wounded and uncertain. For someone who fancied himself such a brave and daring hero, Alfred certainly could be easily distressed by a certain few.
With a derisive snort, the Brit reached up and pulled off the offending sunglasses. Just as he'd expected, Al's wounded look was greatly intensified when his eyes were revealed. Arthur also noted, with mild concern and a vague sense of suspicion, the other's eyes were markedly glazed and a bit too wide.
"What's wrong, Arthur?" again the shorter man was surprised he could hear the hesitant voice over the noise of the music and other conversations, "Did you not want to be here?" Arthur could imagine the unspoken 'with me?' easily enough.