The dance floor was jumping and he was getting warm under the collar, starched shirt wilting and wrinkling as he shifted and jived, the pretty dame spinning in and out of his arms pressing five hot little fingertips against his neck as he dipped her low and winked in time with the crash of a syncopated beat. It was probably conduct unbecoming, to be sliding his feet along smooth wood floors and holding the waist of another nameless lady, but it was Friday and the swing sounded so sweet after a long week that Alfred couldn't be bothered to care. Sure, he'd been known to leave a trail of broken hearted gals in the wake of too many two-steps and his brother had told him that maybe he should settle down and stop raising so many hopes, but it just didn't seem fair that a man couldn't shake his cares away without having someone fall in love. Alfred was out to have a good time, to leave politics and power plays behind for a few blessed evening hours, to drink gin in the company of likeminded men and move a body that spent too much time crouched over a desk.
He'd leave the worrying to Arthur and take another turn about the floor and let the girlies return the sunshine of his weekend grin while they made dancing look so good. The thought of Arthur and his frowning disapproval of Alfred's generous smile had him turning his gaze to the bar, eyes skating down the familiar hunch of Arthur's back, the tension in his shoulders practically shouting just how much he was enjoying their night on the town. As he mirrored the slow-slow-quick of dainty feet, Alfred wondered not for the first time why his friend always insisted on tagging along, when he never had much to do but slump over the bar and cast aspersions on Alfred's considerable talents on the dance floor.
It wasn't that he minded— he'd never been all that concerned with anything Arthur had to say when he was in his cups and making that expression of general annoyance, preferring to save his efforts for the times when Arthur's brow really furrowed and he knew he'd actually stepped in the shit. Alfred had just never quite been able to pin down why his pal would want to spend those first hours of freedom after a long week in oak paneled board rooms and smoking too many cigarettes sulking like a storm cloud. But, no matter how rationally Alfred tried to point this out or suggested that maybe Arthur should go catch at a flick at the nickel theater instead, Arthur always told him to shut his idiot mouth and leave him to his own devices, thank you very much.
It amused Alfred to hypothesize that maybe Arthur was so used to spending all of his time with dour diplomats and buttoned Brits that he just wasn't capable of cracking a smile and taking a pretty girl with fast heels for a spin on the floor. Alfred was just glad that Washington hadn't sapped the spirit of freedom from his bones just yet, no matter how hard the old mucks at the War Department might try to break a young man down. He still had enough youth and yearning for more, more, more in him to make the jitterbug look so fine.
"How about another go?" His flushed face partner asked as one song wound down and another cranked up.
"Sorry, baby. I'm feeling a little parched. You know how to make a man need a drink with moves that quick!" Alfred declined cheerfully, kissing the back of her hand and promising to find her another time on another dance floor where the music was even hotter, trying to wade through the wave of guilt brought forth in the crumbling of her expectant smile.
Though he was charmed by the way her red lipstick had smeared just a little, rendering her just imperfect enough to be really beautiful, Alfred couldn't help but feel the pull of Arthur's angry posture. Rolling up his sleeves all the way to the elbow just to rattle the Englishman's cage of propriety, Alfred sauntered to the bar, draping a warm arm around a cranky set of shoulders and gleefully announcing his return.
"Buy a man a drink?" Alfred tried hopefully, laughing when Arthur shivered beneath the touch of his arm and favored him with an expression of absolute disgust.
"You are an uncouth barbarian," Arthur grumbled, shrugging away from the Alfred's sweaty friendliness, "And I know for a fact that you are perfectly capable of buying your own bloody drinks."
Alfred smirked and leaned against the bar, pushing a hand through his mussed hair while he tried to get the barman's attention. "Just because I can, doesn't mean I should! Come on, don't you want to say that you treated at least one person to something good on a Friday night?"
"No, you idiot. That doesn't hold any particular appeal." The irritated pinking of Arthur's cheeks was almost as nice as the first touch of a cold glass between his fingers, making Alfred feel pretty alright up until the moment Arthur launched into his favorite topic. "I'll leave the smiling and simpering to you. One of us ought to maintain a little dignity."
Alfred's eyes widened behind his glasses while liquor less bitter than Arthur's scorn burned down his throat, forcing a spluttering cough as he struggled to defend his wounded honor, "Hey, now! No need to be so snappy just because I've been jiving with a few ladies tonight."
"Seven," Arthur said lowly, fingers tracing over the rim of his empty glass, tipping it back and forth, drawing Alfred's curious gaze away from his companion's troubles, "Seven ladies. While I can hardly vouch for American estimations, I doubt even you could qualify seven as a few."
Sheepish but unashamed, Alfred shrugged and waved a hand towards the hustle and bustle on the floor, nudging Arthur's shoulder. "A few. Seven. Seventeen. Why mind when we're all here to have a good time and forget our worries?"
"Wouldn't you rather have just one?" Arthur asked dryly, signaling the bartender for another drink, sneering as he gave an endearingly bad imitation Alfred's accent, "Get yourself a best girl?"
Alfred chuckled and tipped his head to the side, peering at Arthur beneath his wire frames, wondering just how much his friend had had to drink to want to go tripping down the mostly barren path of Alfred's romantic history. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the finer points of affection, but once the song was over, he'd never quite been interested enough to ask for another dance.
"No thanks, my man. You should know by now that isn't for me."
"You are a cad and a bastard of the first degree," Arthur muttered distastefully, though Alfred could feel some of the tension melt away in the rub of their shoulders.
Alfred laughed and slumped closer, relaxing into the familiar warmth of Arthur's side, buzzing with liquor and the exhaustion earned from a hard working week as he watched the couples shimmy and slide on the dance floor. "What can I say? Is it so bad to want to be the reason a pretty girl smiles? Or to want to shake my blues away?"
"Yes," Arthur spat, lips crinkling into that smirk that never boded well for Alfred's ego, "What passes for dancing in this country ought to be classified as a crime. That you repeatedly commit this crime with innocent ladies too blinded by your idiot smile to know better is a sin. That I'm forced to watch this comedy of errors, well, it's just unnecessary."
Alfred clutched a hand to his chest, sighing dramatically, "No one's forcing to you look, my good man! I can't help that I'm so irresistible even you can't keep your eyes off me!" He broke into peals of laughter at the sight of Arthur's spluttering outrage, clapping his hand over Arthur's shoulder, entirely undaunted by Arthur's halfhearted attempts to bite his waggling fingers. "As a matter of fact, me thinks the gentleman doth protest too much."
Arthur stilled, gaze darting away from Alfred's mirthful face for the blank comfort of the floor, "I have no idea what you are talking about. And please, leave off from abusing the words of Britain's national treasure."
"Whatever you say, Artie," Alfred teased, feeling his skin prickle with anticipation as the band started up with a real hot tune, "But I gotta say you seem mighty jealous tonight!"
Arthur's shoulder tensed beneath his fingers, a likely reaction to the use of a hated nickname, tickling Alfred's immaturity so heartily he almost missed the sound of real upset in Arthur's hissed response, "Why on earth would I have any reason to be jealous?"
Alfred swallowed his laughter, suddenly concerned by the taut bow of Arthur's back and a brow furrowed so deep he could barely make out the green of Arthur's eyes. He softened his hold, stroking his fingers once over the curve of an angry throat in an attempt to assuage feelings he'd once again managed to hurt. "Hey, I'm just kidding! Really, it's no big deal if you don't know how to dance."
"Ah, yes. Dancing." Arthur mumbled, cheeks staining a telltale red that made Alfred smile with relief as Arthur uncurled from his position of defensive hostility, stretching into the easiness of Alfred's slouch.
Alfred winked at the girl eying him from across the room, holding up a finger to ask her for just a moment more so he could make his one good offer for the evening. He pushed away from the bar and away Arthur's rumpled cling before turning back with inviting words from a happy mouth, "I could teach you, if you want. Show you how to jump and jive with the best of 'em!"
Arthur's face went as red and hot as the Fourth of July, his look of abject horror tinged with curiosity warming something wonderful and strange in Alfred's chest.
"You are even more of an idiot than I thought. Go away immediately," Arthur scoffed before hiding his flushed face and pretty frown by looking resolutely at anything but Alfred's fond amusement.
With laughter in his heart and a swing in his step, Alfred took lady number 8's hand and spun her onto the dance floor, feeling the prickle of someone's eyes watching and watching as he realized with a start that Arthur didn't say no.