Chapter 1: Please Excuse Me If I'm Coming On Too Strong
Author's note: This fic is AU, approximately modern times. Since it's pretty much from Arthur's POV, I decided I might as well use British English spelling. If you see any mistakes/phrases Arthur wouldn't use, let me know!
I don't own Hetalia or any of the songs or their lyrics used in this story. This honestly isn't a song fic; the lyrics are used more for the mood than anything else, and the characters are actually listening to the songs. Songs in this chapter: "I Like It," by Enrique Iglesias (though I didn't use all of the lyrics). Feel free to listen to it while reading! There are actually only three chapters that have songs in them; the first two, and then The Smiths make an appearance a bit later. :)
Arthur went to the club twice a month, on Friday nights. It was his treat to himself, the one time he could wear something other than a collared shirt, the one place that could make him feel he still had some sex appeal. He certainly wasn't looking for love, because at this point he was pretty damn sure that love wasn't looking for him.
He took the subway, gazing vacantly at a spot above the other passengers' heads. The tight, black leather pants were different enough from his normal attire that he was fairly certain no one from work would recognise him, but the attitude didn't hurt. The subway slowed as it reached his stop. He got off and walked the rest of the way to the club, the pink neon sign glowing comfortingly at its entrance.
He walked in as usual, cocking his head to the side in a careless, confident way. He gave them his coat and scarf to be put away – they knew him at this point and took it from him without question – and entered the dance floor. The music was loud and drove all thoughts from his mind. It took him less than a minute to loose himself in the mass of people and find a suitable rhythm. Time seemed to loose meaning, marked only by the passage of songs. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he found another gaze locked on his own. A pair of blue eyes, meeting his straight on for an instant, then lost in the crowd. Bodies writhed, shifted, and the eyes appeared again, still meeting his own.
Girl please excuse me if I'm coming too strong,
But tonight is the night we can really let go;
My girlfriend's out of town and I'm all alone.
Your boyfriend's on vacation and he doesn't have to know.
He looked elsewhere carelessly, as if he still hadn't noticed, and then glanced back casually and just a little flirtatiously from underneath his eyelashes. They were gone. He bit his lip slightly in disappointment, searching the crowd, but he had lost them. Whatever, he thought, and concentrated on his dancing again. They probably we're really looking at you in the first place.
No I won't, oh oh, oh oh;
No one can do the things I'm gonna wanna to do to you,
It was hard to tell what people looked like in such a place, but he was pretty sure there there had been a hint of blond hair.
No I won't, oh oh, oh oh;
Shout it out, scream it loud, let me hear you go –
And there he was, in front of Arthur, blond hair brushing the thin frames of his glasses. He was grinning in the pause in the music, moving in on Arthur in a way that left no room for interpretation. Then he was mouthing the words, almost talking to Arthur, and a shiver ran down his spine.
Baby I like it,
The way you move on the floor;
Baby I like it,
Come on and give me some more;
Oh yes I like it,
Screaming like never before,
Baby I like it,
I, I, I like it.
They were dancing in sync, and it wasn't Arthur's doing. This man had an aura of confidence that drew Arthur in, though he would have liked to deny it, and whoever he was, he couldn't seem to stop smiling.
Girl please excuse me if I'm misbehaving, oh;
I'm trying keep my hands off,
But you're begging me for more.
He moved closer so their hips touched, and Arthur gave him a condescending look that they both knew wasn't condescending at all.
Round, round, round,
Give a low, low, low;
Let the time time pass
'Cause we're never getting old.1
(And for a few minutes, Arthur believed it.) The man moved even closer, his breath hot on Arthur's throat. He was smiling, and Arthur found an answering smile forming on his lips.
Shout it out, scream it loud, let me hear you go –Arthur let them touch with every beat of the music. He examined him as much as their close quarters would allow. He was slightly taller than Arthur and had broader shoulders. His thin shirt caught on the muscles in his chest and shoulders as he moved. He rolled his neck luxuriously, a lock of hair that had been in his eyes righting itself.
God, thought Arthur. He could feel himself responding, his heart beating faster and his breath becoming slightly uneven. What I would like to do to you. . . .
The song ended, but they kept dancing through another, and then another; and when Arthur was starting to feel his muscles protesting, the other man leaned in close and yelled above the music, "Wanna get off the floor?"
"Why not?" Arthur replied, looking at him side-long.
The man set off through the crowd, occasionally elbowing people to get them out of the way as if by accident. Arthur followed closely. When they were through the worst of the crowd he slowed and found a support beam to lean against. It was mostly out of the way, in view of the bar, and music was slightly less deafening. He turned back to Arthur and titled his head, still smiling. "The name's Alfred Jones."
Jones. Remember it. "A pleasure to meet you," Arthur drawled.
"Oh no, the pleasure's all mine." He grinned. "That's a British accent, right?"
"English, yeah."
"Not just passing through, I hope?"
Arthur's mouth twitched into a smile. "No, I live here."
"Yesss," said Jones, pulling his fist towards him. Arthur raised an eyebrow but Jones ignored it. "You come here often?"
"Every Friday." It was stretching the truth, but everything became distorted in the half-light of the club.
Jones grinned again. "Awesome. Hey, hey, can you wait a minute?"
"Uh, yeah." Jones disappeared back into the crowd and Arthur was left feeling a little alone, but perhaps also a little flattered. He took up Jones's spot on the beam and let his eyes roam the room, but nothing could hold his interest.
Jones really was gone for only a few moments, and when he reappeared he was holding a scrap of paper. He took Arthur's hand and pressed the paper into it. "I gotta get going, sorry, but –" A grin flashed white in the darkness. "Call me, 'kay?" He gave Arthur a mock salute vanished into the crowd.
His words echoed in Arthur's head a few times as he stared at the spot where the man had just been. Someone else quickly filled in the space he had occupied, just another body pulsing to the music. He unfolded the paper and peered at it. It was clearly a number, though he couldn't make it out. He shoved it in his pocket and thought briefly about joining in again, but his good mood was quickly replaced by uncertainty and he felt drained. He began working his way towards the exit, his thoughts troubled. You cannot call him, Arthur told himself as he boarded the subway. He knows nothing about you, and you know nothing about him. It's hardly likely he was serious. (Oh, but God, the way he moved, his hair, the hollow of his throat, the burning warmth of his hand pressed against your own –) He leaned his head against the pole he was holding onto. Arthur, be logical. You flirted, nothing more. By the time he got home he had decided that he was going to throw the number away, or at least put it somewhere where he would never look at it again.
But his subconscious had already decided that he was going back to the club the next week, breaking his schedule to go twice in a row. It had decided the moment he'd caught sight of Alfred Jones's smile, and he'd known exactly what Alfred had meant when he had asked,"You come here often?"
