Disclaimer: The plot is mine and the characters are borrowed in this work of fan-made fiction.

Author's note: My love of AU's spawned a desire to spin a Freelow-centric version of a dance instructor falling for the one he is teaching and vice-versa. Modern AU has no magic in this. Obvious M/M pairing. It changes between both Freed's and Bixlow's perspectives and will be labeled as such. Non-beta'd so all mistakes are mine. Comments and criticism definitely wanted.

Prologue

"This is extremely important."

It wasn't usual for that to be the first thing he was told so he straightens and looks at the speaker. "So, what is so special 'bout this?"

"He's the son of a prominent CEO who needs some polishing up."

A snort escapes between his lips as he draws another layer of black nail polish on a nail. "Oh, so some rich boy needs to impress for his daddy? How...utterly borin'."

"Bixlow, a client like this only comes once in a lifetime. You've heard of the Justines?"

The figure pauses because it was true enough. That name was extremely familiar; man was a CEO of some bigwig firm and his wife was from just as much money. "Suppose I've heard a thing or two..."

"Well, it's their son you'll be teaching."

Bixlow sighs softly as he closes the nail polish and blows on his finger. "Suppose I would be stupid to let such a thing pass me by. Though don't know why they don't hire someone from their circle?"

"Apparently...he's either refused to go back or they cannot teach him. You are...as they stated; their final hope."

A low laugh escapes him before he remarks, "Yeah, I'd think so; some small dance studio in the middle of nowhere is bound to be anyone's last resort."

"Don't be snide. Besides, despite your...eccentricities you are still the best there is."

Ignoring what should have been a stroke to his ego, Bixlow blows on his nails. "Fine. Suppose I could use a good client to keep from havin' to worry 'bout bills. When do they need me to start?"

"Tonight."

A look of annoyance surfaces though he knew he shouldn't be so surprised considering people like the Justines would figure their money could do almost anything. "Peachy. Tonight it is...even though I know I'm gonna regret it."

"You're a peach."

Bixlow watches the other leave before huffing. Well, how wonderful was this? Scowling, his gaze lands on a few envelopes on the table and he sighs softly. There was no help for it; no matter how good a reputation he had there were still things against him and things that he needed to be able to do. So he'd have to deal with this and make sure the guy wowed whoever it was he needed to.

He crosses the room feeling edgy and unhappy. Reaching out, he presses a button and music would soon start allowing himself to lose himself to try and burn up some restlessness before he had to handle whoever it was being dropped on him.

*~*~*Freed*~*~*

There was so much he wanted to say about things but he was pretty sure none of them would resound with his father when he was bound and determined to have his way. Which is what has him staring up at the worn building wondering if this was chosen as a punishment. Sighing and pushing aside his own doubts and heads up. He'd find himself stilling in the doorway blue eyes widening. The sight of the male moving across the floor has him stunned; short blue-black hair in a mess of spikes and startlingly red eyes clad in tight black pants and a purple shirt; this was definitely not the usual instructors he was used to. And the male was young; could not be that much older than Freed himself.

Finally, the music stops and the other turns to see him there. Something of his reaction has his lips curving upwards. "Not what ya were expectn', baby?"

Freed glowers. "My name is Freed and you are not to call me 'baby'."

"Well, aren't ya just an uptight thin'. If ya gonna learn the finer arts of dance ya gonna have to relax at some point, baby."

Freed grits his teeth as the other obviously was getting something from his annoyance. Shame that it was his father who was paying for this and not Freed because he was tempted to just turn around and walk back the way he came. Unfortunately, his inheritance was at stake if he did not gain his father's approval. "I would think there would be an elegance to dance."

"Oh, there is," comes the others bemused retort, "but it's not just about flashy outfits. Dancin' is an expression of passion done with one's body. It's akin sometimes to sex while still clothed; carnal, heat-inducin'."

"I do not believe those are the sorts of dances my father wants you to teach me," Freed states flatly unsure that he was ever going to warm up to the brazen male observing him, "And you look far too young to be the owner."

"I'm not," comes the response, "I'm just his best acquisition. I'm Bixlow. And for the next five weeks you are mine."

There was no way Freed was accepting that. He'd talk to his father immediately about choosing a less...bold instructor. Because there was something dangerous about the man in front of him. But for now, he'd have to make it through this lesson. "As you say," he finally remarks, "I'm Freed. You will acknowledge me as such and use no other nicknames you might find you like. I'm here to learn and not to amuse you."

*~*~*Bixlow*~*~*~*

He was certainly a privileged, pompous brat. The moment he stepped in he had to command the place. Slender but wiry, the male was deceptively feminine with long green hair and thickly lashed blue eyes. Bixlow didn't doubt for a moment that he'd be dangerous if provoked. The body-type meant that he would make for an ideal partner if one could brave his whiny superiority long enough to want to that was. And he was having severe issues with not telling him to go tell his father where he could put his money.

He'd been honest with Freed; the one who owned the company, at least at the moment, wasn't him. It was something he was saving up for. This dance studio was his life and all he wanted to keep and he was running out of time to get it. Which meant he was going to have to put up with this cocky brat. "So," he remarks completely ignoring the demand for only his name to be used, "What have they managed to teach ya or do I need to start from the beginning?"

The scowl he receives amuses him highly as does the gritted, "I know enough classical dances. Thank you."

"Hmm, we'll have to see about that. C'mere so I can see how well you do know 'em. And I apologize that ya gonna need to follow my lead." The look of concealed fury has his lips curving upwards as he barely manages to contain some quip about this being his own damned fault in the first place. Of course it's definitely far more entertaining watching him strive to let Bixlow lead. "Don't seem so well-versed now do ya?"

"I'm not usually the woman!" comes the snapped retort.

"Ya gotta be flexible," he answers, "So just relax and trust me. I'm not gonna let ya fall."

"Forgive me if I don't," comes the biting retort.

Bixlow sighs before halting them both. "Look, I don't know why this is important to ya but apparently it is. So focus on that above how much ya can't stand me or ya surroundings. I'm gonna teach ya what ya need to know but it's up to ya to accept and learn from it."

"I'm not the one who follows!"

Bixlow gives him a caustic expression. "Yeah, I can tell 'cause ya damn near demand everythin' else while ya at it. Still stands that while ya here ya do it my way, baby."

Of course it ends with Freed storming out promising to have anyone else teach him and Bixlow wanting to throw something or scream. Or both. But then, as silence falls over the studio; perhaps it was for the best anyway. What did some street kid like him know anyway? Locking up and feeling infinitely older than he was, he heads for the local diner to eat and unwind as well as prepare for his phone to go off at any time.

At his usual table, he sits and goes over the lesson knowing that he could have made it easier on the younger male; he just hadn't wanted to. His attitude just rubbed his emotions raw. It still was unacceptable and he deserved getting replaced. But damn, the other had promise. He could move and if he'd relaxed and let go, let someone else lead him a bit; he'd be amazing. As he muses on the other, he wonders what he was into; fingers like his had to be playing an instrument of some kind. He could almost bet on it considering he came from old money.

It would be his phone that would snap him from his musing and he sighs seeing the number. Here it came. Slowly, he'd press the button before putting it to his hear. "'Lo?"

"Don't sass me, I don't have time for it! The hell were you thinking mouthing off to the guy? His father is only one of the richest men in the goddamn town!"

"To be fair, I didn't mouth off. I was honest," he retorts, "If that pampered sod cannot…"

"Watch your mouth, Bixlow."

He closes his eyes. "Freed Justine is a stubborn, prickly individual whose sole problem is that he cannot bend. Even a little. No one will be able to teach him a thing, guaranteed."

"You realize that if you lose this job, I am personally shutting down that building don't you? I've had it up to my ears with you!"

"Legally ya can't without a valid reason," Bixlow responds keeping his voice level, "I'm paid up for this month."

"I'll have the lights and water shut off."

"It's in my name." He'd been very careful about that knowing this man's tendencies to flip on a dime.

"I'll sell it to the first person who gives me my asking price in cash."

That was the problem right there. Bixlow couldn't yet afford it on his own and this asshole knew it. "Ya deplorable...but then I've told ya that over the years."

"Perhaps, but you're the one stupid enough to be attached to the building. You better hope that when his father calls back it's to say his son will be at your studio for your sake. Because if not then you're going to be getting evicted."

Bixlow hangs up the phone glaring at the device before deciding that he'd lost his appetite. Leaving, he finds himself glancing in the distance towards the studio. Losing that would take away the one place he'd ever felt safe at. He couldn't allow it. Making a choice, he heads in the opposite direction deciding that this was his mess and he'd damned well better clean it up on his own.

The pristine building was so lacking in any warmth that he's surprised the heating system isn't on. Trying to ignore the fact that the woman behind the desk he approaches thought extremely little of him, he says quietly, "May I please speak to Mr. Justine?"

"He is very busy right now. Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I just…"

"Then you would need to come back another time." The brusque interruption makes his shoulders tense.

"I'm his son's dance instructor and I need to speak with him," he retorts as calmly as he can.

"Mr. Justine should have made it quite clear that your services are…"

"Mr. Justine can tell me himself!" Bixlow snaps, "Now unless you want me to make an extremely undignified scene, I suggest you see if he has a few minutes to spare." Of course, he was sure that she'd end up calling security on him instead of who he was seeking but that was the gamble with this.

A moment later, he hears, "What is going on down here?"

"Mr. Justine, I will take care of it," she says immediately flashing an unkind look at Bixlow.

"I would like a word, sir, if you don't mind," Bixlow says ignoring the clear warning to keep quiet.

"And you are?"

"My name is Bixlow, sir. And It's about your son, Freed."

"You're the instructor?" The suited man seems startled by this fact as he takes him in. Bixlow isn't too surprised. Most were not expecting him.

"Yes, I am." Or he was until he'd been an idiot. Either way, he had to try and fix this before things went south in his universe.

"When he said that you were the last choice, I suppose I should have believed him…" the man muses taking his measure and like so many others selling him short. "And make no mistake, my son is not wanting to come anywhere near your...establishment. However, there is no time for alterations so I will honor the agreement. You had just best not make him come to me again."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now leave. I cannot have clientele thinking I'm running a shelter."

Ignoring the insult, he does as bade feeling far more steady. He still had the job and would not make the same mistake with the other male. Too much was at stake for him to do that. These rich-types were always easy to deal with; just cowtow and let them think that they were all high-and-mighty and they normally did as you wanted. At least that was Bixlow's opinion of the whole thing.

He heads back for the studio to the small apartment that he had there. The building itself was only three stories though the first floor wasn't used as more than storage as it had flooded enough times to warn that no good would come of using it. So the second floor held the studio and then a kitchen, bathroom, and his bedroom. It was kind of cramped but it was his, or would be if fate was kind.

Clothing is stripped off before his phone goes off. He picks it up. "'Lo?"

"You actually showed up at the man's job? I might have underestimated you."

"Ya know what this place means to me. I intend on keepin' it. It's what ya father intended."

"Yeah, well the old man isn't here is he?" Ivan's sneered tone is like a slap.

Bixlow squeezes his eyes shut. "Ya a waste of space, ya know that? I hope that ya get what ya deserve, Dreyar."

"Careful there, Bix," comes his bemused tone, "I can still make sure that you have some unfortunate accident of your own there. Fires are...very common." The line would drop leaving Bixlow angry and bitter that this was what money did to a person.

Turning his phone off, he slumps onto his bed before glancing at the small table that held an image and reaches to pick it up. Staring at it, he's drawn to the small figure of Makarov Dreyar. He'd saved Bixlow from the streets and gave him somewhere safe to stay; had encouraged his love for dance. And eventually, his glance would move to the other male in the picture; a blond only a year old and swallows thickly. Heaven only knew where Laxus had ended up after Makarov died. Bixlow tried to keep in touch with him but he was having none of it. Lightly touching the image, he whispers, "I hope that ya safe, Lax. Please be safe. And come back soon, brother. I could use ya right now."

But after three years and he wasn't at all hopeful in that regards. Curling up on his side, he holds the picture close and wishes once more that things were fair. But fair seemed only to pertain to those with money and power. None of which he did.

*~*~*Freed*~*~*~*

"What do you mean, I'm going back?" he demands.

"Your instructor came to see me at my own office," comes his father's curt reply, "You will continue the lessons as planned and you will be exemplary at the conference."

Freed's fingers tighten. "I told you…"

"Do not argue with me, Freed. I've let you do what you wanted long enough. I told you that everything that you have is at stake and I meant it. I will cast you out penniless if you screw this up for me."

"What's so important about this?"

"She is the daughter of a man with whom our name would gain only more influence. You are going to impress her."

"You've arranged a marraige? Isn't that just a little old-fashioned?"

"Do not be petulant! We are from a noble lineage and it will continue! You will finish these lessons and you will court her with all the charm you should possess by now!"

Whatever Freed wants to argue back with, he wisely keeps to himself understanding that there was no winning this fight. "Yes, father," he concedes inwardly wishing the man to any number of the levels of hell just to get him away from him. "If that is all?"

"It is...but I am serious, Freed. I will not be lenient with you."

"I understand," he replies before turning and abruptly walking out of the man's study. He should have known this would happen. The man he'd met didn't seem the type to take anything except how he wanted it. Letting himself into the safety of his own room, he closes the door before leaning against it. There was a reason he preferred the typical instructors; one he would never admit and could never admit to anyone because it would certainly lose him everything. And the wild-haired, black-nailed instructor was everything that he tried to avoid admitting that he might want. Immediately, he squashes that thought because there was no use in wishful thinking and the less he considered that, the less things hurt. Instead, he walks over and pulls out a case revealing his violin deciding to lose himself in music to perhaps help ease some of his own turmoil. If nothing else, it was worth a shot.

His fingers would be nearly cramping by the time he'd let up. Setting it back into it's case and walking into the bathroom, he glances at himself in the mirror and dislikes the unhappiness he sees radiating from his own gaze. Running cold water over his fingers, he tries to tell himself that wanting for nothing was something to be grateful for.

The problem was that it felt like it was at the expense of his soul.

Freed Justine had been born to privilege and it was all he'd known; lavish outfits, maids, private tutors; all the best things that money could buy. What he hadn't had was a childhood full of laughter, getting messy with friends, or the ability to be social with anyone but who was deemed "appropriate". It was the same people who had the same social status and Freed found them extremely dull. Which is why he'd put his foot down and gone to a college for the arts for two years wanting to play the violin and the flute. Of course his father soon put his foot down and sequestered him in a business degree at a "proper" college. And now this. It was unbelievable to Freed who at 21 should be pleased that he'd gotten a degree so soon. He was clearly very intelligent and bright but it was never enough for his father who found the smallest failings to rail on him about. Like his social awkwardness.

There was just no way Freed was explaining that it was more to do with the fact that he didn't like women than him not knowing how to do things. It would not go over well. Returning to his bedroom, he sinks onto the bed sighing and bringing a hand through his hair. A knock has him glancing warily in that direction. "Who is it?"

"As if it would be anyone else," comes his sister's voice, "Can I come in?"

Resting back, he mumbles, "If you insist."

And it wouldn't be long before the door would open and she would waltz in. "Got into it with dad again did you?"

"Like it's anything new," he answers, "Was there something that you needed, Evergreen, or did you just want to point out that I'm not ever going to win an argument with him?"

"Well, it could be worse you know."

"Is that so? You do realize that he expects me to court and marry...well, whoever it is he's wanting me to woo and marry."

Evergreen looks at him in disbelief. "You don't even know who...Where have you been over the past few months?!"

"Not paying attention to anything having to do with our family," he answers rolling on his side, "Not that it matters who she is in the end. Our father's will is law."

"Or you could refuse and be sent penniless into the streets," she replies.

Freed gives her a baleful look over his shoulder. "Oh, yes that will end most favorably for me, Ever."

"Well, at some point you are going to have to figure out if you want to be miserable in this gilded cage or walk away with nothing and try your fortune that way."

"If I leave...what about you?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "I'm not the one who seems so set against all of this. I'm enjoying myself; something you should learn how to do every once in awhile."

Freed sighs softly. "I know you're right I just...it's a lot to consider."

"You have about a month to do so so I'd definitely come to a concrete decision were I you."

He knew she was right but he wouldn't tell her that. As much as he loved his sister, he knew she would preen and hold it against him. So he merely remarks, "Yes, I am aware. Was there something else?"

"No, I figured I should check on you since dad is ranting again. Did the guy really come to his office?"

"Apparently he did," Freed mutters, "He shouldn't have bothered."

"Well, that takes a hell of a lot of guts."

"Or just the want of the payoff."

"When did you get jaded enough to think that it has only to do with the bottom line?"

"Because most of the time it does," he retorts, "Why are we discussing this? I am stuck with that...guy for the next five weeks. I'm not looking forward to it."

"Still," Ever says chuckling, "Gotta give him props for demanding to speak with our father."

Freed didn't want to give Bixlow anything along the lines because it then made him think about the other and that was a dangerous set of affairs in and of itself. This was such a mess and something tells him that it was only going to get worse and not better.