I know, I know, I'm not supposed to write any more multi-chapters. But it's Woodbyne's (who is not actually the person doing the writing, in case you missed the memo) 19th birthday today! So can we have a big hand for the woman who watched Step Up Revolution with me just so she could read this fic. So have some dancing fun!

"No way," Alfred drawled, his eyes resting lazily on a dancing couple across the room, reflected twice in the double mirrors that lined the walls, and the bar that encircled them.

The girl was rake thin in her body-hugging practise leotard, as opposed to the guy holding her up, who was wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt. Both dancers had their hair in buns, and they were both focused on their steps.

"So," Alfred sighed, slouching beside his dance instructor, "Which one of the pro-ana Barbies gets to dance with me?" This was a stupid idea, insofar as he was concerned and considering Køhler had picked him to dance with the pretty, little princess; that was pretty far.

"Oh, give it a chance, Al. It's a one off, and it's not like they're bad dancers," said Mathia Anderson, "Besides, we could have to deal with the Latin dance company, and they have a completely different method of performance." The Dane sighed at the same time as the blond man beside her pursed his lips slightly, the ballet instructor, gestured to a pair dancing together. The boy was spinning the girl like a top, hoisting her into the air before swinging her down. She had a sharp face, sandy hair that was pulled back into a severe bun and poisonously green eyes. Pretty enough, but she looked like a prize ice bitch.

"Yeah, but do I have to dance with the ice-queen over there?" the American whined, staring disappointedly at the skinny woman being thrown around.

"Uh-" Mathia was interrupted by the couple across the room breaking apart and squabbling.

"Stop man-handling me, Williams! I'm a person, not a box you can toss around!" a crisp, English accent snapped through the air, and both of the spectators winced as the man defended himself too quietly for them to hear. But whatever he had said hadn't been nice, because her cheeks burnt with red anger,

"I'm perfectly flexible, you tosspot, it's not my fault you're not holding me properly!" she shot back, nose in the air as she stalked off to the bar, leaving the man alone, shaking his head and frowning.

"Oh man," Alfred groaned, hanging his head in despair, "This is going to be a riot."

"You're not dancing with her," an accented voice whispered in Alfred's ear, making him turn and swat at the air next to his head, "Look," a blond Frenchman had appeared at his shoulder, making a little view-finder with his fingers, and aiming it across the room where the same guy was dancing with a dark-skinned girl, her hair held back with red ribbon.

"So I'm dancing with her?" the puzzled American asked, feeling uncomfortable in the ballet studio.

"Non," the view-finder shrunk until it was focussed on the face of the man who was currently holding her up, before the hands fell away, clapping together so loudly that it made the American jump.

"Matthieu! Put Michelle down and come here," Obediently, the dark-haired young woman was set down and the man who had been holding her walked – no, not walked, he glided – across the glassy floorboards to stand in front of the trio.

"Ouias, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" he asked, voice quiet and unassuming. Alfred hated him already. From the way he spoke French to the way his ballet-slipper'd feet were set at a perfect forty-five degree angle. This was going to be a treat.

"Matthieu, I would like to introduce you to the …B-boy representative from our urban company, Monsieur Alfred Jones and his director, Madame Mathia Anderson. Madame, Monsieur, it is my pleasure to introduce Monsieur Matthieu Williams, this company's premier danseur." The vaguest sense of distaste in Francis' voice faded when he turned to the ballet dancer, replaced by glowing pride.

Matthew smiled, a slight hardness of his jaw the only indication that it was at all forced, he extended a hand to the 'b-boy'. Low hanging jeans, red-white-and-blue trainers, and a white wife-beater, topped off with a backwards baseball cap. Alfred Jones wasn't bad to look at, exactly, well built, fair hair, tanned skin and blue eyes; lines of muscle were clearly visible through his flimsy shirt. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jones."

"You're American?" Alfred asked in surprise, taking the other's hand.

"Canadian," he said frostily, pale hand gripping tan with a little more force than was necessary.

"Oh," whatever good opinion Alfred might have had about his new dance partner disintegrated. If the girl he had been holding up looked like the ice princess, then that must make Matthieu the ice king. What kind of guy voluntarily wore ballet shoes? And who was that kind of creepy-pale? It only cemented Alfred's opinion of ice-king when he noted the almost-red hair and oddly blue-purple eyes. Great. The only good thing that the American could say about the Canadian, aside from that he wasn't bad –looking, was that he wasn't wearing tights. Yet.

"Well," Mathia clapped her hands together, much as Francis had done, but to lesser effect, "We'll leave you two to it! Mr Bonnefoy, if you could come with me, I'd like to organise a schedule?" she lead the Frenchman off, leaving the two teenagers to glare at each other.

"So, Matthieu," Alfred drawled, slouching, his eyes balefully judging the other. Slighter of build; he was lankier than the break dancer, which made him look taller, though they were around the same height.

"Matthew," the Canadian corrected him, his back ramrod straight as he looked down his nose at Alfred, "My name is Matthew, now how are we going to do this?"

"Right you are Mattie. How aboot you put on your tutu and we'll start this thing, eh?" Alfred grinned, his eyebrow quirking by way of a challenge.

"Sure, Alfie, why doncha jus git dressed first? Ah kin see yer pubes." Matthew retorted in a horrible mangling of the American's accent.

Alfred's mouth mashed into a hard line, "Well, I hope you know that I'm not going to dance with a beginner. I expect you to be able to do this," barely before he'd finished his sentence, the American leant backwards until his hand touched the floor, forming an arch with his body. With quick, slightly mechanical movements, he kicked his legs into the air, using the hand that wasn't supporting his weight to touch his feet. It only took a moment, and it was over just as quickly, Alfred pivoting himself out of the position and back onto his feet, "But of course, you probably can't do that. It takes years of long practise." He shrugged, a self-satisfied grin all-over his face.

"You're not the only one who won't dance with an amateur," Matthew said, trying not to look impressed and barely succeeding, "I hope you can do this?" It didn't take a second, and because Alfred hadn't really been paying attention, so he didn't quite see the way the Canadian had brought his knee up, swiftly followed by his calf, all he saw was that Matthew was on one leg, the other one being held beside his ear, and the other teen looked… taller? Looking down, Alfred almost swore. He was en pointe; the very tips of his toes. Damn it. "But that takes years of training, so I suppose you can't."

"Alright, lads, " that same crisp English accent cut through the tension, and Matthew resumed standing the way most people would, "Slap em on the table and I'll get my tape measure. " the bun had been let down and retied into two long, thin pigtails, but the poisonous green eyes were just the same behind their thin-framed spectacles.

"This is none of your business, you corpulent bitch," the male ballet dancer said pleasantly, smile warm but eyes frosty,

"Thank God for that, you worthless piece of shit," she sniped, flicking her hair over her shoulder and gliding out the door. Everyone in this wretched place seemed to hover a half inch over the floor when they walked.

"Bye, Alice!"

"See you tomorrow, Matt!"

Alfred wanted to go home.