He takes a cautious step into the dark room, which he finds is much more spacious than it looked from the door. Strobe lights of neon pink and green blind him for a moment, and he brings his hand up to shield his eyes. The room seems to get bigger as he walks deeper into it, and in each step, he can feel the floor vibrate. The teen stops in a fairly dark corner and leans against the wall. Even here he can feel the beat of the stereotypical club music.

It's loud, really loud, way too loud for his liking. He doesn't understand why the music needs to be cranked up this high if the rap lyrics don't mean much more than 'let's dry-hump each other on the dance floor and after I stare at your ass for a while, you can give me a blowjob, you sexy bitch.'

He can't identify the artist of the song, though he wouldn't admit to knowing any artists of the American music genre when asked. He thinks about requesting at least a Eurodance song; some are purely beats and would fare well in this club setting. Taking a quick glance at the disc jockey behind the turntables in the front of the dance floor, he decides not to request anything when he sees that it's some old man, probably 40-something years old, with hairy arms.

And then he wonders why he's here in the first place.

It's so much better at home, where obnoxious blue and red lights don't flash incessantly and there aren't people doing questionable things that he might accidentally bump into. He's not the party type. He hates dancing and loud music with thumps he could feel in his own heartbeat. He hates bars and the smell of intoxicated people. He scowls at people who think they can dance, though he's probably not one to judge. It's just disgusting to watch couples, and usually much more than two, make exaggerated moaning sounds as they put their hands up and grind. The teenager figures that there's not much more to "dancing" in a club than that.

And by what he's seeing so far, his description's pretty accurate.

"EMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIL!" He cringes at the overly-loud voice. "Whatcha doin' o'er there? C'mon, dance with us!"

He quickly shakes his head no and takes out his phone to appear busy. "Leave me alone, Matthias. Go annoy Lukas; the birthday boy isn't supposed to be left alone on his birthday,"

"Ah man, don't worry." Matthias rests an arm on Emil's shoulder. He directs Emil's line of vision to somewhere in the middle of the dance floor. "Your brother's far from alone."

Emil looks and immediately wishes he hadn't. "Oh, god." The teen's legs buckle, more or less theatrically, and he clutches the wall for support, face towards the cold concrete. "Shit, Matthias, stop him before anything else happens." He stands up with his hands covering his eyes and mutters, "How'd he get like that?"

Matthias, who was busy admiring Lukas's swaying hips, pauses his low wolf-whistle midway and cheerfully answers, "Prolly 'round fifteen too many drinks,"

"How many of those did you give him? Last time I saw, he was in a scowling contest with the bartender," Emil deadpans.

The older boy stops staring at Lukas and thinks for a few moments. "Only two, surprisingly,"

"Well, at least he's having fun…"

"Nah man, I don't even think he's self-aware right now. But what's stopping you from havin' as much of a blast as he is?"

"My self-conscience…?" He stares up at Matthias.

"Well, fine," the Dane pats Emil's shoulder, "play it that way."

"Hey, I don't even like clubs. And neither does, or did, Lukas…" Emil trails off. After a few passing moments of silence between the two, the shorter male asks to no one, "What's this place called again?"

"Club dub'ya-tee-eff," Matthias idly responds, grabbing a cocktail glass from a scantily-clad waitress's tray. Before Emil could look up to stare at him strangely, the spiky-haired male explains, "Stands fer Work, Tak, Fierce."

"What's 'Tak'?"

"Think the owner's Polish or somethin'," Matthias swishes the ice in his drink. "This place is known for new talent,"

"Certainly not in dancing," the Icelander mutters.

"Nah. In dee-jays."

"Really?" Emil incredulously raises an eyebrow, glancing at the current one with slight disdain.

Matthias follows Emil's line of vision and laughs a bit. "Nah, nah. I said 'new' talent, didn't I?" he points out, making quotation marks with his fingers at the word 'new'. "Every now 'n then they let kids who can't be more than seventeen up to the deck and try out the setup. Hafta admit, some of 'em are hella good."

"You come here often?" At this point, Emil's head is throbbing along with the song and he's only making small talk.

The Dane sips his drink and stares into the glass questioningly, sticking his tongue out. "My favourite club," he replies.

"It's Lukas's birthday and you drag us to your favourite club," the Icelandic teen comments. "Selfish bastard."

"I won't be selfish if ya enjoy yerself!" With that declaration, Matthias excitedly grabs Emil's arm and pulls him deep into the crowd.

One second in the throng of grinding people and he's already sweating. Emil refuses to move and he sticks out quite obviously. The DJ pauses in his scratching and lifts one of the ear-cups of the headphones up to crack Emil a half-smile, almost apologetically. Then the Icelander realises that he's in the dead center of the dance floor, with probably the highest chance of getting one of those dance-talent-seeking spotlights to land on him; not to mention he currently has the best view of the DJ.

Wonderful.

The music's louder than before, louder than ever. He can't tell the difference between the thump thump of the current track and the thump thump of his own heart. The beat becomes his heartbeat, and it feels so, so…surreal. The vibrations under his feet grow in intensity as the people around him jump up and down to the rhythm, and he wonders how some of the tiles aren't already broken.

His disapproving face distorts in pain when a blue spotlight beam shines over his eyes. His pupils had yet to get used to the flashes of the strobes and the dark room, and he rubs his eyes to try to recover his eyesight.

He tries to nudge himself out of the crowd, making no apologies to anyone he "accidentally" elbows. Sometime in the middle of his snaking out of there, the bass-heavy track ends and DJ Hairy shouts something into the microphone. Emil can't hear the words over everyone talking and doesn't bother to ask. Everyone starts clapping and Emil can see his dark corner over some guy's shoulder. He doesn't look back.

It's quieter in the club now, and he hears a new voice booming through the surround sound. "Thanks, guys. I'll be dropping a few new beats, hope you dig."

Emil rolls his eyes at the slang but wonders for a moment about the slight accent. He can't place where the person came from; it sounds English but the lilt of some syllables imply Asian. The thought, however, disappears as a few drops of an unknown liquid splashes on his arm, and he wipes it off on some passing stranger's cotton sleeve.

He makes it to the edge of the crowd, finally breaking into a smile as he sees his corner unoccupied. Running to the wall, he sighs in content when he feels the cold concrete against his graphic tee-covered back. He takes a glance at the crowd, grimaces, and spots a skinny arm in the air, in the distance. No other clubbers were fistpumping, but he figures it's a clubber as new to this scene as he is.

Just probably bolder than him.

Then, the first few chords of the track strike him with familiarity. He jerks his head up and stands up straight.

It's Avicii, an artist among his brother's friend's husband's many ABBA CDs, an artist of the mainstream EDM genre the man would never admit to owning music from.

It's then when he takes heed that the skinny arm he saw earlier was not fistpumping, rather, just an open palm with slightly-bent, thin fingers, wrist rotating slightly to the beat. The many rubber wristbands on the arm catch his attention. Craning his neck to see above the crowd, he makes out a few words written on the bands. Some words were in English, others were written with unfamiliar, complicated characters.

His line of vision follows down the arm to a red graphic tee-covered shoulder, then to a face as pale as Emil's own complexion. The guy's eyes are closed and his dark bangs move along with his headbanging. As for the guy's overall facial features, they look pretty normal. Nothing to puke on the nearest waitress's tray about, but nothing to swoon over, either. Emil watched the boy open his eyes – ah, dark brown – and take off his headphones to place them around his neck. They look like red MonsterBeats, but where the logo usually is, a white flower-like symbol is adorned.

And then the guy turns his head and catches Emil's eye. The Icelander's shocked and mentally slaps himself for being caught staring.

He winks, making that old-school "call me" gesture. Emil's eyes get even wider and his face heats up. He's glad the corner's dark enough to mask his flushed cheeks. The DJ smirks for a quick moment and he looks down to tend to his turntables again, a soft grin gracing his features.

Emil doesn't know why his heart chooses to race for a couple seconds before turning away from that smile. He doesn't know why his eyes keep stealing glances at the other, why it felt like there weren't any other people in the room when they locked gazes, for what, four seconds?

He turns and unnecessarily bangs his head against the wall behind him once, cheek pressed against the concrete. He sighs, as if he expected comfort out of the structure.

And here he is again, questioning himself. But this time, it's not, "why the hell am I here," it's, "what the hell am I thinking." His mind seems to blur out everything as he replays the scene over and over again. He's no romantic, but hell, he's questioning that, too.

It's when he hears what seems to be Ben Frost – if he's correct, Theory of Machines? – blasting through the speakers. It's a remix; Theory of Machines didn't sound like EDM the last time he heard it. He's surprised. Really surprised. No one's ever heard of Ben Frost. He's not one to gape, but it was hard not to.

His thoughts drift back to himself again. He chuckles about the thought of him possibly being a hipster. He supposes he is one, maybe a closet one. Only pretentious people declare they are.

The underlying beat reminds him of Impulze, and as this thought strikes him, he jerks his head up to the DJ. The Icelandic teen's line of vision is immediately caught by him, and he feels the rest of the room blur out again. He isn't sure whether this is a good feeling, the way his heart jumps to his throat when the other smiles at him again. The other boy is mouthing words that Emil vaguely registers as "you like?", but he could be wrong.

After all, he stopped thinking.

The mix continues to play in the background. They catch each other slightly headbanging to the added beat and Emil sees that the other's mouth is slightly open. Was it in shock? Admiration? Emil can't think of anything else other than goddamn, that's endearing.

The DJ waves at him to join him at the deck. He can't figure out what he wants, so he shrugs, which is immediately replied with a repeat of the action. Emil's feet start walking into the crowd without his brain's consent. Within a few seconds of timidly pushing a few sweaty people out of his way, he finds himself behind the turntables.

He doesn't dare turn his head to the left and instead stares awkwardly out at the fistpumping crowd instead. "Nice view." He comments rather flatly. The other's chuckle makes him steal that glance he's been trying to make for the past five minutes.

"Yeah."

There isn't much to follow up on a reply like that. A few moments of silence is followed by Emil half-asking, half stating, "You're the 'new talent,' huh."

The teenager, who he discovers is slightly shorter than him, laughs quietly again. "Guess you could call me that,"

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

He nods. "Same." His gaze, which was darting around the room to take in his new surroundings, finally lands on the turntables below his elbow level. "Sick setup,"

"Thanks. Had to fix it from the last DJ. That guy creeps me out," Emil laughs, holding up a fist, which is bumped within a second.

The silence that follows (again) somehow feels less awkward than last time. "Wanna try it out?" The dark-haired teen asks.

"Ah, I don't-" he starts, flustered.

"Dude, you recognised Impulze. You should know at least what this is, right?" The shorter boy jerks a thumb at a dark box with lots of buttons, dials, and switches.

"Audio mixer…" Emil mumbles his answer.

"Nice."

"How do you know Impulze?" The Icelander asks with uncertainty.

"Just for you, babe," The other teen chuckles and winks, pressing the pause button on Emil's heartbeat. Mentioned teen doesn't show it on the outside, other than an unmistakable reddening of the cheeks.

"Aw, you're blushing." Emil feels the dark-haired teen's fingertips on his left cheek. They're cool to the touch, and he wants to lean into the feeling, the feeling that he won't admit is electrifying. It's like the contact sent shocks (good or bad?) through both of them. The other boy visibly shivers and draws his hand away.

"Don't point that out, jackass." The taller boy almost stutters.

"Hey, wanna know something?" The DJ leans in a bit.

"Depends on what it is," The Icelandic teen shoots back, right eyebrow raised.

He leans in enough for the other boy to whisper in his ear, and he hears, "You're cute, and you should try out my deck."

"…Wh-what?" Emil immediately pulls back and he doesn't know if it was from the fact that he was called "cute," from the icy, slightly tickling breaths against his earlobe, or from the fact that it sounded sexual.

"C'mon." The boy gives him a gentle push forward to the turntable. From behind him, he guides Emil's right arm to have his fingertips graze the spinning record. "Sickest feeling, yeah?"

"It is," The almost-silver-haired boy whispers breathily. The grip the other has on his elbow is just as electrifying as the last touch. The shorter teen brings his other arm around Emil's waist to press the stop button. Emil freezes a bit, and relaxes when it's taken away.

"We gotta bring the needle back to the first note, which is here…" Emil looks down at where the other points on the record, and notices that the arm is around him again. Behind him, the young DJ continues. "Push the vinyl down, before the note, with your fingers around four inche- a bit back, mm, that's good – and move the record back for the needle to match up with the first note's position again. That's called-"

"Cuing," The Icelander finishes for him.

The bistre-haired boy steps up from behind him to stand next to him, rather thick eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Nice," He jerks his chin up as a nod, smirking at Emil.

Said teen feels a small smile form on his lips, and he ducks his head, leaning on the table supporting the setup with the bottom of his palms. The smile can't seem to disappear from his face.

He feels something being placed around his neck. He looks down at his chest and sees that it's the young DJ's red headphones. The metal is cool to the touch, the plastic of the ear cups smooth. He twirls the white wire around his left index finger, looking up to the other teen with a questioning look.

"Feel the disc jockey. Be the disc jockey," he says, with a cryptic look on his face.

Emil chuckles. "What's the symbol on the ear cup?"

"I'm from Hong Kong. That's the symbol on our flag," the boy explains.

"Ah."

The Icelander cautiously touches the surface of the vinyl, feeling the grooves beneath his fingertips. And his finger slips once, and then twice, making a loud squeaking sound. Panicked, he immediately retracts his hand and glances at the shorter boy to see his expression.

The guy's laughing. Emil can see a row of straight white teeth. "Hey, chill! You just scratched the record. That was pretty good; you should try needledropping. First time?"

"Ye…yeah, I guess…" Emil sheepishly looks down at himself. The two exchanged another fistbump, and he can't stop smiling.

When he looks up to the crowd after a few moments, Matthias catches his eye and points at his wrist, and then points to a limp body in his arms. LU-KAS, the spiky-haired teen mouths. Emil's eyebrows go up in surprise and he checks his own Timex and Rolex. 1:27.

Did time really go by that fast?

He turns his head and opens his mouth to tell the young DJ that he had to leave. He interrupts before Emil could say anything. "You hafta go, yeah? I come here pretty often. I see your brother a lot. Dude with the spiky hair?"

"He's my brother's boyfriend," the silver-haired teen quickly corrects.

The other's thick eyebrows shoot up in acknowledgement. "Ah,"

They stand facing each other for a few moments, not saying anything. Emil breaks the silence between them. "I… should probably go…" he slowly, almost reluctantly, jerks a thumb at the doorway.

"Sure," The boy takes the headphones from Emil's neck, reaches around his waist again to pull him closer, and slips his hand in Emil's left back pocket. "See you around."

At the feeling, Emil's head turns around to look at the other in bewilderment, a reddish tint (yet again) adorning his cheeks. He feels the pause button on his heartbeat being abused. The Hong Konger winks again – his eyelashes are long – and waves his fingers in goodbye as he lets go of Emil's back pocket a second time – wait, twice?

The Icelander quickly walks away from the deck (whether his speed was out of embarrassment or not, he doesn't know) and makes sure to walk on the outside of the large room, away from the now-swaying crowd.

It's much cooler outside; he notices the temperature change right away. Glancing to his right, he sees Matthias half-dragging, half carrying his brother, who was drunk off his ass.

Literally.

"Didja have fun? Saw you up there with the new talent." The Dane asked.

Just the reference to him makes his heart pound a bit faster. "…I hate clubs." The Icelander simply responds. Matthias nods and decides not to continue the conversation, half-because the body he was dragging along was too heavy to think about anything else.

It was then, when he almost reaches the car, Emil doesn't know the guy – the "new talent" – 's name. He mentally slaps himself, but he thinks right after that the guy from Hong Kong was probably just a friendly guy, a player at the least, and that he was just another memory by now.

And he questions his previous declaration as well as his last thought (he's been questioning himself far too frequently than he likes this night) as he checks his phone, seeing a new message from an unknown number.

From: 4646645664
Received: 1:34, 18 Maí

Message: +d my # 2 ur fone jst 4 u, bb. xx

hai guys

I'm back

it's been so long since I've written! AAAAAAA i've been neglecting my other stories. I just really wanted to write HongIce and I was writing this oneshot back from when I liked this guy who DJs. I had to awkwardly ask him for a few of the DJ-related terms, but the rest I researched myself. PLEASE TELL ME IF ANY OF THEM ARE INCORRECT OTL

And I've always had that headcanon that Iceland is actually taller than Hong Kong. Thinner, too, contrary to popular headcanon. Iceland's one of the healthiest countries. Hong Kong is where "east meets west," and I'd like to think that because of the fact that it's a huge metropolitan, all the more reasons to be just a bit less lean than Iceland.

Avicii is a Swedish DJ. He's well known for his track Levels. Levels was sampled in Flo Rida's song Good Feeling. If you're a well-respected DJ and you play any remix of, or Levels itself, in some circles you might be less and less respected (just because it's mainstream). EDM stands for electronic dance music. Impulze is an Icelandic DJ who does house and techno. Ben Frost is an Australian-moved-to-Iceland composer/musician who does noise, experimental, electronica, and industrial music. I will love you down if you're familiar with any of those terms.

May 17 is Norway's birthday. The phone number was obtained from pressing "imhongkong" into a keypad. I advise you to not call that number.

Maí = May (Icelandic)
translation of the text: "added my number to your phone just for you, babe. xx" and the "xx" at the end of the text message is just something I've noticed from British people; they tend to add "xx" to the end of their messages/tweets (kisses? ohoho)

so I guess I'm done with any other notes I have! Please leave a review and tell me what you think! I love hearing your opinions; they make me smile. c