It should be said that the only real experience I have on this matter (that is to say dancing) is once-a-week dance classes from when I was six to eight, so apologies for knowing absolutely nothing beyond what a quick internet search has to offer. I'll probably go back and fix things when I have the time?

Oh, and questionable band names.

Private audition for Fitzroy by Mutiny 6 pm Wednesday the text read, or so it seemed to his watering eyes in the not-quite dark of his little bedroom, the city lights still candle-bright beyond the heavy dark curtains. It was blunt and to the point and received with an all-too-cheerful ping of his cellphone at four thirty on a bloody Monday morning and had it been anyone else but his agent, Arthur Kirkland would have had a few curt words at the ready, the impersonality of texts be damned.

Through either luck or the workings of some higher force, it was his agent, and Arthur had been worrying about the possibility of having to be a little tighter with his budget. Arthur quickly pressed and held the backspace key until the beginning of his rant disappeared, replaced by a more amiable I'll check my schedule. (It was a yes, and his agent knew it, but it would give Arthur time to look before he jumped).

Fitzroy by Mutiny wasn't anything to the point of being played constantly on whatever pop radio station, but Arthur knew its name and he knew to an extent of the man behind the whole thing, one rising teenage star by the name of Alfred F. Jones.

Anybody who watched even a few of Alfred's videos would immediately pick up the three main components of his music videos: bright colors, strange dancing (if it could even be called that), stranger costumes, and backup dancers pulled from both auditions and off the streets. The diversity in his videos earned Alfred praise from those beyond his growing fanbase; the cynic in Arthur had immediately jumped to the conclusion that the diversity was a public relations thing, but it wouldn't do to jump to such conclusions about the poor boy so quickly.

Arthur had then seen fit to do a little research of his own before making an actual agreement; bills needed to be paid but that didn't mean he was desperate enough to accept any job –he had enough experience dealing with unpleasant artists to last him lifetimes. As juvenile and geared towards a female fanbase as Alfred seemed at a surface glance, word of mouth and hour-long searches on social platforms proclaimed Alfred as friendly and accommodating, the kind of person who posted pictures of his cat (a furry monstrosity with soft baby nursery blue eyes) on all of his accounts but then commented on current social events and issues with a sensitivity that belied his demeanor.

For an up-and-coming pop star, Alfred seemed to have a squeaky-clean record, and so Arthur felt his pessimism lessen with each ridiculously emoticon-filled post Alfred left on his Twitter page. Unfortunately, the same could not be said about his irritation with Alfred's utter disregard for punctuation.

He was also openly bisexual, not that that particular tidbit had any relevance beyond not having to worry about potential harassment. (Arthur had it on good word that Alfred attended all of the practices with the backup dancers.) It would make for an easier work environment should his own preference for men somehow come to light.

So Arthur agreed –there wasn't all that much choice if he wanted to live comfortably, but it was a matter of principle- to the private audition to the delight of his agent, who with a few hurried words of encouragement over text messaging had already disappeared to sniff out the next open spot for one of her many other clients. A few of his acquaintances and friends had called, Guilherme even calling all the way from Brussels on a European tour, to express their best wishes, but in the end it was Arthur alone who showed up for the audition dressed in comfortable clothes and wearing just a touch of makeup.

(A few frantic texts back and forth with his agent had confirmed an incredibly loose dress code; if he quoted Chelle word-for-word it had been "the director likes spontaneity and character.")

So Arthur showed up wearing an old band t-shirt from his college years, a pair of sweatpants, and battered old pair of Converse. His hair remained wild and untamed. There were extra clothes in a bag slung over his shoulder, with a headshot to match his (not styled ) current hairstyle, and full-body photos in a plastic folder.

Auditioning was a fine art of balance; was he the right height for the new video? Was he fit enough, skilled enough –or too much, considering the shoddy work he saw in some of his fellow performers- comely enough, plain enough? Would the tattoo on his shoulder blade –not that it was typically a problem- be enough to lose him a spot? And of course there was the vague theme Chelles had provided him with.

But Arthur was stubborn too; he'd do his best and damn the rest if he didn't make the cut. The routine this time was a change in pace; it could really best be described as bouncy and high energy, with plenty of arm and leg motions that would look jerky and uncoordinated if performed poorly. It wasn't something Arthur felt particularly worried about as he went through the scripted routine twice. Dancing had a siren's call stronger than that of the respectable office job his parents had wanted and it was a call Arthur heeded like a fish to was almost surprising how easily Arthur found himself dancing to the song, and by the freestyle he had relaxed enough to smile slightly.

Halfway through the last chorus, the recording artist himself walked into the audition. Alfred's eyes widened like a small child's might at their first taste of something magical and Arthur couldn't help but feel his confidence boosted by the expression. He finished with the last strains of the music, panting lightly, the fabric of his shirt clinging oh-so-slightly to his damp skin. For the briefest moment, the singer and the backup dancer made eye contact, only to tear their gazes away when the last of the music faded away. Alfred clapped lightly, an excited grin on his face, and Arthur found himself smiling in return. All in all, Arthur felt good about his performance, although he knew from experience not to get too confident. The decision would ultimately rest with whether or not he fit what management had in mind for the background to their latest masterpiece.

His good fortunes held. A week later, the results were posted, Arthur at the ready with a cup of soothing tea (and scotch in the cabinet) as a precautionary measure. After a quick scan down the of names to confirm whether or not he made the cut, Arthur immediately went to book the quickest flight to Los Angeles.

Notes: I'm not quite sure how this came to be but I figured it wasn't doing anything just sitting on my computer.

This is an edited version: apparently recording artists might drop by during the auditions, so I had to re-write the chapter to fit that in.

Guilherme is Portugal; I confess to knowing little about Portugal and Portuguese so if there's a better name than the one I've given him now, feel free to shoot me a message.

It should also be said that this will probably have very little to do with dance, but you can probably see that already.