The third Thursday of August rolls by faster than Alfred can blink. His transfer takes but weeks, spurred by his father's personal attention to the matter. A process that should take months. Obviously, his father cannot wait to get rid of him.
The knowledge is less painful than it used to be, though it does still inspire the aged-old vengeful need to show the old man up. He smirks, feeling the CEO's glare of disapproval boring into his back, while he attends to setting up the stage in the company's ballroom. If he is to be exiled, he may as well have the perfect send off. What better way than to shove his stardom into his father's face.
Already dressed to the nines in his villainous stage persona, he taps his phone to check the time. Only to come up with an empty screen.
Still no word from Arthur.
Not a text, not a call. Maybe this really is it. The end of the road. The thought hollows him out, the implosion crushing his heart more than his father's disapproval has ever done. Pushing the treacherous ache away, he steels himself and turns his attention to another pressing matter.
"Any word on my back up yet?" he asks one of the AV crew, growing a little concerned as the hour nears. He only receives a few shakes of their heads. Frowning, he tries the main contact again, only to go straight to voicemail. Which is merely inconvenient, until he tries the numbers of the other band members. The same thing happens.
Alfred's head snaps over to his father's direction. Now the man is merely looking away, supposedly uninterested. Cursing under his breath, Alfred immediately calls his agent, only for that to go straight to voicemail as well. A sharp wave of anger rears up his spine, setting the nape of his neck on fire. Right, who does he know? More importantly, who does he know that his father doesn't? He tries several more numbers, his breathing hastening as he comes to dead end after dead end.
Fuck!
Is that bastard really so petty he'd rather see his son humiliated rather than do something he doesn't approve of?
Of course he is.
Quelling the urge to throw his phone at the floor, he runs his hands back up over his hair, trying to think of alternatives. "People," he calls to the AV techs. "I need a mixer and a FireWire now." His tech minions rush to do his bidding as Alfred pulls up his music off his phone. He'll just go solo then, fucking lip syncing no less. It's going to suck balls, but the anger that's boiling up the back of his throat won't let him cancel. Besides, all he needs to do is win them over. He knows that he has the charisma to do it.
Pulling up his favorite mix, Alfred sequesters himself in the back with his headphones and quickly runs through the list, memorizing his new set list. As the hour nears, his heart flutters like a bat in a bag as he hands his phone off to techs to do sound checks. All they do is give him pitiful looks, but he ignores them as he throws his dark confidence out in full force. He had planned this all along. Who needs back up? Certainly not him.
Striding out onto the stage, he peers out into the gathering crowd. Of course the room is filling up. Naturally, a farewell reception for the son of the President and CEO is all but mandatory. Near one of the bars, he finds his father and gives him a triumphant look. Apparently, this is cause for concern as the CEO comes up to the stage to speak to him. "What have you done?" his father demands, as if he hasn't completely sabotaged Alfred's night.
"I'm playing my music, obviously," Alfred replies as he drops down to his level. All the better to look the CEO straight in the eye.
"Junior, you can't do that. Our BMI license expired yesterday and your music isn't yours to play without your label's permission."
...Odd, that his father would know this random bit of music regulation. Also convenient that the license seems to have up and vanished. Bile rising in his throat, the young vice-president feels his anger flare against his will.
"It's my music. No one will care. Not unless they're complete tools who report me," Alfred hisses softly. "And even then all I'll probably get is a slap on the wrist." He pauses, looking his father up and down. "Except you'd do that, wouldn't you? You'd make it worse for me. You'd ruin me with this."
His father says nothing. He looks Alfred square in the eye, his gaze unwavering.
"Oh my God. You're going to do it, aren't you?" Alfred whispers. "This was your plan all along. Forcing me into a corner." His fists clench at his sides. "Either prostrate myself to you or destroy one of the only things that makes me happy."
"You are making this into far more than it is," the CEO replies in that maddeningly calm tone. "Now, Junior, are you going to give this silly show up and behave? Listen to your father for once."
The words hit Alfred like a low hum, resonating higher and higher until his ears are ringing. Having nothing more to say, he spins on his heel and climbs back up the stage steps. The only thing louder than the ringing in his ears is the pounding of his heart.
To the gallows it is.
"Good evening everyone," he calls out into the microphone, striding across the stage in his long legged boots that echo in the quiet. "Thank you all for making it to my farewell gig. It's been a privilege to learn from all of you. Now it's my turn to treat you. So! Are you ready to party?"
His subordinates look up, eyes wide and blinking, not quite sure what they've been roped into. Like awkward man-sheep dressed in stuffy business suits.
"I said are you ready to party!" he smirks unfazed by the silence, getting a couple whoops for his troubles. In a perfect world, there would be a band behind him, tuning them up. Now all he can rely on is himself. Even if, especially if, the world is trying to crush him. His hand flies to his AV minions behind him to start the music. "Hit it!"
Then something that is not his music sounds over the speakers.
Alfred's heart plummets. His father got to the AV crew. How did he get to the AV crew? How is he supposed to sing something he doesn't know? How-
Then an all too familiar guitar riff silences his thoughts, sending a jolt of electricity through the crowd. Alfred's heart thunders and he waves the AV crew to bring up the spotlight on the figure in the dark.
The bright lights slide up a pair of long legs in tight black skinny jeans, a shredded skull shirt, studded black vest and cuffs and collar, and a bowed head of bright, bright green hair. His ringed fingers fly across the electric guitar strings, rising in intensity and volume, as the din of the crowd rises in excitement. It builds, rising in heat and crescendo, timing the rhythm of their blood rushing through their veins.
His arm slams down, once, twice, ending the heart pounding climax and inciting the tipsy corporates into loud cheers. The guitarist looks up, matching acid green eyes to his own blue. Without speaking, Arthur nods, stirring into the very song that Alfred had delivered to him weeks ago.
Turning back to the rowdy audience, Alfred smirks and spreads his arm out to the crowd as he falls into the song. It's rough at first, having never practiced with Arthur before. However, he knows the lyrics by heart.
"Hanging about
Down the market street
I spent a lot of time on my feet
When I saw some passing yabbos
We did chance to speak
"I knew how to sing
Y' know an
They knew how to pose
An' one of them had a les paul
Heart attack machine
"All the young punks
Laugh your life
Cos there ain't much to cry for
All the young cunts
Live it now
Cos there ain't much to die for
"Everybody wants to bum
A ride on the rock 'n' roller coaster
And we went out
Got our name in small print on the poster
Of course we got a manager
Though he ain't the mafia
A contract is a contract
When they get 'em out on yer
"You gotta drag yourself to work
Drug yourself to sleep
You're dead from the neck up
By the middle of the week
"Face front you got the future shining
Like a piece of gold
But I swear as we get closer
It look more like a lump of coal
But it's better than some factory
Now that's no place to waste your youth
I worked there for a week once
I luckily got the boot"
Once they complete the set, flying by the seat of their pants, Alfred drops the mic onto the stage. He holds a V for victory out to his faceless father in the crowd pitched between shock and roaring approval - a common reaction when confronted with pure punk. Before anyone can stop them, Alfred grabs Arthur by the arm and leads him to a quiet corner backstage behind the curtains. "Arthur-" he starts, still wrapping his mind around the fact that the Brit is here, wearing that. Whatever happened to the man wanting to keep his head down and doing his job? "What are you doing here?"
"Hush, I'm in disguise," the Brit hisses under his breath.
"Disguise?" Alfred asks incredulously. Though he does take another look at Arthur. True, to the casual observer the stuffy marketing director is unrecognizable underneath the dyed hair and the metal and... leather... and the piercings... Swallowing reflexively, his blue eyes rake Arthur's person, hungrily refreshing an image forever burned in his mind. "Alright," he says after a moment, "...Iggsy. What are you doing here?"
Arthur- Iggsy- gives him a flat look. "Really? When you're running off to God knows where without giving me so much as a heads up?" Really, the Brit makes it sound like he's heading off to Timbuktu not Tokyo. "What about our agreement?"
"What about it?" Alfred asks softly, searching those green eyes for some sign besides indignation. "There's nothing that says we can't go our separate ways in the contract."
"Fuck our contract!" Arthur snaps, "I'm talking about this." With only that preamble, he yanks Alfred down by his feathers and tugs him into a forceful kiss. They've kissed so many times before, but this is burning, desperate. Alfred gasps into it, taken aback for but a second, before he grapples Arthur hard and shoves him against the wall. His lithe body impacts with a hard thud and the Brit lets out a low moan that makes Alfred's blood go electric. He mouths at Arthur's piercings, particularly on his lip, tugging at them with enough force to cause his pet, his lover, to hiss to equal parts pain and pleasure. The other man's legs awkwardly come up to lock around his waist, held up by Alfred's strong arms, his shredded shirt sliding up his pale milky flesh.
"You're mine," he whispers, marking up his territory with sharp bites and bruising fingers. "You're mine, Arthur."
"Yours, yours," Arthur promises as he gasps for breath, grinding up against Alfred's groin, the heat between them rising as their need grows.
"Junior!" a voice calls out like a bucket of ice water. Arthur instantly drops down to the tips of his toes as Alfred whirls around to see the rustling motion of the curtains. The CEO appears, striding up to the pair of them. Thankfully blissfully unaware of what had just occurred. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?! You may as well have done Magical Strike's job for us, singing about corporate anarchy! And you dropped the C-bomb! Do you know how many HR complaints we'll get! Not to mention, what you've just done is horrendously illegal! Now I'm sorry. I cannot protect you any longer. I need to report you to the BMI."
Behind his shoulder, Arthur - Iggsy - coughs. "Ah, actually... all o' dat is me own tune. I'm de 'sclusive owner of it. Na labels ter intifere," the Brit informs him in a hard- what is that- Liverpool accent, raising his chin as he looks down on the CEO.
"Who the hell are you?" Jones Senior asks, his blue eyes blazing on this interloper. Alfred is amazed that his father doesn't recognize him.
"Oh sorry 'bout dat," Arthur replies with a shrug, holding out a hand. "Iggsy's de name. Iggs fer short. Nice ta meet'cha Mr. Jones."
His father looks at Arthur's hand as if it's a diseased rat. "Where did he come from?" he asks his son instead.
"Well, Britain, obviously," Alfred replies, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement as his father turns as purple as a plum. He gently pats the CEO on the arm. "There, there~ It's alright. I'll be gone soon enough. Just let it go." He takes his father by the arm, leading him out towards the curtain before showing(throwing) him out. "Have a drink on me!"
Turning back to Arthur, a rather uncharacteristically giddy smile spreads across Alfred's face. To which the Brit smacks him on the arm, sharper for all his rings. "You didn't have a music license?!" Arthur hisses under his breath. "Are you insane?! What if I did a cover?!"
"I thought you knew about that," Alfred replies, smiling despite the thrill of delayed panic that crawls down his spine. "What with riding to my rescue the way you did."
"You bloody fool, I wanted to get the jump on you to try to convince you not to leave!" Arthur snaps back. "How could I have possibly known you don't have a license! Admittedly, I thought it was odd you didn't have any backup, but you're just arrogant enough to pull that off. Besides, do you think I just had this lying around the office and threw it on minutes before you started?!" he demands, gesturing to his attire and bright green hair.
"I don't know, pet, you do keep all kinds of bizarre things in your desk drawer," Alfred answers with a wicked smirk. He only receives another smack on the arm for his teasing.
"Cor, I never thought I'd feel thankful my music never took off," Arthur mutters, his tone growing sour. His foul mood is easily wiped clean when Alfred grabs him, seizing him back into a delicious, hungry kiss. "Alfred..." he murmurs, his breath hot against the younger man's skin, "what about... What about Tokyo?"
"It's alright," Alfred replies quietly. "We'll figure it out. For now, I have you and you're stunning." Arthur's face goes red in that way that Alfred will come to learn that he will always deny, flushed at the compliment. Smirking, he kisses both the Brit's cheeks, his thumb playing roughly with the silver threads looped in Arthur's ear. "So, before my father completely tears down the stage, would you like to do another set?" Alfred asks, sucking harshly on the other man's lip ring.
Arthur presses him back to give him a wary look. "Should I be worried that you know more than one of my songs?"
The younger man's lips stretch into a predatory smile. "Very."