Notes: Ahli fucks up portraying the dance world yet again
The airport thing is totally true; everything is such a hassle. It's even worse for my friends though, whose family gets stopped for extra screening because they look Middle Eastern apparently.
Even if they were Middle Eastern it still doesn't mean they should be singled out as potential terrorists, geez.
The airport was still the same shitty nightmare it was every time, and Arthur all but collapsed into a seat with what little luggage he had with him and decided that he could wait until Kiku's cousin arrived to get him. Slumping into the cold leather, Arthur threw an arm over his face and willed the headache to go away. He felt tired in a completely different way than the exhaustion of day-long sessions rehearsing, his witnesses being his tired feet and persistent headache.
"Arthur Kirkland?" A voice –Arthur was surprised to hear what sounded like an English accent, but the words were rounded by unfamiliar stresses and pronunciation and Arthur was too tired to ponder it further- asked, prompting him to lift his arm away and squint at the person standing in front of him. It was a young-looking man with dark hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck in a low ponytail. When Arthur turned to meet his gaze the man's eyes widened as if in recognition, and he jabbed at his phone screen to end the call.
Arthur suddenly realized that he had forgotten to turn on his phone after leaving the plane; he wondered -with just the slightest touch of shame- how long Yao –for it had to be Kiku's cousin- had been waiting for him.
He cleared his throat as he felt the telltale heat of embarrassment in his cheeks. "Ah, yes. Yao Wang, I take it?"
"That's me." Both of them could hear the forced cheer in the tired man's voice. Kiku's cousin Yao (he was also possibly a step-sibling or even step-parent; Kiku had never quite been clear on what his relation was to Yao, but Arthur knew better than prying his quiet friend for information) uncrossed his arms and reached to grab Arthur's suitcase, ignoring his sputtered protest.
"Please follow me," Yao said in a manner that was more order than request, leaving no room for protest as he started walking. Arthur huffed in irritation as he followed the shorter man. His tune changed drastically by the time they reached Yao's car, Arthur all but throwing open the door to slide ungracefully into the back seat to wait for Yao to throw his luggage in the trunk and then drive so he could crawl into the nearest bed and collapse.
By the time the car came to a gentle stop in front of Yao's house, Arthur had fallen asleep with his face pressed to the glass in what was sure to be an unflattering manner. Yao at least had the decency to gently shake him awake, carefully maneuvering his way out of the small car to avoid hitting his head when Arthur stirred. Arthur rubbed at his eyes and wiped at his mouth blearily, blinking away his drowsiness.
"It's pretty late," Yao said. There was a crease between his brows. "Come on, you just need to eat dinner and then you can go to sleep."
Dinner itself was a quick affair of microwaved green beans and cold-cut chicken. Yao had apologized but Arthur couldn't care less at the point; he just wanted sleep, enough to forgo his nightly cup of tea. After a quick introduction around the house ("The spare bedroom's third from the left, the bathroom is right across the hall. All toiletries have already been set up."), Arthur got ready for bed and crawled into unfamiliar sheets which still smelled of laundry detergent and a strange smell best described as metallic.
He fell asleep within minutes of laying his head on the pillow.
Never a morning person, Arthur nonetheless stumbled his way down the narrow hallway before the street lights dimmed outside in preparation for his day. It had actually been the shrill whistle of a kettle on the stove which had woke him; the promise of tea was enough to inspire a burst of energy despite the heaviness of his eyelids and the slight headache he could feel gathering behind his forehead.
"Oh lovely, I've found civilization at last," Arthur sighed. It came out sounding more longing than dry, but he felt his lingering drowsiness was an acceptable alibi."Good morning." It really wasn't a good morning. Any early morning wasn't a good morning, but Arthur would play the part of a gentleman guest.
"Kiku told me beforehand that you prefer tea. Good morning to you too." Such was Yao's greeting when Arthur came downstairs dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, bag slung over his shoulder. "I only have green tea but you're welcome to accompany me to the store for something else. There's nothing but cereal at the moment, unfortunately."
Arthur pulled out a chair to sit down and reached gratefully for the cup of tea. "This is lovely, thank you." he reassured, running a hand through his hair. "I've dealt with enough powdered tea and iced tea moving here."
Yao smiled at that. "There's earl grey at the office I work at. Nobody else drinks it but me, although I normally prefer green tea." He scowled. "I brought my electric kettle to the office, since the only other source of hot water is the coffee machine."
Arthur scowled and there was a moment of silence before he got up to rustle up a quick breafast. Breakfast was a rushed affair of cereal and milk; he regretted not having more time to drink his tea at a more enjoyable speed but he settled for alternating between burning his tongue and shoveling spoonfuls of cornflakes into his mouth. It was rather undignified, but such was the sacrifice with a highly scheduled routine.
With one last goodbye, he rushed outside to catch the bus.
Finding the studio had been harder than Arthur initially anticipated, but he had given himself the time (an extra hour and a half) to get lost and find his way to the studio, upon which he had had to prove that he was indeed a backup dancer and not some obsessed fan (like hell, he had scoffed to himself).
After depositing his bag in the nearest available cubbyhole outside (they were actually afforded a locker room, to Arthur's delight), Arthur opened the doors and entered the dance studio, casting a critical eye at the place. The room was big enough to have thirty or so people in there are one time with more space to spare and it was brightly lit. From the condition of the wooden floors and the bars on the walls, the building was relatively new, not yet old enough to bear the trace of countless feet and hands. Oddly enough, three out of four walls and the ceiling were mirrors, allowing the dancers to check themselves with just a tilt of their head in any direction but towards the door behind them.
There were a few dancers already present, some stretching while others chatted quietly. As with the typical composition of Alfred's backup dancers, they were of all ages, from the young to the old. One of the older men with graying hair held the posture of an experienced dancer; Arthur couldn't help but note the smile on his face as he gazed around the studio, looking dazed and disbelieving. Soft music played in the background. Arthur recognized it as one of Alfred's songs from his first album and immediately disliked it. Alfred seemed like the person whose ego didn't need any more encouragement, and while Arthur could understand why so many people were charmed by his arrogance he had no tolerance for it himself.
Much to his surprise, Arthur recognized the man with the silvery-blonde hair stretching by the bars. Lukas Hansen was a Norwegian backup dancer; Arthur had performed with him once on a tour in Europe and he knew that Hansen had last been on a tour with a popular Scandinavian band. Arthur wasn't sure what he was doing in Los Angeles now that the tour was over, but he would be glad to talk the man again should the opportunity present itself. Lukas had been pleasant to talk to once they had discovered a common interest in folklore and the arcane. But now was not the time to chat; the chorus was calling to him and so Arthur joined the group of stretching dancers.
The door to the studio banged open around fifteen minutes later, give or take. Arthur hadn't much but the songs playing through the sound system to judge the time, as the studio seemed woefully bereft of a clock. "Hey everybody!" Alfred came sauntering in wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, still chewing the last mouthfuls of his meal. It was almost a shock to see Alfred without his ratty old leather jacket; Arthur couldn't recall an instance when the young man wasn't wearing it. Not that he had seen Alfred much beyond past interview photos, ridiculous selfies, and the music videos to his more popular songs, but Arthur had come to view the thing as a trademark of sorts.
From his spot several paces away from Alfred, Arthur couldn't help it when his vision was drawn to the crumbs on Alfred's sweatshirt; the fabric was a deep navy blue with an American flag and USA in bold white print across the front. It practically forced people to notice Alfred's obvious patriotism. The pale crumbs stuck out easily, and Arthur resisted the urge to just step up and brush them off.
All in all, Alfred looked less like a pop star and more like a rumpled college student in his current getup; a very handsome college student (Arthur wasn't blind), but still. "So I know not all of you are like super-professionals or anything so we'll just go over the basics today, nothing too bad." He smiled and bounced on his feet in a childish manner. "My name's Alfred but you probably already knew that. I'd like to get to know everyone here better over the course of shooting this video, okay?"
"Can we ask for autographs later?" A particularly bold young woman teased. Alfred chuckled and winked, giving the woman a thumbs-up. "Yeah, you guys can form a line after practice, if you aren't feeling too gross and sweaty."
Another blonde man came in behind Alfred, noticeably sterner. He had slicked-back blonde hair several shades lighter than Alfred's almost rose-gold hair and blue eyes. Arthur assumed he was the choreographer. "My name is Ludwig, and I'll be your choreographer. As Alfred has already said, we'll spend the first half hour warming up with some light arm rolls and easy swaying, just to get used to moving with the music." The tape still pumping Alfred's music through the air stopped and was replaced by another hip hop beat Arthur couldn't be bothered with recognizing.
Ludwig's stern face and posture relaxed as he took on the slouching form so beloved by hip hop dancers. His deep voice was still authoritative but low enough to soothe the beginners who copied his casual movements attentively and with all of their focus, guiding them through the motions.
"Remember not to feel too pressured!" Alfred chirped from his position next to Ludwig. "Dancing should be about having fun and enjoying the music." And as if to prove his point, suddenly Alfred stopped swaying in sync with the choreographer, choosing instead to do what seemed to be a ridiculous tap number and then a (poorly executed) moonwalk.
Alfred's performance managed to draw a few hesitant laughs. Somebody snorted from somewhere in the room. (Arthur wondered if it were perhaps Lukas.) Arthur preferred to shake his head slightly and roll his eyes at the over-the-top display, but it was clear that Alfred had somehow managed to steal the performance and steer it in his preferred direction.
Arthur was right about that. Somewhere around fifteen minutes into what was supposed to be the warm up, Alfred had changed the track to a more upbeat song. It quickly evolved into a dance-off of sorts, with two people dancing in a ring formed by their peers, who cheered and clapped and swayed with the beat. Of course Alfred was in the thick of it, whether dancing in the ring or standing in the audience, cheering and clapping the loudest of them all.
Ludwig seemed to go along with it, his face and general body language (read: long-suffering and exasperated) indicating that he was used to Alfred's shenanigans. After going over some basic dance steps with everybody he had backed off, content to stand and watch as Alfred and a woman with graying hair (in a bun, although it looked rather disheveled) shook their hips and bopped their heads wildly to the beat with a small ring of dancers goading them on around them. It was comical enough to make Arthur smirk slightly from where he was observing near the bars with some of the other dancers.
At one point Alfred wriggled out of the ring and came over to round up a few dancers who kept casting longing glances at the center circle. He was sweating lightly, enough to plaster strands of hair to his face.
"Hey! You should come and join us," he said, breath winded from dancing. The two dancers he was addressing still looked uncertain, so Alfred shot them his most earnest and disarming grin. "Please? It'll be fun."
And then he turned to Arthur, shooting him the same megawatt grin. Arthur almost felt the urge to compare it to the sensation of being under the spotlight, which was ridiculous. Arthur was used to performing before many –thousands, even- but something about having such an expectant, pleading gaze focused on him in particular caused his cheeks to warm and flush. "Come on and jump onto the bandwagon!"
Well, it wouldn't be polite to refuse. Arthur must have nodded, because Alfred was cheering and then leading him and the two other dazed dancers into the ring where they were enthusiastically welcomed into gaggle of sweaty bodies.
Arthur did end up dancing in the ring with another of the professional dancers in a freestyle face-off; when he imagined that the loud clapping and cheering was for him and him alone he almost fancied there was a warm glow of satisfaction fluttering in sync with his racing pulse.
It was only an hour later when people were starting to tire did Ludwig wrestle back control of the session; he then turned off the music and cleared his throat.
"Fifteen minute break. Now that you're more than suitably warmed up we'll go over the first part of the routine once we're done."
Arthur stayed back and watched as people formed a small crowd heading for the locker rooms and the promise of water and a towel-off. He thought about perhaps using the chance to talk to Lukas instead, but then realized that the Norwegian dancer had somehow managed to procure a book and now sat by the bars reading. An enthusiastic reader himself, Arthur decided to leave the man in peace to enjoy his book.
Unfortunately, Arthur had no book to act as a guardian of his peace and personal bubble, as Alfred himself made a beeline towards him.
"Hey! You were the dancer on Wednesday, right? You're really good! I never caught your name though. How long have you been dancing?" Alfred seemed the kind of person to ramble so Arthur didn't feel quite as bad cutting him off.
"Yes. My name is Arthur Kirkland and I've been dancing since I was four," he said in response. Alfred's eyes widened at his words and Arthur braced himself for a comment on his "British-ness" or whatever it was that so fascinated Americans.
"Wow! I've only been dancing since I was nine," Alfred admitted sheepishly. "Before that I thought it was kind of girly and wanted to be a firefighter."
The feeling in his chest was relief, nothing else. "What made you change your mind?"
Alfred shrugged and smiled. "Still want to be a firefighter, if we're being honest. But my dad brought Mattie and me to an actual concert and I guess I saw all of these people cheering and excited about them, you know? And I thought that it'd be great to have the ability to make all of these people happy and touch their lives like that, even if it seems more shallow than being a firefighter or a cop or something." He blushed. "Well, it probably wasn't phrased so nicely when I was nine but that's the gist of it. And then I found I loved performing."
Ah, yes. Alfred was made for the cameras, had been ever since he started uploading song covers at fifteen online. Arthur found himself opening his mouth to say something about himself in return –it was only polite; Alfred had just shared that story with him even if he had probably said it a million times to a million other people.
"Dancing always made me happiest," he said at last. It was a typical response, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to say more. "My mother was extremely supportive and my dad didn't mind as long as it didn't hurt my grades."
Alfred smiled as if his story, his typical dancer's background really meant something. "That's great! I'm really happy that your parents supported you, Arthur."
They parted when Ludwig called the end of the fifteen minute break, Alfred moving to his position at the front and Arthur to his position somewhere at the edge of where the backup dancers were situated. As he left and the rest of the dancers filtered in, Alfred looked him in the eye and casually remarked, "Hey, I know you know your limits but a little water break now and then won't hurt, right?"
And with the experience of having talked to Alfred himself, Arthur was beginning to realize why the young man had such a large and growing fanbase. Had he been another person, he might have blushed and perhaps gone home to post about his experience with the star online.
As it was, he was Arthur Kirkland, and he only grudgingly acknowledged the fact that yes, Alfred Fitzroy Jones was indeed a charming bastard seemingly effortlessly.
It didn't stop him from admiring what little he could see of the American's lovely body from what he could see beneath the baggy sweats, if only for purely aesthetical appreciation.
More notes:
Q: Why does Yao have an English accent?
Because China teaches British English, even though they apparently go the mixed route when it comes to actually spelling things.
Q: Why is Norway Lukas Hanson?
Because I don't know what I'm doing.
As usual, if there are any inconsistencies please tell me.