Readers, please take a moment to look up into the left hand corner of the page. You will notice that this story now has a cover. This cover was hand-drawn by me, for you – I love you that much. The link is as follows, if you'd like to get a better view. 25. media. tumblr tumblr_mb8cfrt2hR1romtn1o1_1280. jpg Just remove the spaces. Yes, Matthew IS wearing pants.
"Why was it that Køhler thought we would work better off the main school campus?" Alfred asked, wide eyed as Mathia escorted her company through the labyrinthine buildings of the Hetalia Academy of Dance.
"He thought it would be less restrictive," the Dane said blithely, consulting her map before leading them onwards. Alfred was awestruck. When he had signed on, he had heard that it was a big school; it was an umbrella for pretty much every dance style under the sun, and had a company or two of its own for the graduated students. There were students walking to and from class, chatting and laughing the way normal highschoolers would. The American was home-schooled, so this was all pretty fascinating.
"The rest of the team is in the cafeteria," the director sighed, "I need to have a word with Mr Antiqua. I'll see you in the auditorium afterwards, yeah? Matthew will show you the way, I'm sure."
Fiddling with the bandages that covered his arms from wrist to elbow, "Yeah. Sure."
~====o)0(o====~
To say that what awaited him in the cafeteria was a surprise was a gigantic understatement. The blonde ice bitch and the ice king were sitting across from each other, flicking sprouts at each other. Laughing.
"Scuse me," he said, catching the nearest passing ballerina by the arm – he vaguely recognised her as the dark haired girl from yesterday, the one with red ribbons in her hair, "Don't they hate each other?" Alfred gestured at the pair, who appeared to be discussing the pros and cons of balsamic versus Greek style dressing.
"Alice and Matthew?" she laughed, and her accent was almost as thick as Francis'. And almost as French, "You'd think so, yeah? No, they're best friends. Diet buddies, too. Alice has to drop a pound or two before her audition for the Royal Ballet. They just swear at each other a lot."
"I hate this place already," the blond muttered sullenly.
"What was that?" the girl asked, and he flashed his brightest smile,
"Nothing, sorry, just talking to myself."
"Yeah, okay. I'm Michelle. See you around, B Boy," and with a flick of her inky curls, Michelle and her own salad was gone.
Glancing about and catching sight of the table full of his fellow break-dancers, Alfred looked between them and the chatting couple. Well, might as well cause some havoc, and it wasn't a' if the rest of the team liked him very much anyway.
"Yo, Mattie," he slapped on his biggest grin, flopping into a seat beside the Canadian, "Why don't you introduce me to your lady friend? I'm sure she'd appreciate having a real man to talk to."
"Sorry, boy," the Englishwoman's tone was frigid, and Alfred suddenly realised that he might have underestimated her age, "But the only man I need is the strap-on my girlfriend wears." The images that besieged the American's brain weren't meshing. Nor did he particularly want them to.
"Are you always lesbian, or only mostly?" It was a line he'd heard in a movie somewhere, and it seemed like the most appropriate come-back for that. Caught off guard, but not thrown, he could proudly say.
There was a muscle ticking in Matthew's jaw, and he refused to turn his head to so much as glance at Alfred as he bit out his response.
"Go suck cock, Jones."
Ah, familiar territory.
"Says the dude who voluntarily wears tights," the American snorted, stealing a carrot out of the Canadian's salad. Yup. This was much better than hanging out with the rest of the crew, who only pretended to like him. At least Matthew was being honest with the fact that he wanted to give Alfred a lethal injection.
"The fact that I do ballet," it was an odd contrast; the clearly enunciated words coming from behind teeth that were clenched so hard that you could almost hear them creaking. This was obviously a sore topic, "Has nothing to do with my sexuality."
"Well if you're the kind of red-blooded, metrosexual, American male-"
"Canadian!"
"-Who enjoys prancing around in skin-tight spandex and pretending to be a fairy, then I won't stop you. Narnia needs a new White Witch anyway."
This time, Matthew was looking straight at Alfred, literally shaking with rage, indigo eyes blazing with hatred. Alfred chomped cheerily on the carrot as he watched the self-professed Canadian take several steadying breaths.
"That's rich coming from you. Or were the other inmates too repulsed to take you up on the offer of free butt sex? By the way," a smile stretched Matthew's lips and crinkled at the corners of his cold eyes. Not a nice smile, but rather one that sharpened his features, giving him the vague impression of a fox with a chicken in its jaws, "Your fake tan does a stellar job covering your prison tattoos."
"Like you would know. I'd drag you into the sun myself if I wasn't so afraid you'd sparkle, vampire boy."
Matthew's jaw dropped, and proceeded to open and close soundlessly as he struggled to find the words to articulate his disgust.
"Is there something you wanted, Jones?" Alice chipped in. She'd been boredly observing the argument and decided to step in before this degenerated into a fist-fight.
"Actually, yeah. Which way is the auditorium? I've gotta be there…" he checked the watch he'd strapped on over his bandages, "In three minutes. Shit."
"That exit, first left, down the corridor and to the right," she said, displeased that her lunch had been reduced to a playground taunting match because the American needed directions. Her eyes lingered on the bandages, her lips pursing. Alfred caught the look, and his grin widened. She actually looked worried about him.
"Don't you worry about me, doll face, they're just for show. In the even that you haven't just given me the wrong directions, thanks." Throwing the pair a mock salute, he jogged through the crowded tables in the direction he had been pointed.
Glowering after the retreating American, Matthew turned to Alice, "Why did you give him the right directions?"
"That lad just gave you a proper bollocking. I've never seen you so wound up about anything. Besides, we both know you're gay," she flicked a bean sprout at the Canadian .
"That still has nothing to do with my doing ballet!"
~====o)0(o====~
Matthew stared disdainfully at the plush blue velvet curtains as the lights dimmed in the hall around him and the murmurings of his fellow students quieted. This was doubtless going to be entertaining, if only because he got to upstage the break-dancers once their fifteen minutes of fame was up.
It took a confidant man to wear snow white spandex tights and ballet slippers in the middle of an auditorium.
The curtains pulled apart, and it was obvious to see what Alfred had meant when he said that the bandages were for show. They were wrapped around his wrists, yes, but also around his chest, which was sans shirt. His director was standing beside him, both with their backs to the rest of the hall and she had matching bandages. Only she had a huge axe tattoo extending from shoulder blade to shoulder blade and all the way down her spine.
The Canadian waited for a bored five seconds before the music (if such it could be called) kicked into gear. The American remained perfectly still while the Dane broke away from her post and used him as a sort of prop, dancing around him. Matthew had to admit that she was good; fluid, precise movements, sure steps. Her eyes never left the audience. About half a minute in, the music changed again and Alfred began to move. The Canuck's mouth mashed into a hard line. If Mathia Anderson was fluid, then Alfred Jones was boneless. He bent and moved like water, melting down to the ground only to kick his legs up into the air, his muscles locked perfectly in place. And they were impressive muscles. The lack of shirts was obviously intentional, because both the American and his director were rippling with muscle. The dance seemed to be less of a dance and more of a compilation of greatest hits set to music. They went to one trick to another almost without pause, building momentum from a spin to push up into a handstand, headspin, something that looked like a pommel horse but on the ground. It was actually quite impressive. The two dancers mirrored each other, moving in ways that surely no human should be able to move. Arms, spines, legs; they didn't bend that way! Where were their bones? By the time the song was over, Matthew's scowl could have won prizes.
~====o)0(o====~
Alfred collapsed grinning into his seat. The applause that he and Mathia had received had been more than simply polite. The excited murmurs died down as the curtains opened again. Cool blue stage lights lit some Grecian tale of fauns and nymphs. It was quite impressive the way that the way that they all moved and fluttered at once, but the one Alfred was trying not to look like he was looking at was Matthew. He'd look better in a dark colour, but that didn't mean that white didn't suit him as he pranced about the stage. Perfectly in control. That was the dominating message that the American got from the other when he danced. He was perfectly in control of his body, his life, his emotions, and he took great delight in that. Whether it was tripping about on tiptoe, en point or jumping in a way that made it look effortless, though Alfred knew it wasn't. All too soon the harpsichord stopped tinkling and the dancers bowed. It probably wasn't the American's imagination that Matthew was giving him a smug glare from the stage.
"Matthieu, stay a moment," he heard Francis say at the same time as Mathia called,
"Hey, Al, come up here a second?" Obediently, the American trotted up to the stage, wrestling himself back into his tee shirt and managing to trip only once on the stairs.
"Yeah?" he said, easy grin sliding into place besides Matthew's murderous glower.
"You two have some time now to work on your routine for the exhibition. Don't waste it," Francis smiled, making an elegant hand gesture as he turned to Mathia, "Do you have somewhere you need to be, or would you care to take a late lunch with me?"
"I need to go check on my boyfriend and his broken ankle, but I'll be back in about an hour. You two be good," she cautioned, giving the dancers a stern look.
"Very well. Matthieu knows where to find me. Best of luck, boys~"
Alfred turned slowly to face Matthew, a wary expression hiding behind his slipping grin. Matthew smiled. It wasn't a nice smile this time, either.
~====o)0(o====~
"Put em up then, pretty boy," Alfred teased, bobbing his head from side to side, bouncing from foot to foot like they were in a boxing ring instead of a stage. Their earlier argument had escalated to new heights and, honestly, he was having a blast. It was really fun to have someone not try and suck up to him for once.
"You're a waste of my time," Matthew said stiffly, turning to walk away. He felt a hand land heavily on his shoulder to turn him back.
That's when he punched him.
Or tried to. Alfred's body swerved out of the path of the Canuck's fist in that bonelessly flexible way he had of doing everything, and it made the Canadian want to hurt him even more. The American threw his own punch and Matt spun to the side, avoiding it, tugging on Al's outstretched arm, reeling himself in and using the other's bodyweight to shove him to the floor.
With a frustrated snarl, Alfred kicked his legs up into V sweep, aiming for Matthew's head.
"You!" Matthew was speechless with rage as he lunged, missing a sneaker to the head by a hair's breadth.
"Me?" the American yelled, making to kick the ballet dancer's feet out from under him and howling in frustration when he leapt, cat-like into the air, "What about you?" Alfred demanded, on his feet again.
"What /about/ me?" was the growled answer. Punch, twist, kick, swerve, duck, dodge, lunge, spin, they kept at it. Each one unable to land a blow on the other. The more frustrated they became, the faster they moved, the closer they got, until they both had each other by the collars of their shirts.
A slow clap broke them apart, their directors standing side by side, beaming up at the stage,
"Well, Alfred knows how I feel about uprock, but that was pretty impressive."
"Yes, quite. Matthew, your form was sloppy, do work on that, but overall you two move together very well."
Staring at the two adults, they teenagers looked back at each other in absolute horror.