BIG WHOOHOO FOR WOODSY
Just because.
I realise that I forgot to thank you all for your lovely reviews! daedricgurl, hero-madness123, cuzimafreak , themagnificent ME, xXthenextbookwormXx, sassy-hime, Zenna95, 91RedRoses, Lady Queria, Milady, SaraBarns, IAmACat, Guest, iLovelyJulz, Moonlight's Shadow Warrior, otakuprincessluna, GreyMoth, tmmdeathwishraven, and Anon007!
Matthew's listening to Three Day's Grace.
"Dude, did you not hear a word I just said?! Seriously!" Alfred seethed, his tank top flung somewhere in the far corner of the auditorium, "When I do my freeze, you do your pretty-ballerina twirly thing. It's not rocket science!"
Matthew's hands balled into fists at his side and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, "And I keep telling you, you clusterfuck of stupidity, I can't just 'do' a pirouette, I need a kick off. Mom. En. Tum. "
"And you could have your fucking kick off if you could just agree on a goddamn song so we could get a rhythm down instead of dancing on four-four time!" The American yelled back in frustration, kicking at the air.
"I'm not going to put myself up on stage in front of delegates from all over the world just to make an ass of myself by dancing the Nutcracker to Snoop Dog," Matthew threw his arms up. They were edging dangerously close to each other again. It seemed inevitable that whenever they got within arm's reach of each other, punches would start to fly. It was safer, therefore, to just dish insults. Neither of them could afford to get hurt. Matthew was right, there were going to be dancers and company directors from the globe over at the recital. There were few dance schools that covered quite the range of styles that the Hetalia Academy did, and it attracted a lot of international attention. A passing grade from Hetalia practically guaranteed the pupil a spot in whatever company they wanted. Phenomenal training, dedicated, talented dancers; who wouldn't want them?
"Slim Thug," Alfred said shortly – this wasn't the first time he'd had to explain the difference between Like A Boss and Drop It Like It's Hot, "Slim Thug, not Snoop Dog. And it's just some hopping around in a tutu. You can dance Ballbreaker to anything."
"Slim Thug, Snoop Dog, Obese Canine or Anorexic Hooligan; I. Don't. Give. A. F-"
"Matthieu!" Francis snapped from where he had just waltzed in with a sound and lighting crew, "Mind your tongue!"
"-Fig." the Canadian hissed venomously. The word itself wasn't particularly threatening; nothing much about figs ever is, unless you don't like eating them. But the way it snaked from between Matthew's clenched teeth and out of his black expression made it a thousand times more ominous than what it was intended to be. There wasn't quite a situation from which a parallel expression could be drawn, but the closest thing Alfred could think of was a cat that had just been dumped in a full bathtub and was about to maul the nearest human.
"You have class, Matthieu," Francis chipped in again before Alfred could whip out another snappy insult, "And I'm sure you have somewhere to be, Mr Jones?"
"Nope," the American said lightly, lips popping on the p, "Is there a computer lab in this building? We still haven't decided on a song. One of us," what with the emphasis he put on those words and the meaningful glance he gave Matthew, Alfred couldn't mean himself, "Is being difficult."
"Two corridors over first door on your right," the Frenchman said dismissively and turning his back on the teenagers, leaving them to mouth a few parting comments before going their separate ways; Alfred whistling and Matthew fuming in silent rage.
~====o)0(o====~
Hours later, Alfred blinked at the computer screen. School had long since let out, and his search for a song that the stuck-up Canadian might approve of hadn't borne fruit. Funny cat videos, yes, but fruit, no.
Speaking of musical fruit, there was the faintest sound of music echoing down the corridors. Which was seriously weird, considering that it was getting on seven in the evening and the building was essentially empty.
His curiosity over-riding every survival instinct he possessed (honed watching teen slasher flicks), the American followed the sound, which slowly came into being, drum, guitar, a voice. What was rock music doing in the ballet campus? It wasn't bad music, per se. The guitar was a little rougher than Alfred would have preferred, and the vocals were a little shouty in places, but it wasn't bad.
The music was blasting out of one of the empty ballet studios, the mirrored room reflecting its sole occupant.
Hanging back in the shadows of the doorway, Alfred watched Matthew move to the underlying rhythm of the music, feel a little bit as though he were intruding on something very private. This was … Personal. The way that his body opened and closed itself off, soaring with the crescendos and collapsing in on himself before rising up again. The next song started, faster, more aggressive and Matthew just kept on moving with it; his steps quicker and his movements more aggressive. It must be a favourite CD, Alfred surmised, watching the way the music seemed to flow through the Canadian and out in some kind of emotional release.
The American blinked.
This music was really depressing.
'I can't escape this hell,' 'But I'm still caged inside,' 'Somebody get me through this nightmare'. Jesus Christ, what was Matthew listening to? And all with a serene smile on his lips. His hair was falling in his face, and sweat was staining his shirt, but still there was the most peaceful, euphoric smile on Matthew's face. The way he moved was no less controlled than it had been in the auditorium, but his face wasn't creased into the determined frown that seemed to be his default facial expression.
When he danced, he was happy, Alfred realised with a little start.
Again, the song changed; slower, mellower, and equally sad. This was somehow more like ballet music – though at the same time it was completely other. Slow, graceful sweeps of leg and arm, purposefully effortless leaps. And not a bad landing among them.
~====o)0(o====~
Alfred gave Matthew time to change before following him into the locker room. His hair was loose, which was a new sight. He didn't look quite so severe with one crazy curl hanging in his face and the rest of those blond waves tickling his jaw. There were glasses on his crooked nose, and – to pile discovery upon discovery – Alfred realised that the ice king was kind of a dork. Glasses, long hair, and no fashion sense whatsoever. It was hard to believe that the man who had just been so completely in charge of himself was so… average.
"I guess you do wear normal clothes sometimes, huh?" Alfred said, voice whip-crack loud in the silence, making Matthew yelp and twist to see behind him, his eyes wide and horrified. Not angry, as Alfred had been expecting, but scared.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Jones?" he snapped; hackles up and glasses askew. The defiant anger was back in his eyes, but there was still something just a little bit panicky about his expression.
"Working late, same as you," the B Boy shrugged, slinging himself onto the low bench beside the Canadian, "Why so jumpy?"
"Some fucking psycho just snuck up behind me in the changing rooms," Matthew said sardonically, "And you call me gay."
"Dude, chill out, I'm not going to rape you in the locker room. Jesus," Alfred rolled his eyes, leaning back, stupid grin all over his face.
"I'd like to see you try," the pale teen snorted, stuffing his things into a backpack until just his shoes were sitting on the bench beside him. His posture was stiff; tensed to run.
"Sorry, man, you're not my type," was the blithe response, "Aintcha gonna put your shoes on?"
A brief frown crossed the Canadian's face, as though he had been hoping that Alfred wouldn't say that. Sighing he pulled out his socks, rolling them up into a ball and-
"Mattie, are you okay?" It had come out sounding more concerned than the American intended, and the tart answer was all the more poisonous for it,
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Your feet look kind of… mangled," Alfred had to look away from the badly heeled sores, the old scars, the callouses. It seemed wrong that the feet that carried Matthew so gracefully would look so painful.
"I'm the best ballet dancer here. Everything comes with a price," the Canadian's voice was tired.
"Does it hurt?" the break-dancer's voice was softer now, not harsh or teasing, and it almost seemed as if he actually cared.
"Not anymore," once more Matthew was stiff, brusque and business-like, shoving on socks and shoes before he stood and swung his backpack onto his shoulders.
He was halfway out the door when Alfred's snark returned to cover the horribly awkward moment of intimacy that had passed between them, "Cry more, emo kid!"
"You're so immature, Jones," Matthew rolled his eyes, glad that the other couldn't see his relieved smile. There was a reason he stayed late, after all.
"If mature means listening to the same depressing shit as you do, then thank God!" Alfred yelled, jogging off down the corridor to the exit. He was going to be late home and his mom was going to murder him.
"Son of a bitch," Matthew breathed, smile dropping straight off his face.