The music courses through his soul, exhilarating him. The lights flash through his closed eyelids – green, red, blue. His body groans with the exhaustion one gets from dancing for so long, but he doesn't stop.

He can't stop…not until the song is over.

The music energizes him. He feels the beat in his heart, the notes in his veins.

The bodies of the other dancers press against him occasionally, but that doesn't stop him from dancing. Nothing does. He keeps dancing. Keeps dancing alone.

Alone.

Alone…

He isn't alone.

He has the music. He is the music. He keeps repeating this until it becomes a mantra in his head, reciting itself to the beat of the music.

He isn't alone, not in the very least.

It's what he likes to tell himself.

Francis stares disdainfully at the drunken patron next to him. The man has collapsed onto the bar and has a long river of drool dripping out of his mouth. Francis shoots him a look and walks away to a more decent place. A terrible place to be in, indeed, Francis muses to himself. What would his father say if he ever found out about this? Surely it was be a disgrace – a Bonnefoy like himself, heir to a corporate throne, amusing himself in a dingy club like this. Francis wanted to desperately leave.

"Hey man – isn't this place fun?" a voice shouts, far too loud for Francis's ears. Francis winces as Gilbert latches himself onto his shoulders, reeking of sweat, cologne and alcohol.

"It's not my sort of thing," Francis replies, looking towards the dance floor and noticing how everyone there danced like zombies. "Where is Antonio?" he asks, looking around, not able to spot the cheerful Spaniard anywhere.

"Toni?" Gilbert scrunches up his face in concentration. "I think I saw him chatting it up with that grumpy bartender," he said, pointing vaguely behind him.

"Sounds like fun," Francis remarks primly, wishing he could've been somewhere classier than this dirty, smelly club.

"Oh come on Franny – you gotta let loose! You're always doing businessy stuff and hanging out with those rich snobs – it's time to hang out with your real friends! You know you love it here!" Gilbert says with a laugh. Francis wrinkles his nose as the nickname. "Hey listen, I'm gonna go talk to those ladies over there," Gilbert says suddenly, pointing past Francis's shoulder to a group of women in short dresses and lots of makeup.

"They look like your type," Francis says drily. Stupid and slutty, he adds mentally.

"They do, don't they?" Gilbert says eagerly. "A'ight bro I'm off – you gonna get laid too?" he asks.

Francis wrinkles his nose again at the crude term. "I prefer calling it 'making love'," he replies stiffly. Gilbert roars with laughter.

"Whatever – it's still sex," he says and doesn't bother waiting for Francis's reply. Francis doesn't care; he's far too used to Gilbert and his antics, especially when drunk.

He walks towards the nearest barstool and takes a seat, asking the bartender for a glass of chardonnay, wondering to himself how people could want to get drunk and dance amongst strangers, hoping to find someone there moderately attractive to bed with for that night.

It was remarkably unromantic and against everything he liked to believe in.

He took his glass from the bartender without a second's glance, sipping at it delicately, his eyes scanning the dance floor. It was fascinating at how you could take a perfectly normal human being, get some alcohol into their system, push them onto a dance floor, play loud music and they would turn into this otherworldly animalistic being, too entranced with the beat to notice that they were being pressed against another person or that a woman nearby had just vomited because they were so into the music just like -

Just like that man, actually. Francis's eyes widened as he stared at the lone figure off to the side of the center. He seemed to be in his own world, completely ignoring people shoving past him to get to the center of the dance floor. It was entrancing to watch; he never seemed to stop.

He watches the other man dance, his eyes never straying away. There is a look of total bliss on the man's face, as though he is an Indian guru and has just found nirvana.

…and then the music stops, easing into a slower song. Francis watches as drunken bodies latch onto each other, swaying to the slow beat of the drunk.

The man looks confused, his eyes [a glorious vivid green, Francis notes] finally opening. He looks around with a frown on his face. A hand reaches out to him and he shies away from the contact. Francis is suddenly inclined to slink over and ask for a dance.

Which he does, of course.

Up close, his eyes are even greener than ever, standing out in the darkness of the club.

"Bonjour," Francis purrs when he gets close. The man stares at him for a few seconds before pushing past Francis and away from the dance floor. "Wait!" Francis calls out, grabbing the man by the arm. The man turns around to face him.

"What do you want?" he challenges, and his voice is inevitably British.

Francis puts on his most charming smile. "A dance, of course," he says and is met with a glare.

"No," the man says flatly, turning away again. Francis refuses to let go of the man's arm and is promptly dragged off to the dance floor to the bar. Francis wonders why he is trying to hard to get this angry Briton to dance with him and supposes it's because of his entrancing green eyes.

"Why not?" Francis asks as the man sits down and asks the bartender if there is any rum. Francis smirks. How very British of him. "You fascinate me," he continues and the man stares at him.

The man seems to have decided that he will not grace that remark with a reply. He turns to his drink, which the bartender has now placed in front of him, and takes a sip. He is watching Francis watch him from the corner of his eye.

Seconds trickle by. The man seems to have decided that enough is enough. He slams his empty glass back onto the hard wooden surface it had been resting on. "What do you really want?" he asks in irritation. "A quick shag?"

Francis blinks, truly shocked. "Do I look like that sort of person?" he asks in horror.

The man looks him up and down and smirks. "Yes," he replies, motioning to the bartender for another drink.

"Well I'm not," Francis replies snottily, very miffed. "I was raised in a proper household."

"With lots of money, I'm sure," the man sneers, not bothering to thank the bartender for this new glass, gulping it down already.

"We Bonnefoys were raised not to discuss money and status in regular conversation for it is undignified," Francis recites, hearing his mother's voice in his head as she drills it into his 10 year old self [she was always such a wonderful, classy woman. Francis takes a second to mourn for her premature passing]. The man blinks at him.

"You're a Bonnefoy?" he sneers, scratching the ear with the piercing [some sort of distasteful skull, Francis notices] absently. Francis nods. "What're you doing in a dirty place like this?" he asks, motioning to the zombie-like patrons around them. Francis shrugged.

"My friends," he replies and the man smirks.

"I thought rich blokes like you were too good for friends," he remarks, drinking from his glass [the third one, Francis guesses, as it is completely full; the bartender must be expecting the man to order again].

"I assure you, we aren't," Francis replies, deciding that it would be unsightly to pick a fight with this half-drunk man.

There is a lull in the conversation as the man turns away to ask for a different drink. Francis watches as the bartender complies with the request and his eyes widen as the man slides the drink over to him.

"Go on, drink it," he says, motioning to it. "I don't want to seem like a bloody drunk with you just sitting there watching me," he adds.

Francis takes the glass daintily and sips from it delicately. It's a far cry from the expensive French wines that he normally drinks, but in a place like this, it's probably the best they have.

"Will I ever get that dance?" Francis asks as the man's eyes get more and more bloodshot with each drink. It is utterly fascinating watching the man go on; he always made a face of pure disgust before gulping the concoction down, as though he hated it, and then always went for another glass. Just utterly fascinating.

"No," the man growls, his voice sounding like it's starting to slur. "I'm not interested in shagging random prissy boys," he says, blending the words together. Yes, definitely drunk.

"I assure you, I'm not a prissy boy," Francis says, very offended. The man laughs.

"You probably bottom during sex," he leers. Francis frowns. If it's one thing he disliked being goaded on, it was his talent in bed.

"That's not true," he hisses, eyes narrowing. The man smirks, pleased that his words are causing an effect on Francis.

"Is that so?" he simpers, looking surprised. Francis knows what the man is trying to do, and smirks as well.

"Yes," he replies, leaning in close to the man, trying not to gag from the putrid smell of the booze hanging off of him. "I could always demonstrate to you, if you don't believe me," he purrs, and his smirk grows as the man turns red.

"Get off me!" the man yelps, leaping up in embarrassment. Francis laughs.

"I suppose you aren't going to give me that dance now," he says in remorse as the man glares at him.

"You were never going to get that dance," he tells him.

"My name is Francis Bonnefoy," Francis says, extending a hand out. Despite the fact that his initial goal was fruitless, he still wants to know more about this mysteriously grumpy British man with the entrancing green eyes.

The man stares at the hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he replies gruffly.

"Well, aren't you going to shake my hand?" Francis asks lightly. Arthur frowns and takes the hand, shaking it lightly.

Before Arthur can let go, Francis grips the hand tightly with both hands and turns away, dragging Arthur away from the bar.

"Where are you taking me?" Arthur exclaims, looking shocked. He stumbles to keep up with Francis.

"Where do you think?" Francis asks over his shoulder.

They stop in the middle of the dance floor. Francis turns back to Arthur. Arthur stares.

"Why?" he asks. Francis doesn't answer. He puts put arms around Arthur's waist and pulls him close to his body. Arthur tries to move away but Francis has already begun to sway to the fast beat of the music. Francis smiles, knowing that the music is beginning to have an effect on Arthur.

Francis can almost see it enter Arthur's blood and into his heart.

They begin to dance, losing themselves in the music. It is exhilarating, it is breathtaking, it is…something Francis has never felt before.

Is this what it is like to live? Perhaps Gilbert is right, perhaps he does need to let loose once in a while. Francis enjoys this feeling, feeling carefree. He feels free from all his familial obligations and very depriving aristocratic upbringing.

Francis feels free.

Arthur barely notices the person next to him, the warm smooth hands on his waist. The music has claimed him once more, his body moving in time to the steady beat that is going in time with his heart.

This is where Arthur likes to be, this is where Arthur feels comfortable. Like himself.

But alas, songs are only less than five minutes, and Arthur finds himself standing awkwardly amidst a sea of swaying zombies, clutching at each other and hugging as the slow music leads them. Arthur feels lost again. Alone again.

"Aren't you going to dance?" a voice asks, breaking through Arthur's confused haze. He looks up to see the snotty Frenchman – Francis Bonnefoy – staring at him. His eyes are a deep cerulean and they penetrate Arthur's very soul – or so he feels.

"Dance?" Arthur asks derisively. "To this rubbish? Is this even music?" he asks in disgust.

"I believe this is called pop," Francis says delicately. "And I quite like this song."

"Well I don't bloody give a damn what you think. I'm going to get another drink," Arthur says, turning away.

A hand stops him, pulling him back towards Francis. Arthur glares at the offending hand.

"Let go of me," he growls, glaring into Francis's blue eyes. Francis smiles teasingly, using said hand to pull Arthur even closer, wrapping a delicate arm around Arthur's waist.

"No, I don't think I will," he says mockingly as he sways his body to the slow beat of the song, pressing his body against Arthur's so that he can sway as well.

"I don't want to dance to this," Arthur hisses.

Francis doesn't reply. Arthur frowns and tries to shove the prissy aristocrat [who is so not his type] off of him. Francis must be stronger than he seems, for he doesn't budge at all – still swaying [and forcing Arthur to sway], a blissful look on his face.

"You know, when you get past the awful smell of alcohol and the apparent lack of cologne, you smell quite nice. Almost like flowers," Francis murmurs into Arthur's ear. His breath tickles the edges around it and Arthur's face heats up.

"Are you saying that I smell like a girl?" Arthur hisses furiously.

"No, not at all. You smell wonderful," Francis purrs, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder in contentment.

The two men sway to the music in silence, Francis evidently happy that he finally managed to get Arthur to dance with him. Arthur reluctantly sways as well, and it is only a matter of time until the music finally washes over him and enters his body. But unlike the usual feeling of being completely alone while dancing, Arthur is still aware of Francis dancing with him, still aware of the man's steady breathing, still aware that the Frenchman's soft delicate hands [that must've never done a day's work of manual labour] still linger on his waist.

Arthur finds it odd.

But despite that, he does not mind at all, a soft smile forming on his face.

It was a nice feeling.

Is this what it is like to not feel lonely?

Arthur rather quite likes the feeling.

Pity it has to be with a French aristocrat, though. They really weren't Arthur's type.

When the song ends, neither men feel like dancing frantically to the next song. They stop dancing and stare at each other for a long time.

"Would you like to go somewhere else?" Francis asks finally. "The night is still young. We could go somewhere nicer where we can be alone…together." Again, Francis wonders why he is investing so much time on this strange man and wonders how his colleagues or father or extended family would feel about the curious British man. Oddly, Francis doesn't seem to care; if tonight is the night for letting loose, then Francis will do whatever he wants, regardless of what his family or friends think. And what he wants to do is spend more time with Arthur.

Alone together? It's a phrase that Francis has never used, and that Arthur has never heard of. One is too used to being with many rich, intelligent people that are his equals, and the other has always been just alone.

"You better not be talking about your bed," Arthur warns as he lets Francis take him away from the dirty club. Arthur is apprehensive about letting himself go with Francis to some strange foreign place where he will surely feel awkward and uncomfortable in. After so many years of pushing people away, it is hard to get to used to having people in your life again.

Francis laughs a tinkling laugh when they finally get away from the heat and the sweat and the stench that is the club, holding Arthur's calloused hand [from all that guitar playing] in his slightly larger, but more effeminate hand.

"Only if you want to," he teases, beaming at how Arthur blushes. The thought of actually doing things spontaneously like this makes Francis feel light-hearted and he giggles as though he has taken one too many drinks. Arthur stares at him for a moment before joining in, alcohol and excitement fuelling him.

They laugh into the night, neither knowing what their future holds together. For all they knew, this could be a one time thing and that they'll never see each other again.

But they don't care, preferring to spend this moment with each other rather than worry on useless things like that, for Arthur makes Francis feel free and Francis makes Arthur feel complete.

A/N: Ok, so I totally fail writing in a style that's totally not my own, but hey, I tried right?

Story for Ceri Siracha with the prompt: "Among the dancing crowds, he can almost forget his loneliness…until a slow dance comes on, and he's left without a partner." It would be FrUK, with slightly-punk!England and romantic!France.

I wanted to try writing Francis as a rich snotty man since ya know, I can totally see him doing that. Screw Arthur being the prude, I like writing Francis as one! xD

Review~?