FAG (Justin Bieber x OC)

5

AN: I'm terribly sorry for the delay, but I'm on holiday and I've had severe writers block. To be honest, I miss Moses, so it's hard to write when he's not featured. This is short, but I didn't want to make you wait any longer than strictly necessary. Please vote and comment. Constructive criticism is hella useful.

The rules of a man's greeting are simple, but unbreakable. If you don't know the other person very well, because they're new to you or merely an acquaintance, but the setting is informal enough, you apply the 'Man Hug Shake Thing Shoulder Slap.' And yes, that is the technical term for it. I employed this technique as I swaggered on stage and was greeted enthusiastically by the German talk show host I'd met once before. I grabbed his right hand in mine and we each pulled the other forward into a sort of half-body embrace. For good measure, I clapped a hand on his shoulder. We released each other half a second later. Manly as they come.

Hugh exulted in my arrival, tipping back and throwing his suit-clad arms out. "Justin Bieber, everybody!" he shouted jubilantly in his strong accent. The audience whooped. A fair portion screamed. He was one of those over-the-top, caricature type TV personalities and I kind of liked that, because you always knew where you stood. That wasn't to say he wasn't incredibly devious as well. "Justin, Justin. Long time no see, huh?" What I didn't understand was how these foreign live audiences ever understood a word we said. I'm sure there are subtitles on TV, but how do the live audience follow all the English dialogue?

I shot back a toothpaste commercial grin, the type Americans are famous for. "Yeah, Hugh, it's been too long," I agreed, whilst acting on his invitation to sit on the red, rectangular settee. Management had always advised me on how important it was that I seem familiar and friendly with any hosts or guests I'm seen interacting with. Paints a good image. I'd chosen to sit on the end of the couch closest to the brown leather armchair that Hugh always occupied. Leaning  forward, my hands were clasped together in front of me, my forearms resting across my knees.
Always aim to look engaged.
"Justin Bieber knows my name!" he whisper yelled to the audience, four fingers of one hand pointing at his chest dramatically. His face was a mask of fangirl delirium. It made me laugh and had the same effect on the audience. Except for the few who simply screeched -got to love Beliebers.  He coughed conspicuously, sending a sheepish look to the audience, before turning back to me and pretending to  try and play it cool.

Chuckles still escaped me as he continued on, "Justin, how are things? I must say, I'm liking this look," he gestured up and down my figure, indicating the semi-formal shirt and jeans, "Did you pick this out yourself or?" His English was without flaw.
I answered happily, despite the slight lie by omission about how things were going, "Things are good, thanks. How are things with you? And no, I didn't pick this out myself. But I'll pass your compliments onto my stylists. I'm feelin' the suit too, by the way."
"Yes, pass my compliments onto the chef," he nodded seriously, before turning to the crowd again and this time whisper yelling, "Justin Bieber likes my suit!" More laughter and I saw him rub a fist across his own mouth as if to scrub away a smile. "By the way," he now addressed the audience more solemnly, "to anyone listening who speaks English, 'Feeling' in Canada is 'liking.' He's not literally stroking me or anything. You know he's not doing that, because if he were, I'd have to fight of blood-thirsty Beliebers for stealing their idol. To repeat, there is no," he reached over to caress my tattooed arm without looking at me, "stroking." I looked down at my arm then back up to meet his gaze. "Everything okay, Justin?" he cooed in response to my fake uncomfortable look. He kept running his fingers up and down the length of my arm. From the audience, sounded laughter and I was trying to suppress my own.
"It's just err..." I looked down at his wandering fingers and back up to his innocent expression -this all reminded me of a pantomime-," You are actually stroking my arm now."
He looked down at his hands and back at me, mock surprise painted his features as he stilled the hand and gasped. "So I am! My apologies, Justin. I hadn't realised," he turned to wink at the audience really exaggeratedly. I ducked my head between my knees as my shoulders shook.
I looked up again when he spoke, "But joking aside, this is actually my own suit, so thank you. No stylists involved here." He paused. "Unless, of course, you count hair, makeup and accessories."He batted the thought away jokingly, before he waved his arm in the air so that the sleeve rode up and you could see his flashy golden watch.
The crowd "Ooooh"ed and tittered. One girl screamed again, provoking a similar chorus in return. It sounded to me a bit like a mating call and the reply. "Wow, some people are super excited to see you, no? Don't worry. I'd never lose my cool," he huffed. I laughed again, because he was an excellent showman. The next thing he said was about my newly dyed platinum hair, "So about the new hair: have you written any obsessive letters to Eminem recently?"