Catch Me, Darling.

Hope

There were many things Arthur Kirkland was not fond of, but out of all the items on his mental list, this had taken the entire damn cake.

"Mon ami! Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Arthur ignored the worried shouts of his comrade behind him and stomped down the long hallway to the dressing room. The floors of the hall were ragged, old carpet. A dark red color with a golden floral pattern that felt scratchy beneath his bare feet. It had probably been there since the eighties. God knows what had stained the floor over the years.

"Arthur!"

The Frenchman's call fell upon deaf ears as Arthur kept the pace. He was too angry to calm down now. It was cold in the halls and his legs – now pantless – were like ice while the rest of his body was covered in sweat. His top was completely shredded, in a similar state to his dignity at the moment. Strands of blond hair stuck to his forehead and his face was quite red. Yet whether it was because of the performance he had just finished or the explosion of anger that was still fiery in his veins was unknown. Most likely, it was both.

"Arthur–"

The dressing room door slammed in Francis' face as Arthur stepped inside.

"Arthur, I know you are upset but–"

"Forget it, there's no way in hell I'm going out there again!"

Francis didn't reply as he heard his friend shuffle around the room, gathering his possessions in a tizzy and looking for a new outfit. Once Arthur was in a rage, it was hard to calm him down. Francis sighed, and rubbed his temples as he thought about the potential catastrophe such a meltdown could cause. Arthur was one of his best dancers let alone his best friend, and Francis did not want Arthur to quit the business all because of an 'incident.' Though on the other hand, Arthur did have every right to be angry. He had been attacked from an audience member in the middle of his performance. He barely had enough time to dodge the attacker and the man wrestled him on stage. Before security could get to the scene, the man had made off with Arthur's pants and shreds of his shirt. The boots had gone lost in the struggle. Gilbert had to pry the man off Arthur as the crowd watched in shocked silence. The Brit turned from stunned to furious in three seconds and the man was dragged off stage after Arthur had gave him a harsh punch to the face. The wanker would have a black eye for two or three weeks and was banned from the club.
"Let me in, mon ami." Francis said in a softer tone.
There was a still moment of silence until slowly, the door creaked open. Francis slipped into the room and watched as Arthur heaved a sigh and fell into a chair by the vanity. The green-eyed man cradled his head in his hands, breathing heavily in exhaustion and stress.

"Did you get 'urt at all?"

Arthur looked up, sweaty and aching.

"Besides a few scratches and a bruise on my rear I'm fine. I'm more pissed that my favorite trousers are gone. Leather! Does that wanker know how expensive those where?! Cheeky bastard felt me up and left a hole in my wallet."

Francis chuckled, a bit relieved his friend was acting a little more like himself.

"I'm glad you're alright. Sadly, these things 'appen 'ere, but not that often. I guess the men are just crazy about you." Francis smiled sadly.

Arthur rolled his eyes as he stood up and grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge the dancers kept stocked by the closets. He chugged the water like a madman. Dancing sure did dehydrate a man.

"They don't particularly have interest in me," He told bitterly, "I'm just a piece of meat being waved in front of them and they are impatient dogs. I have a pulse. That was enough for that wanker."

"So cynical," Francis chided, "Sometimes I wonder why you're still dancing here."

Arthur chuckled and with a bittersweet smile he shrugged.

"It's a vice, I guess. Like nicotine and bourbon. It's sweet on your tongue but burns your throat, and you're too numb to care about the consequences later. You're waiting for the next thrill, the next roar of the crowd, the cat calls and shouts cheering your name. It's like you're a sex god, and that kind of power is irresistible."

Arthur lit up a cigarette, smirking as he put it to his lips.

"And besides," he watched as the smoke seeped into the air, "This is all I know to do. I'm not cut out for the life of anyone but a sinner. It's too late to turn back now."

Francis stared at his friend, surprised by his sense of wicked hopelessness. Silence instilled once again until Arthur piped up.

"I'll do the show, Francis. I've changed my mind."

"You really don't have to.." Francis insisted, still concerned.

"I'll be fine. You said the executive was stopping by today right? The future of the club is riding on his approval. Can't let the opportunity pass."

"You're right... But are you up for another show? You look mighty fatigued, mon ami." Francis scanned over Arthur worriedly.

"Yes. I'll be fine, but there's only one problem.." Arthur frowned.

"Quoi?"

"I'm going to need a new outfit. And this time, it needs to be more provocative. We want to leave a lasting impression for that old pervert you call an executive."

Francis only grinned, a knowing look in his eye. Arthur felt like he was missing something.

"Oh la la, Arthur!" Francis exclaimed with wide eyes.

Arthur allowed the Frenchman back into the shabby dressing room with a skeptical look, feeling just a teensy bit self-conscious at the fishnets clinging to his thighs. The whole outfit was tight, almost suffocatingly so, and ornate with so much black lace and leather Arthur didn't even know what to do with himself.

"I don't know Frog, isn't this a bit ...feminine?"

Francis only smiled, and flashed a look Arthur knew led to nothing but trouble and complicated schemes. The man was always up to something, and that something usually involved dressing Arthur up into the lewdest outfits imaginable and parading him around the club. Not that Arthur really cared, he earned a hefty sum of cash. But at the very least it was aggravating.

"Not at all, mon ami! You look sexy! Ze audience is going to be ecstatic. I have no doubt ze executive will adore you, Angleterre."

The outfit was something straight out of a burlesque show; fishnet tights, a black lace garter belt, bright red heels, and a jet black leather corset.

"But we dancers don't normally do drag... And I am a little too slim... Are you sure I can pull it off?"

"Nonsense mon ange, I 'ave faith in you. We all do. What 'appened to that confidence you 'ad not zo long ago?"

Arthur sighed and took a final glance at the full-length mirror behind him. He turned to face his friend who was currently sitting on the old flower-patterned couch. The thing had been there for centuries. Arthur made a mental note to talk to his Francis about investing in some new furniture later, but I'd have to wait for now. Arthur sighed, putting his hands on his lace adorned hips.

"It's like I've lost all my 'mojo' or something of that nature. Damn this insufferable slump! It's been months, Frog, months. I'm losing my bloody mind!"

Francis chuckled, running a hand through his long blond hair.

"A little frustrated, are we?"

"Oh shut it!"

"Relax, Arthur. I'm sure you'll find zomeone to ...alleviate your little problem."

"I doubt that will happen, Francis."

" 'ave faith, mon ami. I 'ave a feeling you might meet zomeone soon~"

"Yes, yes, now get the hell out. I'll see you after the show."