The Whistling Kettle

Swing

"Who is that?"

The lights above glistened on his descent, showering the ground and crowd with dazzling light as he neared the earth once more. Every stone and gem sewn into his costume reflected each and every light as he returned to the air to grab the arms of his partner and leave his own bar to grace the other side of the audience with his glamorous talent. Though he was on the other side of the ring by now, Alfred's breath had yet to return.

"That's Arthur," The Russian behind him spoke, oblivious to the lack of attention he was receiving from the young American, "He and his cousin, Francis, are our trapeze artists."

He blinked not once, but thrice in an attempt to tear his eyes away from the figure that dangled above the audience. With slim form clad in teal and gold, the men made a show of their flips and jumps, and for a moment, Alfred could have sworn he caught that emerald gaze at least once more.

It was a force he had only ever written about in plays and scripts, in poems and ballads. A force that required no words, no touch, just the meeting of a gaze and perhaps even the idea of a smile. It weight on his chest as though Atlas had set his burden upon it, and he feared the fine cotton he wore would burst under the pressure. It was as though he had seen every moment of his life, what had and had not happened, all within that moment of suspended delight. In all his glittering glory, those eyes like jade had struck his to the core and mounted him to one spot as he himself was allowed to swing and flip across all other feet of the building. Though his feet did not move, Alfred's heart felt as though it were on the bar with him.

"Would you like to meet him?"

Alfred nearly choked on the breath that returned to him far too quickly.

"Y-Yes! I-...Yes, please."

A/N: Inspired by The Greatest Showman, the scene in which Phillip sees Anne for the first time.