The Woes of Living Under Tap Dancers

Hetalia doesn't belong to me.

I've actually been meaning to write this for a while. Specifically for an entire month. Also, I don't know anything about tap dancing.

The only thing Arthur regretted in his choice of living space had been getting the flat directly beneath a dance teacher. No, he wouldn't have loud sex on the weekends or play annoying music, and his cat was very well behaved despite the fact that he probably was overfed and tumbled about a lot.

It was his practice.

Every night at eleven p.m., just when Arthur was bedding down, the tapping would begin. He ignored it at first, but couldn't sleep until the wee hours of the morning. This went on for a week. Then two. And then three - and Arthur was beginning to wonder why his patience wore on so until Honda remarked that it was probably because he took it out on the resident Frenchman at work.

("Bonnefois is a pain in the neck," he'd defended himself indignantly; "and he knows I don't shag people in the middle of the week.")

It wasn't until he was forced to stay up later than usual to edit a document before the deadline that he snapped. Mind, he'd been tired all day thanks to not remembering to buy sugar, and had been forced to take his tea straight. Bonnefois had poked fun at his deeper scowl and even Braginsky made a comment on his unusually rumpled blazer.

Now he was sitting in front of his laptop, eyes drooping and tea cooling, and it was precisely eleven o'clock p.m. and the blasted tapping had begun again. It jolted him out of his sleepy reverie easily enough, but he wasn't sure what to do until there was a particularly loud clack! that sent a wave of pain through his skull.

He had been putting up with this for a month, give or take a few, and he wouldn't stand for it any longer. So, not even bothering to fix his tie to present the image of a mature, responsible adult, he dashed out of his flat and up the flight of steps until he reached room 76-A.

76-A. 76-A. The characters almost swam before his eyes.

He barely realizes he's knocked on the door until the deft clicks pause and take the beat of footsteps heading toward the door. Arthur manages to straighten himself up just before it opens a bit, revealing a neat little room with polished floors and a presence that fills it - ah, yes, his dance teacher, and the one that's taking him from sleep.

And my, he's a mighty fine man, too. He's all angles and broadness and healthy tan and god he's perfect fuck-

"How may I help you, neighbour?"

Arthur remembers what he's here for. He sputters, then blames it on being sleepy, and takes a step back. He isn't wearing a bloody shirt.

"You're keeping me up at night," the Briton blurts at last, and the teacher looks amused before leaning curiously against the doorframe. Arthur realises he phrased it incorrectly.

"I mean-! I mean that your... routine of sorts keeps me up. You start tapping into the floor and I live right below you."

At this the man before him gives a sheepish laugh and straightens up, and Arthur finds himself glancing at his shoulders oh god his shoulders; they're perfect.

He's speaking again, though, and Arthur isn't sure if he's too distracted by his physique or too sleepy to realise this right away.

"I'm really sorry about that," he's saying, and opening the door a bit wider as he talks; "I don't have much time to practice when I'm at the studio. I've got a lot of people to teach and I still have to clean up afterwards, so I take what time I can get to practice this. How long has this been going on?"

He sounds genuinely apologetic, and Arthur is a bit stung until he feels a yawn bubbling up. It's stifled into his collar.

"About a month." Is the reply, and Teacher looks sad. "It's not alright, but you've apologised. Can't you practice at the studio?"

There's a thoughtful hum from the bespectacled one across him and an awkward nod. Arthur grunts quietly and shifts a bit. He's annoyed, now, and is contemplating scolding this dancing man until there's a quiet reply.

"Honestly, I'm sorry about that. I can practice at the studio, I just didn't want to because I liked my flat better." A pause. He's pressing his lips together, looking like he's thinking. "How about this: tomorrow I'll take you out for coffee or something. If you're still tired, at least."

His grin is hopeful, but Arthur doesn't say anything yet.

"Oh! And my name is Alfred Jones, in case you wanted to scold me by name."

That manages to coax the ends of Arthur's lips up, and he at last gives a slow nod and reluctantly accepts the offer even though he hates coffee - at least it'll keep him awake some. Lunch would do, too. The reply ends with an introduction of his own, and Alfred gives a wide grin before giving a cheeky salute and stepping back from the door.

"I guess t's a date. See you tomorrow at lunch. Or at breakfast." Here he pauses, and Arthur hums and nods to fill in the space. "You go and rest, though. We can talk later."

There's one last grin and the door closes. Arthur is glad to finally be free of the burden of holding a conversation half asleep and just bids the door goodnight before heading back downstairs.

It takes him the whole walk to realise he's just agreed to a date.

end notes:

i'm very tired and i haven't written in so long, so omg have this i guess? i'm not really satisfied with the ending - i feel like it could use something but i'm not good at writing closing scenes with one character half asleep and the other almost giddy because he just asked his cute neighbour out ahhh- but that aside i'm sort of satisfied with it. ahh, it turned out nice for something written at 1 am. if you've got any suggestions pertaining to closing scenes of this sort, please tell me!