By: TG (musichika_tg on LJ)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of the songs or places mentioned in this fic.

Warnings: Mansex, prolonged foreplay (of sorts…). Oh, and a very brief mention of UKJapan…and by brief I mean it comes up in one sentence XD

Summary: By and large, jazz has always been like the kind of a man you wouldn't want your daughter to associate with. –Duke Ellington

AN: Introducing art student!Arthur and music student!Alfred. Hehe, I am not sorry.

Also, written in two parts for Sweethearts Week Days 5 and 6 (music theme and AU theme).


Arthur Kirkland wasn't your typical party hearty college student. It was not as though he never attended parties, and it wasn't as though he never drank or had his share of one night stands; it was just that those things weren't very high up on his priority list, especially with final exams quickly approaching.

He had been sitting at one of the computers in the lab of the art building, dutifully typing up the seven page paper on Impressionism he had been assigned over the weekend ("Bloody busy work") when his TA, Francis Bonnefoy, practically pranced through the door. The man stopped when he spotted Arthur, his surprise melting into a predatory smirk as he made his way over to the already annoyed Brit.

"No," Arthur said, not bothering to take his eyes off the computer. He hoped to circumvent whatever the Frenchman was going to say in hopes of getting the scraggly-bearded idiot to just leave.

"But mon ami, I did not even say anything yet!" The man said, his hands going immediately to clutch at his chest as though Arthur had wounded him. The Brit snorted and shook his head. Always an actor.

"You don't need to, Francis. I've already told you I will not sleep with you. And stop speaking to me in French, you know it bugs the bloody hell out of me."

"Oui, that's why I do it. Mon. Ami." Francis chuckled when Arthur twitched at each foreign word. "And anyway, that is not what this is about. This is about you, mon cher. I can't help but notice that you rarely leave the art building anymore. Is your breakup with Kiku still affecting you that much?"

Arthur sighed and turned in his chair to face the blonde. "No, Francis. I'm not still upset over that. It's been months."

"Then you need to start getting out, or else you'll never find your true love!"

"You are an idiot."

"Mm, yes, but I'm right, aren't I. You're going to get burnt out at this rate. Please, mon ami, just for tonight. I am worried for you."

"Fine, if it'll get you to leave me alone," Arthur agreed reluctantly.

"Merveilleux! I know just the place for you! Just go to this address," he scribbled something on the back of some extra cardstock, "at eight this evening. Cover charge is on me, but you'll want to bring some money for alcohol." Arthur tried to protest, embarrassed that the man knew his habits so well, but Francis overrode him, forcing a wad of cash in his hand. "I know you, mon ami~!"

Arthur grumblingly took the cardstock, folded it up, and shoved it in his coat pocket. Francis nearly startled the piss out of him by clapping a hand on his shoulder, and Arthur looked up to see him smiling warmly.

"It's not as though you're swimming across the English Channel in the winter time, mon cher, no need to look so glum."

"God forbid. I would end up in France and then I would just have to kill myself before you could get your filthy French paws on me."

Francis laughed and tossed his hair, and then he was skipping out the door. Arthur, feeling rather like he'd just been through a heavily-perfumed, hairy hurricane, saved all his work and was out the door not long after the Frenchman, fingers curling carefully around the cardstock in his pocket.

Twenty minutes later he was kicking himself for not asking Francis what kind of establishment he'd sent him to. Or maybe he was just kicking himself for listening to the Frenchman in the first place.

The scrawled address had led him to a cozy-looking place called Birdland, which everyone in the music or art business knew was an extremely famous jazz club.

'Stupid Francis,' Arthur thought scathingly as he watched person after person walk through the doors, decked out in suits, beautiful dresses, high heels, pearls, cufflinks…the works. And there he was in trousers and a button up. He thought about turning around and just walking back, pretending the night had never happened and going back to his stupid paper, but then Francis would see him the following Monday and ask about his night and he'd have to tell the bloody wanker that he'd chickened out and that was just not acceptable.

So the Brit squared his shoulders, raised his chin up high, and walked with faux confidence through the doors of Birdland.

The inside was just as cozy as it looked on the outside –not quite cramped but not over large, either. There were several tables set up off to the left and directly in front of him, and to the right was the bar. And of course, at the center of everything against the far wall was the stage. The musicians were already set up, noodling to keep their horns warm against the New York City chill.

He followed the stream of people to a ticket booth, where he used the money Francis had handed him to pay the $25 cover charge. The man behind the window (who was also dressed to the nines) gave him a glossy ticket with the Birdland logo and turned to help the next person. Arthur shuffled away, trying to find enough light in the dim club to read what was on the ticket.

"Center table three," he muttered to himself, wandering up to the section of center seats. Table three turned out to be in the very front row, the third of six tables set up for one or two people. Feeling a little ridiculous and self-conscious for being alone when everyone else was part of a pair or a group, he shrugged off his pea coat, hung it up on the back of his chair, and sat down.

The food and drink menus were lying innocently in front of him, and he blanched at the cost of the food. Forced to choose between food and drink, he snatched up the drink menu; if he was going to go through with this, he would need a good, stiff glass. Preferably of scotch. Damn Francis for sending him somewhere fancy and then making him pay for it when it was all his idea in the first place! Now the expensive cover charge made complete sense.

One and a half drinks later, the band members had stopped noodling and were being introduced as music students from Juilliard. Intrigued, Arthur glanced up from despairing at what little alcohol he had left in his snifter and met the most startlingly blue eyes he had ever come across. Zooming his focus out a bit, he noticed that not only were the man's eyes beautiful, but the rest of him was very attractive as well.

'Hullo there,' he thought, his blood warming a bit as he watched the handsome man's mouth curve into a sexy smirk. So distracted was he that he didn't even notice that the reason the man was licking his lips was because the band was about to start its first number, and he startled as the first note blasted the air to life.

That was when he realized that the club had filled up during his momentary lapse of sanity, and that the man he'd been staring so obviously at (and whom had been staring right back) played trumpet.

'Standing in the back row, second from the left, that would make him…a first trumpet,' Arthur thought dazedly. Because Arthur was a closet jazz fan, he knew almost instantly that the song they were performing was Count Bubba by Gordon Goodwin, and that the gorgeous man must be a skilled performer if he could play that high right off the bat.

As the song progressed, Arthur found that he couldn't take his eyes off the mystery man, couldn't even get up to order another drink; he was rooted to the spot by both the man's flawless performance when he was playing and that engaging blue stare when he wasn't.

One song turned into three, which turned into five, and before Arthur realized it, an hour and a half had gone by. The emcee was announcing the Juilliard group's last song, which was called Blues at Drury. It opened up with a funky bass solo and featured a laid back beat and, in Arthur's opinion, some really great soloists, all of whom improv'd a decent storyline into the silence of the solo section.

And then the man –or perhaps more appropriately termed The Man –stepped up to the mic at the front of the stage. Arthur's jaw dropped, he couldn't help it. The Man started out at a whisper, but the volume of his playing crescendoed with the climax of his story, sank with its denouement. His fingers nimbly found the right keys, his mouth the correct pitch, and what came out was practically perfection.

When the blonde gave a little bow and moved to go back to his spot, Arthur literally felt disappointed that it was over. And not long after that, it really was over; the song ended, the musicians stood to accept their applause, and then they were gone as the emcee readied the stage for the next band to perform.

Arthur was out of his chair before he could really think about what he was doing. He didn't know where he was going or why but he did know that he wanted, no, needed to find out who that man was –The Man. No one noticed him walking back behind the stage, as everyone else was up getting drinks or ordering food between bands anyway, and he was able to slip back into the hallway that probably led to dressing rooms or storage rooms. He pushed open the first door he came to.

He didn't know what he expected to find, but it certainly wasn't The Man, kneeling on the floor putting his trumpet back in its case. The Man glanced over his shoulder, and then did a double take because as much as Arthur wasn't expecting him, he most definitely was not expecting Arthur. The Man's movements slowed at his trumpet case, but he didn't try to tear his eyes from Arthur's.

The lid closed with a soft snap, and The Man was up and prowling toward him, like a big cat which had just spotted its evening prey. Arthur didn't back down, but rather stood defiant as The Man placed a hand on each side of his head, bracing himself on the wall behind Arthur and caging the Brit in. It was a little domineering, and Arthur found it sexy as hell.

"Duke Ellington once said that 'by and large, jazz has always been like the kind of man you wouldn't want your daughter to associate with.' So'm I," the man breathed into the shell of Arthur's ear.

Arthur had to bite his lip against a moan at the feel of the hot breath in his sensitive ear and murmured, "Good job I'm not someone's daughter, then."

They surged together then, The Man's hard body pressed against his made Arthur moan. Their mouths melded together like two adjoining puzzle pieces, and Arthur sighed as he opened his mouth and allowed The Man's tongue to slip inside. Palms slid up Arthur's neck and gently tilted his head to the side for better access, and as The Man broke back for air Arthur decided he couldn't handle it anymore. He had to know.

"Mm, wait, stop," Arthur said, pushing at The Man's (well-muscled) chest as he started back in for another kiss. "I can't keep referring to you as 'The Man' in my head. Tell me your name."

If he was offended by the demanding tone of Arthur's voice he didn't show it. Instead he threw back his head and laughed, and then told him simply that his name was Alfred. "What's yours?"

"Arthur. Now shut the bloody fuck up," the Brit growled, grabbing Alfred by the lapels of his suit jacket and forcing him down into another bruising kiss. Alfred's fingers un-tucked Arthur's shirt and played with the hem uncertainly before slipping his calloused palms up the Brit's spine. Arthur sighed and let his head fall back against the wall as Alfred's mouth moved down his jaw to his throat, sucking at his pulse point and dragging his teeth down his jugular

"Fuck," the Brit gasped. He rolled his hips in retaliation, and Alfred groaned against his collarbone, breath hot on the hollow of Arthur's throat. One of the American's hands wandered down to slide over Arthur's ass and hitched his leg up over Alfred's hip; Arthur used the extra leverage to pull the American's body even closer. Before they knew it both of Arthur's legs were wrapped around Alfred's hips, and they were making out like teenagers against the dressing room wall.

"On with it then," Arthur muttered, squeezing his legs even tighter around Alfred's hips. The American looked up at him, confused, and Arthur didn't bother to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, are you going to fuck me or not?"

Alfred immediately blushed and sputtered, and for all his confidence Arthur realized that he was actually quite young and quite nervous. The Brit chuckled and smoothed his hands down the American's chest as he was placed back onto his own two feet.

"How about I get you started, hm?" Arthur murmured, his fingers already at the zip of Alfred's trousers. The American's breath hitched a bit as Arthur's fingers wriggled into his boxers to grasp at his length, squeezing and stroking.

"Nng! Arthur, if you don't stop this might be over before it starts," Alfred said and pulled the Brit's hand from his pants with a breathy laugh.

"Mm, can't have that, can we." Arthur shucked his pants and his underwear without preamble, grabbing Alfred by the hips and dragging his hard, muscled body back against his. He momentarily despaired of not having the time to get completely naked and truly feel those muscles against him, but this would just have to do for now. He could feel Alfred's ragged breathing warm on his neck as he reached back and started to prepare himself.

After a few moments of fingering himself dry, he decided he couldn't wait anymore and hitched his leg high up on Alfred's hip, gently guiding the American inside. Alfred groaned and reached out to brace a hand against the wall as he thrust shallowly into Arthur's tight warmth, waiting for the latter to get used to being filled. The Brit hissed and clutched at the back of Alfred's shirt, reaching a hand up to fist in his hair and to help force the American's mouth down to meet his.

"Fuck me," Arthur whispered into his mouth, and that was apparently all the encouragement the American needed; Arthur didn't even bother to bite back his moans as the American pulled out and snapped back in, setting a vicious pace. Fire sparked along his nerves everywhere Alfred touched –from his throat to his nipples to the angular bones of his hips, everything felt electrified.

Part of the excitement was from the anticipation alone; seeing Alfred perform had been enough of a foreplay that Arthur knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Apparently Alfred felt the same. He was already reaching down to stroke Arthur to completion, moaning as the Brit tightened around him in release.

Arthur's eyes fluttered at the feeling of Alfred's hot breath against his cheek and he was barely aware enough to keep his leg hitched up as Alfred grit his teeth and continued to grind in him. Thankfully it didn't take much longer before Alfred was shuddering in pleasure and coming inside him.

Arthur waited until the American got his breath back to kiss him senseless, laughing when Alfred pulled back to brush his nose along Arthur's jaw. The Brit threaded his fingers through the other's sweaty hair and hummed in contentment.

"You're probably the best lay I've had in a long time," he said casually. Alfred spluttered and turned red, much to Arthur's amusement.

"Um, thanks? I –oh shit oh fuck, is that the time?" The American cried, startling Arthur by grabbing his hand to look more closely at the wristwatch he wore. "Damnit, I'm late!"

Alfred scrambled up off where they ended up on the floor and made an attempt at straightening his clothes before muttering "fuck it" and making a grab for his abandoned trumpet case. Arthur watched from his spot on the floor, amused and unabashedly naked from the waist down, as Alfred stopped, turned, picked up the cardstock that must have fallen out of Arthur's pocket during their …activities…and started hunting around in his pockets for something. He let out a triumphant "ah-ha!" when he found a pencil and started scribbling something on the cardstock.

"Here!" He said, throwing the cardstock at Arthur and hurrying through the door with an exaggerated wink. Arthur shook his head at the American's antics and stood to pull on his underwear and trousers. He bent to pick up the cardstock on his way out, rolling his eyes at the terrible handwriting.

Alfred F Jones


Call me! XD

Grinning to himself, Arthur pocketed the cardstock –lovely, beautiful, perfect cardstock that now carried that stunning man's phone number –and left through the back door.

This was one case in which he couldn't wait to tell Francis how right he was. Just this once.

AN: Hahahaha who got the Irene Addler reference?

The places: Birdland is an actual jazz club in NYC. I've been to both Birdland and Juilliard, but I've never been inside either of them. I got the information about the seating and such from Birdland's website, but pretty much everything else I made up.

NYU is a college in NYC.

The music/music terms: I performed Count Bubba and Blues at Drury with my high school jazz band, so that's why those particular songs are mentioned XD

Also, not sure if it just pertains to my jazz band or not, but just in case…noodling is basically when players play random notes to warm up their instruments and keep their chops warm. And by chops, I mean embouchure, which are facial and lip muscles used to play an instrument. Basically, the embouchure and the speed of the air through the lips and into the instrument is what form the pitch of the notes.

A crescendo, for those who don't know, is when the noise level of a musical phrase gets louder.

Improv is short for improvisation, which is basically when a player uses the song's chords to solo rather than read written notes. It's harder than you think, because you have to know all the notes in the chords of the solo section XD

Denouement is a literary term for the bit of a story that comes after the climax, when things are starting to calm down. I used literary terms for Alfred's solo because I was always taught that your solo should tell a story, and this fanfic makes references to all kinds of arts (photography, music, writing, art, etc).

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