Chico imagined their conversation as they shook hands, and the baker held on a second or two longer than he had to. Hellos, introductions, a compliment about the studio as the baker gestured around them. Then he took another step closer. That compliment was probably something more personal.
Rafael didn’t step forward to meet him, but he didn’t back up either. He could have been waiting for more flattery, but Chico didn’t think so. For one thing, who actually played coy outside of a movie? For another, although Chico had wondered before if Rafael was the disgrace of the family, he didn’t think so after seeing him with his students. Rafael was already loved and respected; he didn’t need a bunch of bullshit compliments.
God. Chico had called his class “fun.” He hadn’t even tried to think of something clever. At least Rafael hadn’t seemed to mind.
Maybe the baker hadn’t taken one of his classes. Rafael angled his head toward him with interest, but he didn’t laugh or smile. It would have appeared like unsuccessful flirting, especially when Rafael slowly shook his head and looked regretful, but judging from the grin on the baker’s face as he walked out of sight, Chico didn’t think so.
That wasn’t a performance he’d been meant to see. Chico sagged back down and dropped his gaze, although in the fading light, he couldn’t see much to paint anymore. He swore as he realized he still had to clean all the paintbrushes and close up all the paint. By himself, because no one seemed to want to come near the painting. He could see why. Suddenly it all felt like an exhausting mess.
“You going to stay out here all night?” This time, although startled by the sound of Rafael’s voice, Chico merely raised his head to look at him. “That’s dedication,” Rafael offered, probably teasing.
He was leaning in the doorway, his body on display. The picture he presented made Chico swallow carefully before he spoke.
“Or I just have no place else to go,” Chico replied with way more honesty than he should have. He’d already ruined his chance here, which was for the best, even if he wanted Rafael’s hands on him again and his body over him, and if that didn’t kill him, then a long, slow fuck and the kind of kisses he’d almost forgotten about.
Chico gulped in cool, evening air and fussed with the paintbrush, getting paint all over his fingers and probably his rings. At least the dark hid that much.
He climbed to his feet, as if that was going to make Rafael forget that remark, and set to work closing bins and tubes of paint. “One of the other volunteers can put them away, since they left me out here,” he whined, worse than any of the teenagers who had rehearsed without complaint. “Unsupervised. As if I have any idea what I’m doing.”
Rafael made a sound that could have been a suppressed laugh.
Chico glanced up. “I don’t see how this is supposed to be good for me. Yes, this is the most I’ve talked with someone who wasn’t a customer or my cousin in—” He paused to really think about it. “—weeks. But I’m not very good at it, am I? I was never crazily outgoing, but I have to tell you, I’m kind of enjoying being a really boring homebody up here.”
“Or not,” he said a moment later. “I keep spilling my guts to you. So I’m probably desperate for someone to talk to who isn’t family. Sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He lifted his head, refusing to think about his big brown eyes or looking helpless. “You’ve been working all day. I can tell you’re exhausted. I’ll just… clean up this disaster and go. All right?”
He got up and waved his handful of paintbrushes to demonstrate his point. “Davi is going to regret signing me up to do this when they see their clock tower in the light of day. I hope it wasn’t important. I’m, uh, not much of a painter.”
“So what are you good at?”
Chico swung around to glare at him, but then caught how soft Rafael’s expression was, as if he was generally interested in the answer.
Then, as though he realized he’d phrased that badly, Rafael inclined his head. “Sorry. I’m tired. I meant to ask: then what do you like to do?”
“Bury my head in the sand,” Chico grumbled immediately and released a quiet sound of exasperation with himself. Just because someone was patient and a good listener didn’t mean they needed to have everyone dumping their problems on them. “I do… retail work. I also marathon entire TV series in single weekends and hang out with my family. Nothing interesting, although you could see also: kicked out of my apartment by my boyfriend of two years—sorry, my
ex
-boyfriend—who didn’t feel the need to pass
that
information on to me until the holidays.
After
I’d already bought a Christmas present for his mom.” Chico’s voice didn’t break at all. In a strange way, he was pleased by that. He glanced over again and wondered what exactly his expression was that Rafael would keep looking at him in amazement.
“If that doesn’t appeal to people, I could mention now being semi-homeless at age thirty-four and working part time and living above my cousin’s garage.” Chico was redefining Too Much Information. He thought it was a trick of the fading light that made Rafael’s eyes seem so dark and wide. Chico put a hand over his heart, probably smearing paint over his shirt. “And now I’m thinking about dating. Which is ridiculous, because whenever I even
imagine
trying to, I get this panicky clot of fear in my chest that I’m going to mess that up. How bad do you have to be at relationships for someone to not even break up with you before they start dating someone else? How do you trust someone when the last person you thought wanted to take care of you…?” Chico’s voice finally gave out. He pulled in a breath, then another, and tried to keep his chin up because he wasn’t a sweetie baby anything.
“Does your ballet need any of that? Because I can do that.” He couldn’t stop talking. He was doing everything possible to tell this man what a loser he was. “Shit. Why am I telling you all of this? Just because you’re impossibly patient and kind about everything doesn’t mean you need to have me unloading my problems on you. And….” He trailed off as he looked down, then grew mournful. “I got paint on my shirt.”
“Shirts are replaceable,” Rafael said, after a while of nothing.
Chico wanted to rub his nose but didn’t trust his paint-splattered hands. “I know. I’m not helpless. I’m just….”
“Working through some things?” Rafael suggested.
“You’re so
nice
.” Chico sniffled and wiped his nose, paint be damned. “I didn’t feel anything until I met you, and that was so, so useful, not feeling anything. And now”—he made a vague gesture—“your
hands
. You touched me and I….” He lifted his gaze in an appeal for mercy. “You can pretend I didn’t say that, what I said about your hands. They’re… they’re really good hands. But I’m a disaster. Let’s both forget it.”
“Bury our heads in the sand?” Rafael wondered pointedly, but so gently it was worse than sarcasm.
Chico glowered at him, not in the mood to be teased. So what, if it was the first time Rafael had been less than perfectly gracious? Chico was fragile.
Of course, he felt more heated than fragile. The way Rafael looked leaning in that doorway wasn’t fair to someone in his condition, especially not after witnessing him flirting with someone else. He trembled; he physically, obviously,
trembled
at the idea of sex with Rafael and then got angry at the thought of him fucking that baker.
He turned his head to the side. “If you see Davi, could you tell him I’ve gone home? He’ll make some comment, but he’ll get it. I’m… very tired all of the sudden.”
He caught the frown on Rafael’s face and decided to just take the brushes home with him to clean them rather than stumble around in the studio. If he hurried, he’d make it back before the sun completely disappeared behind the trees. “Sorry,” Chico whispered as he went, and before he turned away and headed toward the road, he thought that Rafael’s frown had deepened.
HE CAME
home after another day of selling shoes to find Rafael sitting with Davi on Davi’s porch. He froze while still inside his car because the light of day made it easier to recall every embarrassing not-first-date-material thing he’d said to Rafael the night before.
Not that he’d forgotten a word of it. And not that he was dating Rafael. But making friends with him might work better if Chico let him talk once in a while.
He slowly got out of the car, noting the beers they were sipping without wishing he had one. Davi was evil, and that was all there was to it. He waved to both of them, a distant but friendly wave, and made a gesture that he hoped communicated how tired he was, and how he was going to go inside, take off his oversized shirt and pants, and hide in bed.
Or make himself dinner. Whatever would make Davi leave him alone.
Rafael, at least, waved back, before shooting a glance to Davi. Davi raised his eyebrows significantly at him.
Chico glared at his cousin and stalked past them both to reach the stairs to his place. He went up and inside without a word to them, although they were close enough he could have called out anything and they’d have heard. He could have been bolder and said, “I’ll be right back down to join you,” or lied and told them he was going out for dinner, not that either of them would likely have believed him.
He changed into a T-shirt and jeans instead of his underwear, just in case Davi got it into his head to make this worse and invite Rafael up to see him, and then pulled a chair up to a side window to peer down at them.
Since it wasn’t curling up on his bed in a ball of numb misery, he chose to consider his spying a good thing.
DAVI, OF
course, mocked him mercilessly when he came up to visit after Rafael left. “You spied on us from this window, didn’t you?” He bent to consider Chico’s view. “And by us, I mean him. You spied on him. I don’t see how that’s easier than talking to him.”
“You don’t understand what happens when I….” Chico made a noise and resolved to stick to his bed next time. “Every time I talk to him, I make it worse,” he said instead. He thought Davi would ask what “it” was, but Davi was quiet. Suspiciously so, like he was thinking.
Chico let it go for as long as he could, maybe three minutes. “John and I lived together for two years. We were together for a year before that.”
“I know.” Davi plopped down on a kitchen chair.
“I can’t just forget—”
“I know,” Davi said again.
Chico stared at his hands. He had gotten paint in his rings last night. He couldn’t tell if that was an omen, or just his complete lack of skill. He swallowed. “Is that what you two talked about?”
“I told you we were friends.” Davi’s reply was no kind of answer. “But since you brought it up, we may have discussed you.”
Chico raised his head and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
Davi suddenly tried to seem innocent. “You must have made an impression, because he asked me what you were good at.” He seemed amused when Chico stiffened. “He was very concerned that the volunteers weren’t using you properly. And then he said something about dance injuries, and how the mental trauma can be as bad as the physical.” Davi shot him a questioning look. “What have you two been talking about?”
“What did you tell him I was good at?” That was a far more important question, to Chico’s way of thinking.
Davi snorted. “You know what. The clothes you altered for me growing up, after I was forbidden to buy boy clothes? How you tailor your work outfits? All your Halloween costumes? I told him you can sew. That you
like
sewing.”
“Davi!” Chico was not amused. “I do that to save money. I don’t… I’m not professional. I’m not that good.”
“You’re great! What the fuck kind of bullshit did that John tell you?” Davi jutted his jaw out and then shook his head. “You’re fucking great at it, and you have fun doing it, and even if you weren’t that good, they need the help.”
Chico did his best to look stubborn and intimidating. He didn’t think it worked.
“Francisco,” Davi sighed. “You’ll be great. And you’ll be helping those kids have their dream recital. You’ll even get to stare at Raf all you want.”
“That isn’t funny.” Chico crossed his arms over his pounding heart. His heart was an unreliable judge. It told him to trust people. It got excited for waltzing. He refused to listen to it.
“Look.” Davi gave in. “You’ll get to leave the house and safely indulge your first bout of feelings since John tried to squash them out of you. And it won’t even be hard work. Most of the designs are done. The costumes are recycled. You’re going to be fitting and adjusting and maybe moving some zippers or something, that’s all.”
Chico uncrossed his arms because he felt ridiculous, and anyway, Davi meant well. He might even be right. Maybe Chico needed more time to get used to the idea of wanting someone again, even if he never acted on it. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Davi nodded. “It’ll be easy. You’ll see.”
CHICO GLARED
at the clumsiest, laziest stitching he’d ever seen, along the ripped bust area of some thrice-recycled outfit. The younger dancers were supposed to be courtiers, if he remembered correctly. But the tutu, while pretty, looked like it had once been for a pale blue snowflake, he assumed for
The Nutcracker
, and then overlaid with stiff purple tulle for something else entirely—he guessed a fairy.
The embroidery at the top had actually been glued into place instead of repaired, and the laces at the back were stuck, which was probably why some poor kid had tried to tear their way out of it.
He was debating whether it would be better to resew the tear and leave the misuse of a hot glue gun for someone else to deal with or put his somewhat rusty embroidery skills to use, when he was momentarily distracted by the early afternoon class in the main practice room. The room designated for sewing was actually inside the giant closets he’d noticed before, and with the doors open, he had a good view of a bunch of elementary-school-age children being guided in “Dance, darlings” by Mr. and Mrs. Winters themselves.