by Aidan Wayne
“Hello,” Bao mumbled, before he blinked, sitting up in one fluid motion. And how did a man do that with the hangover he must have? “Hello!” he said again, brighter. “You are still here.”
“Uh,” was all John managed. “Yeah, uh, sorry, I was—I was leaving.”
Bao’s face fell, like it had last night in the hallway. “Why?”
John really had no answer to that. This was not a situation he knew how to deal with. “I . . . To the bathroom?”
“Oh!” Bao brightened. “Yes, I understand, okay.” He flung off the covers and peeled off his shirt, and nope, nope, nope, John fled to the bathroom.
Once there he was able to at least rinse his mouth out, scrub his teeth with a finger and some toothpaste. Breathe for a minute, and look in the mirror.
He didn’t hate what he saw there. He’d grown out of hating and wondering why. The burn scars covering the left side of his face, that wormed their way down his chest, the matching ones on his arms—he lived with them. And he’d been making a pretty good life, so far. A good job, a good reputation, even had friends he could count on. But that was it, and he was fine.
People like him didn’t get people like Bao, happy and nice and open, and so very far from the few men and women who’d pursued John as a “project” or because they had a thing for freak shows. John wasn’t the circus sideshow he’d started as, and he’d grown into his own brand of self-confidence. He didn’t go for people like that anymore, and they knew not to try going for him.
Besides, Bao wasn’t that type of person, in any case. John was pretty sure the guy didn’t have a mean-spirited bone in his body.
So. Maybe it was just more of Bao being friendly? That was the only thing John could think of. There couldn’t possibly be . . . anything else. John didn’t get that. He had plenty of experience to prove—
A knock on the door startled him out of the reverie, reminded him where he was in the first place. “John?”
“Uh, yeah? Sorry. Yeah?”
“Take your time! It is a lazy morning. Take a shower if you would like!” And no, John didn’t think he was up for being naked where Bao was regularly naked.
“I’m good, thanks,” John said, moving to open the door. He tried for a smile. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“Of course not!” And Bao was still shirtless, lord. “You are always welcome. If you want, I started coffee. I will take shower quickly, and then breakfast?”
How was John supposed to say no to that? “Sure,” he managed. “Sounds nice.”
Bao grinned and disappeared into the bathroom. John followed the smell of coffee—at least that would help—into the kitchenette. He poured himself a cup, idly listening to the sound of the shower running, and then immediately remembered this was Bao taking a shower and tried to think of something else.
Breakfast. Bao wanted to have breakfast together. John was down with that, but . . . if they showed up together in the mess hall, especially after being seen leaving together the night before, John in the same clothes . . . Performers were the worst gossips in the world, and John was not about to do that to Bao. That really wasn’t fair.
Maybe he could make something here? Bao wouldn’t mind, would he? He didn’t seem like the type who would.
Trying not to feel like too much of an intruder, John poked around in the fridge and found a half-full carton of eggs, some butter, a loaf of bread. Easy stuff that he could whip up into a decent breakfast.
He started on that, successfully (so he told himself) taking his mind off the rest of the situation until Bao walked into the kitchen, hair a wet, tousled mess.
“You made breakfast!” He sounded delighted. “Thank you! It wasn’t too much trouble?”
“Nah. Even I can make a decent plate of eggs and toast. I hope scrambled’s okay.”
“I eat anything,” Bao said solemnly, but his eyes were sparkling. “But I am sure it is delicious, because you made it.”
“Oh.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure about all that.”
“Thank you!” Bao said again, before sitting down at the table. “Sit, sit!” He waved at the other place setting, which John had only put down because it felt even weirder not to. “Please eat with me.”
“Right.” John took his own seat. “Sure.”
It wasn’t a bad breakfast if John said so himself, and Bao filled the potential silence with near-constant chatter in between inhaling his food (John was glad he’d made all the eggs left in the carton). Mostly talking about how training was going, how fun last night had been, how he was glad John had come out with everyone.
Obviously Bao had to remember that he’d asked John to sleep over, but John was fairly certain that Bao didn’t remember the kissing. He couldn’t have, not with how cheerful he was being about the party. He was going to get teased for it though, and John felt bad about that. It’d be kind of cruel to let Bao go into that blind, even if John didn’t fancy getting kicked out. Well, it’d been nice while it lasted.
“So,” John said, when Bao paused to take another bite of toast, “do you, uh, do you remember all of last night?”
“Oh yes! It was a lot of fun. I am glad to be part of this team.” He smiled endearingly at John.
And that—that had to be a no. Because if he’d remembered . . . John wouldn’t be welcome. Certainly Bao wouldn’t be happy. And John didn’t have it in him to ask directly. At least when Bao got reminded, John’d be somewhere else, in his office maybe, and not have to watch Bao’s face twist in disgust.
“Do you have plans for the day?” Bao asked, once he’d demolished his breakfast.
John shook his head. “Nothing big,” he said, and this was a graceful out at least. “Just running some errands. Though speaking of, I should probably get going. If I put off getting groceries, I never end up going out for them at all.”
“Oh.” Bao smiled again, but it seemed . . . dimmer for some reason. “I understand that you are busy. But it was nice to spend time with you! We can go out together sometime, maybe?”
“Uh, sure,” John said. “But don’t put yourself out. I know you guys get tired during the week.”
Bao nodded, frowning a little, and okay, John had definitely overstayed his welcome. That was his cue to go.
“Anyway, uh, thanks for breakfast.” He stood up quickly. “And letting me stay over.” Stupid, don’t remind him. “I’ll see you later?”
“Right, yes,” Bao said, walking John to the door. “Later.”
Sunday was rough.
John did his best to go about his day like normal, actually get his groceries, try to clean up his place some, but every time he blinked he saw Bao behind his eyelids: his happy, drunk smile, his sleeping face, his wet hair. And then John would need to pause and breathe, press his hands into his face and feel the jagged texture there, because this was not happening and John needed to stop.
He abandoned vacuuming halfway through the job to just sit and think for a while. About what might happen if he let himself actually tell Bao how he felt. Bao was nice, overly friendly and, drunk or not, he’d invited John over. Surely this whole thing couldn’t be one-sided.
Except . . .
John had years of experience working with Cirque. He’d met performers from all over the world, had traveled out of country himself more times than he could count. And thanks to it, he’d been lucky enough to see and experience tons of different cultures, even if he got second and third looks from the people not used to him.
Bao was from China. Being nice was his personality, but more than that, for him, being touchy-feely with another person, another guy, was normal. Culturally, it wasn’t construed as anything more than friendliness. And how many times had John seen the Asian performers—girls and guys both—clinging to each other, holding hands, asleep in little piles during downtime? Much more open with affection than the Americans. It was part of the culture. He knew that.
Even if he could forget the fact that he looked the
way he did, John shouldn’t have been holding out hope that Bao meant what he did as anything more than affection he gave to all the people he knew.
And really, that made more sense than the idea of Bao actually wanting him, anyway.
He’d been stupid enough, once, when he was younger, to mistake comradery for something more. The total bewilderment he’d faced when he’d tried to go in for a kiss had been worse than the times he’d been laughed at, almost worse than the disgust. Yuki had told John that he thought John was safe to be around, that of course there was no way he was attracted to him, because—of course. And it’d fucked up their friendship, John recoiling from the comment in a way he couldn’t recover from. The gossip had spread around quick, some of the other performers finding what had happened absolutely hilarious, and Yuki had started avoiding him. The rest of the show’s run had been . . . difficult.
John wasn’t doing that to himself again.
“Bao’s been asking about you,” Anastasia announced when she banged into John’s office the next afternoon. John looked up from his notes, startled. Damn waterworks. He had no idea how they were gonna make it out of this show without at least one major injury.
“What? He’s what?”
“Bao,” Anastasia said, drawing out the words, “has been asking. About you.”
John rolled his eyes and tried not to feel angry. He didn’t need this.
Even if he wanted to know what she had to say. “Asking who what?”
“The riggers. Matt, Sami, me, a few of the others. And mostly”—her eyes glinted—“he’s been asking about what you like.”
“For Pete’s sake, Anastasia—”
“You cannot ‘Anastasia’ me; I’m not making up some story. The man likes you. And judging by some of his questions, wants to dote on you.”
John sighed and looked back down at his notes.
Anastasia huffed. “How can you even doubt this after the party? He kissed you on the mouth!”
“He was drunk. And I don’t think he remembers.”
She put her hands on his desk. “How would you know? You haven’t talked to him at all today. I know, because you’ve been hiding in here. And he’s been glancing at the doorway every time someone new walks in. His face falls, John.”
“We talked some yesterday,” John muttered. “He doesn’t remember.”
She huffed again and waved a finger under his nose. “You are going to be happy with him, damn it, even if I have to orchestrate the entire thing myself.”
John pressed a hand to his forehead. “Please don’t,” he groaned.
“John!” Bao burst into the office carrying a tray. “You were not at lunch again. Missing meals is very bad for you! I— Oh.” He stopped, eyes wide as he caught sight of Anastasia. “I am sorry,” he said, much quieter. “Did I interrupt?”
“Not at all,” Anastasia said, throwing another significant look at John. “I was just leaving.”
“Okay.” Bao grinned at her. “Have a good day!” She smiled at him, mouthed He brought you lunch at John with one last nod in Bao’s direction, then left the room, pulling the door shut behind her. John was gonna have words with her later. Bao’d brought him lunch a few times, when John hadn’t been there to meet him in the cafeteria. He didn’t mean anything by it; the guy was just too damn nice for his own good.
John tried to smile at Bao. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted,” Bao replied, sounding remorseful, coming around the desk to set the tray down. “But I’m glad she left—I did not bring enough for her too.” His hand came up to curl around John’s shoulder for a long moment before he let it slide off, stepping a little farther away. “I haven’t seen you all day,” he said, smile soft. “How are you?”
I’ve been worse. “Not bad.” John’s hands hovered over the food; he really was hungry. “You mind if I talk and eat?”
“Please! That is what I brought it for.”
“Thanks.” John took a bite of the sandwich. Egg salad, which he liked pretty well. “I’ve been holed up here all day,” he explained, decidedly not making an excuse as to why he hadn’t been at practice to say hello to Bao. “Corporate wants to break ground on building the new theater because we’ll need it for rehearsals in a couple months, so I’ve been ordering all the supplies and talking to the builders. The stage itself will just be finished with antislip coating, so I’ve been working on that, but we also need a whole new set of grip mats and hoses for the water practice starting up. I’ve been comparing adhesive and slippage for hours.”
“Why is it taking so long?” Bao asked, leaning over John’s shoulder again to look at the papers and material samples covering the desk. John swallowed. Ate some more of his sandwich.
“Gotta be careful, is all,” John said. “There’s a lot of injury on the line if I don’t do this right. There’s a lot on the line even if I do.”
Bao darted in for a quick hug that John did not stiffen up for. “You’ll do fine! You care very much about all of us. So you will try your very hardest.”
“Thanks, Bao.” John tried to smile. “That means a lot.”
Bao nodded and then started to fidget, bouncing up on his toes. By now John knew that was because he had something else he wanted to say.
“Did you need something? I mean, you can’t have come here just to bring me lunch.” He tried to smile again, and it felt funny on his face.
Bao blinked, looking taken aback. “No, no, I was— I wanted to tell you that Constantine has decided on all the choreography for my solo. We just finished! I was wondering if you wanted to see. I’m going to be practicing it all afternoon. But if you are busy, I will also be practicing it a lot this week. And for many weeks. I am supposed to start practicing it while wet as soon as everything is in.”
John swallowed. He was already in too deep when it came to Bao, stuck on noticing his lithe body, his brilliant smile. But put Bao in his element and he transformed from a handsome, always-moving man into something beautiful and fluid and sinuous.
Bao in-character was sensual and sexy, and the last time John had been there while Bao had been practicing, he’d thrown John this grin that John still maybe dreamed about. That coupled with how Bao had looked yesterday, hair still wet from the shower . . . John had plenty of fantasy fodder. Too much, really. At least what Bao didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. But watching him do a full routine was probably not the best of ideas.
“I’d love to see it, when I have time,” was what he said. Honest, but no promises. And it wasn’t like he could avoid practices forever—he had a job to do, damn it—but no point rushing the inevitable. The moment Bao figured out that John had been taking his friendliness and wanting more would be the moment he flew the coop completely and left John alone.
John managed to avoid things for a good week, skirting around Bao and feeling bad about it every time the acrobat’s smile dimmed as he nodded and told John that he understood, that John was very busy. Of course, once the supplies came in for the water practice, John had to be on set, if only to check everything over, make sure the hoses were set up properly, the drainage bumpers in the right places, and, of course, the right mats were down.
Most of the performances in the water segments were group numbers: a lot of dancing and splashing and kicking the water up and down. Naturally, because he had the solo, Bao was nominated to be the first to practice his routine under the hoses.
“I can’t wait!” he told John again, as John set up his hand-balancing rig. “I’m so excited! And I get to see you, and you get to watch the routine. I’m very happy you can.” John gave him a thin-lipped smile. He didn’t want to burst Bao’s bubble, but he really wanted to be just about anywhere but where he was right now.
“I know it’ll look great,” John said, checking the rig and mats one last time. The coating felt weirdly slick for something that was branded as antislip and marketed toward heavy use, but Bao had trained with it fine during dry run-throughs, so maybe t
he makers knew something John didn’t.
John started the hoses and stepped back, the rest of the performers gathering around in a circle to watch Bao as he started his routine. It started with a dance, fluid as anything, and John’s mouth went dry just from watching. Bao turned and flicked a grin in John’s direction—and that was a performing thing, didn’t mean nothing, calm down—before stepping up to his hand-balancing rig and starting the “real” performance.
Bao mounted the rig, moving his body and switching positions, and even though John had seen hundreds of performers do hundreds of routines, he still found himself holding his breath to see Bao move in his element, especially underneath the hoses arcing water over him.
Then Bao placed his hand down on the rig and he slid right off it, and John watched in slow motion as Bao crashed headfirst to the mats.
John was on his feet and running over to Bao between one second and the next, shouting for everyone to calm down even as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed for the team trainer.
With Melissa on her way, John knelt down next to Bao, anxiously hovering, not sure if his face was really the best thing for Bao to wake up to.
But . . . but he’d woken up to it before, once. And he’d smiled.
Bao stirred a few moments later, one hand clutching his head as he shakily sat up. John’s breath caught in relief.
“Hey,” he murmured, mindful to pitch his voice lower.
Bao tried to smile and only managed a wince. “Hello. I fell.”
“Yeah.” And John would be beating himself up for that later, but right now—“You hit your head. Blacked out for a couple seconds. The trainer’s on her way over here now to take a look at you.” Belatedly John remembered that they weren’t alone, that Constantine and Anastasia and all the cast on-site were there, watching them. That he wasn’t the only one freaked out and worried because Bao had just—
Luckily that was when Melissa pushed through the crowd.
John spouted off instructions to Anastasia to bag the hand-balancing canes and disassemble the rig, and distantly heard Constantine get the other performers back to work.
