by R. Cooper
“As long as you can admit it,” Davi teased, but softly. “Now come the fuck on.”
CHICO CAME the fuck on. He put on jeans and a paisley purple button-up shirt that he loved unironically and that John had always disliked for that reason. He brushed his hair. He even put his rings back on.
Once outside, he hesitated and then walked as slowly as possible to the scene of the crime, if the crime were Chico’s attempts to interact with a nice man.
He needn’t have worried. The group of volunteers met in a back room away from any dancers, and they quickly decided Chico could help paint the background scenes without any contribution required from Chico himself. Davi almost said something about that but then let it go. Probably being considerate of Chico’s desire to stay comfortably out of sight.
It wasn’t so bad. The part of the studio Chico hadn’t seen before was a huge room of waxed and polished wood floors, mirrored walls, and a series of closets where costumes from past recitals were kept. The room had a few benches along one wall, a piano, and a few hooks by the doors, overflowing with sweatshirts.
The french doors he’d noticed before opened out from this room. He walked through them and out into the grass, where the other volunteers had set up tarps and the large rolls of canvas with the required scenery already drawn onto them. Basically, his job was like paint by numbers, and it was boring, but he got to sit down on the grass.
It didn’t even require much socialization, so he didn’t know why Davi had insisted he help out. Davi, along some of the other volunteers, was in charge of construction and technical things. He came by once in a while to check on Chico and frowned harder each time when he noticed Chico by himself, but Chico was content.
He was content right up until about an hour after the schools must have gotten out, and suddenly the big practice room he had a view of started to fill up with teenagers. Well, about seven older kids and maybe fifteen younger ones. They were excited and loud in the large, echoing practice space, although he did his best to ignore them. But when their instructor walked in, he forgot the paintbrush in his hand and his throat suddenly felt like the Sahara.
Rafael’s ballet instructor clothes weren’t much different from his other clothes. He had on flat, black slippers, and softer, but somehow tighter, pants. The teenagers stopped most of their talking when he came in and began to sort of glide to the barres, where they all stretched and bent themselves in half and looked graceful doing it.
Rafael considered them as they did, smiling a little, then glanced around the space.
Chico ducked back over his painting. He’d smudged part of the giant clock tower, but hopefully no one would notice.
Rafael said something about warming up, his tone as light and airy as the way some of the girls held their hands as they moved. Then someone switched on music, and when Chico dared a glance over, the dancers were lined up at the barres and Rafael was walking past them. He adjusted their hands or their feet or offered commentary Chico couldn’t hear but which made the students smile.
It was a lot like what he’d done in the ballroom class, except the kids, even the teenagers, gave the appearance of hanging on his every word. After doing that for a while, they all left the barre and the music changed.
Chico didn’t recognize the classical songs playing over the sound system, only that they kept starting and stopping and starting over again. From that, he realized this must be a rehearsal and not a normal lesson, since he couldn’t hear most of what Rafael said. Rafael would speak or take a moment to show them what he must have been talking about, and Chico’s breath would catch to see him casually demonstrate his skill.
Obviously Chico didn’t know ballet. But he knew that however easy Rafael made it look, dancing like that took years and years of study and practice, and it was a lot more challenging than showing idiots like Chico how to waltz.
But Rafael was all sharp eyes and constant energy, even when he wasn’t happy with whatever he saw. He demonstrated the same series of steps to a little girl who couldn’t have been more than ten, and Chico couldn’t catch a glimmer of any kind of frustration or misery on his face.
The kids didn’t seem discouraged at being corrected. Either Rafael was being gentle again, or the teens were perfectionists, or both.
The scene was one in which all the younger children got to dance. They looked almost like they were waltzing, which Chico was pleased to recognize. He guessed it was supposed to represent a kind of ballroom or court scene. The posters had said the ballet was The Clockwork Dancer, though, so he wasn’t quite sure what that meant since he’d never heard of it. Maybe they’d added the scene simply to give the younger kids their moment to shine.
That sweet thought made him smile as the kids went through their routines again, and Rafael stopped them and said something that made the students laugh. The precise, measured way he moved seemed even more obvious in the presence of children and teenagers trying to copy it.
Chico sighed in a way he shouldn’t just to watch a man cross a room.
He wondered again why Rafael wasn’t a dancer anymore, although even Chico could tell he was a truly gifted teacher. The kids loved him and listened when he made suggestions. Only one frowned when he offered criticism, but she looked stressed already and in need of a cookie or a hug. Rafael must have noticed that too, because he took her to the side in the next moment and bent down to speak earnestly until she finally nodded and gave him an uncertain smile that made Chico forget his paintbrush all over again.
“You’re staring,” Davi spoke into his ear, making Chico jump and slap a hand down to the tarp. It hit the handle of his paintbrush and sent it flying. It landed in the middle of the clock face, leaving another smudge Chico would have to try to repair when it dried. “Oops?” Davi continued, but crawled over the dry half of the canvas to retrieve the brush for him.
Inside the practice room, they paused the music again, and Chico looked up to see the little ones starting to leave. Ah. So it was time for the older teens with the bigger roles to rehearse in more depth. Rafael said good-bye to each and every child trailing out of the room.
Chico had guessed right. Rafael would probably fit right in with a large family and a room full of babies, even if he didn’t want any himself. John never had, but he’d never seemed to want to learn either, even just to be polite to Chico’s relatives.
“You’re still staring.” He could practically hear the raised eyebrows from Davi.
Chico finally glanced over. “Do you think a person can learn to be a better judge of character? Because I would’ve said John was basically a decent person who would never be cruel to me, even accidentally.”
“Remember, you have to pay attention to the other dancers.” Rafael’s voice carried outside with more clarity now that the music was temporarily gone. “Especially your partner. Complementing them is about matching your movements to theirs, which means knowing them, noticing what their bodies are telling you about their mood and their intentions and their feelings. When you don’t do that, you’ll not only have a stiff, awkward dance, but you could actually cause damage. Don’t force anything. Just pay attention and try to make each other better. And for God’s sake, no showing off. You know who I’m talking to.”
The teenagers let out a stream of nervous giggles.
“You like him.” Davi made a thoughtful noise and ignored Chico’s shushing sounds. “I can see it, objectively. You always did like them sort of classical looking—straight nose, graceful, clean-cut. Then there are his muscles. He’s not even my type, and I noticed them.”
Chico had to fight to stay quiet. “Davi. Shut up. He’s hot. I noticed. Leave it alone.”
“How about no? I won’t?” Davi countered. “He’s a friend of mine, and he asked about you when you first got into town, and oh, oh, I should have known then. You batted those big brown eyes at him, didn’t you?” Davi threw his head back and laughed loud enough to make a few of the students peek outside. “You did your helpless C
hico thing, and now all he wants to do is save you.” Davi abruptly stopped laughing. “Maybe you should let him.”
“I’m not helpless.” Chico worked his jaw and began to paint the stupid clock tower again.
“No,” Davi agreed. “But you look fragile, and right now you are fragile, and God, that used to piss John off so much for some reason. It was like he saw something delicate and he wanted to break it, and he’d get frustrated when you didn’t break and go along with what he wanted.”
Chico stopped. Davi had never said anything like that before. “He wanted me to try new things. To stop being so dependent on my family,” he protested, but so faintly it was like Davi didn’t hear.
“Now, Raf. Raf… I don’t think he’s like that, if you’re worried,” Davi continued and sat down next to him. “I mean, I’ve never known him to date anyone long term, but there’s also a shortage of available men in this town for him to date seriously. Tourists leave.”
Chico took a deep breath. “I didn’t say anything about long term,” he whispered. “And anyway, he’s not…. That is to say, I’m not….”
“Spit it out. Unless you still think spitters are quitters.” Davi elbowed him right in the ribs.
“I was fifteen when I said that, and a virgin besides.” Chico considered elbowing him back but didn’t bother. “When I say he’s not interested, I mean”—he lowered his voice even more than their already hushed conversation—“I mean he may have been until I unloaded some of my issues on him. So that’s done. Which is for the best.” Chico couldn’t stop once he got going. He’d never been able to. “Yes. He’s hot. And kind. And successful. But, shit. He’s settled here, and you and I both know I can’t hide in the redwoods forever, right?”
“I do.” Davi was quiet. They listened to the kids dancing and the turning, elegant notes of music for a while before Davi spoke again. “It works for me. But it’s better with company. Maybe you could sleep with him, like a really late rebound.” He rubbed his scruffy chin. “Or you could make friends with him. He’s a good friend, and there’s not all that much opportunity for buddies for people like us in this town. If you do decide to go to the bars the next town over, he’d be a good one to take with you. He keeps an eye on people. He’d make sure no new big bad wolves took advantage of our sweetie baby Chico.”
“Like anyone would notice me after seeing that face or that body,” Chico remarked, not entirely joking. He chose to ignore the “sweetie baby” comment or to think about what Rafael might think of him dressed for a club. It was bad enough to think of Rafael dressed for one. Chico was cute, but Rafael’s ass and thighs could tempt straight men. Chico was getting a good look at them tonight in those stretchy pants, and he wanted that body on him with an actual, visceral ache. “Look at him.”
“Wait for the winter, when he starts his days in pain. Then talk about his body,” Davi commented pointedly, then got up. “I have stuff to finish. Come get me when you’re ready to go. Or….” He drew out the word as he glanced inside. The music had stopped, and Chico hadn’t noticed. “You could ask him to walk you home.”
“Now, remember,” Rafael said, his voice clear and calm. Chico currently couldn’t see him, only how the kids turned to watch him. “The dance world, like the theater world, can be small, and reputations do not go away. Never forget that productions are more than just dancers. They’re composers and musicians and costumers and technicians and stage hands. Always be kind. Always thank them for their work. Especially at our school, where our workers are often volunteers. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Raf,” the kids echoed, as if on cue. So it wasn’t the first time he’d given that speech.
Chico wondered if Rafael’s father was Mr. Winters so that’s why he was Mr. Raf. Mr. Raf was the opposite of intimidating or a diva. He was approachable and genuinely invested in teaching those children to be good at more than ballet.
He sighed again.
“Yeah. Ask him to walk you home.” Davi snorted in amusement, probably at the expression on Chico’s face, and then headed toward the other side of the building, where they were finishing some of the props. That was where all the manly construction types were. Some of the women had gone somewhere else. Apparently none of them were into painting. Or Chico.
Chico wrinkled his nose after his cousin, then resumed his work on the face of the clock in the clock tower. There was a hole in the middle for the hands, so he assumed the hands on the clock must move during the ballet.
Rafael was offering some advice to specific kids, moving in and out of sight as the dancers all twirled—whatever it was called—then stopped to stretch and bounce and then twirl again. They must have gotten the movement right, because they started trickling out shortly afterward. Some of their parents came in, looking pleased or grateful or vaguely annoyed.
Those must be the stage parents, who had moved or driven all the way up into the redwoods to ensure their kids were taught at this school. They might have demanded Rafael himself as their teacher. The drive could have made them tired and cranky. But it was probably more that their kids didn’t have big enough roles to suit them. Chico wouldn’t blame Rafael for being irritated with them for acting like show parents from a reality show, but he saw no sign of it as Rafael greeted each of them.
It wasn’t natural for anyone to be that patient. Chico observed Rafael as each and every kid finally bounced out, parents in tow. Only when they were gone did Rafael lean against a wall and drop some of his perfect posture. He let his shoulders sag and then shook out his legs, one at a time, as if something cramped or hurt. He seemed exhausted more than anything else, like he was running on fumes but no one else had noticed yet.
Chico was familiar with the feeling.
This had to be a busy time for him, and he’d said he was teaching classes now he wouldn’t normally have been teaching. Naturally he was tired.
Chico put down his paintbrush. Rafael rolled his shoulders and moved his head, like he was trying to work out a kink, like he was possibly in pain, the way Davi had said he was sometimes. Chico sat up onto his knees and glanced through the growing darkness toward the other side of the studio. Then he looked back.
He gave a start to see Rafael was no longer alone. His posture had gone straight and controlled again. From that alone, Chico knew it was not a student or another instructor with him. The other person turned for a moment, and Chico recognized him as the new owner of the Italian bakery.
With a frown, Chico recalled something about bakers having to go to sleep early for their work. Yet this guy was awake and volunteering instead of home and in bed. Someone with a new business—well, someone new to running an established business—should not have the time to volunteer.
A more generous version of Chico would have said he was making a smart business move, cementing his place in the local community, and maybe he was. But he was also definitely in it to meet people. One person.
His body language was pretty obvious. Chico watched him slowly approach and stop a few feet from Rafael. Whatever he was saying, he smiled a lot and moved his hands too. He had a pale, clean face, shiny brown hair, broad shoulders, and thick arms from all his baking. But he wasn’t tall. Rafael still topped him by a few inches.
Chico couldn’t hear them, but he knew what flirting—real flirting—looked like. It had been years since he’d needed to flirt, but he could still identify it. Two attractive people, both settled, or about to be, in this town, meeting like this. One of them had clearly sought out the other when he was alone. The baker was so excited he couldn’t contain himself and moved a lot with nervous, restless excitement.
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 be
en 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.
