by R. Cooper
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. H
e 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.
It was mostly Mrs. Winters. Mr. Winters was playing the piano and occasionally stopping to sneeze.
Mrs. Winters was smaller than Chico and appeared about twice as breakable, and she was possibly the scariest woman he’d ever seen. When she’d turned and smiled at him halfway through her lesson, he’d nearly fallen out of his chair. Rafael’s kind exterior didn’t come from her, but something of his attitude did. Not one dainty little girl with her hair in a bun was afraid of her.
Their parents were another matter. And the other volunteers. Those women, because of course Chico was a seamstress now, had all suddenly had someplace else to be when Mrs. Winters had sailed into the room. She had the most impressively silver hair, which she wore in a loose chignon. If her son went gray like she had, he was going to get even more devastating.
But she was tiny. Chico’s mother would crush her if they ever hugged.
He blamed that thought on being left on his own—again. This time he got it, at least. The women had jobs or kids getting out of school to go home to, and no desire to have Mrs. Winters continually turn to them and ask if they needed help, darlings, in a tone that implied they should be secure enough to do this by themselves.
He honestly had no idea what she’d do if he said, yes, he needed help. He couldn’t imagine himself correcting her if her stitching was less than perfect.
But since he didn’t need anything, it was simple enough to shake his head and continue cursing the volunteers before him who’d either rushed or not known what they were doing.
Notebooks in the room alleged to keep track of costume changes and location, which made him think someone had once done this full time and then possibly retired or moved away, and they hadn’t found a replacement.
Davi had been right. Technically, Chico shouldn’t have much to do but adjust hems, patch tears, and tighten in places. But while he was willing to ignore the unpacked boxes in his apartment, the current disorganized state of the costuming department he could not stand.
He flipped through the notebooks for The Nutcracker and knew he’d guessed right when he found the original pale blue snowflake design of the tutu on his table. He’d bet some kid had looked adorable in it. However, there weren’t any notes on what it had been turned into, or exactly what it was supposed to be now.
This was something he ought to ask Mrs. Winters about, but he glanced toward her as she guided her little dancers in some sort of leg-extending, toe-pointing exercise, and shook his head.
The costuming room consisted of the racks of costumes, an old sofa, two fitting stools, and two tables with sewing machines and space. Each table also had cups filled with scissors and pencils, and a small box filled with assorted loose pins, thimbles, measuring tape, and needles.
He plucked a pencil from the cup at his table and made the notes someone else had forgotten to make, noting the damaged embroidery, the tear, and the addition of purple tulle. Then, since he was at it, he sketched a different pattern over the bodice, since it was probably supposed to represent a court dress, but a young girl was going to be wearing it. She ought to look regal, not like she was wearing a reused false corset from a sugarplum fairy.
“So that is it.”
Rafael had to be doing it on purpose now.
Chico dropped the pencil and glanced up. Rafael was in the doorway, in his ballroom dancing teacher ensemble. “Do you not make noise?” Chico bitched at him, for the sake of his pride. He fought the need to put a hand over his sketch as Rafael came into the room.
Rafael pointed to the flat slippers he had on, presumably the reason he could move so quietly.
“So that is it?” Chico pressed, recalling what Rafael had said when he’d entered the room. “So what is it? What did you mean?” He tensed a bit when Rafael came around to study his sketch and then the costume. When he was done with that, he studied Chico.
“What you’re good at,” Rafael explained. “What you like to do. You sew. You make things.”
“Yes. Well. Yeah. Sometimes.” Chico slowly slid his hand away from the notebook. After another pause, he resumed fussing with the terrible stitching. He reached for the scissors. “Thank you for this,” he said, as calmly as his racing heart would allow. “It’s busy work I don’t mind doing.”
“You’re welcome,” Rafael returned warmly, then took another step so he could fall onto the sofa. He exhaled noisily the moment his ass hit the cus
hions. For some reason, Chico glanced guiltily out the door toward Mrs. Winters, but she was focused on her students.
“So… you’re teaching a class?” He kept his attention on pieces of cut thread, only to hide a shiver at the awareness of Rafael’s gaze on his bowed head. Rafael could be watching him intently, and Chico wouldn’t see anything unless he turned around to face him. The nape of his neck tingled. “I saw on the board tonight is the fox-trot. What about rehearsal?”
“Yeah.” Rafael’s voice went rough on the word. He shifted position, and the sofa creaked a bit. “The kids are going to be put through their paces by my mother tonight. Except for Amy—that’s our clockwork dancer. Unlike the regular dancer, she is nervous enough that it shows. So after my class I have to try to calm her down, give her some extra practice.”
“Won’t you be tired?” Chico didn’t think there were dance classes in the morning, but he’d heard music when he’d come in, so someone had been dancing somewhere.
“Can’t say no to the tourist dollars, and the ballroom classes, which are pay as you go, are very profitable and enable us to do things like have ballet classes for the kids who love it but could never afford to study someplace else.” He could imagine Rafael shrugging, as if that wasn’t a big deal. “Luckily it’s the fox-trot, not the Charleston. I’m more worried about Amy anyway. What are you planning on doing to that costume? Can you really embroider? Where did you learn to do that?”
“Why are you worried about her?” Chico sidestepped the personal questions. He’d talked about himself enough, and the idea of explaining he was self-taught to someone who had studied and trained hard to be good at what they did made him want to squirm.
“She’s graduating high school in a few weeks and then going across the country for college. But she’s never really been outside of this very small town. Add to that the pressure of dancing the title role of this ballet… she’s putting too much pressure on herself to not let the anxiety show, but it’s going to. No matter how controlled the dancer, something always shows. They’re only human, despite what they tell themselves.”
