Florentine

by Mazarin Stone

  Alex takes his hands. “I’m fine. Seriously. You’ve got to go or you’re going to be late. You’ve got to get changed. Oh, wait, here—” Alex opens a drawer and pulls out his faded Stars on Ice 2006 T-shirt and hands it over. It should fit him. “That way you’re not quite so conspicuous, if you like.”

  Mahiro just stares at it. “I, um. Thank you.” He changes quickly and they leave the bedroom, only to hear the door unlock and Christopher quietly try to sneak in, wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt, a bag in his hand.

  He’s also covered in rope marks.

  Alex and Mahiro grin at each other when he stops stock-still at their appearance in the foyer. Busted.

  “Well, well, well, look who decided to do an even worse walk of shame than me,” Mahiro says and slowly walks over to give Chris an exaggerated inspection of his wrists. “Did you and Adam have a good time?”

  Chris laughs. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, cheri, considering the hickeys I can see all over Alex’s neck.”

  Mahiro looks at Alex, and they both jump and squeeze Chris in a hug at the same time. Chris lets it happen, tries to hug back, and hisses. “Ow, darlings, watch it. I’ve got a few marks back there.”

  “Oooooh,” Alex says. “Lemme see.”

  “Okay, you guys, I’m going to leave you to compare notes,” Mahiro says, and Alex follows him to the door. “Bye, Alex. See you soon.”

  Alex leans in and kisses him, a sweet press of lips that seems so innocent compared to what they’d been doing all night.

  “Bye, my Mahiro. See you tomorrow.”

  Mahiro smiles over his shoulder as the door closes, and Alex turns back to Chris.

  “Really? You’d better start talking.”

  Chris holds up a hand. “Alex, my love, please, I just need a shower, and you look like you need a bath, and we’ll sit on your bed all day and sleep and talk. But first let’s clean up and order something in. I’m starving.”

  “Fine, fine. Go shower. I’ll send out for pastries and coffee.”

  Alex dials the concierge of their building and pays an outrageous price for a huge box of gourmet donuts and coffee, and then settles on his bed. He starts scrolling through his twitter, and then the shower turns off. Strange, Chris just turned it on a couple of seconds ago.

  “Alex,” Chris yells. “Open your goddamn Insta.”

  Alex shrugs. He shut off all notifications ages and ages ago because he’d been swamped. He also hasn’t posted in a while, nor has he checked it in quite a few days. He opens the app and sees a fair number of notifications, and as he’s scrolling through, Chris opens the door and drops onto his bed, wrapped in a towel.

  “Have you found it yet?” he demands.

  “What? No, not yet.” Alex keeps scrolling, and there, a notice that he’s been tagged by someone he doesn’t know. That’s strange; people don’t tag him often. It’s from over a week ago, and it’s a picture of him and Mahiro dancing their tango on a rainy New York sidewalk. It’s a nice picture, honestly, and he hadn’t noticed anyone taking pictures, which is worrying. But he’s not sure what the problem is.

  “Look at the comments,” Chris urges, and as Alex scrolls, he can see lots of questions about Mahiro: who he is, where he’s from, if they’re friends, more than friends, lovers? Then he sees Chris has been tagged in a question, posted a few days ago:

  “Hey, @icedchristmas, you’re there in NYC. Who is this guy?”

  And then, a few comments down, a reply, posted just yesterday: “@salmonJerry: I think that’s Mahiro Seta. I’d almost swear to it. See: http://skateblog.com/2010/10/Skate-America-thecompetitors.htm ”

  Alex and Chris look at each other, and Alex clicks on the link with a shaking hand.

  It brings up an archived article from the 2010 Skate America, the year of his second Grand Prix gold medal. It was his first competition of the season, and he’d just received his first huge endorsement from Nike, and he remembers being in such demand for interviews he didn’t see any part of the competition. He scrolls down the article, finding small little bios and interviews for the entire dozen competitors, including himself, and there, near the bottom, is competitor Mahiro Seta, of Detroit Skate Club, representing Japan.

  Alex scans the words, barely comprehending what he’s reading. Mahiro, a skater. A competitor, with him. And it’s definitely him. Alex couldn’t mistake those eyes.

  His world is slowly cracking apart and then it suddenly clicks: his reaction to Alex’s safeword, his knowledge of Alex’s knee injury. His bruises. The choreography, the way he holds his body. The strange reticence to talk about himself in any real detail.

  “Let me see,” Chris says and takes Alex’s phone from his numb fingers. “Holy shit, listen: ‘My inspiration has always been Alex Breschi. He’s why I started skating. I’m so happy to be on the same ice, and I hope I’m worthy of it.’ Oh my God, Alex. He finished next to last, bounced out, and, hang on, what I’m finding here says he quit. Left skating entirely that year and that’s the last anyone ever saw of him. I think… I think that’s the year before I met him.”

  Alex thinks he’s going to throw up his own heart.

  “Did you know?” Alex asks, shaky, teeth chattering.

  “Oh hell no. I had no clue. None.”

  You’re mine, he hears echoing in his head. A possessive, firm, clear statement that Alex had thought was born out of love.

  But was it?

  He thought he’d found what he’d been searching for all this time. Someone who valued him as Alex, not the performer, not the artist. Not the champion. Just Alex, the person who writes mediocre thrillers and likes pancakes and has an insatiable curiosity. The Alex who wanted nothing more than to kneel at Mahiro’s feet on Fridays and feel the rush of two fingers drawn in a long, straight line down his spine.

  But it was all just a mirage. Mahiro had said that he’d wanted to meet him, be worthy of him, and he’d certainly taken the opportunity when he had it.

  Alex chokes back a sob, grief trying to claw its way out of his throat.

  “Oh, Alex,” Chris says softly, carefully, and Alex can’t hold on any longer, can’t contain the fear and devastation and heartbreak, and throws his arms around Chris and bursts out crying.

  Chapter 11

  MAHIRO STOWS his skates in his locker and clangs it shut, clips on the lock, and pushes his way through the door back into the main lobby. The young juniors, those just starting their competitive careers, are chattering and laughing as they gather all of their gear—skates, gloves, jackets—and stuff it into ridiculously oversized skate bags with light-up wheels that every single parent has managed to buy them.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Seta!” Elena calls and waves from her perch on the bench across the lobby. Elena is twelve years old and finally able to compete, and Mahiro just gave her, her parents, and her coach what they all hope is a successful debut program, set to a gently lilting recording of Liszt’s Liebestraum.

  Mahiro waves in return and quirks the corner of his mouth at the rush of giggling from all of Elena’s friends. She blushes scarlet and shushes the lot of them, and Mahiro just shakes his head. He’s used to it. The ramp-up to puberty throws hormones in a whirl, and crushes flare up left and right, especially on young former professional skaters turned choreographers.

  Mahiro briefly wonders what would happen if he brought Alex here, to Sky Rink, at eleven on a Sunday morning. He’s fairly sure the whole lot of them would either pass out or panic, save maybe fourteen-year-old Owen, who would probably immediately demand Alex show him how to do a quad since no one else will. But Alex, he knows Alex would turn on the charm, have the entire group of them eating out of the palm of his hand in a heartbeat. He’d probably perform for them, run them all through their programs and critique and correct and tease. It would be the best day of their skating lives.

  Mahiro chuckles at the thought as he walks out into the brilliant summer sun. He’s achy and tired and still feeling the press of Alex’s body to his, his scent
clinging to Mahiro’s body like a ghost. He changed out of Alex’s Stars on Ice shirt for one in his locker, but he still has it in his bag, hidden away like a sweet little secret. Not a secret for much longer, though. He wants to share this part of himself with Alex, this tentative détente he’s found with skating, to explain to him what it means to still be part of the world they share.

  He ducks into Starbucks and sips an iced coffee as he walks toward home, the long distance giving him a good chance to cool down and work some muscles that are a bit stiff and sore yet from last night. As he crosses Fifth Avenue near the south end of the park, he stops to wait for a Park Slope mom to maneuver her massive twin stroller up and over the curb, and as he glances to the side, he realizes he’s standing next to Cartier. And in the window is the most perfect, most exquisite gold choker necklace he’s ever seen.

  It’s a simple flat circlet of shining fourteen carat gold with an adjustable buckle clasp, but in that moment Mahiro can see the gold band circling Alex’s slim white throat, can feel the press of it under his fingers as he wraps his hand around the back of Alex’s neck as he fucks his mouth.

  A sign. A symbol to show Alex, and the rest of the world, that Alex is the only one for Mahiro. Always.

  Maybe forever.

  He’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life, and if he has to drop his next share of the house payment in Cartier, so be it.

  He goes inside.

  MAHIRO 8:16 a.m.

  Sorry it’s so early, my beauty. Today still okay for dinner? 6pm here? I am ordering in.

  Mahiro 9:40 a.m.

  <3 Don’t get caught up in writing and forget to tell me about tonight! <3

  Mahiro 11:58 a.m.

  *poke* I’m ordering you snails if you don’t tell me if it’s okay. If you need to cancel that’s fine.

  From Alex 2:15 p.m.

  It’s fine. See you then.

  Mahiro exhales in relief as soon as he reads Alex’s text, then panic ramps up again as he realizes he needs to take off a bit early to set up the dining room for tonight. He signs off his work account, launches himself downstairs, and realizes the dining room is a complete mess: piles of bills and a couple of boxes of clothes they were supposed to put out for charity a few months ago on the table, a tangle of ropes they were supposed to sort through on the floor. Mahiro curses his own procrastination and just takes the entire pile of bills off in one sweep into an empty bag, shoves the ropes on top, and takes it and the boxes of clothes and shoves them into the hall closet.

  He then dusts and cleans until the antique table is shining and the tall windows of the room sparkle and glow with the late-afternoon sun. Six in the evening in early July is still too light, honestly, but no romantic—proposal? It is, and you know it is—dinner is complete without candles, so he digs around in the china cabinet and finds the huge heavy silver candelabra Adam saw in a thrift store in the Hamptons and paid a stupid price for but looks hot in the playroom when they’re doing a bit of a show.

  He puts it in the center of the big oak table and adds five long white tapered candles, sets the table with the silver plate chargers and wineglasses, and steps back, slightly exhausted and a bit sweaty.

  With the candles lit against the sunset, the walls will glow an ethereal moss green, all the better to highlight Alex’s gorgeous coloring. It’s as romantic and perfect a scene as Mahiro can imagine, and he slips upstairs to take a shower and dress, putting on a black slim shirt with silver buttons and leaving his hair to dry in its more natural, tousled state. No makeup tonight. He keeps his glasses on and looks at himself critically in the mirror.

  Just Mahiro as he is. Nothing more, nothing less. His home, his life. Everything. They’ll talk about everything tonight.

  He pads downstairs and places the black velvet box holding the hope of his heart on the corner of the table and waits for the doorbell to ring.

  6:00 P.M.

  6:05 p.m.

  6:10 p.m.

  6:12 p.m. and the doorbell finally rings. Mahiro leaps off the sofa and yanks the door open to find Alex looking pale and serious on the other side.

  “Hi,” Mahiro says, immediately cautious. “Come in?”

  Alex’s forehead scrunches, but he slips inside as Mahiro closes the door behind him. He has his hands in his pockets and is looking down at the floor, and Mahiro is so thrown for a loop he doesn’t know quite what to do with this strange turn in his expectations for the evening. Mahiro gets the feeling a kiss would be extremely unwelcome, as would just about anything else. Tension is rolling from the line of Alex’s shoulders, his posture awkwardly stiff and uncertain.

  “Do you need something, my beauty?” Mahiro asks quietly, dropping into the softest, most confident voice he can find in the maze of his confusion. If Alex is struggling with another bout of subdrop after the party, Mahiro realizes he needs to help him quickly. Mahiro puts a hand on his shoulder, but snaps it back when Alex flinches. “What’s wrong?”

  Alex lifts his chin and narrows his eyes. “Salchow,” he says, and the word rings clear as a bell in the echoing space of the narrow hall, bouncing from the paneled walls.

  “I’m…. Okay, I’m here, Alex,” Mahiro says, and his stomach churns with a cold rush of fear. “It’s just me. No playtime. What’s going on?”

  Alex runs his hand through his hair and cradles his hand against the back of his neck, eyes closed. “You know for a fact that’s a jump in figure skating, don’t you?”

  The cold fear in Mahiro’s stomach turns to jagged, sharp ice. “What—what do you mean?” he croaks.

  “You knew then, too. You have known for years, Mahiro Seta. Japan’s former rising star, a junior champion. A Grand Prix competitor of mine, once, a long time ago.” Alex drops these words casually, and every one is a devastating blow to Mahiro’s heart.

  He knows. He found out before Mahiro could tell him, as he planned to do in oh, maybe half an hour.

  Alex opens his eyes and stares daggers, and Mahiro can’t breathe, can feel panic rising, swirling in his chest and filling his ears. Alex has found out, and all Mahiro can do is watch it all collapse around him.

  “How?” Mahiro says in a whisper, and as Alex approaches, Mahiro backs into the solid wood door.

  “Funny, when we danced that tango it didn’t really cross my mind that someone might have a camera, but of course they did. And they took a great picture of us. People were curious as to who you were, and it’s amazing what you can find on the internet these days.” Alex digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “My dream is to skate on the same ice as Alex Breschi. He’s my ideal of what skating should be,” he reads, and Mahiro slides down the door and ends up in a heap on the floor.

  He’s going to be sick. “Alex, please, I can explain—”

  Alex stands over him now, legs splayed, arms crossed. He looks furious and hurt, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Mahiro can see clearly now that he’s been crying, and Mahiro can feel his own tears welling up at how badly he’s fucked this up, how terribly he’s hurt the person he… he….

  Loves.

  Oh God.

  “So, did you manage to fulfill all your little fantasies, then?” Alex says, and the words are stilted, twisted around hitching breaths. Mahiro shakes his head vehemently.

  “No, I swear it wasn’t about that. I just, I knew I should have told you right away, but I was so scared and I didn’t know how you’d react. I tried to tell you a couple of times, but it never was the right time, or something came up, and we were having so much fun together, Alex.” Mahiro stands and steps forward, hand outstretched. If Mahiro could just hug him, hold him, cry into his shoulder, beg his forgiveness on his knees. Anything. He almost touches Alex’s wrist, but Alex moves back a single step, out of his reach. Mahiro nods, understanding, and takes a breath. “We were so happy, and I didn’t want to ruin everything. And the more it went on, the worse it got. Everything I’ve learned about you these last six weeks I’d never have known. Everything new a
nd wonderful and perfect about you, and… and about us. The two of us.”

  “But you lied to me.”

  “No! No, I never lied, I told you I knew who you were—”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mahiro!” he snaps. “Oh, ‘I may have googled’? You could have said! You could have told me!”

  “I couldn’t!” Mahiro pleads and tries to make his traitorous body hold his head up so he can at least look Alex in the eye. “I mean, I could, but I was so embarrassed! I was awful when you’re so amazing, and I knew you’d think I was some freak stalker—”

  “Which is why you should have told me! You made me… want all of these things, things I never thought I’d want! And even now, I—” Alex sucks in a breath and turns away, head bowed.

  As if he were ashamed of them. As if Mahiro made him feel those things without his own conscious participation. Mahiro can feel the fire of a fight ramping up, and it thaws the ice that’s been holding him in check. He might have started this by being in the wrong, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let anyone make him feel bad for who he is and the things he wants.

  “You don’t get to say that,” he counters, voice steady. “You came to me. You and Chris asked me to train you, and I know the difference between someone who’s actually a sub and someone faking it, or fighting it. And you sure as hell weren’t faking it. And,” Mahiro says, really starting to find his footing now, “you wanted to touch me first. You asked me out first. You wanted to kiss me first. I let you come to me this whole time, let you initiate everything! So you think this is just me manipulating your feelings too? Is nothing you feel for me real, then?”

  “No, that’s not true,” Alex says, and heartbreak colors his voice. “I feel too much for you for it not to be real.”