Another Dance

by L. A. Ashton

  Kaito smiled. He rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Of course.”

  Kaito hated that he thought it, hated even more so that it was true, but his mind chimed in: I’d go anywhere with you.

  Chapter Four

  THE GLOW OF multiple computer monitors illuminated the side of Maks Orlov’s face. The light engraved the seam of his lips into an unwavering line, etching it there so the fearless smile might radiate through time. Kaito noted the imagery in the margin of his memo pad.

  “Working with them makes me feel closer to my art,” Maks said, laying his head back against his seat. “Making music itself is a form of expression—releasing my feelings into the world. But watching them perform to the music and then altering it for them, trying again, creating a circle of feedback—it feels like seeing something larger than my original vision.”

  Maks was answering the question just as beautifully as Kaito had expected. It almost made him swoon to think of it—composing original music for skaters, seeing his work interpreted and performed in front of thousands—sometimes millions—of people. Kaito sensed there would be some tenderness there, some undefinable intimacy. That’s how art felt to Kaito, anyway.

  “You never feel it’s a hindrance?” Kaito asked, leaning forward. “Like they’re overwriting your vision with something you don’t necessarily see or feel?”

  Orlov smirked. “You know, I thought it might feel that way. When I was first approached to write a piece for a young skater’s short program, I wondered if I had the type of personality suitable for collaboration.” He laughed at this. It was one of the softer and more genuine expressions he had shown—Kaito noted that as well. “I was wrong,” he continued, a smile crinkling the corner of his eyes. “It feels more like, because of their own feelings and ambition, I was creating something I could have never created without them.”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  The softness was still there. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “The sport has undergone a lot of changes in hopes of corralling a new fan base. The music has been both criticized and lauded. What are your thoughts?”

  “Right,” Orlov said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve seen the articles throwing around words like ‘tacky’ and ‘trashy’ for the use of pop or hip-hop. Some have even said skaters should perform in silence. I think those people sound like grumpy grandparents.” Kaito chuckled, and Orlov went on. “My taste in music is obvious from what I create, but the other pieces aren’t inherently bad, or worse. A skater knows what they feel, and what they feel best performing. Perhaps Bach would have found my instrumentals trashy! It’s all a matter of opinion. The sport should allow more freedom, not less.”

  “It is a sport that has struggled with rules and regulations for a very long time.”

  “Indeed.”

  Kaito placed his pen down. “So what’s next?” he asked. “You’re the premier composer for some of the world’s most formidable figure skaters. You’ve worked for dazzling names all over the world. Is this your niche?”

  “I’m claustrophobic,” Orlov answered. “Niches are far too confining. I’ll never give up my love of soundtrack production, so you can expect to see me around. I’m also working on a tribute album, but I’m not keen on revealing to whom.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” Kaito said. “Thank you for your time.”

  “And yours,” Orlov said, rising from his seat. He held out his hand. “I’m glad you contacted me. Anyone who can get Cristian’s attention can certainly have mine.”

  Kaito cleared his throat. He stood and returned Orlov’s outstretched hand. “It was an honor.”

  “You have a new fan in me, Watanabe. Your work is a joy to read.”

  Kaito waved the comment away. “You’re far too kind.”

  Orlov’s head rolled back as he laughed. “I contacted Cristian after you emailed me, you know. He said you were a good guy but ‘horribly humble.’”

  The heat on Kaito’s face flared hotter. “I only highlight greatness. It’s a pleasure to hear from people I admire. Staying humble is the least I can do.”

  Orlov gave Kaito a friendly slap on the back. “Your modesty doesn’t disappoint. What do you say to grabbing a beer down the road? Off the record.” He paused and bent at the hips just a little so his smile beamed more directly into Kaito’s face. “Or on the record—I don’t have much to hide.”

  “Much,” Kaito said with a chuckle.

  “Much,” Orlov confirmed with a wink.

  “A beer sounds great.” Kaito gathered his belongings into his arms and glanced at the computer monitors. Graphs and bars and visualizations of sound waves spiked across the screen.

  “Do they mean anything to you?” Orlov asked.

  “Not a thing,” Kaito said. “Just some vague excitement for more of your music.”

  “Good! I figured it made me look impressive to have my work up. Much more so than the desktop background of my Pomeranian.”

  Kaito scribbled on his notepad and narrated his words: “Desktop of his Pomeranian…”

  Orlov grabbed his shoulders and squeezed. “You devil. Let’s get you out of here before you uncover more of my darkest secrets.”

  They made their exit with the sun, leaving the studio just as the day fell away. Fiery orange sank away from the clouds, warming their bellies with diffused gold. Against the burning light, the squared-off edges of roofs and buildings took on an impossible darkness.

  “You’ll like the place we’re going, because everyone likes the place we’re going,” Orlov assured him as they walked. Even though they were downtown, a sense of peace radiated from the streets. Cars passed one at a time, and their steps dappled the quiet. “It’s a hole in the wall—but a bit of a fancy one. They have hundreds of beers to choose from—you can’t go wrong.”

  Kaito shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, made some comment about looking forward to it, and allowed Orlov to chatter. He seemed pleased to be out of the confines of the studio. Despite the harsh chill, it was pleasant outside. The wind was weak and easy, and the air was fresh.

  “Here we are!” Orlov motioned to a door that would have gone unnoticed without acute inspection, and Kaito followed him inside. It was exceptionally dim, with all the overhead lights covered and shaded by mosaics of red and brown glass. The farthest and largest wall of the bar was exactly as anyone would expect—shelved counter to ceiling with glittering bottles of liquor. To the side, another wall displayed hundreds of bottles of beer, all of them unique.

  “Your menu,” Orlov said, motioning to the walls. Kaito’s gaze swept over them as he followed Orlov to their seats. They stationed themselves at the bar, feet hanging above the floor from their barstool perch.

  “Do you have the Hidden Valley Stout on draft?” Orlov asked the bartender.

  “Sure do,” she answered.

  Orlov grinned. “That then, please.” She nodded and turned her attention to Kaito.

  “Asahi, please.” Kaito enjoyed being surprised by people and art, but when it came to beer, he wanted to know exactly what was coming. The bartender’s eyes crinkled as she smiled, as if his basic tastes were somehow endearing.

  She moved about the bar before pouring Kaito’s beer from bottle to mug. He pulled it toward him the moment she’d set it down.

  “Taste like home?” Orlov asked.

  Kaito paused in bringing the drink to his lips. “I’m from Manhattan.”

  Orlov held up one hand. “My apologies.”

  Kaito shook his head. “I do prefer Japanese beer. It’s…airy.”

  This earned a hum of interest before Orlov took his newly delivered beer into his hands. “I like the dark stuff.”

  For a while, Orlov chatted about the beer, the bar, and home. Kaito tried for neutral responses—he didn’t want Orlov to feel like this was an interview. But Kaito was always desperate for a peek behind the curtain of a great mind, and Orlov was open.

  “The sport has been chasing a
way viewers for as long as I can remember. There’s so much elitist bullshit going around—as if the competitors don’t want to share their passion with as many people as possible.”

  Kaito lifted his glass in solidarity. “Agreed.”

  “You know what elitist gatekeeping does? Makes it so normal people never know your name.”

  “Most of the skaters are quiet if I bring up the subject,” Kaito said.

  “Fear,” Orlov told him. “And that’s part of the problem. Scores shouldn’t be based on politics. They should be based on performance.”

  Kaito set his glass down, and Orlov motioned for the bartender to bring a new bottle. “I’d like to say it’s been getting better, but perhaps I’m just too optimistic,” Kaito said, tracking the bartender’s motions. “Or blind.”

  Orlov tipped his head back and forth. “No, I agree it’s getting better… The old conservative shit judges are dying off and retiring.”

  Kaito almost snorted as he refilled his glass. “It’s unfair to the athletes. I wish I could help in ways that didn’t feel so vain and useless.”

  Orlov slapped Kaito’s back. “I think publicity helps. If you’d like, include my comment about the shit judges in your blog. No—make it the title.”

  “I can see it now.” Kaito framed the invisible headline with his hands. “‘Conservative Shit Judges Are Dying Off and Retiring’—Maks Orlov’s Plan to Save Figure Skating.”

  Orlov smacked the bar top. “Print it!”

  “Were you a fan of the sport before you started writing music for skaters?”

  “Oh yes. Back home, my parents were very fond of it all. I was always attracted to different art forms… I think what put me off most were the more ‘sporty’ elements. The appeal to judges with points rather than simple expression.”

  “I understand that.”

  “As you can guess, I love the exhibition skates.”

  “May I put that in the article?”

  “I told you,” Orlov said, leaning forward with rosy cheeks. “You can put it all in the article.”

  “You seem far too distinguished to be hiding much…unless you’re secretly a scoundrel who longs to be found out? An exhibitionist scoundrel?”

  This made Orlov laugh with mirth, loud and thick. “I think you may be onto something…and speaking of distinguished scoundrels…” Orlov leaned in, eyeing Kaito curiously. “I noticed your interview with Cristian isn’t up yet. I checked your site.”

  Kaito barely reined in his recoil. He wasn’t sure which struck him more—the mention of Cristian or the mention of another great perusing his blog. “I’m still editing,” he answered. “It should be up soon. Were you looking for something?”

  “Not in particular.” Orlov leaned back, arms crossing his chest. “But I’m always interested in what he has to say. What he’ll keep to himself…what he’ll divulge.” Orlov’s eyes got a faraway look to them, and his lip twitched up in a manner that made Kaito turn his eyes away.

  Kaito cleared his throat. “He’s an interesting man.” He leaned forward and took a few large swallows of his drink.

  “Among other things.”

  Kaito froze. His pulse was too fast, too telling. Orlov was doing nothing wrong, but Kaito didn’t want to hear it.

  “I told you I called him after you contacted me, right? It wouldn’t be the first time a journalist lied about their contacts to try to nab an interview. But Cristian sounded so delighted to hear your name! ‘Ah yes, Kaito! His words are beautiful. We had a very good time.’”

  Kaito remembered staring too hard and too close at his eyes, the brush of fingers through hair, the press of his back to the wall…

  It was too hot in the bar.

  Orlov watched him with far too much interest. “Did you lure the scoundrel out of him?”

  Kaito dropped his hand in his lap to hide the nervous twitches. “You’ll have to wait for the post,” he answered, trying for coy and landing at flat and nervous instead.

  “Hmm. I know he hasn’t kept his life a secret, but the world can still be cruel to people like us.” Kaito’s gaze slid to the side, where Orlov was still watching him. Keenly.

  “Are you queer?” Maks finally asked.

  Kaito jolted at the question.

  “You don’t have to answer, of course. I’m just shit at telling.”

  After some hesitation, Kaito answered. “I’m gay. But my readers don’t know.”

  “I can understand that. It’s not necessary information, anyway.”

  “Agreed.” He let the flush calm down and looked back to Orlov. “I didn’t know you were either.”

  Orlov raised one hand in a shrug. “I was accused of being gay my whole life because I loved art. I guess I’m kinda pissed they were right.” Kaito chuckled and Orlov went on. “But Cristian…” He raised his eyebrows. “Wow.”

  Kaito wanted to agree—wow indeed—but something in his chest disrupted proper thought. He hated himself for it.

  Orlov’s voice was smoky. “I would jump to work for him again if he ever asked.”

  Kaito examined his face. He saw the lust there. Maybe the memories.

  “I have to use the restroom,” Orlov announced with a quick tap to the bar. “I’ll be right back.” He lurched off the barstool and moseyed off toward a corner doorway.

  Kaito scolded himself immediately. He was being an idiot. He heaved a sigh and pulled out his phone. Tapping the Twitter icon, he sank against the bar. He scrolled almost mindlessly—Instagram link, Rolling Stone article, Instagram link, ESPN—then he paused. Luis Serrano—Spanish skater and rink mate to Cristian himself—had uploaded some images, and in them, his face was smooshed against Cristian’s, cheek to cheek. They were both beaming.

  There were three more of the rink mates together, hands around waists, smiles big. In one, Cristian was laying a kiss to Luis’s cheek. The caption was in Spanish. The translate feature gave Kaito “Work. Play. Love.”

  Kaito leaned both elbows on the bar. His face was hot, and his head was foggy. No, foggy wasn’t the right word—his thoughts were very clear, and of a very certain variety. But they were backlit with a hundred warring emotions, and he couldn’t reconcile them into something palatable.

  He dragged his hand over his face. He needed to not appear as horrible as he felt. He flagged the bartender. “Another, please.”

  Chapter Five

  THERE SHOULD BE a manual on how to behave after exchanging orgasms with a famous person.

  It felt like something that changed a person—like it was viewable from the outside to everyone who might pass. The truth of the matter was it wasn’t visible from the outside; it was only Kaito’s insides that were a writhing wreck, and he was the only one who noticed.

  He and Beverly, that is.

  “Just ask him on another date.”

  Kaito sighed where he stood, leaning heavily against the wall. Below him, his five black cats munched in unison at their newly poured lunch.

  “Great idea,” he said, not turning to look at her. “I’ll offer to pay for his ticket from Spain too.”

  Beverly rolled her eyes. “You know he spends plenty of time outside Spain.”

  He hadn’t told Beverly the explicit details of his misery. He tried to keep his complaints vague and full of his normal self-loathing. There was something embarrassing about the struggle he was having. Embarrassing and…shameful.

  “You’ve spoken to him since, right? Let me see the messages. You’re dense, so you probably didn’t even notice when he was flirting.”

  “I have spoken to him, but I don’t want to seem clingy.” Kaito lurched away from the wall and joined Beverly on the couch.

  It had been a couple weeks since Kaito’s…encounter with Cristian. A couple weeks of him pinching and slapping himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, a couple weeks of incessantly checking his phone and inbox for messages, and a couple weeks of Kaito wondering what the hell that encounter even meant.

  Beverly stared at him,
waiting. He realized too late that he’d been nervously running his palms over his thighs. “Everything I do feels creepy now,” he mumbled.

  “Explain.”

  He was supposed to be good with words, but for a long moment, they didn’t come. “All the normal things feel investigative. I go to check my Twitter feed—now I see what Cristian is up to; I see where he’s headed next; I wonder if I might bump into him; I wonder if he’s bumping into anyone else—”

  “Wonder if he’s bumping uglies with anyone else.”

  “Thank you, and yes. But those things are none of my business. I formed a connection with him, but it wasn’t a real one… My soul just wanted it to be.” Kaito flopped his head back against the couch. “What happened at the banquet doesn’t entitle me to any of Cristian’s time.”

  “You’re right! But I don’t think asking for a date from someone who obviously enjoyed your company is being entitled. It’s being…hmm…a normal human being?”

  Kaito went silent. He didn’t tell her about the things he saw on social media that twisted his stomach into knots of dread, or the rush of fear and jealousy when another reporter tweeted about having just interviewed him. It was as if their intimacy had unlocked something dark in Kaito—he had had Cristian, in his way, and now ill-formed rapacity sought to undo his rational thought.

  He didn’t want to tell Beverly, because he didn’t want to reveal his ugliness to her.

  It had just been one night. It was better to tell himself that.

  Rochester, a big black cat with nothing but the smallest patch of white on his neck, loped toward the couch. He hopped onto the cushion and head-butted Kaito’s hand. Kaito gave him the adoring pets he craved. “It felt like a fluke,” he simplified.

  Beverly crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re infuriating.”

  Cristian had made Kaito feel special, yes. He had said things that hinted at future encounters or relations, yes. But in spite of that, Kaito was too afraid to allow himself to believe it. To grow hopeful and attached, only to be batted away by a man he’d idolized since adolescence…

  His psyche could do without that trauma.