Like Heaven on Earth

by Jaime Samms

  “Lawrence Crawford. What about him?”

  Cobalt jumped back off the stage and plunked into a front row seat to tug off his woollies and then his ballet slippers. “Put him in the lead.”

  “What? Why? I have two principles.”

  “You have one, between Cal and me. If you’re lucky.” He looked up to meet the director’s gaze. “He’s not fit, and you know it.”

  “There’s you.”

  “I won’t dance the whole show.”

  “You’ll be up to par by the time we open. I’m not worried.”

  “Nor am I.” Cobalt pushed his chest out a bit and sniffed. As if he had the least bit of worry whether he could do the work. He knew he could. That wasn’t the issue. “I didn’t say I couldn’t dance every night. I said I wouldn’t dance every night.” He met Holland’s gaze. “You see what it takes out of us. Cal and I are not getting any younger.” That stung to admit, but truth was truth. He’d come to terms with that a long time ago. He picked up his footwear and began to stuff it all into his bag. “He hasn’t been careful enough, clearly. He must pull back from this kind of schedule or he’ll run himself down, and his immune system can’t take the constant abuse. It took a long time to catch up with him, but catch him it has.”

  Zipping the bag closed, he stood, towering a bit over Holland, slipping behind the icy facade the ballet world was used to seeing on him. It had melted a bit thin in places. Probably coldly transparent there around the eyes, but he didn’t care as much as he once had. “If you care about him, you’ll do this. Pull Larry, Lawrence, whatever”—he waved a hand and sniffed—“out of the chorus and give him a shot. Dollars to doughnuts he already knows the lead.” He grinned, rather sharply, remembering when he had been just like the ambitious young dancer in question. He’d hovered, vulturelike, and stolen parts, and was lucky to have been forgiven the betrayal. He remembered when it had been Cobalt’s parts Cal had surreptitiously studied and mastered, just in case. They all did it, and Holland had to understand the world he’d been thrust into if he was going to survive it.

  “How do you know?” Holland asked.

  “I know, darling. It’s what we do. Ballerinas might look pretty up there under the lights, but we are vicious, backstabbing bitches. There are only so many parts to go around. We all want them, and we will do some pretty awful things to each other to keep them.” He leveled a look at Holland. “You can’t have gotten this far in your career and not know this.”

  Holland shrugged. “Maybe. But you’re telling me to give Lawrence this part.”

  “I’m telling you to show them all, including Cal, that there is a better way to get what we want.”

  “Like—I don’t get it.”

  Cobalt sighed. “Of course you don’t.” He patted Holland’s cheek. “Cal wants someone to love him first. Before dance, before themselves, before their image. Him.” He studied Holland. “Is that you?”

  Holland’s round cheeks flushed right up to the roots of his strawberry-blond curls. His freckles all but disappeared under the color, and he stammered nonsense. Cobalt absently noted that this squat, barrel-chested little man was about as far outside Calvin’s usual taste as Preston was from Cal’s classic beauty. “Oh please, honey. Don’t twist your tights.” He flopped a hand in the air between them. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “It only just—we never—not when you and he—I mean he didn’t—”

  “Oh he did, precious. Plenty. How do you think he got himself—and me—into this mess?”

  “He’s changed, you know.”

  “Maybe. Not my problem now.”

  “You don’t sound like you ever loved him.” Holland’s face was still red, but more splotchy now, and his voice had taken on a crackling intensity.

  “Who knows?” Cobalt kept the airy tone to his own voice, though he felt the prickle behind his eyes. “Love is a funny, complicated thing. There was too much shit between us. Dance. His cheating. My—” He swiveled his hand, glared at the dark above them, finding the vague outline of the light bars and the catwalk, and huffed. “Well, me, I suppose. Like I said, he needs someone who loves him for himself.”

  “And you couldn’t?”

  “Wouldn’t.” Cobalt sniffed and squared his shoulders, bringing his attention back to Holland. “Don’t dick him around.”

  Holland stared at him, mouth open, eyes a bit buggy.

  “Oh please. He was a cheating bastard. That doesn’t make me a saint. Or a fool. I made him just as miserable as he made me. It’s time we both grew up and moved on.”

  Holland at least closed his mouth as he nodded.

  “He needs love,” Cobalt said softly. “Very much. Don’t make him fight you for it.”

  “I would never—”

  “Then you are a bigger man than I ever was,” Cobalt admitted with a heavy breath. “And as for Larry, if he has the dedication and the love for the dance to learn the part with no hope of ever getting to dance it in front of people, then don’t you think he deserves your professional attention? You want to build a new kind of ballet company? Start there. Dedication. Determination. Hard work. Love.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “Oh.” He smiled, wolfish and fey. “That’s my thing. I always make it look easy.” He winked. “Now. Go be the boss. I’ll take your pet home and tuck him into bed, yes?”

  Holland took a moment to watch the medic help Cal to his feet. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Sure. Excuse me.” He brushed past Cobalt and hopped up onto the stage to slip his shoulder under Cal’s arm and hug an arm around his waist. “Come on,” Cobalt heard him whisper. “Let’s get you out of these sweaty things.”

  Cal grunted, spared a long look for Cobalt, and then let Holland walk him off stage.

  “Now what?” one of the ballerinas muttered.

  “Places!” Cobalt called, whipping his hand in a circle above his head. “Cue music! Larry!”

  “Lawrence,” a barely dropped male voice said from the back of the stage.

  “Whatever. Now’s your chance. Let’s show Mr. Grange what you’ve got, shall we?”

  “I—what?” Lawrence shuffled to the edge of the stage. “Me?”

  “Don’t waste our time, please, Lawrence.” Cobalt slapped the stage from where he still stood, down in the pit of the miniscule theater. “Do you know the part or not?”

  Lawrence glanced around at all the other dancers, who watched him intently. One of the older girls nodded and made shooing motions at him. He turned back, fixing his gaze on Cobalt.

  “Well?”

  Lawrence swallowed hard, then nodded.

  “Good! Then do it. Let’s go.”

  And so the company did, taking their positions and then starting the dance again while Cobalt waited for Cal to change. When Cobalt glanced to the wings after the first section, Holland was watching from the shadows and Cal glared from beside his new lover. Lawrence had clearly perfected the part on his own. He’d need lots of rehearsal doing it with the rest of the company, and he didn’t dance with the same style as Calvin and Cobalt. His was a younger, more exuberant energy, but maybe that was what the piece needed.

  Holland had thought the part lacked maturity, and wanted Cobalt to bring that, but as the dance went on and Lawrence gained confidence, it became more and more clear that what had been missing was a certain fearlessness only found in someone young enough not to really know what loss was. Lawrence had that by the bucketload.

  Cobalt watched and marveled that he felt not one iota of regret for handing the part to the inexperienced yet enthusiastic young man. He glanced over at Calvin, who grimaced but gave a curt shrug of one shoulder. As Cobalt watched, Cal bent to whisper something in Holland’s ear, then received a quick, almost chaste peck on the lips from him.

  Cobalt smiled a bit. Still no regret. Holland seemed like a decent enough guy. Cobalt hoped Cal didn’t mess with a good thing. He turned his attention back to the stage to wait, and after a few minutes, Cal appeared
, moving carefully to his side.

  “Ready?” Cobalt asked.

  “Your pet driver going to take us home?”

  “Don’t be an asshole, darling.” Cobalt took Cal’s bag from him and draped it over his shoulder with his own. “Let that man take care of you.”

  “You don’t know shit about it,” Cal snapped.

  “It isn’t weak to let someone else care, Cal,” Cobalt said. “Do you need—”

  “I can manage.” Cal swept Cobalt’s helpful hand off his waist and took a few tentative uneven steps. “He can care all he wants.”

  “Don’t be mean to him.”

  “Why do you care? You don’t even know him.”

  “He cares for you.” Cobalt stopped Cal with a hand on his arm, waiting until Cal looked at him. “He cares for you. I don’t need to know anything else about him.”

  “You’re a crazy fuck. Why don’t you hate me?”

  Cobalt shrugged and let him go, soothing the sting of his words with the knowledge that they weren’t so far from the truth, that Preston knew that about him and didn’t care. “Why do you hate me?” he countered.

  Calvin stared at him.

  “Come on,” Cobalt said at last. “I promised your man I’d tuck you in.” He walked off up the aisle, slowly, because it would have been an asshole thing to do to hightail it out of there as fast as he wanted to and leave Calvin behind.

  Chapter 24

  “NO DRIVER?” The sneer in Cal’s voice was obvious and calculated to get a rise out of Cobalt. “I thought for sure your pet bear would be waiting on the curb.”

  “He lives in Toronto, asshole. Why would he be here?” No use defending Preston’s position in his life. It would only add fuel to Cal’s burning need to belittle them both.

  Cal shot him a “who are you kidding” look. “You’re here,” he said.

  “He works for my brother.”

  “But he fucks you.”

  Cobalt stopped walking, letting Cal carry on without him. Fuck the asshole if he thought he could bully a reaction out of Cobalt. He could damn well get his own sorry ass home, and indeed, he didn’t even falter when Cobalt stopped. He walked on with his back straight and a crooked swagger in his broken gait. At the street, he waved at a passing cab. It zipped by without even slowing.

  “You going to be a bitch about this?” Cal shot over his shoulder.

  Cobalt snorted and dropped Cal’s bag, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fuck. You.”

  “Oh, don’t be a baby.” Cal waved for another cab. This one ignored him too. “What the fuck is the matter with these assholes?” A third cab zoomed past with a honk of its horn, and Cal gave it the finger as it sped away.

  “They know you,” Cobalt muttered.

  Traffic continued to pass Cal by, and each hail of a cab was a little less expansive than the last, until he finally gave up in favor of leaning on a telephone pole. From a few feet away, Cobalt could see the sweat on the back of his neck and his shirt sticking to his skin. With a sigh, Cobalt picked up his bag and went over.

  “You going to tell me how sick you really are?” he asked.

  “Not your business.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Cal glared at him, but there was fear behind the anger, and an edge of desperation Cobalt should have noticed a long time ago. He’d been dancing next to the man for a month now. He should have seen this sooner. Correction: he should have looked for it sooner, because he had known when they asked him to come that Cal was in trouble. He had known when Cal acted so out-of-character at home, bitching about the dog and throwing wrenches, that something was vastly wrong, and he had ignored it. Willfully ignored it, because it served Cal right to be suffering.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, pretty,” Cal muttered. “Not your tragedy to worry about anymore.”

  Cobalt waved at a cab, ignored the sting behind his eyes, and opened the door for Cal when the taxi stopped next to them.

  Cal climbed in first, gave the cabbie the address, and behaved like he was going to spend the entire twenty-minute drive leaning on the door as far from Cobalt as he could get. He stared out the window for at least half the trip before finally casting a glance at Cobalt. “What?”

  Cobalt shook his head, reached over, and laced his fingers through Cal’s. He held his breath, but Cal didn’t pull away or say anything mean. He just went back to staring out the window until the car pulled up outside a brick walk-up. Then he paid the driver and got out. “You don’t have to come up.”

  “I’m coming up,” Cobalt told him, clambering out after him. “So stop being a jerk.”

  “It’s my nature,” Cal said, though there was little edge in the comment.

  “That’s true.”

  Cal smiled at that, sort of bitter, sort of sad, very knowing. “Yeah.” He led the way inside without saying anything else. It took only moments for him to flop onto the couch, clearly exhausted and shaky.

  “Cal—”

  “Don’t be a girl.”

  Cobalt sat on the very nice coffee table that wasn’t Cal’s, in this apartment that reflected someone else’s taste. He gazed at this man who should be the bane of his existence and tried to figure out why he didn’t just walk away, back to his own life, his own heart and home with Preston.

  “Why am I even here?” he wondered, just under his breath.

  “Beats me.”

  “You certainly don’t care, do you?”

  Cal opened his eyes to gaze at him, and there was something in his expression, a broken corner of the twisted anger that let a sliver of softer, more fragile emotion peek through. Cobalt stared back, determined not to ask again, not to get shot down again just for caring. He watched Cal’s Adam’s apple bob as the silence stretched. If he picked at that corner, peeled it away a little bit more, would he see something real in there? Or just get cut?

  “How sick?” He barely got the question out before his throat closed over it.

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Why do you think it doesn’t?”

  “I gave this to you, and you—” He clamped his teeth, locked his jaw, and looked away. For a few heartbeats, he blinked and blinked and his jaw popped, and finally, through gritted teeth and a muck of emotion, asked, “Why are you still here?”

  Cobalt pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and spread it over Cal’s shivering frame. “You want me to hate you?”

  Cal said nothing.

  “It isn’t worth it. You were a shit to me, and I let you be. I turned to ice, and still, none of it matters.” He tucked the blanket under Cal’s shoulders and moved to his feet to pull his boots off. He let them thump to the floor and left them there while he fetched a glass of water. “You have meds someplace I should get?”

  “What time is it?”

  Cobalt glanced at the clock on the stove. “Almost seven.” How had it gotten so late? Was a month long enough for the light to last this much longer already? Or was it just so artificially bright here, the canyons between the buildings so deep, he hadn’t noticed the sun had left long ago?

  “In my bag. There’s a ziplock.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the door. “Leave them with the water. I have to take them in an hour.”

  Cobalt searched the bag, found the meds, and brought them to the coffee table. He set the bottles out next to the water, then returned to the kitchen for an ice pack and a towel. He handed them to Cal for his knee, then took a seat in the armchair.

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “Sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

  Cal only sighed.

  “I’ll stay until Holland gets home.”

  Cal rolled to his side to face the back of the couch.

  Cobalt didn’t expect a lot of conversation and wasn’t disappointed when, a few minutes later, he recognized the soft whiffle of breath that meant Cal was asleep.

  Why am I here?

  He pulled out his phone to scroll through his e-mail, thought about calling Prest
on but was loath to wake Calvin. He’d promised Holland he would look after him, but that didn’t mean he had to visit with him. Besides, Cal clearly needed more rest than he was getting. Cobalt clicked on Preston’s number and opened a text window.

  Hey.

  After a few seconds, his phone blipped. As he read, he turned the sound down, smiling.

  How is rehearsal going?

  His smile died as he quickly typed out the bones of the afternoon’s drama and his current predicament. There was a long pause before Preston replied.

  Is he ok?

  He is himself.

  Are you ok?

  I am. Cobalt deleted that. Fine. He deleted that too. He’s an asshole. He definitely deleted that. I am. He sent that.

  Liar.

  I miss you. No lie there. No point in denying it either.

  Me too. Just say the word.

  Please don’t.

  As you wish.

  Cobalt frowned at the phone, at the familiar expression. What does that even mean?

  Look it up.

  ????

  Google it.

  You’re a jerk.

  Heh. Love you too.

  His throat tightened and his eyes stung. He wanted to go home so bad. He wanted Preston’s bulk at his side, his strong arms around him, the heat of his breath as they kissed and the weight of his body pinning him to the bed. The rasp of his stubbly cheek between his legs. “Shit.”

  I gotta go, babe, he typed and sent quickly, tearing away the Band-Aid of even the small solace of texting.

  Is everything ok?

  No. But it will be.

  Coby?

  Trust me. Just a little while longer.

  There was a pause as his heart raced and his eyes watered, and finally the phone binged quietly, vibrating against his palm with the message As you wish. There was nothing more after that, and he eventually got up to put the ice pack back in the freezer, then set an alarm to wake him at eight. He settled back in the chair, laid the phone on his belly so he’d feel the vibration, and closed his eyes to rest.

  GENTLE STRAINS of violin floated into his half-asleep brain to pull him to consciousness. He felt the vibration of the phone, picked it up, stopped the alarm, and glanced at the couch to find Cal staring at him.