“You’re ridiculous.”
“It haunts me,” Javier said, tone somber, before rolling off Bowie’s lap onto his back, working his way under the covers. “Come here.”
Bowie hesitated. He felt too fragile. He kept his feelings about his parents locked up tight because as much as he loved to pretend it didn’t hurt, that they didn’t matter, it was a lie. His own parents, the people who created him, had found him a disappointment from beginning to end. And right then, in that moment, it felt true.
He shook the thought away, or tried to anyway, tried to bury it and them back down in the cold dark place inside him where he put all the things he couldn’t bear to think about. He wiggled down under the covers until he was nose to nose with Javier. He opened his mouth to say something sarcastic and pithy, but what came out was, “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” before he started to sob in earnest. He tried to roll away, but Javier held him tight. Bowie shook his head, covering his face with his hands. “Just ignore me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I’m not going to ignore you. You should know by now I can’t stand when you cry. Even more, I can’t stand when anybody makes you cry. Especially if that somebody was me.”
“You didn’t make me cry. I just… Dance is all I’ve ever known. It’s all I ever wanted to do and he stole that from me. Ilet himsteal that from me.”
“Stop. You didn’t do any of that. He hurt you. You needed time to heal, time they didn’t give you. You did the best you could with the shit hand you were dealt.”
Bowie continued to cry, no matter how much he wanted to stop. Javier wasn’t helping, kissing his forehead, rubbing his back, whispering words in Spanish that made no sense but felt supportive. How could Bowie not fall for him? Javier fought for him when nobody else would, saw something nobody else did.
When he finally pulled himself together, he looked at Javier, face still burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“Can I ask you something?” Javier asked softly.
Bowie had just bared his soul to him; what could he ask that was more intimate than what they’d just talked about? Than what they’d done together before that? “Sure.”
“What was your plan when you were done with the LA ballet? Like what was your dream when you retired from dancing full time?”
Bowie shrugged. “ I wanted to teach. Open my own studio if I could afford it.”
“Why can’t you do that now?”
Bowie barked out a wet laugh. “Should I delve into my trust fund?”
“Oh, angel. Money I’ve got. If you want a dance studio, I’ll buy you one. Hell, I’ll build you one if that’s what you want.”
“You’re crazy. You can’t spend your whole life trying to fix my problems.”
Javier looked at him like he was the crazy one. “Sure I can, angel. Making you happy is the only job I care about.”
“Stop being so fucking sweet to me. My heart can’t take it,” Bowie whispered, trying to blink back a fresh stream of tears.
“I can do a lot of things, but I can’t be mean to you, angel. It’s just not possible. You got me wrapped around your finger. Have from day one. Deal with it.”
“I love you.” The words just slipped out before he could stop them.
Javier still held tight so Bowie couldn’t even escape to bury his face in the pillow. So, he did the only thing he could think of, which was scrunch his eyes closed and try to melt into the mattress.
“Whatcha doin’, angel?” Javier asked, clearly amused.
“Trying to will myself into an alternate universe…or, like, a wormhole where I can rewind ninety seconds and unsay that.”
Lips brushed his in a barely-there kiss. “Now, why would you wanna break my heart like that?”
“Because it was too soon. We’ve only known each other, like, barely two months…if that. I’m too sex dumb to do math right now.”
“Would it help if I said I love you, too?”
Bowie opened one eye. “Maybe,” he said, tone sulky. “But only if you meant it.”
“Can you at least open both eyes first?”
Bowie sighed dramatically, face still ablaze, blinking both eyes open. “There.”
