“Sorry, angel.”
Bowie propped his chin on Javier’s chest. “Are you, though?”
Javier smirked. “No, not really.”
Bowie shook his head with a smile. “That’s what I thought.”
“This is our first date,” Bowie said.
They were at Casa Azul—the blue house—home of artist Frida Kahlo, now a museum created in her honor. The house alone took Bowie’s breath away. A rich deep blue with brick red trim and a green door. If Bowie had to pick one thing about Mexico he loved above all other things, it would be the lush use of color. It wasn’t that LA didn’t have pops of color, but in Mexico City, they accentuated it, played with it. It was in their paint colors, their landscaping, their pottery, their clothing choices. Three weeks in Mexico City and Bowie wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go back.
Javier smiled. “Yeah, angel. I guess it is. We kind of did this all backwards, huh?”
This wasn’t the first time they’d gone out and explored the city, but this was the first time they’d done so alone. Usually, there were armed guards and Sylvia and Angelo. Sometimes, the kids. Bowie didn’t mind. He loved being surrounded by family. It was such a foreign concept to him, families wanting to be in each other’s presence. Still, when Javier had suggested they go out, just the two of them, and do lunch and the Museo de Frida Kahlo, Bowie had been excited.
At first glance, the house appeared almost tiny, but inside it was expansive, with huge walls made of windows that let sunlight stream through. Javier made a show of holding Bowie’s hand as he guided him past paintings and pottery and Frida’s various dresses. Bowie loved her style and would have loved to have known somebody like her. She’d overcome so much adversity and pain and still made her own rules, doing as she pleased, and the world just…let her.
They walked hand in hand around the sprawling building, Bowie doing his best to take it all in, but it was just all so bright and beautiful and intense. He could walk around the building forever. Javier was indulging Bowie’s every whim. When they stopped in the courtyard, Javier even let Bowie take stupid couple photos to send to Odette and Lawson. The outside of the building was just as eye-catching, maybe even more so with its raw brick and stone statues interspersed around the greenery.
The museum wasn’t overflowing with people but Bowie still felt a bit on display with his fingers intertwined with Javier’s. It wasn’t that people were overtly hostile; it could have just been curiosity. They were an odd couple by anybody’s standards.
Javier with baggy jeans, tattoos, button down shirts, and freakishly white sneakers, his bright green and red tattoos visible for all the world to see. Bowie with his newspaper print pants and black hoodie. His white tips had almost grown out, leaving his hair a little too long and mostly dark brown. Javi said he liked it either way, but Bowie had thought the blond had made him stand out in a sea of other dancers.
Now, that was the very last thing Bowie wanted. To stand out. Be noticed. Look like a target. At least, when he was out. The compound was safe. Every place else, no matter how secure, still carried a small amount of risk. He was tempted to simply cut off the bleached ends of his hair and do his best to blend in with those around him. It wasn’t like standing out at work was a problem anymore.
The company was being very understanding about Bowie’s situation… Too understanding. They had encouraged him to take a sabbatical, which he was sure was one step away from a permanent vacation. But he didn’t care. The truth was, the LA ballet and his rape were forever tied together in his mind. Was there a chance after years of intense video conferences with Blandley that he’d eventually stop associating those two things? Maybe. But it didn’t matter. By then, he’d be too old or his body would be too broken to dance professionally. What happened to him wasn’t anybody’s fault except Giordano’s, but when he thought of ballet, he thought of how gullible he’d been, and it brought back memories he just couldn’t outrun.
There in Mexico, the nightmares had mostly faded. Bowie and Javier were now intimately familiar with each other’s bodies in a way that transcended past sexual gratification. Sometimes, Javier just washed Bowie’s hair or took an insane amount of time drying him off after showers. They did gross couple grooming stuff that never in a million years had Bowie ever thought he’d do. Or want to do. But Javier was his safe place. His comfort zone. His person. Even more than Odette who was always the biggest influence in his life until Javier.
No matter how safe Javier made Bowie feel, there were still some hurdles he just couldn’t get past. He still panicked when Javier came up behind him unexpectedly. He was still unable to have Javier behind him during sex. He couldn’t do anything that made him feel trapped, and blowjobs were still hit or miss, even though Javier had learned to keep his hands on the pillow whenever Bowie went down on him.
No matter how much his heart knew it was Javier, his brain and body sometimes got their wires crossed. Javier took it all in stride. When it came to Bowie, he seemed to have infinite patience, something that seemed like a pipe dream after his assault.
“Where’d you go, angel?”
Bowie dragged himself back to the present, to Frida Kahlo’s bedroom. “Sorry, I guess I was daydreaming.”
Javier stood behind him and to the side, loosely wrapping his arms around him so he could hook his head over his shoulder. “Daydreaming about what?” he murmured, voice low and throaty in a way that still got Bowie hard dangerously fast.
“You. Us. This life here in Mexico. This place. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel real. Sometimes, I secretly fear Giordano beat me into a coma and this is all some drawn out fantasy and I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”
Javier chuckled. “Oof. That’s grim. I’m not going anywhere. That’s a promise.”
“Can you really afford to make a promise like that, with somebody still out there trying to kill me?”
“Yes. Even if we spend the rest of our lives in Mexico. Even if you have armed guards forever. Even if we go on the run like we’re Bonnie and Clyde…I’m all in. The only way you’re getting rid of me is if you tell me to go.”
Bowie’s heart squeezed, his chest growing tight. “I would never say that.”
Javier kissed his cheek. “Then there’s your answer. Can we get back to our first date now?”
Bowie’s eyes went wide, and his hands covered Javier’s, which were still laced together across his abdomen. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining our date.”
“Nah. But there’s still so much more to see.”
“You really like this place, huh?”
Javier looked around. “What’s not to like? She was a fascinating woman.”
