Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
“ C ome on, you haven’t been to one of these parties in far too long. This is being thrown by some people from the new cast — it’ll be your chance to step out and get to know some of them other than your own pair of muscle men.”
Ilya looked at the elegant, gray-haired woman who sat across from him and frowned. Anna Moreau was in her fifties, and she had been a gymnast for France in the days when the sport had been dominated by Eastern Europe, which meant she’d never risen to the prominence she might have otherwise achieved. She had also been a friend of his for many years, and while technically she wasn’t in his management chain, her position in Circo of “cast liaison” meant her opinion carried a lot of weight.
He also respected her, and she’d been a good friend to him and Derek both before and during Derek’s illness, and she had been one of the few people whose shoulder he had cried on. Since he didn’t let many people close, she was only one of his only true friends. But that didn’t mean he was ready to take her advice on this.
“You want me to hang out with a bunch of drunk twenty-somethings?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m far too old for that sort of thing. I’ll be a damper, and I’m sure they don’t want me there.”
Her look spoke volumes, and he didn’t need the words to know what she was thinking. He could read it in her face.
You weren’t too old when Derek was alive.
He’d socialized much more back then, but it was mostly because Derek loved the parties and loved the people, and everyone was drawn to him like a magnet. Ilya had been perfectly happy with being a background player while Derek socialized, since he enjoyed seeing Derek happy. But without his partner, he didn’t even know what he’d do with himself in a gathering like that. Hell, when he’d retired from performing, he’d spent most of the “farewell” party given in his honor standing against a wall and watching, while he wanted to scream that the thought of everyone celebrating a career cut short by horrible loss was more painful than they could imagine. But he knew management and his fellow performers wanted to show their love and support for him, so he’d sucked it up, smiled when necessary, thanked them for coming, and then had gone home to his quiet, empty house. There he had gotten so drunk and sick that he’d sworn off alcohol altogether after waking up fully clothed in his bathtub, soaked to the skin and covered in vomit. It had probably been the lowest point since Derek’s death, and it wasn’t something he wanted a reminder of.
“They want you there,” she said, rapping sharply on her desk and pulling him out of his memories. “They specifically asked me to ask you to come. How do you feel about that ? You aren’t that much older than most of them, anyway, so stop trying to pretend like you’re my age.” She gave him a smug smile. “After all, they want me there as well, which shows that there is more to the younger generation of performers than likes on social media and taking the perfect selfie.”
Ilya grimaced; Derek had handled their social media accounts, but Ilya hadn’t looked at them in two years now. No doubt they were frozen in time, and he was content to let them remain that way, an homage to happier days that were long gone.
“Fine, it’s nice to be invited, but I’m not obligated to go just because of it,” he said.
Anna sighed. “I’m not asking you to go for them , Ilya. I’m asking you to go for you . The longer you hide away, the harder it will be to get back out there and show your face to the world.” She shook her finger at him, her voice taking on a tone of exasperation. “You’re only thirty-four, for fuck’s sake. Valery Panteleenko performed on straps until he was fifty! You’re still young, you’re still strong, and it’s a waste — there, I said it. You are wasted in coaching! That’s a job for people my age, when the wear and tear takes too long to heal, and even then, most of us have to be carried off the stage. And don’t you tell me it’s in honor of Derek, because I call merde . I was there when Derek said you should honor him by continuing to do what you both loved.”
Ilya winced and looked away, unable to meet her eyes any longer. Derek had wanted him to continue, to not let anyone forget that Ilya and Derek Mirov had been the finest aerialists in the world. But how could he, when his heart wasn’t in it? Just because he was dreaming more and more about being on the straps again didn’t mean he actually wanted to do it.
Did it?
“Fine, I’ll go,” he said, surprising himself with the words.
“Good.” Anna’s tone was gentle, and when he looked at her once more, her smile was soft with affection. “I love you like a son, Ilya, the same way I loved Derek. And I’ve seen the way you look at your new pair. I’ve seen the longing on your face. I’m not about to hold a knife to your throat, but I can give you a small push in the direction I think you really want to go.”
“I’ve agreed to the party,” Ilya said, suddenly feeling pressured, and he didn’t like it. Anna must have read the mulish set of his lips, because she nodded.
“All right, that’s good enough.” With that, she rose from behind her desk. He could see that despite her nice blouse, she was wearing casual pants rather than a suit skirt. “If you aren’t ashamed to escort an old woman to a party, I’d be more than happy to give you a ride over.”
Since Ilya was already dressed in his normal polo and slacks, they could leave right then. He had second and third thoughts on the way over, but he comforted himself that it was already after eight o’clock. He hadn’t been surprised when Anna had summoned him to her office so late, since she often kept odd hours to liaise with performers on the East coast and even in Europe, and she had commented more than once on the fact that Ilya often seemed to live in his own office. In fact, he did have a small folding cot tucked away in a closet, and though he’d used it often when he couldn’t bear to go home to his empty house, the frequency with which he utilized it had grown less and less over time. He’d actually planned to go home that night, but time had gotten away from him as he was still working on the alterations to Mario and Patrick’s routine.
From the amount of music and laughter he heard coming from the house where Anna parked, the party was still going strong. Ilya drew in a breath as he stepped out of the car and promised himself that he would get himself an Uber home the minute he felt like he’d had enough. Then he’d be able to refuse the next time Anna tried to get him to go to a party by insisting he’d tried it once and no longer had any desire to be social. It wouldn’t stop her, of course, but maybe it would slow her down.
To his surprise, however, he was greeted with welcome and warmth. While he wasn’t as familiar with the performers for Capriccio as he probably should be, he was surprised to see several people from Phantasma were in attendance as well. He found a bottle of beer pressed into his hand, while being asked his opinion about how the avant-garde aesthetics of the new show would stack up against the classical appeal of the current one. And did he feel that Phantasma should be given a touring show? Was there any chance Circo might try for a second venue in Vegas in order to have two resident shows?
He actually enjoyed debating the merits of each side, and he was surprised that his opinion seemed to be given a lot of consideration, since he’d performed in both the resident and some of Circo’s traveling shows. He honestly didn’t have any more information about the actual plans of upper management than the performers did, but they seemed to respect his experience.
Anna had disappeared into the crowd. Her position meant that everyone knew her, and she was good enough at her job that everyone also liked her. But she was also notoriously close-mouthed about anything she heard from “upstairs,” so no one seemed inclined to wheedle information from her and risk her good opinion of them.
After a time, he excused himself, deciding to step outside and get some fresh air. The house was crowded and getting warm despite the air conditioning, and one advantage about being away from the Strip was that the heat dissipated at night, even in the summer. And while the high seventies wouldn’t seem cool to a lot of people, to those who’d been out in the one-tens of a Vegas day, even eighty felt almost chilly by comparison.
He was waylaid on his way toward the sliding glass door at the back of the house, as he was hailed by a new set of people, mostly those from Capriccio. He greeted them, again finding himself welcome, but then something caught his attention. Sitting beside the pool was the unmistakable form of Mario, shirtless and in a bathing suit. Ilya had never seen him in so little, and it was surprising how much more the muscles of his back stood out in the play of light and shadow from the tiki torches that illuminated the area. Mario put down a bottle of water, and then he stood and turned toward Ilya.
Their eyes met over the heads of the people between them, and he saw Mario’s expression shift from curiosity to something that almost looked like joy. He smiled widely, and Ilya almost thought he saw Mario’s lips shape the form of his name. Then Mario took a step toward him, before he pitched forward and face planted in the grassy area beside the pool.
Ilya pushed through the people between them, paying no attention to any of them as he knelt beside Mario. His heart pounded as he turned the younger man over, wondering if he’d injured himself in the fall.
“Mario! Can you hear me?”
A frown marred the classic features of his face before one green eye cracked open. “You don’t have to shout,” he said crossly. “M’okay. Just got dizzy for a minute.”
Someone crouched down next to Mario, reaching for his wrist to take his pulse. It shouldn’t have surprised Ilya that someone there had medical training, and he glanced over to see a well-built young man with sandy blond hair looking down at Mario.
“I think it’s a case of too much sun and not enough water. And maybe a wee too much tequila,” the young man said, sounding amused. “He’ll be all right in the morning. He just needs to stay somewhere cool and drink plenty of water. Heat exhaustion — I see it all the time with newbies. He’s also going to have a little sunburn, it looks like.”
“You’re a doctor?” Ilya asked, raising a brow. He was half considering taking Mario to an emergency room.
“Paramedic, before I decided I liked trapeze better,” was the answer. “Tal Harris — Chey is my sister. You’re Ilya Mirov.”
“That’s me.” Ilya looked back down at Mario, who was staring up at him in surprise. “Are you okay?”
“I guess so,” Mario said. He looked between the two of them, then slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He seemed to be more coherent, but Ilya still kept a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. I should have been drinking more water, I guess. First time I’ve been out in the sun for so long since I’ve been here.”
“You just need to get home and rest. No working out until Monday. Can you stand up?” Tal asked. Mario nodded, and as he rose, Ilya took one arm, with Tal taking the other.
“Okay, message received,” Mario said. His face was flushed, which could have been from the sun, embarrassment, or both. “I’ll get my stuff and call an Uber.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ilya said. “You need someone to make sure you get home safely.”
Startled, Mario turned a wide, green gaze on him. “You don’t need to do that. Stay for the party. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ve had enough socializing for one night,” Ilya replied. “Where are your things? I assume you didn’t arrive like this.”
“No, I left stuff where I changed.” Mario looked over at Tal. “Thanks. Sorry for the fuss.”
“No worries,” Tal said easily. “And it really is best if someone goes with you, in case you get dizzy again. Besides, Ilya looks strong enough to carry even your buff bod if he needed to.”
Ilya lifted a brow at the younger man, who grinned back at him. Was he interested in Mario? It wasn’t any of Ilya’s business, of course.
Since things seemed settled, the observers drifted away. Ilya saw Tal head over toward a makeshift bar, and people immediately followed in his wake and asked for drinks.
“I’m sorry,” Mario said quietly. He looked pensive. “I hope you don’t think I was taking stupid risks again. I didn’t realize anything was wrong. I was fine, then I stood up, and….” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I feel like an idiot.”
“If it makes you feel better, something similar happened to me when I first moved to Vegas.” Ilya snorted and shook his head. “It can sneak up on you if you aren’t used to it. Let this be a lesson. Don’t stay out in the heat for hours. Especially if alcohol is involved.”
“Got it.” Mario drew in a deep breath. “I’ll go get my stuff.”
Ilya followed him back into the house and down a hall to one of the bedrooms, where he waited outside the door. It didn’t take long for Mario to change into his regular clothes, and by the time he came out, Ilya had already summoned an Uber. “If you’re ready, let’s get you home.”
Mario seemed subdued, which Ilya chalked up to embarrassment and probably fatigue. He left Mario to his thoughts, not wanting to make things worse.
The trip was quiet, and Mario didn’t even protest when Ilya got out of the Uber and made it clear he was going to get Mario into his apartment. They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, then walked down the hall to Mario’s door.
Mario unlocked the door. “Thanks, Ilya. Sorry to be such a nuisance.”
Ilya shrugged. “It was nothing, really. If anything, you gave me an excuse to get out of there earlier than I would have on my own.”
“You didn’t want to stay?” Mario seemed surprised.
“Not especially. I don’t socialize much anymore.”
Mario drew in a deep breath. “Thanks again. I should be fine by Monday.”
“If you get to feeling worse, call an ambulance,” Ilya said. He was strangely reluctant to leave Mario on his own, worried that if he did, Mario might somehow get worse. It might have had something to do with the fear he’d had every time he’d had to leave Derek’s side while in the hospital: that he would come back to find Derek had slipped away. But this was different, and he couldn’t demand Mario let him into his apartment. Besides, Mario was a grown adult who could take care of himself.
“I will. I promise,” Mario said. “Thanks again. Good night.”
As Mario turned away, he stumbled slightly, so Ilya grabbed his arm, deciding that no, Mario did still need help. “Okay, I’m going to get you inside and make sure you drink something. You don’t need a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” Mario protested, but he didn’t resist when Ilya ushered him inside.
“Maybe you are, but let’s not take a chance. Do you have sports drinks? You need the electrolytes.”
“In the fridge,” Mario replied.
Ilya helped Mario to the bedroom and pointed to the bed. “You lie down, and I’ll get you a drink. Can you manage on your own?”
Mario’s face grew flushed again. “I can manage,” he mumbled.
He started unbuttoning his shirt, so Ilya left the room, feeling his own cheeks growing slightly warm. It was one thing to see someone getting undressed in a locker room at work, and another to watch a buff young man strip in the intimacy of his own bedroom.
The apartment wasn’t large, but it was fully furnished. Ilya couldn’t help looking around, noting Mario seemed to like things tidy. The furnishings had come with the apartment, so they were bland, but Mario had added some personal items around. Several colorful patterned pillows adorned the beige sofa. Above that, a series of framed posters hung on the white wall: bright and bold advertisements for both the Carnival of Mysteries and The Flying Galliers. The posters were written in a variety of languages, several of which Ilya didn’t recognize, including a few with strange symbols. There was even one in Ukrainian, which surprised him. It was odd to think of Mario performing in the land of Ilya’s birth, while he had been here, performing in the US. A strange coincidence.
The table in the combination kitchen/dining area was decorated with a bowl that was striped like a circus big top. The refrigerator had pictures held up by magnets, and Ilya spotted Mario with various people who must have been from the carnival. He recognized the slender, dark-haired form of Errante, the carnival’s owner, standing next to Mario with another man, this one in a ringmaster’s distinctive red coat, white pants, and top hat. Another photo showed Mario with a strong man who seemed to dwarf even Mario’s muscular form in comparison, and yet another of Mario with two women, one swathed in purple and the other in black. The younger girl in black he’d seen before; she was the one who’d told Mario to take the job.
There were also several of Mario with what had to be his family, since they all had an unmistakable resemblance to one another. An older couple must be his parents, and there were several younger people, all with the Gallier looks. A handsome crew, all in aerialist costumes, with Mario in the center smiling proudly.
No one in the photos looked like they might be Mario’s partner, however, but that wasn’t too surprising. That Mario had auditioned alone was indication enough that he hadn’t left a lover behind, or at least not one to whom he was attached. Not that it was any of Ilya’s business, anyway.
Annoyed with himself, he opened the fridge and found both water and other beverages, noting idly that Mario seemed to favor citrus flavors. He selected one of the sports drinks, and then he rummaged through a couple of the kitchen drawers until he lucked upon a straw. He headed back to the bedroom, pausing outside the partially open door and knocking on the frame.
“Come in,” Mario said, and Ilya stepped into the room.
Mario lay on the bed, propped up against a few pillows with a sheet pulled up to his chest. Against the white fabric, his skin looked quite dark, especially since he’d been burnished by the sun, and his chest and arms were bare.
Ilya opened the drink, then popped the straw into the bottle. “Here, this should make it easier,” he said, handing the bottle to Mario.
“Thanks again.” Mario obediently took a long sip. “I appreciate it.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?” Ilya asked. “I could stay for a while, in case you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. Sorry for being such a bother.” Mario wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Ilya sighed. Sometimes being a taskmaster made it difficult to be anything else to those he coached.
“I don’t mind, and I’m not angry with you,” Ilya replied. “It can happen to anyone. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last, so don’t worry.”
Mario finally looked up. “You really mean that.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “I promise you, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
“Okay.” Mario still seemed strangely subdued, unlike his normal self, but no doubt he was feeling drained. “This is the first time I can remember anything getting the better of me in a long time.”
“Then count yourself lucky. Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“I’ll go, then, but you are to text me at once if you need anything — and also in the morning so I know you’re okay,” Ilya said.
“I promise,” Mario took another long drink from the bottle, and Ilya knew he was going to have to be content with that. He couldn’t force Mario to let him stay.
“Good night, then.”
There was no further reason to delay, so with a final nod, Ilya left the room, closing the door behind himself. He turned off lights and locked the door as he left the apartment as well.
Summoning another Uber, he returned to his empty house. As he got ready for bed, he had the idle thought that it felt good to take care of someone again. Maybe what he needed to fill the void in his life was something, or someone, that depended on him.