Nothing but Skin

Part 1

It was snowing inside Nick's apartment.

He hopped around, trying to pull on his socks with shaking hands. Quito, his damn ballet partner, had broken the window last week, and now the wind blew little flurries of snow right through the cracks. He cursed through his teeth. He needed to find somewhere else to stay if he didn't want to freeze his ass off before Christmas.

Shivering, he wrapped his binder around his chest and layered on three shirts, two sweaters, and a puffy coat. He glanced at the mirror, checking his chest and the zipper of his jeans, but luckily the layers of padding covered his body. His girly body.

He made a face at his reflection and shouldered his ballet bag, fumbling with the icy doorknob. Damn, he needed to fix that window. Quito needed to fix that window.

Nick took the stairs down, because seven flights probably helped his leg muscles, even though it was a bitch to do in a heavy coat. Puffing and red-faced, he threw his shoulder against the exit door and tumbled out into the snow.

Quito Kitsumi, his damn ballet partner, was leaning against the telephone poll, fiddling with his phone. Nick rolled his eyes and gathered some snow into his chapped hands, tossing it at the back of Quito's head. He missed -- he was lousy with aim -- but he hit Quito's shoulder, and that was enough.

Quito glanced up. "Yo, Nick," he said. His nose was bright red. His cheeks were red, too, even though Quito's skin was pretty dark under his bleached-blonde hair. Nick shook the snow off his hands and snatched Quito's phone. "Oi!"

Nick stepped out of his reach, glancing down at the screen. "Really, Kitsumi? Flappy Bird? We're in college now, don't you think this is a little 2008?"

Quito rubbed at his red nose and made a grab for the phone. "It's a classic. And I haven't beaten it yet. It's a life goal of mine to beat Flappy Bird."

"You can't beat Flappy Bird. And we have our big performance in less than a week, you shouldn't be concerned with beating a mobile game." Nick gave Quito a look that said seriously? and started off down the sidewalk, pocketing his phone.

"C'mon, Nick," said Quito, chasing after him and smacking him on the shoulder. "I can work on my goal while we walk to the studio." He tried to sneak his hand into Nick's pocket, but Nick slapped his hand away. Quito touching him -- putting his hands inside his clothes -- was only for dark hotel rooms, not for broad daylight.

"You can work on building your leg muscles while we walk to the studio," said Nick, keeping his hand firmly on Quito's phone. The screen was warm and Nick's hand was cold, because he had made a snowball to throw at Quito. So this was all Quito's fault.

"Whatever." Quito let out a puff of air, burrowing his chin into his scarf. Quito was tiny for a boy, but it worked for him as a dancer -- he was lean and fit and had less weight to carry with him. Nick glanced sideways at his ruffled white hair, which stuck straight up, and resisted the urge to smooth it down.

"You've been stretching every night," said Nick. "Right?" Quito was notorious for jumping right into his workouts without warming up. Nick still remembered when Quito had pulled a muscle in his leg, their sophomore year of high school. Nick didn't remember which muscle it was, but he did remember the look on Quito's face after he had to dance on the leg for their recital.

He never wanted to see Quito look like that again.

Quito looked at Nick and grinned with his eyes -- his mouth was hidden by the scarf, but his eyes crinkled. "Yeah. I'm not gonna screw you over on that stage, bro. Chillax."

Quito thought he was so hip -- chillax and Flappy Bird and the crappy Justin Bieber music that he always made Nick listen to. Nick rolled his eyes again and said, "I just don't want you to get hurt, Kitsumi."

"Dude." Quito knocked his shoulder, grinning. "You're going all soft on me."

Nick knocked him back. "Don't let it go to your head. I just don't want to be on that stage alone on Christmas eve."

"You won't be, bro." said Quito, hitching his ballet bag higher on his shoulder. "No worries."

Nick had never been on the ballet stage alone. Not since his disastrous first recital in kindergarten, in which he had tripped and wet his pants. It was after that recital, sniffling into his mother's skirt, that his teacher had introduced him to Quito Kitsumi. Quito had been even tinier then, a skinny Asian boy in a black leotard, and Nick had been insulted by his choppy dancing.

"You suck," he had told Quito bluntly.

Quito had peered up at him with huge dark eyes. "You smell."

Nick had hit him.

Somewhere along the way Quito had gotten better, and somewhere else along the way he had maybe surpassed Nick. But he had never left him alone on the stage again. For every jump and lift, Nick could close his eyes and still know that Quito was there, supporting him. All those years.

Nick didn't want to get all sentimental, so he crouched down by the sidewalk and picked up some more snow. Quito looked confused for a second, and then he shouted into his scarf and started running down the sidewalk, bag bouncing. Nick stood up and hurled the snow at him, and this time he did hit Quito in the head, the white snow smashing against his white hair.

"I hate you!" yelled Quito, laughing, and he twisted around and -- and for a second Nick thought he was going to fall, and his heart went to his throat -- but Quito just leaned forward and grabbed snow and threw it back at Nick.

Nick dodged, sticking his hands back in his pocket, and hurried to catch up with Quito.

"You bastard," said Quito, grinning, punching Nick in the shoulder. Nick punched him back.

"You were asking for it."

"Was not." Quito reached over and dug his hand in Nick's pocket -- Nick jumped, even though there were still layers of clothes between them, and tried to swat him away. "Gotcha," said Quito, glancing up at him with that mischievous, heart-stopping smile, and he pulled his phone out.

"No Flappy Bird," said Nick, trying to catch his breath.

"Make me," said Quito, already typing away at his phone.

"I mean it. We're almost there." Nick yanked the collar of his coat up to cover his nose and mouth. "And you still have to fix my window. It's like the fucking North Pole in my apartment."

"I'll fix it after pay day," said Quito, fingers tapping. "You can stay with me until then. The couch is comfy."

Nick suppressed another eye roll. They both knew that no one would be sleeping on the couch if he stayed over at Quito's, but he still said, "Yeah, okay. Just until you fix it."

They stomped up through the snow to the door of the studio. Nick shouldered open the door and held it for Quito, who grinned at him again, finally lifting his nose out of his scarf. "Thanks, bro."

And then they crossed the threshold.