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(Part 1 is here)
The fourth time Roman falls, Deniz sees why.
It’s later in the week, and it’s not like they haven’t had enough hockey practice, exactly – on the contrary; with the Steinkamps talking about professional hockey, they’ve been working harder than ever. So it’s natural enough that he’d be spending a lot of time on the ice, natural enough that he’d stay after hours, patiently trying to teach Alex some basic strategies, and Nick some basic not-getting-mashed-into-a-pulp-by-any-stray-hockey-stick skills. There’s nothing much else to do. Camilla and the other temp are running No.7 well enough without him, and his father is still not back from France, his vague statement of “a few days or a week” growing more insubstantial by every day that he’s not here. It’s natural enough that he’d spend all his spare time on the ice.
Natural enough that he’d linger past his training hours, lurking in the stands and watching Roman practise.
It’s Nick’s fault, he tries to tell himself at first. Nick and his stupid fanboy enthusiasm, but whatever he tries to tell himself, the result is this: he’s here, all without Nick, in the shadows surrounding the rink, watching Roman skate.
Watching Roman coil his muscles, dip and bend in an incredibly fluid motion, spinning powerfully, once, twice…
…and crashing down, again.
Mike smacks his clipboard against his thigh. “How many flipping times, Roman? Concentrate!”
“I am concentrating!” Roman yells back, pushing a knee underneath him to get back on his feet.
“Again!” Mike grits out. Roman stands near the middle of the rink, shoulders heaving with exhaustion or indignation or both. Even at a distance, Deniz can tell he’s tense to the point of snapping. For a moment it looks like he might just charge at Mike, or at the very least storm off the rink. “Again!” Mike shouts. Roman flips him the finger, but he does turn towards the starting point of the combination.
Deniz frowns. “Mike.”
“Hm?” Mike’s back is turned to the rink as he holds his clipboard up against the boards, scribbling busily. Deniz hesitates, his glance slipping back and forth between Mike and Roman, feeling foolish but unable to keep his mouth shut. He remembers that motion: the aborted spin, the fraction of a second in which everything goes wrong. Remembers yelling “What the hell is he doing?” at a TV screen just as Roman tilted off course.
“That third rotation on the triple Rittberger. He’s holding the check on his shoulder too long. I think it’s blocking the momentum.”
Mike lifts his eyes from his training schedules for long enough to stare at Deniz with a mixture of contempt and bemusement. “What?”
Swallowing his rising indignation, Deniz points. “Look.”
Mike follows the direction of Deniz’s outstretched hand. Together, they watch as Roman spins easily through the double toe loop and segues without interruption into the triple Rittberger. One spin, one and a half, two… Deniz steps down into the rink almost without noticing, gaze fixed on Roman’s sequence. Next to him, Mike makes a “huh” sort of noise, just as Roman barely saves the third rotation and once again comes fails to make the transition to the Salchow, hitting the ice sideways with a resounding crash.
“Fuck!” Roman punches the surface of the ice fruitlessly, once again rolling around to come to his knees. Deniz exchanges a glance with Mike, knows a moment of triumph when he sees the flicker of uncertainty there.
Mike clears his throat. “Roman!”
“Yeah, yeah… concentrate!” Roman yells back, slapping his thigh in frustration.
Mike makes a shushing motion. “Okay, try a bit less pressure on the outside edge on take-off – and relax on the third spin, okay? You need to release the shoulder check a bit earlier!”
Roman frowns at them both but does not comment as he skates back to the starting point. Deniz only realises that he’s taken a step forward when Mike’s hand on his arm restrains him. Roman dips low, lifts into the double toe loop – rolls over into the Rittberger – once – twice – thrice – there’s the shoulder, dipping down just a fraction of a second earlier, and he lands perfectly, his free leg propelling him into a half spin before he lifts again into the final part of the combination, the simple spin of the double Salchow. Whipping round, once, twice, and ending sweet and easy on a spin-scratch before he comes to a halt.
“Yes!” Deniz doesn’t realise he’s yelled it out loud until Mike lifts his brows at him sardonically; until Roman’s head jerks up and he stares at him across the half rink, brows drawn together underneath his cap.
Deniz struggles against a sudden, absurd panic as Roman skates up. The urge to turn and run is strong, an almost animal instinct that it takes all his strength to resist. It helps that Roman isn’t looking at him; instead, he’s honing in on Mike like some irate insect, stopping within punching distance.
“Okay, finally something useful – may I ask why the hell it took about seventy-three falls for you to notice that?”
Mike shrugs, clearly not intimidated, and waves his clipboard towards Deniz. “Don’t thank me, thank your ex. Apparently he thinks he’s a figure skating trainer now.”
“What?” Deniz just barely manages to draw up his shoulders and cross his arms before Roman stares at him, his expression a fair cry from gratitude. Deniz avoids his gaze and rounds on Mike instead, absurdly grateful for the half-smirk that sparks his indignation. “Yeah, well, perhaps I wouldn’t have to, if you cared enough to do your fucking job,” he growls. “You’re either texting or doing training schedules instead of watching him. You weren’t at the last World Championships because you were too busy sulking over my dad and Nadja, and you sure as shit didn’t give a fuck about how he was doing at the Germans. You’re the worst trainer I’ve ever seen.”
Mike’s eyes have narrowed to slits. “Newsflash, Öztürk,” he growls, “a quickie before a competition doesn’t qualify as a suitable training regimen. So shut the hell up.”
Deniz feels his cheeks warm with rage and guilt, but before he can say anything else, Roman steps between him and Mike. He’s facing Mike, so all Deniz can see is the tense line of his shoulders, but the cold tone of contempt in his voice is hard to mistake. Deniz has heard it directed at him so many times that it’s difficult to convince himself he’s not the focus of it this time.
“Actually, Mike,” Roman says coolly, “you’re the one who should be shutting up. I did this routine in front of you at least a dozen times and all you ever told me was to concentrate or stop wasting your time. If it takes a hockey player to tell me what I’m doing wrong, maybe that should give you something to think about.”
The fierce flash of pride at Roman’s words takes Deniz by surprise. He puts a hand on Roman’s shoulder and makes no effort to disguise his sneer at Mike over the top of Roman’s head. Then he steps around to face Roman, deliberately turning his back on Mike. “Well done,” he says, ignoring the suddenly doubling beat of his heart at the sight of Roman’s guarded face. “That was…” he swallows, searches for a word, doesn’t find an accurate one. “Well done,” he repeats lamely, and feels heat shooting to his face at the sound of Mike’s contemptuous snort. He turns on his heel, hand dropping off Roman’s shoulder, and nearly runs through the stands, to the relative safety of the locker room, while his heart beats a mocking tempo with his rushing feet, drumming, Fool, fool, fool.
Mike’s foul mood persists through the rest of his training, but Roman finds he doesn’t care, not even when he discovers that his quadruple loop is just too close to the triple combination to be workable; not even when he goes off balance on a simple sit spin and falls. He tries to brush off what happened earlier as a fluke, a lucky guess, something that anyone with half an eye could spot. But the thing is, it just wasn’t. It’s not just that he couldn’t tell what was off about his jump; he often can’t, since his perspective is just too close. It’s not even that Mike didn’t see, or care to pay attention. If he got a euro for every time Mike’s ignored him or left it up to him to figure out a technique, he could probably retire in style. But Deniz?
It doesn’t add up. Deniz Öztürk doesn’t pay attention, unless he stands to gain from it, and he stands to gain nothing from this.
Does he?
The cynical part of Roman would love nothing more than to believe that Deniz only watched him practise to laugh at his falls in secret, maybe as some sort of revenge against the brush-off Roman gave him on New Year’s Eve. That he only pointed out his problem with the shoulder check because it was an opportunity to show up Mike and embarrass Roman at the same time.
But frankly, if it was a scheme to mock him, there are probably easier ways. And there was something too genuine about his triumphant shout when Roman cleared his combination; something too awkward and real about the compliment at the boards. There’s also the fact that for all his betrayals, Deniz has never been less than supportive about his skating. More so than Roman even knew, if Annette is to be believed about the Germans. Roman rolls it over and over in his mind as he rolls through the motions of his routine, but his focus is off centre, and it doesn’t take long for Mike to send him off the ice. Roman steps past him without a word.
It was probably too much to hope for to get the locker room to himself. Deniz’s clothes lie strewn across the bench, and one of the showers is on hot, steam wafting up to the ceiling. Standing at the door, Roman hesitates as he entertains a brief notion of going home straight away and showering there. Things may have normalised somewhat between Deniz and him, but somehow they’ve still managed not to be here together since that damnable day they clashed in anger and twisted lust. Roman suspects that Deniz has been deliberately staying out of the locker room whenever he was in it. It’s that thought that tips the balance of his decision now, makes him close the door behind him and deliberately start stripping down. This is his locker room as well, and it’s about time he and Deniz returned to some semblance of normalcy inside it.
He steps into the second shower, wincing as warm water hits recently bruised skin. Blinking against the drops, he twists his head to inspect his shoulder and hip, hissing a curse at the dark red bruises forming there, one extending from his hip bone down his thigh, the other, larger one covering almost the width of his shoulder blade. There are twinges of discomfort in other parts of his body too, the muscles sore and tired from the rigorous training session, but those are good aches, the physical knowledge of an afternoon’s hard but successful work.
Successful thanks to the man in the shower cubicle next to his, and isn’t that a conundrum. Roman frowns, turns the water pressure on higher, and tries to sluice the nagging questions down the drain.
He showers for a long time in the vague hope that by the time he’s done, Deniz will be gone. A futile hope, it turns out; when he steps out of the shower, towel slung around his hips, Deniz is at the sink, fully dressed and gelling his hair. His eyes meet Roman’s in the mirror, and he gives him a nod, friendly but guarded. “Hi!”
“Hey.” Roman cocks his head at the mad hedgehog impersonation currently taking place on Deniz’s head. He can’t quite suppress a grin. “You know, I’ve never met any man, or woman for that matter, of whatever sexual orientation, who spent as much time fussing with their hair as you do with yours. You utter girl.”
Deniz makes a funny face at him in the mirror. “I’d keep quiet if I were you. Your cabinet full of beauty products could keep a medium-sized drug store well stocked for three months.”
They grin at each other for a moment of strange, familiar balance before Roman remembers that they’re hardly on bantering terms, and bends over his bag to fish for fresh underwear. The twinge of pain all along his left side makes itself noticeable just a fraction before Deniz exclaims, “Holy crap!” He whips around, staring at Roman’s exposed shoulder. “Roman… that looks nasty.”
Roman half-shrugs, half-rolls his sore shoulder. “It’s just a bruise. I’ll have Oliver take a quick look before I go home.”
Deniz shakes his head, frowning as he takes in the size of the contusion, its red already darkening to purple in sharp contrast to the pale skin surrounding it. “Oliver’s not in today. He’s taking Vanessa round the hospital for ward rounds and stuff.” He turns towards his open locker, digging around in its messy depths. “Hang on, though – I’ve got some ice spray somewhere in here.”
“Don’t worry about it.” There’s a hasty rustle of cloth behind him. “I’ll put an ice pack on it at home or something.”
Deniz frowns and clucks his tongue as his fingers finally close on the small spray dose. “You can’t even reach that yourself. It’ll only take a second.”
Roman’s already pulled on his briefs and jeans, fumbling with the buttons as Deniz steps towards him. He shakes his head, sending stray water droplets flying from his hair, and takes a step back on bare feet. “Really, it’s-“
“Roman.” Exasperated, Deniz grasps him by the other shoulder, spins him around and none too gently pushes him down on the bench. “Don’t be an idiot. This’ll help. I’m not going to grope you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds tersely.
For a second, he has every expectation of Roman lurching back up and bolting. The shoulder under his hand is hard with tension, and every line of Roman’s bare back is rigid. Eventually, though, he relaxes fractionally, his shoulders lifting with a sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Deniz echoes, snapping the cap off the ice spray dose with his thumb. He looks down at the hand-sized bruise for a moment, considering the logistics, then flops down on the bench next to Roman, swinging one leg over to straddle it and gently turning Roman around so the bruised shoulder faces him. “Okay,” he says again. “Here comes the cold part.” He wraps one hand around the front of Roman’s shoulder to keep it steady and sprays a thin film of moisture on the purpling bruise. Roman hisses and sits up straighter as the cold mist hits his skin. Deniz makes a shushing sound and sprays on a second layer before putting the spray dose aside.
Roman’s head has dropped forward, exposing the long line of his neck. “Cold,” he complains, moving his shoulder uncomfortably. Deniz doesn’t move his hand. “Sorry,” he says softly. Tiny water droplets still bead on Roman’s back where his towel didn’t reach; at his nape, his damp hair tries to curl. The bruised skin shimmers with the icy moisture, and Deniz runs his thumb around the edges of the sprayed area, smearing it a bit. The urge to move closer, to sneak his arm underneath Roman’s arm and around his chest and pull him close, snug into the cradle of his spread legs, is so strong it’s making Deniz’s fingers itch. From his sideways angle, he can just make out the rosy protrusion of a nipple, and the sight makes him swallow. Heat pools low in his stomach as he imagines leaning forward just a bit so he can close his lips on the puckered flesh and suck it taut; imagines the feel and taste of the stiff nub on his tongue, the sounds Roman might make. He squirms a little on the bench, alarmed at the force of his reaction, and forces himself to think of ice spray, applied deftly to his stirring groin.
It helps, a little.
Roman hasn’t moved, body tilted towards Deniz’s. He’s utterly still beneath his hands, the warmth of his top shoulder a strange contrast to the chilly feel of the shoulder blade under its glistening film of ice. Deniz knows he should move, should get up and brush off his hands and say something cheerful and light, but he might as well be nailed to the bench. His eyes are glued to the slight curve of Roman’s spine, the clean lines of his back, the slight dip at the small of his back before the waistband of his jeans obscures anything lower.
Deniz swallows. The gulping sound seems much too loud. Roman must hear it too, surely. It’s too quiet in here.
“How did you know?”
Lost in the momentary grip of an alternate reality where he’s allowed to slide his hand down and inside that taunting waistband, Deniz jumps a little at the unexpected question, soft though it is. “Uh… what?”
Roman doesn’t look at him; he’s reaching for his t-shirt, deftly turns it the right way out. “The third rotation. The shoulder check. How could you tell?”
“Oh.” Deniz hesitates. “Well, I’d seen it a few times. And you’d had trouble with that move before. It’s why you fell at the Germans, wasn’t it? Your check was too strong.”
Roman’s head comes up at that, his hands stilling on the t-shirt in his lap. He looks at Deniz with a puzzled expression, lips parted in surprise. “You did watch.”
The urge to roll his eyes and say duh is strong, and Deniz resists it manfully. For a good three seconds. Then he gives Roman’s uninjured shoulder a light shake and makes a face at him. “Duh.”
Roman’s mouth twists sideways in something resembling a smile, but he doesn’t look amused, or even strictly pleased for that matter. He looks like he’s trying out this piece of confirmation for size; like a man who’s just bitten into what he thought was a sweet pastry only to find out it’s savoury, and he’s unsure yet whether he likes it.
“I didn’t believe you.”
A bit of the old indignation surfaces in Deniz at that simple admission; remembrance of the fierce flash of hurt he felt when his offer of comfort was slapped back in his face with a sneer. Then he snorts, and sets it aside. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, “I suppose you didn’t have much reason to.”
His hands really are out of excuses to stay where they are, cupping Roman’s shoulder and resting on his back. Reluctantly, Deniz lets them drop into his lap. The fingertips on his right hand are still tingling with cold from where they smeared the ice spray mist across Roman’s skin. Roman’s gaze drops back down on the t-shirt he’s holding, fingers trailing a seam; then he looks back up, meeting Deniz’s eyes with a frank, intent stare. “Thanks,” he says. “That really helped.”
Against all rhyme or reason, Deniz feels something warm and pleasant uncoil inside him, making him feel giddy and stupid. “You’re welcome.”
Roman nods at him sharply and gets up from the bench, pulling his t-shirt over his head and going through his bag for a fresh pair of socks. Deniz stays where he is, rooted to the spot, and watches him dress. It’s only when Roman puts a foot on the bench to do up his shoelaces that he regains the power of speech.
“Roman?”
Roman doesn’t look up. “Hm?”
“I was wondering…” Deniz hesitates, bites his lips, and then blurts, “Could we… get together sometime? For coffee or something? To talk?”
Roman stops in mid-motion, head shooting up to stare at Deniz. This time he looks more than surprised. He looks incredulous.
“Talk?” he repeats slowly, as if he’s never heard the word before.
Deniz jerks his head in a quick nod and soldiers on before his courage can leave him. “What you said at New Year’s Eve, on the lake… I didn’t… I mean, yeah, I didn’t know what to say, because everything just happened and… I didn’t know how to explain. But I think maybe… maybe there are things to talk about? If you want, that is,” he adds hastily, feeling clumsy and oafish and about twelve years old.
Roman is still staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Alriiight,” he says eventually, drawing it out. “Deniz Öztürk wants to talk? I think this I’ve got to hear.”
Deniz scowls, not amused by the mockery, but at the same time he can’t help that same stupid giddy feeling doing a slow, shimmying rollover in his stomach. “Uhm. How about tonight? I know it’s short notice, but-”
Roman starts to nod, then stops in mid-motion, shaking his head. “Can’t, sorry. I have a date.”
“Oh.” The pleasant feeling in Deniz’s stomach disappears quick as a finger snap, replaced by something like a cold drain. “A… date?”
“No need to look so surprised,” Roman says sourly, tugging his shoelaces tight. “Men do on occasion find me attractive, you know.”
“That’s not what I… of course,” Deniz murmurs, but the instinct to ball his fists is so strong he can feel his fingers twitching with it. A date. A date? What the hell is the bastard doing going on dates? He remembers the bar at the Centre, then: the dark-haired bloke leaning close to Roman with a smile. Just some press shark, he thought at the time, spotting the camera, and set himself at ease. Now, he’s not so sure.
“Is it that guy with the camera?” he blurts, before he can stop himself. Roman looks at him with amused annoyance.
“What, do you think I’m totally incapable of meeting anyone outside of the Centre?” Deniz narrows his eyes at him, and Roman actually laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “Yes, fine, my life takes place entirely between the Centre bar and that blasted rink right now,” he concedes with a sigh. “Normal life shall resume once the damn championships are over.”
“So it’s him?” Deniz prods. “That guy?”
Roman gives him a sharp look as he carefully pulls his jacket on over his bruised shoulder. “Why do you want to know?”
“Er, no reason.” Deniz turns abruptly, starts gathering up his scattered hockey gear and stuffs it into his bag with rather more force than necessary. “He looked kinda familiar.”
“You probably saw him on New Year’s Eve.” Roman explains briefly about the photoshoot, and Deniz nods vaguely, not remembering the guy at all and not caring. A date. “He seemed… nice,” he offers lamely.
There’s a snort of amusement behind him. “He did. We’ll see.”
Deniz finds himself wishing that the photographer turns out to be a pervert, or a smoker, or a fervent hater of Showgirls. He thrusts his helmet into his bag so violently that there’s a hollow clang of impact even through the canvas cloth. “Okay,” he says, too loudly. “Maybe tomorrow, then?”
“Okay… no, wait, that doesn’t work either. Jenny’s coming back and I’m seeing her for dinner – hopefully minus Lars Berger, but with my luck, you never know.” Roman wraps his scarf around his neck and ties a casual knot into it, then stands there considering for a moment. “How about Monday?”
“Sure.” Deniz finds himself nodding like an idiot, although there’s a slightly sour taste at the back of his throat at being lined behind Jenny Steinkamp and a fucking date in the priority list. “Monday’s good. I mean… I’ve got the bar, but it’s a weekday, so it should be pretty dead – I’m sure I can rope Camilla into taking over. Eight o’clock?”
Roman nods back, still looking utterly bemused, and slightly wary. “Eight o’clock. Fine.”
Sometimes, Roman reflects as he goes through his wardrobe for date-worthy items, it might be nice to have a normal life. To have his own flat that’s a reasonable distance from his workplace; to have something resembling a boundary between his professional and his personal life; to not have everything he does or says passed on or commented on at great length within hours of its occurrence.
Then again, it would probably be dreary and boring.
“Never mind all that.” Annette, leaning against the doorframe, brushes his account of training aside in a motion so abrupt she nearly drops the coffee mug she’s holding. “I have no idea what any of that meant, other than you managed your combination because of something Deniz said, and I thought we weren’t talking about Deniz anymore,” she adds pointedly. “Let’s stick with the relevant bits, okay? You have a date?”
Roman makes a face at her as he pulls shirts from his closet in quick succession and tosses the discarded options onto his bed. “Why is everyone so surprised at this?”
Annette waves her free hand impatiently and makes a noise that sounds like Nnngggggghhhhh. “Uh… because it hasn’t happened in forever? One night stands don’t count.”
Roman doesn’t grace that with an answer, but he should know better than to think that would work on Annette Bergmann.
“Don’t make me drag every word out of you!” She’s practically bouncing on her feet, firing questions at him in an alarmingly good impression of staccato gunfire. “What’s his name? What does he do? What does he look like? Where are you going? What are you wearing?”
“Magnus, photography, “cute but scruffy” according to Constanze, Acquario’s in Steele, and I’m deciding.” He gives her the quick run-down on their New Year’s Eve encounter and, more in an effort to fend off her attempts to help pick out his outfit than anything else, hands her the brown envelope with the photograph in it. Annette opens it and gasps. “Oh Roman, that’s beautiful! Was that at Lake Baldeney? Man – you need to get this framed!”
“It’s just a picture,” Roman murmurs, pulling a black button-down from the ever-growing pile of shirts. It’s simply cut but real silk, and slides against his skin lovingly when he shrugs into it. Annette nods approval, but won’t be distracted from the photo. “Yeah, sure, just a picture, and that’s why he comes to give it to you weeks after he met you? He must be really keen!”
“We’ll see,” Roman says, non-committal, and promptly gets shoved lightly in his already bruised shoulder.
“Come on, a little enthusiasm! He took your picture, he seems to like you, and if all goes dreadfully wrong, you’ll still get to eat the best tiramisu in town. Plus, he can’t possibly be more of an asshole than Deniz.”
Roman glares at her from the side as he tucks the black shirt into his pants. “About whom we’re not talking.”
“About whom we’re most definitely not talking,” Annette readily agrees, then frowns at his trousers. “Just jeans?”
“We’re not going anyplace fancy,” Roman says defensively. “Besides, you should see him. Constanze was right about the scruffy part. I’m not going to get all tarted up for someone whose last haircut was probably last millennium.”
“Oh c’mon, it can’t be that bad.” Annette comes over, sets down her mug in passing, and starts fussing with Roman’s hair.
He waits patiently enough, unable to help himself smiling at the earnest little line of concentration between her brows, the unconscious moue of Hair Is Serious Business. On impulse, he leans forward and kisses her on the nose, causing her to yelp and rub it exaggeratedly. “What was that for?” she demands, laughing.
Roman grins back at her. “You. Dating War Command.”
Annette pokes her tongue out at him. “Well, I have to experience the exciting dating world vicariously these days. I’ve turned into a boring married woman.”
Roman rolls his eyes. “Yes, married to Ingo Zadek, who wouldn’t know boring if it tried to choke him on sleeping pills. Ingo Zadek who writes you songs and whips up corny Hollywood romance scenarios and worships the ground you walk on. Ingo Zadek, my secret crush these many years, the boots-wearing jokester prince of all my midnight yearnings. Give me a second to pity you.” He pinches her cheek. “There, all done.”
Eventually she takes a step back to inspect him critically. Past her shoulder, in the mirror, Roman does the same. His hair’s not quite cooperating and his posture looks a bit tense, his hip and shoulder still sore from repeatedly smacking into the ice full force. He rolls the bruised shoulder a little to loosen it and remembers, for a brief moment, the warmth of Deniz’s hand resting on it, contrasting with the chill of the ice spray.
He frowns at his reflection, deliberately putting the memory aside. For once, he’s not going to think of Deniz. He’s going to take it easy and enjoy himself.
Annette slides her arms around him from behind and rests her chin on his shoulder – the unbruised one, thank god for small mercies. “You look fantastic,” she approves. “Go be stunning and witty, ravish him over the tiramisu, and make sure to give me all the details tomorrow. If you get home before 3 a.m., I am going to be most displeased.”
He makes a sardonic kissy mouth at her in the mirror, hugs her goodbye, and grabs up his jacket on the way to the elevator. He’s halfway inside when the hectic clack, clack of Annette’s heels rings out behind him and she comes shooting out of his room, looking innocent and intrigued.
“And, uhm. If there’s naughty stuff, make him take pictures!”
Yes. Normal would be boring.
The thought of sitting around at home knowing Roman is off on a date with some smarmy press guy is more than Deniz can face.
He calls around for half an hour, trying to find someone he can impose himself on for the evening, without much luck; people are either out already, or otherwise engaged. Deniz tries not to let it get to him. He knows, if he lets himself think about it – which isn’t very often – that he doesn’t have many real friends. Party friends are easy to come by, but he’s learned the hard way that you should never rely on them to be there when you’re anything other than entertaining. The few real friends he’s made since coming to Essen – Tim, Vanessa, Nina – are either far away or they’ve messed things up between them by trying to be more than friends.
He reaches Vanessa eventually, after a string of busy signals, but she doesn’t have time to do anything. She’s already planned a girly night with Juli. “What, like sitting around doing your toenails and smearing green gunk into each other’s faces?” Deniz asks, amused.
Vanessa makes an exaggeratedly twittering noise at him down the line. “Yes, and talk about highlights and what boys we like best,” she retorts sweetly. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
Deniz rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, fine, drown in oestrogen.” He pauses, unsure whether to bring it up, but he can’t resist. “Are you… are you two going to be okay? Because of Oliver, I mean?”
“Oh, yeah,” Vanessa says, overly brightly. “Sure. No problem.”
“Right. She’s there, huh? You can’t talk?”
“Mhm.”
Deniz sighs. “Does she know?” he asks, instinctively lowering his voice even though there’s no way Juli can hear him.
“Don’t think so. Anyway, listen, I gotta go, okay? My oestrogen overdose is waiting.”
“Vanessa…”
“See you at practise!” she chirps, in that same, too-cheerful tone, and is gone before he can say anything else.
Deniz shakes his head, worried and bemused. “Oliver,” he murmurs incredulously, before he resumes scrolling through his contacts list.
Eventually, he manages to get himself invited to a club with some people from his modelling days. He doesn’t even particularly feel like clubbing but it’s his best option, and it certainly beats sitting at home and imagining Roman having fun with another man… laughing, flirting, doing that casual touching thing he likes to do. Deniz grits his teeth at the thought. Yes, clubbing will be good.
He’s halfway out the door when his mobile rings again. Cursing, Deniz flips it open while grabbing for his jacket with his other hand. He doesn’t recognise the number.
“Hello?”
“Deniz?” A woman’s voice.
“Yeah?” There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Deniz holds the phone between his shoulder and ear while simultaneously trying to put on his jacket. “Hello! Who’s this?”
There’s the sound of a shaky breath in his ear, then: “It’s Julia.”
For a long moment, Deniz’s mind draws an absolute blank. “Julia who?”
An exasperated snort. “Julia von Seidlitz. Really, Deniz. It hasn’t been that long.”
It’s her tone – half impatient, half indulgent – as much as her full name that kicks his memory into gear. “Oh! Julia… uhm, hi! Listen, this really is not a-”
“I need to talk to you.”
Deniz frowns and clears his throat. “If this is about me working for you again, you might as well-“
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she interrupts him impatiently. “It’s not anything like that.”
“What is it, then?”
She pauses again. There’s a sound like rustling, then a cough. “Listen, Deniz, I’d rather not do this on the phone. Can we meet somewhere? It’s really important.”
Deniz catches himself making a face in the mirror. “Julia… no offence, but I can’t think of a thing that would be important enough for you and me to meet. Besides, I’m really really busy, so if you don’t mind, just tell me what you want and then leave me alone.”
He’s not certain, but he thinks she mutters something under her breath. “Deniz. This is the fourth phone call of this sort I’ve had to make this week, and believe me, it would really, really be better if we could meet in per-“
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Deniz explodes into the phone. “Could you just say whatever you have to say? I’ve got someplace to be and I haven’t got time for your games! And I’m really not interested in meeting with you, so…”
There’s another long silence while Deniz finally succeeds in jamming his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. He’s about to growl a curse at her and hang up when Julia takes an audible breath and says, “I’m positive.”
Deniz switches ears to pull on the rest of his jacket. “Positive about what?” he demands impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
There’s a harsh sound down the line, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m talking about HIV, Deniz. I’m HIV-positive.”
~~~TBC~~~
***
The fourth time Roman falls, Deniz sees why.
It’s later in the week, and it’s not like they haven’t had enough hockey practice, exactly – on the contrary; with the Steinkamps talking about professional hockey, they’ve been working harder than ever. So it’s natural enough that he’d be spending a lot of time on the ice, natural enough that he’d stay after hours, patiently trying to teach Alex some basic strategies, and Nick some basic not-getting-mashed-into-a-pulp-by-any-stray-hockey-stick skills. There’s nothing much else to do. Camilla and the other temp are running No.7 well enough without him, and his father is still not back from France, his vague statement of “a few days or a week” growing more insubstantial by every day that he’s not here. It’s natural enough that he’d spend all his spare time on the ice.
Natural enough that he’d linger past his training hours, lurking in the stands and watching Roman practise.
It’s Nick’s fault, he tries to tell himself at first. Nick and his stupid fanboy enthusiasm, but whatever he tries to tell himself, the result is this: he’s here, all without Nick, in the shadows surrounding the rink, watching Roman skate.
Watching Roman coil his muscles, dip and bend in an incredibly fluid motion, spinning powerfully, once, twice…
…and crashing down, again.
Mike smacks his clipboard against his thigh. “How many flipping times, Roman? Concentrate!”
“I am concentrating!” Roman yells back, pushing a knee underneath him to get back on his feet.
“Again!” Mike grits out. Roman stands near the middle of the rink, shoulders heaving with exhaustion or indignation or both. Even at a distance, Deniz can tell he’s tense to the point of snapping. For a moment it looks like he might just charge at Mike, or at the very least storm off the rink. “Again!” Mike shouts. Roman flips him the finger, but he does turn towards the starting point of the combination.
Deniz frowns. “Mike.”
“Hm?” Mike’s back is turned to the rink as he holds his clipboard up against the boards, scribbling busily. Deniz hesitates, his glance slipping back and forth between Mike and Roman, feeling foolish but unable to keep his mouth shut. He remembers that motion: the aborted spin, the fraction of a second in which everything goes wrong. Remembers yelling “What the hell is he doing?” at a TV screen just as Roman tilted off course.
“That third rotation on the triple Rittberger. He’s holding the check on his shoulder too long. I think it’s blocking the momentum.”
Mike lifts his eyes from his training schedules for long enough to stare at Deniz with a mixture of contempt and bemusement. “What?”
Swallowing his rising indignation, Deniz points. “Look.”
Mike follows the direction of Deniz’s outstretched hand. Together, they watch as Roman spins easily through the double toe loop and segues without interruption into the triple Rittberger. One spin, one and a half, two… Deniz steps down into the rink almost without noticing, gaze fixed on Roman’s sequence. Next to him, Mike makes a “huh” sort of noise, just as Roman barely saves the third rotation and once again comes fails to make the transition to the Salchow, hitting the ice sideways with a resounding crash.
“Fuck!” Roman punches the surface of the ice fruitlessly, once again rolling around to come to his knees. Deniz exchanges a glance with Mike, knows a moment of triumph when he sees the flicker of uncertainty there.
Mike clears his throat. “Roman!”
“Yeah, yeah… concentrate!” Roman yells back, slapping his thigh in frustration.
Mike makes a shushing motion. “Okay, try a bit less pressure on the outside edge on take-off – and relax on the third spin, okay? You need to release the shoulder check a bit earlier!”
Roman frowns at them both but does not comment as he skates back to the starting point. Deniz only realises that he’s taken a step forward when Mike’s hand on his arm restrains him. Roman dips low, lifts into the double toe loop – rolls over into the Rittberger – once – twice – thrice – there’s the shoulder, dipping down just a fraction of a second earlier, and he lands perfectly, his free leg propelling him into a half spin before he lifts again into the final part of the combination, the simple spin of the double Salchow. Whipping round, once, twice, and ending sweet and easy on a spin-scratch before he comes to a halt.
“Yes!” Deniz doesn’t realise he’s yelled it out loud until Mike lifts his brows at him sardonically; until Roman’s head jerks up and he stares at him across the half rink, brows drawn together underneath his cap.
Deniz struggles against a sudden, absurd panic as Roman skates up. The urge to turn and run is strong, an almost animal instinct that it takes all his strength to resist. It helps that Roman isn’t looking at him; instead, he’s honing in on Mike like some irate insect, stopping within punching distance.
“Okay, finally something useful – may I ask why the hell it took about seventy-three falls for you to notice that?”
Mike shrugs, clearly not intimidated, and waves his clipboard towards Deniz. “Don’t thank me, thank your ex. Apparently he thinks he’s a figure skating trainer now.”
“What?” Deniz just barely manages to draw up his shoulders and cross his arms before Roman stares at him, his expression a fair cry from gratitude. Deniz avoids his gaze and rounds on Mike instead, absurdly grateful for the half-smirk that sparks his indignation. “Yeah, well, perhaps I wouldn’t have to, if you cared enough to do your fucking job,” he growls. “You’re either texting or doing training schedules instead of watching him. You weren’t at the last World Championships because you were too busy sulking over my dad and Nadja, and you sure as shit didn’t give a fuck about how he was doing at the Germans. You’re the worst trainer I’ve ever seen.”
Mike’s eyes have narrowed to slits. “Newsflash, Öztürk,” he growls, “a quickie before a competition doesn’t qualify as a suitable training regimen. So shut the hell up.”
Deniz feels his cheeks warm with rage and guilt, but before he can say anything else, Roman steps between him and Mike. He’s facing Mike, so all Deniz can see is the tense line of his shoulders, but the cold tone of contempt in his voice is hard to mistake. Deniz has heard it directed at him so many times that it’s difficult to convince himself he’s not the focus of it this time.
“Actually, Mike,” Roman says coolly, “you’re the one who should be shutting up. I did this routine in front of you at least a dozen times and all you ever told me was to concentrate or stop wasting your time. If it takes a hockey player to tell me what I’m doing wrong, maybe that should give you something to think about.”
The fierce flash of pride at Roman’s words takes Deniz by surprise. He puts a hand on Roman’s shoulder and makes no effort to disguise his sneer at Mike over the top of Roman’s head. Then he steps around to face Roman, deliberately turning his back on Mike. “Well done,” he says, ignoring the suddenly doubling beat of his heart at the sight of Roman’s guarded face. “That was…” he swallows, searches for a word, doesn’t find an accurate one. “Well done,” he repeats lamely, and feels heat shooting to his face at the sound of Mike’s contemptuous snort. He turns on his heel, hand dropping off Roman’s shoulder, and nearly runs through the stands, to the relative safety of the locker room, while his heart beats a mocking tempo with his rushing feet, drumming, Fool, fool, fool.
***
Mike’s foul mood persists through the rest of his training, but Roman finds he doesn’t care, not even when he discovers that his quadruple loop is just too close to the triple combination to be workable; not even when he goes off balance on a simple sit spin and falls. He tries to brush off what happened earlier as a fluke, a lucky guess, something that anyone with half an eye could spot. But the thing is, it just wasn’t. It’s not just that he couldn’t tell what was off about his jump; he often can’t, since his perspective is just too close. It’s not even that Mike didn’t see, or care to pay attention. If he got a euro for every time Mike’s ignored him or left it up to him to figure out a technique, he could probably retire in style. But Deniz?
It doesn’t add up. Deniz Öztürk doesn’t pay attention, unless he stands to gain from it, and he stands to gain nothing from this.
Does he?
The cynical part of Roman would love nothing more than to believe that Deniz only watched him practise to laugh at his falls in secret, maybe as some sort of revenge against the brush-off Roman gave him on New Year’s Eve. That he only pointed out his problem with the shoulder check because it was an opportunity to show up Mike and embarrass Roman at the same time.
But frankly, if it was a scheme to mock him, there are probably easier ways. And there was something too genuine about his triumphant shout when Roman cleared his combination; something too awkward and real about the compliment at the boards. There’s also the fact that for all his betrayals, Deniz has never been less than supportive about his skating. More so than Roman even knew, if Annette is to be believed about the Germans. Roman rolls it over and over in his mind as he rolls through the motions of his routine, but his focus is off centre, and it doesn’t take long for Mike to send him off the ice. Roman steps past him without a word.
It was probably too much to hope for to get the locker room to himself. Deniz’s clothes lie strewn across the bench, and one of the showers is on hot, steam wafting up to the ceiling. Standing at the door, Roman hesitates as he entertains a brief notion of going home straight away and showering there. Things may have normalised somewhat between Deniz and him, but somehow they’ve still managed not to be here together since that damnable day they clashed in anger and twisted lust. Roman suspects that Deniz has been deliberately staying out of the locker room whenever he was in it. It’s that thought that tips the balance of his decision now, makes him close the door behind him and deliberately start stripping down. This is his locker room as well, and it’s about time he and Deniz returned to some semblance of normalcy inside it.
He steps into the second shower, wincing as warm water hits recently bruised skin. Blinking against the drops, he twists his head to inspect his shoulder and hip, hissing a curse at the dark red bruises forming there, one extending from his hip bone down his thigh, the other, larger one covering almost the width of his shoulder blade. There are twinges of discomfort in other parts of his body too, the muscles sore and tired from the rigorous training session, but those are good aches, the physical knowledge of an afternoon’s hard but successful work.
Successful thanks to the man in the shower cubicle next to his, and isn’t that a conundrum. Roman frowns, turns the water pressure on higher, and tries to sluice the nagging questions down the drain.
He showers for a long time in the vague hope that by the time he’s done, Deniz will be gone. A futile hope, it turns out; when he steps out of the shower, towel slung around his hips, Deniz is at the sink, fully dressed and gelling his hair. His eyes meet Roman’s in the mirror, and he gives him a nod, friendly but guarded. “Hi!”
“Hey.” Roman cocks his head at the mad hedgehog impersonation currently taking place on Deniz’s head. He can’t quite suppress a grin. “You know, I’ve never met any man, or woman for that matter, of whatever sexual orientation, who spent as much time fussing with their hair as you do with yours. You utter girl.”
Deniz makes a funny face at him in the mirror. “I’d keep quiet if I were you. Your cabinet full of beauty products could keep a medium-sized drug store well stocked for three months.”
They grin at each other for a moment of strange, familiar balance before Roman remembers that they’re hardly on bantering terms, and bends over his bag to fish for fresh underwear. The twinge of pain all along his left side makes itself noticeable just a fraction before Deniz exclaims, “Holy crap!” He whips around, staring at Roman’s exposed shoulder. “Roman… that looks nasty.”
Roman half-shrugs, half-rolls his sore shoulder. “It’s just a bruise. I’ll have Oliver take a quick look before I go home.”
***
Deniz shakes his head, frowning as he takes in the size of the contusion, its red already darkening to purple in sharp contrast to the pale skin surrounding it. “Oliver’s not in today. He’s taking Vanessa round the hospital for ward rounds and stuff.” He turns towards his open locker, digging around in its messy depths. “Hang on, though – I’ve got some ice spray somewhere in here.”
“Don’t worry about it.” There’s a hasty rustle of cloth behind him. “I’ll put an ice pack on it at home or something.”
Deniz frowns and clucks his tongue as his fingers finally close on the small spray dose. “You can’t even reach that yourself. It’ll only take a second.”
Roman’s already pulled on his briefs and jeans, fumbling with the buttons as Deniz steps towards him. He shakes his head, sending stray water droplets flying from his hair, and takes a step back on bare feet. “Really, it’s-“
“Roman.” Exasperated, Deniz grasps him by the other shoulder, spins him around and none too gently pushes him down on the bench. “Don’t be an idiot. This’ll help. I’m not going to grope you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds tersely.
For a second, he has every expectation of Roman lurching back up and bolting. The shoulder under his hand is hard with tension, and every line of Roman’s bare back is rigid. Eventually, though, he relaxes fractionally, his shoulders lifting with a sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Deniz echoes, snapping the cap off the ice spray dose with his thumb. He looks down at the hand-sized bruise for a moment, considering the logistics, then flops down on the bench next to Roman, swinging one leg over to straddle it and gently turning Roman around so the bruised shoulder faces him. “Okay,” he says again. “Here comes the cold part.” He wraps one hand around the front of Roman’s shoulder to keep it steady and sprays a thin film of moisture on the purpling bruise. Roman hisses and sits up straighter as the cold mist hits his skin. Deniz makes a shushing sound and sprays on a second layer before putting the spray dose aside.
Roman’s head has dropped forward, exposing the long line of his neck. “Cold,” he complains, moving his shoulder uncomfortably. Deniz doesn’t move his hand. “Sorry,” he says softly. Tiny water droplets still bead on Roman’s back where his towel didn’t reach; at his nape, his damp hair tries to curl. The bruised skin shimmers with the icy moisture, and Deniz runs his thumb around the edges of the sprayed area, smearing it a bit. The urge to move closer, to sneak his arm underneath Roman’s arm and around his chest and pull him close, snug into the cradle of his spread legs, is so strong it’s making Deniz’s fingers itch. From his sideways angle, he can just make out the rosy protrusion of a nipple, and the sight makes him swallow. Heat pools low in his stomach as he imagines leaning forward just a bit so he can close his lips on the puckered flesh and suck it taut; imagines the feel and taste of the stiff nub on his tongue, the sounds Roman might make. He squirms a little on the bench, alarmed at the force of his reaction, and forces himself to think of ice spray, applied deftly to his stirring groin.
It helps, a little.
Roman hasn’t moved, body tilted towards Deniz’s. He’s utterly still beneath his hands, the warmth of his top shoulder a strange contrast to the chilly feel of the shoulder blade under its glistening film of ice. Deniz knows he should move, should get up and brush off his hands and say something cheerful and light, but he might as well be nailed to the bench. His eyes are glued to the slight curve of Roman’s spine, the clean lines of his back, the slight dip at the small of his back before the waistband of his jeans obscures anything lower.
Deniz swallows. The gulping sound seems much too loud. Roman must hear it too, surely. It’s too quiet in here.
“How did you know?”
Lost in the momentary grip of an alternate reality where he’s allowed to slide his hand down and inside that taunting waistband, Deniz jumps a little at the unexpected question, soft though it is. “Uh… what?”
Roman doesn’t look at him; he’s reaching for his t-shirt, deftly turns it the right way out. “The third rotation. The shoulder check. How could you tell?”
“Oh.” Deniz hesitates. “Well, I’d seen it a few times. And you’d had trouble with that move before. It’s why you fell at the Germans, wasn’t it? Your check was too strong.”
Roman’s head comes up at that, his hands stilling on the t-shirt in his lap. He looks at Deniz with a puzzled expression, lips parted in surprise. “You did watch.”
The urge to roll his eyes and say duh is strong, and Deniz resists it manfully. For a good three seconds. Then he gives Roman’s uninjured shoulder a light shake and makes a face at him. “Duh.”
Roman’s mouth twists sideways in something resembling a smile, but he doesn’t look amused, or even strictly pleased for that matter. He looks like he’s trying out this piece of confirmation for size; like a man who’s just bitten into what he thought was a sweet pastry only to find out it’s savoury, and he’s unsure yet whether he likes it.
“I didn’t believe you.”
A bit of the old indignation surfaces in Deniz at that simple admission; remembrance of the fierce flash of hurt he felt when his offer of comfort was slapped back in his face with a sneer. Then he snorts, and sets it aside. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, “I suppose you didn’t have much reason to.”
His hands really are out of excuses to stay where they are, cupping Roman’s shoulder and resting on his back. Reluctantly, Deniz lets them drop into his lap. The fingertips on his right hand are still tingling with cold from where they smeared the ice spray mist across Roman’s skin. Roman’s gaze drops back down on the t-shirt he’s holding, fingers trailing a seam; then he looks back up, meeting Deniz’s eyes with a frank, intent stare. “Thanks,” he says. “That really helped.”
Against all rhyme or reason, Deniz feels something warm and pleasant uncoil inside him, making him feel giddy and stupid. “You’re welcome.”
Roman nods at him sharply and gets up from the bench, pulling his t-shirt over his head and going through his bag for a fresh pair of socks. Deniz stays where he is, rooted to the spot, and watches him dress. It’s only when Roman puts a foot on the bench to do up his shoelaces that he regains the power of speech.
“Roman?”
Roman doesn’t look up. “Hm?”
“I was wondering…” Deniz hesitates, bites his lips, and then blurts, “Could we… get together sometime? For coffee or something? To talk?”
Roman stops in mid-motion, head shooting up to stare at Deniz. This time he looks more than surprised. He looks incredulous.
“Talk?” he repeats slowly, as if he’s never heard the word before.
Deniz jerks his head in a quick nod and soldiers on before his courage can leave him. “What you said at New Year’s Eve, on the lake… I didn’t… I mean, yeah, I didn’t know what to say, because everything just happened and… I didn’t know how to explain. But I think maybe… maybe there are things to talk about? If you want, that is,” he adds hastily, feeling clumsy and oafish and about twelve years old.
Roman is still staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Alriiight,” he says eventually, drawing it out. “Deniz Öztürk wants to talk? I think this I’ve got to hear.”
Deniz scowls, not amused by the mockery, but at the same time he can’t help that same stupid giddy feeling doing a slow, shimmying rollover in his stomach. “Uhm. How about tonight? I know it’s short notice, but-”
Roman starts to nod, then stops in mid-motion, shaking his head. “Can’t, sorry. I have a date.”
“Oh.” The pleasant feeling in Deniz’s stomach disappears quick as a finger snap, replaced by something like a cold drain. “A… date?”
“No need to look so surprised,” Roman says sourly, tugging his shoelaces tight. “Men do on occasion find me attractive, you know.”
“That’s not what I… of course,” Deniz murmurs, but the instinct to ball his fists is so strong he can feel his fingers twitching with it. A date. A date? What the hell is the bastard doing going on dates? He remembers the bar at the Centre, then: the dark-haired bloke leaning close to Roman with a smile. Just some press shark, he thought at the time, spotting the camera, and set himself at ease. Now, he’s not so sure.
“Is it that guy with the camera?” he blurts, before he can stop himself. Roman looks at him with amused annoyance.
“What, do you think I’m totally incapable of meeting anyone outside of the Centre?” Deniz narrows his eyes at him, and Roman actually laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “Yes, fine, my life takes place entirely between the Centre bar and that blasted rink right now,” he concedes with a sigh. “Normal life shall resume once the damn championships are over.”
“So it’s him?” Deniz prods. “That guy?”
Roman gives him a sharp look as he carefully pulls his jacket on over his bruised shoulder. “Why do you want to know?”
“Er, no reason.” Deniz turns abruptly, starts gathering up his scattered hockey gear and stuffs it into his bag with rather more force than necessary. “He looked kinda familiar.”
“You probably saw him on New Year’s Eve.” Roman explains briefly about the photoshoot, and Deniz nods vaguely, not remembering the guy at all and not caring. A date. “He seemed… nice,” he offers lamely.
There’s a snort of amusement behind him. “He did. We’ll see.”
Deniz finds himself wishing that the photographer turns out to be a pervert, or a smoker, or a fervent hater of Showgirls. He thrusts his helmet into his bag so violently that there’s a hollow clang of impact even through the canvas cloth. “Okay,” he says, too loudly. “Maybe tomorrow, then?”
“Okay… no, wait, that doesn’t work either. Jenny’s coming back and I’m seeing her for dinner – hopefully minus Lars Berger, but with my luck, you never know.” Roman wraps his scarf around his neck and ties a casual knot into it, then stands there considering for a moment. “How about Monday?”
“Sure.” Deniz finds himself nodding like an idiot, although there’s a slightly sour taste at the back of his throat at being lined behind Jenny Steinkamp and a fucking date in the priority list. “Monday’s good. I mean… I’ve got the bar, but it’s a weekday, so it should be pretty dead – I’m sure I can rope Camilla into taking over. Eight o’clock?”
Roman nods back, still looking utterly bemused, and slightly wary. “Eight o’clock. Fine.”
***
Sometimes, Roman reflects as he goes through his wardrobe for date-worthy items, it might be nice to have a normal life. To have his own flat that’s a reasonable distance from his workplace; to have something resembling a boundary between his professional and his personal life; to not have everything he does or says passed on or commented on at great length within hours of its occurrence.
Then again, it would probably be dreary and boring.
“Never mind all that.” Annette, leaning against the doorframe, brushes his account of training aside in a motion so abrupt she nearly drops the coffee mug she’s holding. “I have no idea what any of that meant, other than you managed your combination because of something Deniz said, and I thought we weren’t talking about Deniz anymore,” she adds pointedly. “Let’s stick with the relevant bits, okay? You have a date?”
Roman makes a face at her as he pulls shirts from his closet in quick succession and tosses the discarded options onto his bed. “Why is everyone so surprised at this?”
Annette waves her free hand impatiently and makes a noise that sounds like Nnngggggghhhhh. “Uh… because it hasn’t happened in forever? One night stands don’t count.”
Roman doesn’t grace that with an answer, but he should know better than to think that would work on Annette Bergmann.
“Don’t make me drag every word out of you!” She’s practically bouncing on her feet, firing questions at him in an alarmingly good impression of staccato gunfire. “What’s his name? What does he do? What does he look like? Where are you going? What are you wearing?”
“Magnus, photography, “cute but scruffy” according to Constanze, Acquario’s in Steele, and I’m deciding.” He gives her the quick run-down on their New Year’s Eve encounter and, more in an effort to fend off her attempts to help pick out his outfit than anything else, hands her the brown envelope with the photograph in it. Annette opens it and gasps. “Oh Roman, that’s beautiful! Was that at Lake Baldeney? Man – you need to get this framed!”
“It’s just a picture,” Roman murmurs, pulling a black button-down from the ever-growing pile of shirts. It’s simply cut but real silk, and slides against his skin lovingly when he shrugs into it. Annette nods approval, but won’t be distracted from the photo. “Yeah, sure, just a picture, and that’s why he comes to give it to you weeks after he met you? He must be really keen!”
“We’ll see,” Roman says, non-committal, and promptly gets shoved lightly in his already bruised shoulder.
“Come on, a little enthusiasm! He took your picture, he seems to like you, and if all goes dreadfully wrong, you’ll still get to eat the best tiramisu in town. Plus, he can’t possibly be more of an asshole than Deniz.”
Roman glares at her from the side as he tucks the black shirt into his pants. “About whom we’re not talking.”
“About whom we’re most definitely not talking,” Annette readily agrees, then frowns at his trousers. “Just jeans?”
“We’re not going anyplace fancy,” Roman says defensively. “Besides, you should see him. Constanze was right about the scruffy part. I’m not going to get all tarted up for someone whose last haircut was probably last millennium.”
“Oh c’mon, it can’t be that bad.” Annette comes over, sets down her mug in passing, and starts fussing with Roman’s hair.
He waits patiently enough, unable to help himself smiling at the earnest little line of concentration between her brows, the unconscious moue of Hair Is Serious Business. On impulse, he leans forward and kisses her on the nose, causing her to yelp and rub it exaggeratedly. “What was that for?” she demands, laughing.
Roman grins back at her. “You. Dating War Command.”
Annette pokes her tongue out at him. “Well, I have to experience the exciting dating world vicariously these days. I’ve turned into a boring married woman.”
Roman rolls his eyes. “Yes, married to Ingo Zadek, who wouldn’t know boring if it tried to choke him on sleeping pills. Ingo Zadek who writes you songs and whips up corny Hollywood romance scenarios and worships the ground you walk on. Ingo Zadek, my secret crush these many years, the boots-wearing jokester prince of all my midnight yearnings. Give me a second to pity you.” He pinches her cheek. “There, all done.”
Eventually she takes a step back to inspect him critically. Past her shoulder, in the mirror, Roman does the same. His hair’s not quite cooperating and his posture looks a bit tense, his hip and shoulder still sore from repeatedly smacking into the ice full force. He rolls the bruised shoulder a little to loosen it and remembers, for a brief moment, the warmth of Deniz’s hand resting on it, contrasting with the chill of the ice spray.
He frowns at his reflection, deliberately putting the memory aside. For once, he’s not going to think of Deniz. He’s going to take it easy and enjoy himself.
Annette slides her arms around him from behind and rests her chin on his shoulder – the unbruised one, thank god for small mercies. “You look fantastic,” she approves. “Go be stunning and witty, ravish him over the tiramisu, and make sure to give me all the details tomorrow. If you get home before 3 a.m., I am going to be most displeased.”
He makes a sardonic kissy mouth at her in the mirror, hugs her goodbye, and grabs up his jacket on the way to the elevator. He’s halfway inside when the hectic clack, clack of Annette’s heels rings out behind him and she comes shooting out of his room, looking innocent and intrigued.
“And, uhm. If there’s naughty stuff, make him take pictures!”
Yes. Normal would be boring.
***
The thought of sitting around at home knowing Roman is off on a date with some smarmy press guy is more than Deniz can face.
He calls around for half an hour, trying to find someone he can impose himself on for the evening, without much luck; people are either out already, or otherwise engaged. Deniz tries not to let it get to him. He knows, if he lets himself think about it – which isn’t very often – that he doesn’t have many real friends. Party friends are easy to come by, but he’s learned the hard way that you should never rely on them to be there when you’re anything other than entertaining. The few real friends he’s made since coming to Essen – Tim, Vanessa, Nina – are either far away or they’ve messed things up between them by trying to be more than friends.
He reaches Vanessa eventually, after a string of busy signals, but she doesn’t have time to do anything. She’s already planned a girly night with Juli. “What, like sitting around doing your toenails and smearing green gunk into each other’s faces?” Deniz asks, amused.
Vanessa makes an exaggeratedly twittering noise at him down the line. “Yes, and talk about highlights and what boys we like best,” she retorts sweetly. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
Deniz rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, fine, drown in oestrogen.” He pauses, unsure whether to bring it up, but he can’t resist. “Are you… are you two going to be okay? Because of Oliver, I mean?”
“Oh, yeah,” Vanessa says, overly brightly. “Sure. No problem.”
“Right. She’s there, huh? You can’t talk?”
“Mhm.”
Deniz sighs. “Does she know?” he asks, instinctively lowering his voice even though there’s no way Juli can hear him.
“Don’t think so. Anyway, listen, I gotta go, okay? My oestrogen overdose is waiting.”
“Vanessa…”
“See you at practise!” she chirps, in that same, too-cheerful tone, and is gone before he can say anything else.
Deniz shakes his head, worried and bemused. “Oliver,” he murmurs incredulously, before he resumes scrolling through his contacts list.
Eventually, he manages to get himself invited to a club with some people from his modelling days. He doesn’t even particularly feel like clubbing but it’s his best option, and it certainly beats sitting at home and imagining Roman having fun with another man… laughing, flirting, doing that casual touching thing he likes to do. Deniz grits his teeth at the thought. Yes, clubbing will be good.
He’s halfway out the door when his mobile rings again. Cursing, Deniz flips it open while grabbing for his jacket with his other hand. He doesn’t recognise the number.
“Hello?”
“Deniz?” A woman’s voice.
“Yeah?” There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Deniz holds the phone between his shoulder and ear while simultaneously trying to put on his jacket. “Hello! Who’s this?”
There’s the sound of a shaky breath in his ear, then: “It’s Julia.”
For a long moment, Deniz’s mind draws an absolute blank. “Julia who?”
An exasperated snort. “Julia von Seidlitz. Really, Deniz. It hasn’t been that long.”
It’s her tone – half impatient, half indulgent – as much as her full name that kicks his memory into gear. “Oh! Julia… uhm, hi! Listen, this really is not a-”
“I need to talk to you.”
Deniz frowns and clears his throat. “If this is about me working for you again, you might as well-“
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she interrupts him impatiently. “It’s not anything like that.”
“What is it, then?”
She pauses again. There’s a sound like rustling, then a cough. “Listen, Deniz, I’d rather not do this on the phone. Can we meet somewhere? It’s really important.”
Deniz catches himself making a face in the mirror. “Julia… no offence, but I can’t think of a thing that would be important enough for you and me to meet. Besides, I’m really really busy, so if you don’t mind, just tell me what you want and then leave me alone.”
He’s not certain, but he thinks she mutters something under her breath. “Deniz. This is the fourth phone call of this sort I’ve had to make this week, and believe me, it would really, really be better if we could meet in per-“
“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Deniz explodes into the phone. “Could you just say whatever you have to say? I’ve got someplace to be and I haven’t got time for your games! And I’m really not interested in meeting with you, so…”
There’s another long silence while Deniz finally succeeds in jamming his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. He’s about to growl a curse at her and hang up when Julia takes an audible breath and says, “I’m positive.”
Deniz switches ears to pull on the rest of his jacket. “Positive about what?” he demands impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
There’s a harsh sound down the line, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m talking about HIV, Deniz. I’m HIV-positive.”
~~~TBC~~~
