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Carlos and Luc 
By Fortuita James 

Carlos stepped down from the podium with a final 
pleased wave for the crowd.

  Taking deep breaths to flood his system with 
oxygen, he let the excitement seep out of him. 
It was over.

  But there was something, someone else to face. 
Someone who set his blood to pounding just as 
fast. His competition. The silver medallist. Luc.

  He had blocked the man out, focused on his 
performance. Successfully, obviously. Now, there 
should be a reckoning. Their rivalry had always 
been stringent, but never bitter, and always 
laced with a current of something else. Carlos 
knew he couldn't leave it as it was.

  They both spoke, their moments on TV around the 
world, until Carlos saw Luc heading for the 
dressing room. He excused himself from journalist 
and trainer, and slowly followed him. 

  Luc was alone in there, a strange half-smile on 
his face as he removed his medal, putting it in a 
case.

  Carlos watched the ritualistic action, before 
making his presence known as Luc started to strip 
off. 

  The same half-smile was still on his face when 
he turned slightly.

  "Carlos," he acknowledged, unlacing his sneakers, 
"Congratulations."

  Carlos smiled warmly. "You too."

  Luc shrugged out of his shirt. "I don't think 
the outcome was in doubt."

  Carlos laughed. "It certainly was. You were...
are worthy competition."

  "but not, I think, in your league. And this will 
be my last international competition."

  Carlos' mind tried to grasp that. As long as he'd 
been on the circuit, Luc had been there, often a 
step ahead. It didn't seem right that he wouldn't 
see him again.

  "Why?" That sounded too desperate. He tried again. 
"Did I scare you off?"

  That strange smile took his face again.

  "Not exactly. You were a factor. It's just my time, 
Carlos."

  "Don't," he let out, words leaping uncontrolled 
from inside him. "I don't want you to leave."

  "Leave ice skating?" he questioned gently, and 
Carlos became aware of what he'd been saying. He 
blushed.

  "I'm going to be a trainer, you now. And a 
choreographer. There's a piece I've wanted to put 
together. But I can't skate it, I'm not good enough. 
And," he added calmly, "it means too much to me. I 
could never put that much emotion in my performance. 
You do."

  Carlos' insides swelled anticipating what came 
next. 

  "You could skate it for me."

  "I will."  Carlos stepped down from the podium 
with a final pleased wave for the crowd.

  World champion.

  He hugged his mother, his coach, but all the time 
his eyes were fixed on an elegant curve of jaw.

  Luc's. The head slowly turned, their eyes met in a 
glance fathoms deep. Carlos dredged up a good-humoured 
smile from somewhere. Strangely, it made Luc's face 
turn a little bit darker. He looked away, leaving 
Carlos with only that elegant line of jaw and neck. 
Interesting in its way, but not what he wanted to see. 

  There should be pride, he supposed, in those eyes.

  Luc met him in the dressing room, an echo of the 
Olympics.

  "Thankyou." It was bland, as if thanking a stranger 
for the time. "I'm glad I saw it skated."

  "Happy to do it. It was beautiful."

  Now, a strange wistfulness stole over its creator. 
"Yes. It was." And he turned away, walked out.

  Carlos shrugged off the sting of disappointment. He 
should be happy, thrilled. He would be. He didn't 
understand that mental bruising. 

  It was only later, watching tapes of his routine, 
that he understood.

  Luc hadn't wanted Carlos to skate it. He was 
perfectly capable of doing it himself. He wanted 
Carlos to feel it. And, in the pressure of competition, 
he hadn't thought, hadn't felt. Hadn't performed with 
the love and admiration the flow needed. Oh, not for 
the judges. It was a great routine. For Luc.

  A week of thinking, coming down, and finally he knew 
he was ready. He had his coach call Luc, get him to 
come to the rink. To finalise the details of their 
partnership, he said.

  And Luc came, silent and brooding.

  He stepped into the building, and the music swelled. 
Carlos flowed into the first forms of this most vital 
dance. 

  He twisted his heart as he spun in the air, put every 
drop of remembrance, gratitude, friendship, even 
competition into the first half of the routine. And 
then more.

  It seemed he was dancing for everything. And in his 
mind, he was.

  As the last chords faded away, he slid over to Luc's 
rink-side position.

  "Yes," he said quietly, "I love you too."

  "God," it was a breath. Less. Barely an exhalation, 
but tears were falling down his smooth face. "God 
Carlos. Thankyou for skating it for me." And this time 
he meant it.  

The End 

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