Screw Your Courage

By A.Y. Caluen

A midlife M/M romance novella about equality.

 

Casimir has a good life: a nice little house, a hard-to-get job, and an online store for his Shakespeare-inspired paintings. The only thing he's missing is someone to come home to. Then ballet teacher Misha rings his doorbell.

 

Misha risked everything on America twenty years ago, and so far the risk has paid off. The only thing he's missing is someone to share his future. Then he drops in at the online store's showroom and meets the painter.

 

Casimir let his job cost him one important relationship already. Within a day of meeting Misha, he's willing to take the biggest risk of his professional life. And Misha's willing to stand at his side, no matter what happens.

 

Adult situation, themes, and language; 32,500 words and a happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Caluen
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223904113

A.Y. Caluen

A.Y. Caluen lives in a small purple house with her husband, a bottle of Laphroaig, a lot of books, and nine pairs of ballroom shoes. She is the author of over fifty contemporary romance novels and novellas featuring creative, diverse characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

November 2018

Casimir wasn’t expecting anyone to be on the other side of the door when he opened it. The ‘Back in 5 Min’ sign was basically a courtesy to the universe in general; his tiny showroom had so little foot traffic that he often questioned the utility of maintaining it. On the other hand, on the rare occasions when someone who found Brush Up Your Shakespeare on Etsy was actually in Los Angeles and able to come to this residential neighborhood on Saturday between ten and four, they were always thrilled to walk through the door. Casimir supposed it was part of the new life model, which left so little time to Go Places to Find Things. Finding things online was the easiest, most efficient way, even in this city that had everything, given its abysmal public transportation and enormous distances. But if you did identify a person who had what you wanted, and were able to go see the person face to face, you tended to find time for it.

He had all those thoughts in a few seconds after pulling the door open, looking through the security screen, and realizing there was a person sitting on his front step. A narrow-backed person with a ponytail of straight light-brown hair, wearing a long-sleeved sweater of some thin knit with a self-fabric belt. The sweater must’ve been tunic-length at least; it puddled around the person’s hips.

Then the person turned, twisting to look over their shoulder. Casimir said, Oh.

Oh? The slim person stood, brushed down his sweater, and smiled hopefully. You’re Casimir?

I, yes. I’m sorry, were you waiting long? Casimir flipped over the sign hanging on the inside of the metal screen so that OPEN would show. Flipped the deadbolt and pushed the door slowly open so his guest could step inside and move past.

They stood waiting while the outer door was secured again. No, not long.

Good. I was away a little more than five minutes. Hardly anybody actually comes to the showroom. Come in! Have we met online?

I don’t think so. Misha Engstrom. Misha offered a hand, along with pronouns and another smile. He and him.

Thanks for that. Casimir shook that narrow, long-fingered hand. Everything about this guy was narrow. From the back he might’ve been a woman; even from the front, Casimir thought people would look twice to be sure. Tall, thin, pale, with fine sharp features and dreamy eyes. Don’t think like that, he told himself. Impersonal descriptors were best. Large, warm, long-lashed hazel eyes, between well-groomed eyebrows and high cheekbones. He might try to paint those eyes later.

***

Misha could’ve sworn Casimir Bracewell was checking him out. The thought made his mouth curve in something just short of a smile. The handshake lasted a nanosecond too long, on the very edge of ‘holding hands.’ It was lovely. Misha loved to be touched. Loved to be looked at and appreciated. Los Angeles was a good city for him; full of entertainers, full of people whose cultures were physically demonstrative. White Americans were often physically repressed. But Casimir wasn’t white. I’m happy to meet you.

How did you find me?

I’m choreographing a ballet for students of mine, based on Macbeth. So I was Googling, you know. Looking for inspiration. He produced half a shrug, with a smile that grew when Casimir’s expression changed. 

Polite interest (and possibly personal interest) became professional excitement. Ooh! Macbeth? So they didn’t want to do anything from the official ballet?

No, it’s, a dance is intellectual property. We make our own instead of paying license fees. It helps students learn. He leaned in conspiratorially, with a sidelong glance as if to make sure no one was listening. Casimir leaned in too. Misha stage-whispered, Most people remember the music, not the steps. He grinned at the man’s laugh. You know ballet?

No! Not at all! But, well. I’m the Shakespeare nut. I’ve seen a lot of different versions of the major plays. A contact of mine told me there was a Macbeth ballet and I found some clips online. He abruptly realized that they were still standing in the vestibule created by a pair of bookcases. Sorry! Come in. I actually have a place to sit if you like, or you could browse. Was there something specific?

When I found your shop online, it was the art that caught my eye. Misha was utterly charmed. Somehow he’d imagined that the Shakespeare guy would be a much older man. Instead he must be close to Misha’s age, a few inches shorter, with smooth olive skin. Dark hair and eyes. A sturdy frame, handsome face, and pleasing economy of movement. Misha followed Casimir a few steps further, into a space that invited visitors to stay a while. The walls were covered with built-in shelves that left open space for artwork: three sections each displayed a number of small paintings. Misha lost track of the conversation for a moment, moving closer to the wall to study the art. One section was all landscapes with structures: Elsinore, Verona, Dunsinane. Another section featured characters: Pericles, Hermione, Portia. The third section featured still-life paintings that spoke to various plays. ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was represented by a rose, a small ancient-looking glass bottle with its cork set aside, a letter, and a dagger. Misha made a sound of appreciation. These are yours, he said, turning. Beautiful.

Casimir blinked, blushed, nodded. My hobby.

Now Misha made a disapproving sound. You are an artist. But you have a different job?

I’m a teacher. English. At Olympus Academy. It’s a private school. Objectively I know I’m lucky to work there, but not all of me has a place there. He blinked again, as if not sure why he said that.

Misha thought it through, detecting an upswell of subtext. They had just met; it wasn’t the time to ask personal questions. But he could share. I came to America on a tour. I was with a state ballet company. My cousin lives here in Los Angeles. She helped me leave the company. It wasn’t safe for me in Russia. For people like me. I could never. He made a gesture encompassing the long hair, the eyeliner, the tinted lip balm. Fingernails buffed to a shine, the flowing sweater over a clinging top, leggings, and canvas Vans. The loafers had a pattern of hearts in rainbow colors. His gender expression spoke for itself, so he said these things simply to put Casimir at his ease, in case there was more to be said about teaching English in a private school. Or about the parts of him that lived outside it.

Was Engstrom your name in Russia?

Misha shook his head. It’s my cousin’s name. My name, it’s too many syllables. Too much trouble. No one can spell it. That made Casimir smile. But I mustn’t keep you all day.

Oh, it’s no trouble. I only ever open the front door on Saturdays. Usually nobody comes in. I spend the day grading papers. He pointed to the seating area: two slim-lined upholstered armchairs flanking a small table. If you’d like to browse, I’ll be right there doing that.

Thank you. What Misha really wanted was to sit down with the man and talk some more. He’d met so many wonderful men in Los Angeles. When he arrived, at twenty-one, his experience amounted to a few silent, fumbling, mostly-clothed exchanges with fellow students or company members, always keeping up the cover of interest in women. The one boy in their class who’d dared to openly approach a man outside the school recovered enough to walk, but never danced again.

Things were different here, even twenty years ago. Misha had made the most of it. But he hadn’t yet found a person who might be a life partner. The question was always there, never urgent. A thing he was open to, not actively seeking. Except today, seeing Casimir’s face light up at the idea of a Macbeth ballet, when he wasn’t even a dance aficionado. Mind your business, Misha told himself. He was here for ideas specifically having to do with design for this piece. Costume, scenery, lighting: things Misha was not so good at. He needed something easily achieved and relatively unobtrusive. The number was for the studio’s winter showcase, to be performed in their big classroom. Ideally they could set up any scenery before the performances began and leave everything in place. The order of performance had been set only this week, now that all the numbers were finished and evaluated. Having mentally talked himself through it, Misha was able to concentrate on everything in the showroom. Despite the distracting presence of its attractive proprietor.

***

Casimir wasn’t exactly paying attention to his visitor, but he wasn’t ignoring him, either. How could he? The usual visitor (to the extent he could call it ‘usual,’ when it was one Saturday out of six that actually saw a physical shopper) would chatter the entire time. Misha was silent. Moving slowly around, giving every item his complete attention. Casimir’s stock was mostly paper. Books, bound plays, libretti, Playbills and a few scripts from actors’ collections, with their notes. Lobby cards were in a bin under the pass-through to his kitchen, with vintage photographs of actors in character. The artwork on the walls was his own; nothing was mass-produced. The shop paid for itself, which was all it needed to do. He told his co-workers that it was an excuse to collect things he wanted anyway. None of them knew he was an artist, unless they visited Etsy and paid attention. They didn’t know he’d opened the shop after Josh left, as a way to fill the time and the empty space. They didn’t know about