A profound love between two people involves, after all, the power and chance of doing profound hurt.
― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness
Baby, I think tonight
We can take what was wrong
And make it right
Baby, it's all I know
That you're half of the flesh
And blood makes me whole
I need you so
So take these broken wings
And learn to fly again
Learn to live so free
When we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up
And let us in
-Mr. Mister
June 2015
"Fuck. My. Life."
Anthony Hewlett-Johnson winced as he turned the shower off, then grabbed onto the support bar in the shower and used it to lift himself from the shower chair to his feet. Then he winced again - this time out of breath, not able to swear aloud - as he maneuvered himself, one hand holding onto the shower bar, shaking, as he opened the glass door, then grabbed onto the sink with the other hand and took a few paces out, to where his cane was propped up against the sink counter.
Once upon a time - what felt like ages ago, even though it had been mere months - he had been able to do things like shower standing up, get in and out of the shower without difficulty. He had taken that sort of mobility for granted, never thinking twice about it. Those days were over now. Even as he was getting around a little better since his release from the hospital, and his physical therapist assured him he'd be doing a little better still by the end of the year, he was permanently disabled now. There was no going back to how things were. The mere act of taking a shower felt like running a triathlon, exhausting enough that he was now doing it every other day instead of every day as he once did, because he simply did not have the energy for that - or "spoons", as he'd learned it was called by other disabled people on the Internet, using an analogy of physical and mental energy when disabled being like having a finite, limited number of spoons to eat with during the day and every little thing depleted the spoons available. Getting in and out of the shower used up at least half of his spoon count for the entire day.
His day was far from done.
Anthony had a towel waiting on the closed toilet seat. He sat down again and used a second towel to dry off as much as he could. Then, he used his cane to get up, leaned against the wall as he put the towel around his waist, and hobbled down the hall with his cane to his bedroom.
He was on leave from Garden Court Chambers for the foreseeable future, and he had moved back into his parents' house after the accident. Some of it had been because he was no longer safe at the flat in Kingston - the other driver had been a footballer named Justin Roberts, one of the stars of the World Cup, hailed in the press as the next Beckham. Even though Roberts had been at fault, running a light and under the influence, it scarcely mattered to England supporters, all that mattered to them was that Roberts was dead. Anthony's identity had been leaked, and there were reports that the windows of his second-floor flat in Kingston-upon-Thames were bricked. But even if that had not happened, his mother had been very insistent that he come home. Anthony swallowed his pride, even as he hated needing help with chores that used to be no big deal for him before the accident.
And above and beyond that, his mother had been afraid of him being alone. Elaine Hewlett-Johnson was no barrister herself - an architect by trade - but she knew things, especially when her son was not OK. And Anthony had not been OK for a long time now, as much as he pretended otherwise. He hadn't been OK since his ex-fiance Sören Sigurðsson left in October 2013 - over a year and a half ago - and truthfully, he hadn't been OK since the beginning of the end, a few months before he made the fatal mistake that made Sören walk out on him. Anthony had been in a very dark place before the accident even happened, and in the first few weeks following the accident, he'd had more than one moment of thinking to himself that he wished he hadn't survived. He'd ended up saying that in front of his mother one day after a particularly demanding physical therapy session, and she had responded by going to his flat and packing his things, putting anything into storage that could not fit in her car.
His mother had restored and re-designed the four-story house they lived in, while he was a small child. His boyhood room was on the second floor. Anthony had gotten to a point in his physical therapy where he could do a small flight of stairs - he had learned to hate the stair machine in his physical therapy sessions with the fire of a thousand suns - and he preferred not to. So he was in one of the guest rooms on the first floor, and the nearest bathroom was a short walk from the guest room and mercifully had a walk-in shower. Anthony's old things, right down to the mid-1990s Bush poster with Gavin Rossdale shirtless and sweaty on his wall, had been moved to the guest room on the first floor, so it almost felt the same. But it wasn't quite. And that was just as well, because he and Sören had made love in that bed in his old room - the first time he'd ever tied Sören up had in fact been in that bed. Sleeping in that bed, alone, would be rubbing salt in the wound.
So here he was in Blackheath, three months after the accident. Still not ready to return to work, and he was still nervous about going out in public, moving about so awkwardly. The suave, confident persona he'd shown the world had died in the accident. He was feeling as raw and vulnerable as he ever had in his life, though he was past the point of wanting to die.
And today, he was on a mission.
An older man named Nicholas Decaux - Sören's new partner - had come by yesterday to let him know Sören still loved him, and that they were in a non-monogamous relationship and he was willing to deal with Anthony and Sören reconciling, if Sören was open to that. Of course, Sören was still angry with him over what had happened, as he'd every right to be. They needed to talk, and Sören was likely to react badly to a phone call or a text or an e-mail. Nicholas's parting gift to Anthony had been Sören's schedule at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery for the next fortnight, complete with breaks, and a tip that they had a new cafe since he'd been there and Sören liked their chocolate espressos with whipped cream.
Anthony still had some anxiety about showing up out of the blue. He remembered back in November when he'd encountered Sören at a coffee shop and Sören had rejected his plea to start again. Even with Nicholas telling him Sören still loved him, he wasn't entirely sure this meeting was going to go well, and that he wasn't going to come off like some creepy stalker. Since November he hadn't tried again, he didn't want Sören to feel violated. But Nicholas had told Anthony that Sören was unhappy, that Sören missed him. And there were no words to even do justice to the way Anthony felt without Sören.
So here he was, braving his anxiety about seeing Sören again, braving his anxiety about going out in public by himself at all... and he had to decide what to wear.
It was the day after the summer solstice, hot and muggy. Anthony had plenty of suits from when he was a barrister - still am a barrister, he corrected himself mentally, feeling angry that he was thinking of that in the past tense. It was too hot to wear a suit without melting, especially when walking around on the cane was challenging enough to make him sweat after a short distance. It also felt like he was trying too hard, much as he knew Sören liked looking at him in a suit.
And it felt like he was hiding. The windshield of Anthony's Audi had shattered in the crash, and he had a bit of scarring from the glass; he'd required stitches for some of the lacerations. The scars on his forearms and hands would fade. The scars on his chest and back were easily covered by clothing. He considered himself lucky his face had been spared. He was worried about whether Sören would want him like this - Anthony knew that Sören was not the least bit shallow, but Anthony still felt self-conscious and he felt like he owed it to Sören to let him see the scarring on his arms, as a clue that there would be more.
He looked through his closet and he considered wearing his ancient Nirvana T-shirt, a relic of the 20th century, but that felt like trying too hard in the opposite direction, showing Sören "look, I'm totally not image-conscious at all anymore" and that wasn't entirely true either. The Nirvana shirt was fine for wearing around the house, or perhaps out to a gig, not that he'd been to see any concerts in what felt like forever.
There was a happy medium here, and Anthony had to find it. He finally settled on jeans and a light blue button-down shirt, rolling up the sleeves. No tie. He did add his Rolex, and a pair of his more expensive brogues.
He frowned in the mirror as he leaned against the sink and combed and gelled his short black hair, noticing the first few strands of grey. He was thirty-five now; it was hard to believe he'd been thirty-one when he and Sören first met, harder still to believe Sören had been twenty-six. We were so young. God.
Anthony debated whether to put in his contact lenses, or wear his wire-rimmed glasses. Sören had seen him both with and without glasses. Without won out, at least for now, though the continued standing as he put in the drops and the lenses at the sink was wearing on him. It was too bad the bathroom was a bit small for a chair at the sink.
He brushed his teeth and added a touch of cologne, the kind that Sören had liked him wearing in the past, just enough that Sören could smell it in close proximity if we make it that far, not enough to be overpowering. He did one last once-over in the mirror, and decided it was good enough.
He sat on his bed as he called a cab, then grabbed his wallet and his house keys. He hoped and prayed the cab would be on time - he was erring on the side of showing up early, in case the cab ran late, so he wouldn't miss Sören's break.
The last and final step was the one he was dreading only less slightly than seeing Sören itself. His mother was in the kitchen, getting dinner started. She paused as she watched Anthony shuffling off on his cane.
"I'm going out," Anthony said. "You know where. I may be gone for a few hours," Anthony said - allowing both for the travel time to and from Blackheath, and the fact that life was not a sitcom where things could neatly be wrapped up in a half-hour to an hour; he was prepared to linger at the National for three more hours after Sören's break to continue the conversation if necessary.
If I'm not rejected immediately. Anthony knew just because Nicholas said Sören still loved him, and it wasn't a hard no if he had "rethought his life and his priorities", didn't mean that Sören would think getting back together was a good idea. But if nothing else, they needed to talk. They needed closure.
"I see," Elaine said, stirring what looked like sauce or gravy on the stove. "Will you need a ride?"
Anthony shook his head vehemently. A ride would be easier than taking a taxi, but he already felt demoralized enough, never mind his mummy bringing him to and from the National. Sören wouldn't look down on him necessarily, Sören had loved Elaine too, but it was just his pride, and again, not wanting his mother to count the proverbial chickens before they'd hatched.
Elaine frowned, and Anthony could almost see the gears turning in her head, playing every worst-case scenario in her mind of how Anthony could fall and re-injure himself out there. Anthony leaned against the kitchen counter as he used his free hand to give her a little pat on the shoulder. "You mustn't worry. I'll be fine." He gave a tight, reassuring smile.
"You had better be. I'm making mashed potatoes."
One of his comfort foods from childhood. Anthony tried not to laugh, shaking his head as he walked out of the kitchen, just in time for his cell phone to go off, the cab driver letting him know he was here.
Anthony couldn't believe he was handing the driver an ungodly amount of money to stay in the National parking lot and wait for him instead of driving off and coming back later, but it was less anxiety-inducing to know that the driver would be there however long - or short - it took, rather than have to go through the whole process of calling again.
He had arrived with some time to kill before Sören's break, though he walked slowly enough that he wondered if he would make it to the cafe before Sören did. And then once he got there, he groaned at the little queue. It wasn't as bad as he'd ever seen, but standing with a cane for a length of time was tiresome, and he worried that he wouldn't have the coffee ready by the time Sören showed up.
Then the person directly in front of him, a young-looking black woman in a pixie cut, turned around and made a "go ahead of me" gesture. Anthony did, mumbling "thanks", though he was also mildly irritated, torn between being grateful for the consideration and that sharp flare of don't you fucking pity me.
Maneuvering the two cups of coffee in their tray to the table was a small challenge, but he did it, and took a seat with his back to the wall, so he could watch the entrance. At twelve noon exactly, there he was, getting in the queue.
"Sören."
Sören's brown eyes widened with recognition - those beautiful brown eyes that still took his breath away. Sören's full lips parted with shock, and then Sören stepped out of the queue, hands on hips, looking ready to murder someone.
"What the FUCK?" Sören yelled, not caring if he made a scene. People seated around the cafe and standing in the queue were looking at Sören now - and some at Anthony too - and Sören shook his head and folded his arms, a long-sleeved black T-shirt under his light blue scrub top, hiding his tattoos per NHS regulations. "What the fuck are you doing here, you fucking..." And then Sören exploded into a mess of his native language of Icelandic. "Þú fokking lygari, svindlari, stykki af skít! Þú ert með einhverja fjandans taug, mæta í starfi mínu, þú helvítis fokking óheiðarlegur poki af skít -"
Anthony rose from the table, on his cane. And that was when Sören saw it, his voice trailing off, mouth opening again once he saw it - the cane, the scarring on his arms and hands. Anthony said nothing, but gestured with his free hand to the two chocolate espressos with whipped cream on the table. "It's nice to see you too," Anthony said, knowing Sören had said nothing to that effect in Icelandic - he didn't need to speak Icelandic to get the gist of what Sören had been yelling about. And he felt a wistful ache - Sören speaking Icelandic was a turn-on for him. Even now.
Perhaps especially now, Sören magnificent in his rage.
Sören walked to the table and pulled out the other chair, his features and body language showing a calm that Anthony knew Sören did not feel. Anthony wasn't calm either, his heart racing, but they had already made enough of a scene.
Anthony pushed a cup of coffee at him. Sören looked down at it, then back up at Anthony. He cautiously took the coffee and took a sip. There was a generous dollop of whipped cream floating on top of the espresso, enough that Sören had a daub of whipped cream on the tip of his nose when he put the cup down. It was adorable and weirdly sexy. And so very, very Sören - the brilliant neurosurgeon sitting there with whipped cream on his nose, either not knowing or not caring.
God, I miss him.
Sören looked just as Anthony remembered him from the better days of their relationship, before the haircut that had been a harbinger of all the bad things to come. His black curls were up in a loose, messy "man bun" per regulation. He still had two holes pierced in each ear, though the tanzanite and sapphire earrings Anthony had given him were now replaced by small silver balls. Sören still had a short beard... the same pretty-more-than-handsome face, long lashes over expressive brown eyes. His fingers were ringless - Anthony didn't know if he was surprised by that or not.
And yet, something about Sören felt different. Sören had been the shorter of the two of them, not by much, Anthony standing six-foot-two and Sören exactly six feet. Sören had always felt a little shorter than that, somehow, a sort of vulnerability to him, Anthony feeling protective of him. Sören felt taller now. There was a steeliness there that hadn't been there when they were together, as Sören gave him a wary look over the cup of coffee. And Anthony realized it: I put that there. I made him bitter.
Anthony swallowed hard. "Hi."
"Hi," Sören said, stony-faced, stony-voiced. No one could do brooding quite the way Sören could, just even a simple hi felt loaded.
"Hi." Anthony felt like an idiot, repeating the greeting, but there it was.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Jæja."
Anthony could have cried. Just a simple word. He'd even missed hearing that jæja, a word with what seemed like a hundred different meanings, subtle nuances. Here it felt like a "let's get on with it".
"You're probably wondering why I'm here," Anthony said.
"No," Sören said, and took another sip of his coffee - whipped cream still hanging off his nose.
Anthony frowned, the pit of his stomach rising.
"I'm pretty sure I know why you're here," Sören went on in his dark, smoky voice, his accent milder than it used to be from having lived in London for five years but still made Anthony weak, breathy and lilting, gently rolled r's. "You decided we need to talk, hmm? Get some closure?"
"Something like that," Anthony said. "Or maybe a re-opening."
Sören exhaled sharply. Anthony sighed too.
"Look," Anthony said. "I know I fucked up."
"That's a very mild way of putting it."
"And I know I hurt you. I know. I could sit here and tell you I'm sorry, and I am sorry. I wish I could take it back, I wish I hadn't done what I'd done. But I can't. I can only apologize, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to spend the entirety of your break hearing me say 'I'm sorry' a thousand times. So with the apology out of the way..." Anthony looked into Sören's eyes. "I miss you. I still love you. There's still a place for you in my heart, in my life, in my bed, if you want it. I'll understand if you say no. You have every right to, after what I did. But I'm really hoping you won't."
Sören didn't respond immediately, just sipping his coffee, seeming to weigh Anthony's words. Finally Sören replied to his statement with a question. "What happened, exactly?"
It wasn't an automatic no. Anthony wouldn't have necessarily expected an automatic yes, nor was Anthony surprised that Sören was asking questions before he made a decision - doctors and barristers were a great deal alike in that regard, wanting to get as much information as possible about their case. What did surprise him was the straightforwardness, the cut-the-bullshit-let's-get-right-to-it... but then, he supposed that wasn't surprising either, knowing Sören like he did. He'd just been used to people dancing around issues for too long, especially after his accident when he'd gotten a lot of polite, concerned staring - one of the reasons why he disliked going out in public alone.
"What do you mean? With the accident, or with..." Anthony hated mentioning it, but here it was. "Scott."
"Well, both, I guess." Sören pursed his lips. "But let's start with the accident, since that's probably a less fraught subject."
"Only slightly." Anthony looked around the cafe. "I was in a car accident back in March. The other driver ran a light." Anthony then glanced around the cafe to see if anyone gave any indication of listening in. After his flat being bricked by England supporters, he didn't want to potentially risk assault if any of them were here right now. "My Audi was totalled. I had significant injuries - whiplash, concussion, dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, I needed some stitches from lacerations, and... I have a spinal contusion."
"Jesus," Sören said, and let out a low whistle.
Anthony nodded solemnly. "I'm in physical therapy, but there's... well, you know how it is, as someone who works on spines for a living. Only so much that can be done. I'm going to need a cane for the rest of my life, and..." Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose, heat flooding his cheeks. "I have a wheelchair for longer distances, if it can't be helped. I try to... not be in situations where I have to use it. But if, for example, I had to go to a large airport..."
Sören nodded. Then Sören leaned back in his chair, took another sip of his espresso, and shook his head. "I had no fucking idea," he said.
"Colin didn't tell you?" Colin Traynor was one of Sören's colleagues, the brother of Diana his assistant.
"Colin's private now." Sören gave a bitter little smile. "He left the National in March."
"Oh god, I hope you're not back to hundred hour weeks -"
"No. Thank fuck. My regular hours are bad enough."
A moment of silence hung there between them, and Anthony felt ready to fall apart, all of the feelings rushing back to him at the sight of Sören in front of him, still beautiful in his ridiculousness with whipped cream on his nose. Anthony wanted to kiss it off, then claim Sören's mouth and kiss him until there was nothing in the world but their kiss. And he couldn't, just yet - or at all. Anthony knew Sören knew he was trained to watch cues like body language and tone of voice, as a barrister, and Sören was carefully shielding his reactions. But there was still a sort of wall there, like he wasn't quite getting through - so close and yet so far. And it hurt.
Then Sören broke the silence with another question. "How did you get here?"
Anthony was either going to laugh, or he was going to cry. "Well you see, Sören, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much, the stork brings them a baby from the cabbage patch -"
Sören almost spat his coffee. "Goddammit, Anthony." He shook with silent laughter, eyes sparkling.
Anthony gave him a small but genuine smile. He'd missed that laugh. "I took a cab," Anthony said matter-of-factly.
"So you're not driving at all."
Anthony shook his head. "I don't think I can, after -" He hated admitting this, but he sighed. "When my gran passed on -"
"God, I'm sorry."
Sören had met Anthea, Anthony's outrageously wealthy and eccentric maternal grandmother, a couple of times during their relationship - Anthea had gifted Sören with a genuine Fabergé egg, which Sören had left behind in the mad rush to get his things together and go that fateful day when it all came crashing down. Anthony still had the egg. Anthony loved his gran, and even though her death was not any great surprise, being on the decline as she was, it had made an already difficult year that much more difficult. And he knew Sören was fond of her, and there was genuine sympathy and regret in Sören's eyes as he took in the news.
"Me too," Anthony said.
"This has been a shit year for you, huh?"
Anthony nodded solemnly. Then he said. "Anyway, when my gran passed on, I had to go to the funeral, of course. I really didn't want to ride in the back of my parents' car, so Mum got me a rental car and I. Had a panic attack behind the wheel. I ended up having to take a cab there and I was late, and everyone was bloody staring at me and..." Anthony winced, remembering, and then he swallowed hard. "So no, I can't drive these days. And I still have nightmares about the crash."
"You have PTSD," Sören said, not a question, but a statement of fact.
"Yeah, I do. I'm on an antidepressant now, but that only does so much. It's more like a volume knob for the anxiety and depression, not an off switch."
"I know."
Anthony hated admitting any of that, even though if it had been a friend confiding in him - not that Anthony had friends, anymore - there would be no judgment, only understanding. Anthony had learned from his time as a criminal defense barrister to walk a kilometer in someone's shoes and have empathy and compassion for people who were hurting. He saw firsthand how damaging the "stiff upper lip" culture was, especially to men - he himself had been damaged by it. But he still hated admitting just how bad things were, even as he knew Sören was himself very compassionate and kind, it was just a matter of pride, stupid as that pride may be. And yet he knew if he had any hope of repairing his relationship with Sören it was going to demand honesty, after what he'd done, no matter how painful that honesty was.
"But what I should have asked," Sören went on, "is how you got here as in, my break. I find it really hard to believe that you just guessed correctly and showed up."
"I didn't. Nicholas told me."
"You..." Sören cocked his head to one side. "What."
Anthony realized Nicholas hadn't told him. "He came to see me yesterday."
"I see. He didn't say anything about it."
Anthony then realized that also meant Nicholas hadn't told him about the accident, and seeing the scars and the cane had to be quite a shock. "You can ask him -"
"I believe you. I'm just... what is the word in English? Blabbergusted...?"
"Flabbergasted," Anthony said, trying not to laugh.
"Yeah. That." Sören's mouth opened once again. The sight of his open mouth and the confused expression on his face, with the whipped cream still on the tip of his nose, set Anthony off laughing, even as he knew he probably shouldn't, he couldn't help it. Sören glared, and the look of ire on his face with the whipped cream on that cute little nose of his made it even more comical... and adorable. Anthony teared up, this time not with regret.
"What," Sören growled.
"You. You have whipped cream. On your nose."
"Helvítis," Sören swore, reaching for a napkin from the dispenser and frantically wiping at his nose.
"I'm sorry." Anthony tried to calm down, but he was still chuckling. "I almost didn't want to tell you because it was so cute."
Sören glared at him again, but then his expression softened and Anthony thought he saw the faintest touch of wistfulness on Sören's face.
Then Sören said, "So... Nicholas... told you..."
"Yeah." Anthony felt a touch of guilt, like he was being a snitch, and he could tell that Sören was irritated with his partner for telling him. But he wasn't going to lie about how he'd gotten the information about his schedule. "Nicholas came by to tell me that you..." He fought off the tears that came on as he spoke the words. "Still love me, and that... we should talk. And gave me your schedule. So here I am."
"Well, he wasn't wrong." Sören took a sip of his coffee and got whipped cream on the tip of his nose for the second time.
Anthony couldn't help laughing, and that was enough of a release that he cried a little, too, much as he didn't want to cry in public. "I'm sorry. You have whipped cream on your nose again -"
Sören scowled harder as he wiped his nose a second time. "It's not fucking funny, you know."
"No, it's not funny." Anthony grinned through his tears. "It's hilarious."
"Do I look like I'm fucking here to amuse you?"
"Well, yes, actually."
If they had still been together, Sören very likely would have answered that with a you're goddamn right and done something outlandish, like find Anthony's barrister wig - that Sören had named George - and strut around with it. Or put chips in his nose. Or any number of ridiculous things Sören was prone to doing that made Anthony fall more and more in love with him, a love that still burned even as he'd tried desperately to forget Sören and move on. But now Sören seemed to be offended by Anthony's response rather than just rolling with it, and that was a bad sign. Anthony braced himself, the pit of his stomach rising again, heart racing.
"Look," Sören snapped, dark eyes flashing. "Whatever Nick told you... and I'm not going to lie and pretend I don't love you anymore, I still fucking do... but you think you can just waltz in here, apologize, and because you were in an accident and you're disabled now, that's some sort of big-ass fucking magic wand that unfucks all the fucking damage you did and we're going to go back to exactly how things used to be?"
Anthony recoiled from that as if Sören had slapped him. The brainweasel choir in the back of his head started up: See, he doesn't want you like this. He wouldn't want you anyway, after what you did.
Hot shame flared in him... and the sting of his pride. Even though his experience as a barrister had taught him to think first, then react, he still couldn't help reacting now, bristling, hearing himself hiss like a wounded cat. "You..." Anthony felt himself making a face. "You think I came all this way here because I wanted you to pity fuck me?"
Sören froze, his eyes wide, and Anthony saw him gulp, as if Sören realized exactly how his words had sounded. "I..."
"No." Anthony leaned on his cane and rose from the table. "My disability isn't a magic wand, nor is it any sort of magical power in general that gives me a new fucking perspective and lease on life, here to dispense all sorts of... platitudes... and... and bullshit. I'm not here because of my accident, I'm here because Nicholas told me you were unhappy with us being apart and there was a chance we could fix things - I'd be here whether I had been in that accident or not, because I still bloody love you, like an idiot. When you left - when I lost you - it felt like a piece of my soul was ripped out. And I've tried to move on, but there is no moving on from you, from what we had. You were special. You..." Anthony gave a shuddery sigh. "There was no replacing you. No one can hold a candle to you, and the fire of your spirit, the fire that lit up my entire world. But I guess Nicholas was wrong about us being able to fix things, because you... you..." Anthony pushed in the chair, even as that was a challenge to do. "I don't want your fucking pity, Sören Sigurðsson." He started to limp away from the table. "I'm sorry I wasted your time today, and mine."
Sören grabbed the wrist of his free hand as Anthony sidled past him. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Home." Anthony wrenched free of his grasp, and almost fell.
And then Sören was right there, on his feet, hands reaching out, steadying him. Just before Anthony could shove him away, Sören grabbed Anthony's face and kissed him. Hard.
Anthony had been waiting for that kiss for almost two years, and it was better than anything he could daydream. He groaned as their tongues met, as their tongues swirled and slid together, played, danced, teased, tasted. Sören's hands ran over Anthony's chest and Anthony felt himself break out into gooseflesh at his touch, and he felt his cock rise, straining uncomfortably in his jeans. Sören moaned into the kiss, and Anthony savored the feel of those full lips on his, the skilled tongue that could drive him crazy just by kissing, never mind everything else Sören had done with that tongue while they were together.
They pulled apart, breathing hard, looking into each other's eyes. Everyone in the hospital cafe was looking at them, and some people at a table in the corner started clapping, then one of them stood up and it prompted other people seated around the cafe to stand up and applaud. A few people wolf whistled.
"Feckin' fags," came the voice of a grumpy old man.
"Hey, shut it," Sören yelled, glaring in the homophobe's direction, giving the finger. "Asshole," Sören muttered under his breath.
Anthony couldn't help grinning. That was the Sören he remembered.
Sören grinned back, and then he frowned as he looked at the clock in the cafe. "I have to go back to work soon," Sören said. Their eyes met again. "But... this conversation isn't over. We have a lot to discuss."
"We do," Anthony said, nodding.
"Can you come back in a few hours, or do you need to meet me at another time -"
"I can wait here until your shift is over, if that works for you," Anthony said.
"OK. I can meet you in the lobby, then. Although..." Sören folded his arms. "I'd rather not have the discussion in the lobby if it's all the same to you. I don't really want my personal life being aired on the grounds of my workplace even more than it already has been."
"I can respect that," Anthony said.
"How are you for walking to Queen's Square? Would that be too far?"
"No," Anthony said. "That's a short walk, I can manage it. I'll be tired and need to sit down, but there's benches."
"OK. So let's do that, then." And then Sören stepped forward and gave him a hug. "I don't pity you, Anthony. I'm sorry I put my foot in my mouth -"
Anthony kissed Sören's cheek. His anger had passed with the kiss - and what a kiss, his head was still spinning - and he decided to go for levity to give Sören some reassurance. "Hi Sorry I Put My Foot In My Mouth."
Sören giggled, and rolled his eyes. "The more things change, I guess."
"Yeah." Anthony sighed. The more my love for you stays the same. It always will. "Yeah."
The next few hours were some of the longest of Anthony's life. It was like waiting for a verdict on one of his clients, but this time the verdict was on him, and the wait was that much more terrible. Despite the passionate, earnest kiss in the cafe, Anthony knew that things weren't quite resolved just yet, and they could go either way still. The kiss had given him a glimmer of hope... but just a glimmer.
Anthony leaned on his cane and rose to his feet as he saw Sören coming. Sören gave a small little wave and then a "follow me" gesture.
They walked side by side out of the lobby. Sören took Anthony's free hand, his left, giving him some extra support as they made the walk to Queen's Square. Sören wisely did not say anything on the walk there, knowing Anthony needed the extra oxygen as he hobbled along. What used to be a five-minute walk for Anthony was now easily twice that with his cane, and rather than being proud that he'd made that distance at all, he just felt irritated with himself as they took a seat on a bench, even though he knew it couldn't be helped.
There was still enough sun that Sören had chosen a spot in the shade, since they were both fair-skinned and burned easily. Anthony watched as Sören took the hair out of his bun and shook his curls free. "I usually wait till I get home to do this, but I'm doing it now," Sören said. "It helps me feel more like myself."
Anthony's breath caught at the sight of Sören's curls loose - he loved Sören's hair. And now he saw that Sören had been growing it out. It had been to his nape before The Haircut, and now it tumbled down to his shoulders.
"You look really good," Anthony told him.
"Takk." Sören gave a shy little smile, crinkling his nose and biting his lower lip - god, Anthony loved it when he did that - and then Sören reached out to touch his face, sending a frisson through him. "You're still just as handsome as ever."
The compliment seemed genuine, and not trying to make him feel better about his disability. But before Anthony could say anything in response, Sören leaned back against the bench and looked him up and down, studying him. "OK," Sören said. "I'm gonna cut to the chase. You really, really, really fucked up."
"I know."
"You really, really, really, really fucking hurt me."
"I know. I'm sorry." Anthony looked into Sören's eyes. "And telling you I'm sorry doesn't change what happened, but it's all I've got... and a promise to do better."
"I'm not finished yet," Sören said. "I need you to hear me out. Part of the problem you and I had, in hindsight, is that you never stop being a lawyer, and there are times when I really do not need to be argued with -"
"I'm not trying to argue with you -"
"You're just proving my point -"
Anthony looked down.
Sören went on. "Or negotiated with, or any other sort of verbal dancing around that you're prone to doing in lawyer mode. It is not time yet for you to present your case here, this is the time when I need you to fucking listen to me. If you can't do that, then yes, you're wasting my time. And I know what I'm about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but you need to hear it anyway. Do you understand?"
Anthony nodded.
"When you cheated on me, it fucking traumatized me. I had a shitty, rough childhood and adolescence, and then I was raped in Iceland, and when you and I were together, when we lived together, I finally had a home. I felt safe. In one single afternoon, our entire life came crashing down because you had to go get your rocks off with some pretty boy from Grindr. It makes no fucking sense, and it didn't just hurt in and of itself, but it's left me feeling afraid that the other shoe is going to drop. I'm pretty sure Nicholas told you that he and I are in a semi-open relationship, we're living together, and that was a big fucking step for me because of how fucking afraid I am of losing everything all over again. Trust is not easy for me, and when you betrayed my trust with what you did, you didn't just affect my ability to trust you, you affected my ability to trust, period. You created a huge fucking mess with what you did. Whether or not I forgive you, whether or not I give you a second chance, it does not change the consequences of your actions. It does not undo what was done."
"I know," Anthony said. "I understand."
"Good." Sören nodded. "If I am ever, ever, ever going to trust you again, if we are ever going to be together again, rebuilding that trust necessitates total and complete honesty on your part. I'm less offended by the fact that you fucked someone else, and more with the amount of lying that went into the act of procuring someone else to fuck. If at any time you had told me that you were not OK and you needed your needs met more than I could give when I was working a hundred hours a week, I would have been OK with you finding a bit on the side if I knew about it up-front and I met the person and they were OK and all of that. Hell, I would have been OK with having a threesome once things got to normal. It's not that you fucking someone else didn't bother me at all, it's more the way that it happened, than that it happened at all, if you feel me."
"I do."
"So the place where we start this policy of radical honesty is I want you to tell me what happened. And I don't mean the bullshit conversation we had just before I walked out the door where we both said things we probably regret."
"I really, really wish I had not made that juvenile comment about Scott being..." Anthony cringed. He hated himself so much every time he thought about it. "Bigger. I just said that to piss you off, because you called me a shallow, superficial -"
"So he wasn't bigger?"
"He was," Anthony said, "but bigger isn't better. You were better. You were what I wanted."
"And yet, you were with him -"
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right, so... may I speak, now?"
Sören nodded.
"I know you were very stressed out in those days... and so was I. A lot worse than I'd been letting on. Yes, I have a hand. But it's not the same thing as feeling skin against skin, the feeling of fucking, being fucked, pounding out that frustration, getting lost for awhile. I tried to rationalize it to myself, tried to justify what I was doing, thinking that I was doing you a favor, getting my needs met in a way that didn't put pressure on you, didn't make you feel obligated. I felt like if I didn't do this I was going to explode, and things were already so tense between us..." Anthony felt the tears starting again, and he fought them. "I told myself I just needed to work out some stress. It was very clinical for me. I got a Grindr profile, I found some idiot who could be discrete and wouldn't get serious about me..." Anthony let out a shuddery sigh, full of regret. "It was the stupidest decision of my life, and not a day goes by that I don't regret it. And you have my word I would never do something like that again."
"OK. Well... I don't expect you to not have other partners. I just want you to tell me if..."
"I don't want anyone else," Anthony said.
"Don't say that just yet," Sören said. "You never know what the future will bring. Like I said... if that changes... just tell me, is all."
"I will," Anthony said. "And I'm sorry that I didn't come to you and tell you..."
"Now we're getting closer to the heart of the matter." Sören nodded. "It's not just that you went behind my back to fuck Scotty2Hotty -"
"Oh good lord did you have to bring up that username -" Anthony facepalmed, remembering how he'd cringed when he'd seen the message on Grindr with that username, and still replied to it, thinking I have hit an all-time low.
"I did."
"How do you even know about -"
"I did some research," Sören said. "I wanted to know who this fucking skank was who was blowing you in my bed. You know I've seen him twice since then?"
"Oh have you?" Anthony tried not to laugh at the word skank in Sören's accent, or that one of the NHS's star neurosurgeons used words like skank. Now was not the time for laughter.
"Mmm. I was in a charity bachelor auction last year and he was in it." Sören looked away. "Well, we can get to that some other time."
Anthony waited as Sören got back to his train of thought. "It's not just that you went behind my back with Scott," Sören said. "It's not just that you went behind my back and set up a Grindr account. It's the fact that you didn't talk to me at all when things were going pear-shaped. I know things were tense between us. Believe me, I know. I know I was not easy or fun to live with when I was working a hundred hours a week. But at no time did you sit me down and try to clear the air. You said a few minutes ago that you were in worse shape than you let on. You really, really should have told me that. I know you're going to tell me that you didn't want to stress me out and make me feel bad and all of that shit. But in the end, it wound up doing more damage for you to not tell me, for you to hold everything in until it got to the breaking point and do something stupid, than if you had taken the risk of having a potentially difficult conversation with me about where you were at... where we were at... and what you needed. And yes, again, I know you're going to tell me that you were just trying to look out for my feelings. But let's both be really real here. You were raised in that very English 'stiff upper lip' tradition. You don't like admitting 'weakness', asking for help when you need it. It's pride for you. If we're going to be together again, if we're going to survive a second attempt at a relationship, and that's a very big if, you're going to cut that shit out. Stop trying to fucking 'man up' all the time and just be human. Especially now, with..." Sören gestured to Anthony's cane. "And whatever kind of mess your head is in from the accident."
"I'll try," Anthony said.
"Do or not do," Sören said. "There is no try. I'm being deadly serious. This is part of what cost us our relationship. It wasn't the cheating that ended it, it was everything surrounding the cheating. Does that make sense?"
"I think it does." Anthony felt the tears coming on again, and this time he didn't hold them back. They slid down his cheeks, silently. Sören watched, his own eyes misting up, but Sören did not reach out for him to hug him and soothe him. Not yet. Anthony knew there were more festering wounds that needed to be lanced before the balm.
"And that leads me to the other thing." Sören took a deep breath, looked down - weighing his words - and then looked back over at Anthony. Sören shifted in his seat on the bench, and Anthony braced himself. "So back when I told Nick I'm still in love with you, and I said that for me to reconsider a relationship with you, you'd have to demonstrate that you've rethought your life and your priorities..." Sören shook his head. "There was something very specific behind that statement."
Anthony waited for it.
"Your friends did a lot more damage to our relationship than you may be aware," Sören said. "And your response to what you were aware of was... well, not OK. I know that you were really not into wanting to think ill of your friends, because of your history with them. But Trisha and Vincente had it in for me the entire time they pretended to be nice to me. And now here's someplace where I fucked up, something I should have told you, and didn't. After the haircut incident, after Trisha 'apologized'..." Sören made air quotes. "And said she really and truly wanted to be friends, and all that shit... she sent me a bouquet of flowers at work. Before you tell me how nice and thoughtful that was, she had brought up at our brunch that she studies the language of flowers. The flowers in the arrangement meant she thought I was an idiot, and hatred, and beware. I threw the bouquet away after I looked up the flower meanings, and then I didn't tell you about it because I didn't have evidence, and I didn't know if you would just believe my word against hers."
"I would have," Anthony said, feeling stung. "You were my partner."
"Well, that's the thing. I told you repeatedly they made me uncomfortable, and you kept shutting the discussion down. 'Don't put me in the middle', you said. I didn't know for a fact that bringing up the bouquet without having it as evidence would have done any good. And, truth be told, I started to really, really resent your 'don't put me in the middle' stance. I get it that you have a history with them. But we were engaged to be fucking married. We were building a life together. I was trying to tell you these people were disrespecting me, hurting me. It hurt that it felt like by thinking you were 'in the middle', that implied they were on equal footing with your own damn partner. And by not taking a side, it felt like you were taking a side - theirs. I really don't want to tell you who you can and can't associate with, but I don't like your friends, and I don't like everything surrounding why you kept that sort of company, and that's what I mean by your life and your priorities -"
"You may or may not be happy to know," Anthony said, his voice shaking, "that I no longer associate with them."
Sören's lips made an "o".
"They ghosted me after the accident," Anthony said. He winced and facepalmed, and now the tears came on again, a little harder. "I know they were never the sort of friends I could confide in, they were just people to hang out with, but it still hurt."
"Of course it did."
"And Sören..." Anthony exhaled sharply. "You're absolutely right. I wish I'd seen it while we were together, that they weren't really my friends - if they were really my friends they wouldn't be treating my partner like that. I'm sorry for what they put you through, and I'm sorry that I allowed it. I'm sorry that I was insecure enough to allow it, to associate with them for as long as I did, as much as I did, not let myself see through..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He broke down crying, ashamed of himself - and still stung by the rejection.
Now Sören's arms were around him. Anthony rested his head on Sören's shoulder, crying into him, breathing in the lavender-rose scent of his shampoo. Sören pet Anthony's hair, skritched his scalp, rocked him, made soothing noises.
At last Anthony pulled back. He looked into Sören's eyes as he said, "I mean it when I say the accident hasn't changed me into some sort of... Zen... fucking... guru... platitudes guy who thinks my disability is some sort of 'learning experience'. But at the same time, it did show me their true colors, and made me think about why I tolerated fake friends for as long as I did."
"OK." Sören nodded. "I'm glad we touched base about that, because that..." Sören took a deep breath. He folded his hands between his knees. "That's important. That's..." Sören's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. "That's Nick, wondering why I'm not home yet. Sorry, I have to take this." Sören swiped to accept. "Hi, elskan."
Sören's face lit up, and Anthony heard a muffled but still-rich bass on the other end. Sören nodded and kept saying "mhm" and then he gave a nervous little laugh and said, "I'm fine, elskan. I ran into someone today and we're doing a bit of catching up. I'll talk to you about it when I get home, OK?"
And then Anthony made out what Nicholas was saying. "All right, dear. As you know, I worry..."
"I know. But you shan't worry too hard, OK?" Sören giggled, and there was a chuckle at the other end. "I'll be home in a bit, elskan min." More of the man's voice. "Mhm. OK. Love you too. Bye."
Sören hit End, and then he sat with the phone for a minute, his eyes soft. Anthony felt that ache - that was the other man. And though Anthony knew going into this that Sören wasn't going to be exclusive with him, it was still going to take some getting adjusted to.
Especially as Anthony's mind conjured the image of him. Handsome, tall, trim, elegant in a severe way, silver-haired and bearded. He reminded Anthony vaguely of a dark-eyed, olive-skinned version of Mikael, the older male lover he'd had during his trip to Sweden in the early aughts. He didn't know if it was better or worse that Sören and this Nick person looked so hot together...
"That call was timely because now I'm coming to our last issue... for the moment," Sören said. "That was Nick, who you've met. I don't know what, if anything, he told you about himself, but he teaches Classics at UCL. He's sixty-six. He bid on me at a bachelor auction, we had an amazing weekend, and have been together since then."
"So it's pretty serious with him, then."
Sören nodded again. "I told him that I have issues about getting married." Sören gave Anthony a pointed look, and then he propped his elbow up on the seat of the bench and stroked his chin, weighing his words again. "But it is very serious with him. My heart says yes to giving you a second chance, but I have to, have to talk it over with him and we have to negotiate. Yes, we're in an open relationship, but it's not total anarchy. We do have boundaries for everyone."
"That makes sense," Anthony said. "And I won't lie - it's going to take some getting adjusted to. I can't promise that I won't be jealous, or always unselfish."
"I don't expect you to," Sören said, "I just want you to be honest with me, and willing to well... be adult... with him. And on my end, I promise I will make some time for you. I don't know how much time you'll get, only that you'll get it. But one of those boundaries is..." Sören exhaled sharply. "One of the reasons why you cheating on me was as problematic as it was, is because we were barebacking. You put me at risk for a disease, Anthony."
"I know."
"I don't have anything, but you still..."
"I know."
"I'm going to need you to get a full battery of tests done and show me the results. On my end, I still get tested for things, but I'm also on Truvada, which..."
"I know what Truvada is," Anthony said. He couldn't believe that he was about to admit this, but here he was with putting honesty into practice. "Shortly after we broke up, I, ah. Got a prescription. For when I started playing around again."
"I see," Sören said. "Do you mind if I ask how long it's been since..."
"The last time I was with someone? The holidays. New Year's Eve." Anthony facepalmed and rubbed his face like an annoyed wet cat, not wanting to revisit the unhappy memory. "Nothing since then. Just my hand and a toy." Thinking of you every time.
"OK."
There was a moment of awkward silence, then Anthony said, "I can, ah... renew the Truvada prescription if we..."
"Yes, that would be for the best."
They sat for a moment in silence that was not entirely awkward, and finally Sören reached for his hand, and squeezed.
"Any further questions?" Anthony asked. "Or any more information you need from me?"
"Your number." Sören frowned a little. "I deleted it from my contacts awhile back."
Sören's number was still in his contacts. Anthony gave Sören the information and then they hugged again. "I need to get going home," Sören said, "and have that talk with Nick. And I've probably given you enough information to digest for now."
"Yeah, it's a lot. But I'm glad we talked."
"So am I. And if nothing else, at least you know that I still love you." Sören took Anthony's hand and kissed it.
Anthony got up, and Sören walked him back to the hospital. Sören offered to walk him to the taxi waiting for him in the parking lot, but even though Sören wasn't a fan of Anthony's pride, Anthony still didn't really want Sören witnessing all of that just yet. He needed to hang onto some of his dignity for the moment.
Not that there was much dignity to be had as he came to the cab and saw the driver shouting at two ravens hopping on the hood. The birds just stayed there as Anthony fumbled into the seat and the driver turned the car back on and started to pull out of the parking lot.
"I cannot believe these birds," the driver yelled in heavily accented English. "These damn crows."
"They're ravens," Anthony muttered.
"I oughta..." The driver pulled over, opened up the car door, and got out of the car with a clenched fist. "Hey! Hey you! Birds!" he yelled.
Anthony tried not to laugh, not wanting to make his driver even angrier, but he couldn't help it. It was even funnier to him when the birds just stayed there, undaunted, and one of them cocked its head as if to say "come again?"
The driver reached out then, about to choke them, and just before Anthony could tell him not to, the birds took off in a mess of feathers, and through the window Anthony watched one of the ravens take a dump on the driver's shoulder before it flew off, croaking like it was laughing at the driver.
"You see this?" The driver gestured to the shit on his shoulder as he got back in. "You see this shit? Huh?"
"That is a very rare occurrence," Anthony said. "Like being struck by lightning. You should maybe buy a lottery ticket."
"Bah," the driver said, and started the car again. "You buy lottery, since it's rare for you to see that, huh? I'm not gonna waste my money on that."
"I already won the lottery today," Anthony said, smiling. He closed his eyes and thought of Sören. Whatever else happened from this point forward, he at least knew Sören still loved him, and that somehow made all the difference in his life.
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