The "Snoop Dogg Starry Night" portrait is by me, and the portrait of pre-transition Anthony is by my friend SemperViridis.
_
Anthony's heart skipped a beat as he pulled up in front of the steel-blue duplex where Mark and Sören lived.
As a rule, Anthony was a shy introvert who mostly kept to himself. He attended a Reform synagogue in Portland for the Jewish holidays, and occasionally accepted an invite to Shabbat dinner - and usually felt like a fifth wheel as he was one of the few members of the congregation who was over 40 and single, and though his congregation was LGBTQ-affirming, that didn't stop some of the well-meaning but clueless older members from trying to set him up with their very nice daughter because people either assumed he was a cishet guy, or the few who knew he was trans didn't understand that "gay trans man" meant "into guys".
Of course, even if people were offering to introduce him to gay sons, Anthony knew it probably wouldn't work. He was divorced - he'd married while female-facing, and the entire reason he'd come to the States from the UK was to start over again after he'd brought up his gender dysphoria to his then-husband Steve, who had a homophobic meltdown and then tried to ruin his life after he left and began transition - and his attempts at finding a partner in the eleven years since then had been mostly varying degrees of failure, whether he was rejected outright for having his "original plumbing" or ended up with a bisexual chaser who fetishized him as being some sort of "perfect" blend of male and female.
So Anthony had mostly resigned himself to being single, and most of the time his life was OK: he made a difference helping sick animals, he sometimes did volunteer work for the homeless, he was an avid reader and gardener and birdwatcher and hiking enthusiast and his pets kept him company. He'd gotten back in touch with his Jewish roots in 2015 after the Union for Reform Judaism adopted a transgender rights policy, and it added meaning to his life. But he was still lonely, and as much as he appreciated the kindness of the gay couple who'd brought their dog into the hospital two weeks ago, it was like rubbing salt in the wound.
Especially considering they were both hot. While his past partners had a wide range of appearances - his ex-husband had been a ginger - Anthony tended to gravitate towards two types: "silver daddies" with a healthy growth of facial and body hair, and dark-haired guys who looked like Vikings or rockers. Mark looked like a rock star with his long black hair and he was model-handsome with chiseled features and piercing light grey eyes, and Sören looked like a more Vikingesque Jon Snow and even had that sexy Nordic accent. Once again, Anthony's mind very unhelpfully conjured up an image of Mark and Sören in bed, naked, rutting like animals, and Anthony almost came in his pants untouched.
"Dammit," Anthony muttered under his breath.
For a brief instant he considered turning around and going back home, and calling to cancel, saying something had come up or he'd fallen ill. It was cold and flu season and COVID cases were on the rise again too, he could get away with that. But not only would it look bad if G-d forbid they had an emergency with one of their pets and had to return to the clinic tomorrow and saw him there when he was supposedly too sick to come to dinner, but his conscience bothered him that they'd gone to trouble with cooking. And his pride wouldn't let him run scared. Even if it was painful to see two queer men living their best lives together while he was probably condemned to be alone for the rest of his life, he was not a coward and he was going to make himself do this.
Besides, it was one less meal he had to buy or cook for himself.
Anthony took a deep breath and got out of his Prius. He hurried to the door, his breath steaming the air. Before he could knock on the door, Sören opened it with a radiant smile. "Hi!"
"Hi," Anthony said, not able to help smiling back. He gave an awkward little wave.
"Come on in!"
Anthony took off his boots - when he wasn't at work, he usually wore brogues in warmer months and in the snow he wore Timberland boots - and hung up his wool trenchcoat on the coatrack. Anthony had fussed over what to wear, wanting to look neither too formal nor too casual, and had decided on a navy blue cashmere sweater with lighter jeans, and square-framed glasses instead of his usual contacts. Sören had his shoulder-length curls down, and was wearing a cheery Icelandic sweater - predominantly white with bands of red and black tree-like shapes at the sleeves, collar and hem, with dark blue jeans. Now that they were standing face-to-face, Anthony noticed they were the same height. He looked into those warm brown eyes and his stomach fluttered.
As Anthony searched for the right thing to say, knowing he was terrible at small talk, a tuxedo cat trotted out with a "Prrp?"
"Why, hello." Anthony stooped down, offering his hand for the cat to sniff. The cat wandered over more slowly, his chartreuse eyes widening. The cat took a quick sniff and then scampered off.
"That's Snúður," Sören said. "Sorry - he's a little skittish, but he might get curious again later."
"It's all right. He probably smells my cats and my dog on me," Anthony said, rising up. "I made sure to feed everyone and give them extra pettings before their dad left the house for a bit."
"They'll probably still try to convince you they were starving and orphaned the entire time," Sören said.
Anthony chuckled. "You know how it is."
"I sure do."
The cat provided an icebreaker as Anthony followed Sören out of the foyer into the living room. "So your cat's name is..." He tried to pronounce it. "Snoo-dur."
"Snúður."
"Can I ask what it means?"
"It's Icelandic for Cinnamon Roll," Sören said.
"Ahhhh." It made him like Sören even more, delighted by this modern-day Viking naming his cat Cinnamon Roll. "That's adorable." Then he saw Huan, who came over to greet them, tail wagging. "Hello, Huan!" He gave Huan some pats. "How are you feeling, little guy?" he asked, even though the dog was neither little nor could understand him.
Huan barked as if to say he was feeling better, and gave a dog smile. "That's a nice boy," Sören said. He told Anthony, "I'm glad he's not taking it out on you that you had to operate on him."
Huan whined - almost contritely, then licked Anthony's hand. Anthony chuckled and stroked the dog some more. "It's such a relief to see he's doing well," Anthony said. Then he asked, "Does Huan mean anything in Icelandic?"
"No," Sören said.
Mark called from the kitchen, "It means 'dog' in Quenya."
That sounded familiar to Anthony but he didn't know why. A literary or gaming reference, perhaps. It was amusing that they had a dog literally named Dog. Before Anthony could inquire further, a delicious blend of scents wafted in from the kitchen. "Oh, that smells wonderful."
Mark stepped out from the kitchen into the end of the living room. "Dinner's just about ready, if you want to come in. I hope you like it."
They had asked him in advance what he wanted - he was terrible at making those kinds of decisions ahead of time, he usually didn't know what kind of takeout he was getting for the evening until he was leaving work. But with the winter weather he'd suggested some sort of hearty comfort food, and otherwise let them figure it out, not wanting to inconvenience them with going to a lot of trouble with food shopping, especially not in this weather.
They didn't have a dining room, but their kitchen was large enough for a table - rectangular, sturdy oak, matching chairs. No tablecloth, but there were pretty placemats, white embroidered with blue floral scrollwork, and Anthony wondered if Mark had embroidered them. They also had nice ceramic plates that looked handmade - the northern lights over a dark forest, with subtle differences in the colorful auroras over each. Mark was still setting the table with steel flatware and iridescent glass tumblers. As Anthony sat down he took a quick glance around at the cream-colored walls, the hardwood floor, the water cooler by the pantry and a water fountain and food dishes for the animals by the sliding glass doors that led out to a fenced back patio. Along one wall was a metal rack of hanging utensils, pots and pans with various gadgets like a bread machine and an electric fondue pot, and on the opposite wall were a few framed paintings by Monet, something nice to look at as they sat down to eat. Anthony smiled at the Muppet magnets on the fridge, and the Muppet kitchen canisters on the counter by the slow cooker and the toaster. Everything was homey.
And then there was Mark, who still managed to look like a supermodel in a Metallica T-shirt over a long-sleeved black thermal shirt, with ripped jeans. Jeans that hugged his ass quite nicely.
"You can go ahead and sit," Mark said.
Sören opened the fridge. "Anthony, what would you like to drink? Water, orange juice, vegetable juice, Coke, Sprite..."
"We also have coffee and I can make tea," Mark said.
While Anthony normally wouldn't turn down a cup of coffee or tea, it was evening and he didn't want to have caffeine this late. "Ummm... vegetable juice is fine, thank you."
Sören poured him a glass, then he took Anthony's plate and walked over to where Mark was dishing out food from the crock pot. A moment later Sören brought over a plate of beef pot roast with carrots, potatoes and onions - perfect on a cold, wintry day like this. "It smells wonderful, thank you," Anthony said.
"The gravy is vegetarian - made with mushroom - because I know you can't mix meat with dairy," Mark said, "and for dessert I made a dairy-free tiramisu."
"Thank you very much," Anthony said, pleased by the consideration - and relieved that they didn't seem to be antisemites, which was unfortunately increasingly common in the queer community.
Anthony waited for Sören and Mark to sit before he began eating. "This is marvelous," he said after a few bites, meaning it.
"Thank you." Mark smiled. "If we have any leftovers you can take them home."
"Oh, you're too kind."
Sören waved his fork like a conductor. "It's the least we can do for you helping -"
As if on cue, Huan whined, sitting on the floor between Mark and Sören. Then Snúður came over, flanked by an enormous buff-yellow tabby who let out a meow like he was a tiny baby kitten.
"I literally just fed you an hour ago," Sören scolded them, looking over at their dishes and then back at the dog and cats - the yellow one squealed more insistently.
Mark grumbled, got up, opened a fresh can of cat food and dished it out for the cats - who turned up their noses and walked away - and then he took a smaller plate from the cupboards, spooned out dog food, and set it at the fourth place at the table. Anthony wheezed with laughter as Huan began to eat from the plate at the table like he was a human.
"He does this every time we eat in here," Mark said, rolling his eyes as he sat back down. "He wants to eat at the table like a person."
"That's so cute," Anthony said. He reached over to give Huan more pats. "He has better manners than my dog." As Snúður came back over, deciding he wanted the fresh food after all, Huan paused eating to sniff the cat's butt. "Spoke too soon," Anthony snickered.
The yellow tabby circled Anthony's ankles under the table then stood up on his hind paws, his front paws on Anthony's thigh, and gave a pathetic tiny meow. "Oh, hello." Anthony skritched the cat, even though he knew the cat wanted his food more than pettings.
"That's Fabio," Mark said.
Anthony raised an eyebrow.
Mark put on a fake Italian accent. "I can't believe it's not butter."
Anthony facepalmed, laughing harder at the reference to the old commercials.
"Do you have any other cats?" Anthony asked when he calmed down.
"Just the two," Mark said, and Sören nodded. "I came with Huan, and Sören came with Snúður, and we adopted Fabio together for our one-year anniversary."
"That's so sweet. You guys have been together awhile, I take it?"
"Five years," Sören said.
That was somehow longer than Anthony expected - he guessed Sören was twentysomething and Mark was in his thirties, but he didn't want to pry and ask their ages. He was even more curious about how Sören ended up in the States from Iceland, and kept those questions to himself for now as he focused on his food, telling himself You're not an interrogator and this isn't a trial.
After Fabio nuzzled Anthony's hand, then slurked off once he realized Anthony wasn't going to sneak him any human food, Mark asked, "What about you? How many critters you have? And do you have someone at home?"
"I have one dog and two cats. And no, I'm single." Anthony took a long sip of his drink. "I'm gay and haven't had a lot of success with Tinder or... Grindr."
"I feel that." Sören made a face. "Mark and I met completely at random."
"We were both on vacation and staying in the same hotel," Mark explained.
"Iceland?" Now Anthony felt like it was a little less rude to indulge his curiosity.
"No, I was already here," Sören said. "I came over in spring 2016, when I was twenty-one and Obama was still in office and it looked like Clinton would win. I considered going back when the Cheeto got elected but I, ah. I had reasons not to." Sören quickly shoved food in his mouth and looked off to the side, and Anthony got the gist that Sören had fled something in Iceland.
"Anyway," Mark said, reaching out to put a hand on Sören's arm - further suggesting there was a sore spot, "we were both on vacation in Cancún."
"Oh wow." Anthony fought back the mental image of both men scantily clad on a beach. "That sounds like quite a story."
"It was the year before the pandemic started, so our relationship was put to the test pretty quickly," Mark said.
"I bet. But you guys seem happy together, which is good to see."
"We are." Mark tousled Sören's curls, who giggled adorably. "We have a nice little life here."
Huan barked as if to agree, then went back to noisily slurping up his dog food.
They didn't talk much through the rest of the meal. When they were finished with dinner, Sören loaded the dishwasher and Mark brought the tiramisu into the living room and as they waited for Sören, Mark showed Anthony his very impressive vinyl collection.
"Oh, wow, I used to collect vinyl," Anthony said.
"Used to? What happened?"
Anthony didn't want to traumadump, so he kept it simple. "My ex-husband happened." After Steve's homophobic meltdown following Anthony coming out as transgender, Steve destroyed Anthony's books and record collection. Anthony had managed to replace some of his books since moving to the US, but he'd been dragging his feet on replacing the vinyl records as it hurt more.
Mark seemed to understand without Anthony getting into detail. "I'm sorry. Well... if you decide to start collecting again, I run a record shop in Portland called Wax On, Wax Off. I could even give you a discount."
"That's very kind of you," Anthony said, and then looked away, trying to contain the sudden surge of feeling, not wanting to get choked up. He concentrated on the vast wealth of records before him. The classic rock and alternative rock records were Mark's, as was the jazz; all of the old-school hip-hop and R&B was Sören's. Then Anthony found himself wondering about the shop. "So... you've managed to stay in business, yeah?"
Mark nodded. "I had to handle sales online-only for about a year and a half because of the pandemic, when non-essential businesses were closed. But I did all right, and my shop's landlord decided not to evict me since it wasn't like anyone else was going to take the space then. And I don't just sell records and older forms of media like cassettes and 8-tracks, but I also sell memorabilia. I've got a fair amount of it myself."
Mark led Anthony over to another corner of the living room. The walls were white, and Anthony finally noticed the autographed posters in frames from different bands - Van Halen, Pink Floyd, KISS, Metallica, Guns N Roses - and a guitar with a flamboyant sunburst tiger pattern was hanging on one of the walls. "That's a replica of George Lynch's guitar, he was in Dokken," Mark explained. He showed Anthony a glass-encased shelf of KISS PEZ dispensers and different sets of KISS action figures just as Sören came out from the kitchen.
"Ah, are you showing off your KISS dolls?" Sören asked.
Mark gave him a look and Anthony tried not to guffaw. "Action figures," Mark corrected.
"Right. Your KISS dolls." Sören grinned.
Then Mark scowled as he noticed the bottom shelf was empty. "Dammit, Sören..." He quickly found a set of foot-tall KISS action figures on the fireplace mantle, accompanied by a large purple plush unicorn with a sparkly iridescent pink horn and hooves and a rainbow mane and tail. And there were five empty plastic shot glasses with umbrellas in them. "You had to do that for having company over..."
"Jæja, I don't want Anthony to think you enslave your poor KISS dolls to rock and roll all night and party every day without taking breaks." Sören attempted a wink that was more of a clumsy blink. Now Anthony couldn't help laughing aloud, and Mark's feigned-irate expression softened and he facepalmed, shaking with silent laughter.
Anthony laughed harder when he noticed the painting hanging above the fireplace was inspired by Starry Night by Van Gogh... with Snoop Dogg, in a field of marijuana plants. "Wow, where did you find that?"
"I painted it," Sören said.
Anthony glanced around the living room again and saw smaller paintings hanging alongside the framed posters - landscapes that looked like photos Anthony had seen of beaches, waterfalls and mountain ranges in Iceland, but somewhat more alien and in vibrant, dreamlike colors. "Did you paint those too?"
Sören nodded.
"He's an artist," Mark said.
"Well, I'm a remote worker for an insurance company," Sören said. "That's what pays the bills. But art is my passion, yes."
"Your work is magnificent," Anthony said sincerely. He took a moment to walk around, admiring the little worlds Sören had created, before he sat down on the armchair. The hardwood floor had a few small rainbow tie-dye rugs, and the soft blue armchair and darker blue couch were each draped with a crochet rainbow throw. Anthony smiled as Mark turned down the lights and put on a fiberoptic lamp that cast auroras on the walls and ceiling.
"I can start a fire if you're cold," Mark said, gesturing to the fireplace. "I know it's kind of drafty in here."
"I'm OK for now."
Mark put on Coltrane, then served the tiramisu on white kintsugi plates and Sören passed one over to Anthony. "You've got really nice dishes," Anthony said.
"I made those too," Sören said. "I do ceramics as well as painting, I've got a kiln on the back porch."
"And I play a few musical instruments and embroider and crochet," Mark said. He tugged on the throw behind him. "I made these."
"I'm impressed." Anthony smiled. "And it's good that you're not too macho to do stuff like that." Anthony had his fill of toxic masculinity - and the expectation to perform it - since he'd begun living as male over a decade ago. He felt himself relax a little as he took a bite of his tiramisu.
"Fuck no," Mark said. "Besides, I think having beautiful things in one's life is good for the soul."
"I agree," Anthony said, nodding. "I garden for that reason. Well, that and I feel more spiritual when I connect with nature."
"Now that is a skill," Mark said.
Sören nodded. "Do you have any pictures of your garden? I'd love to see it."
In fact, Anthony did. When they were finished with their tiramisu, Anthony took out his phone, pulled up a photo gallery of his garden, and handed it over. For the next few minutes Mark and Sören took turns looking at Anthony's garden in spring, summer and fall - he grew some ornamental plants as well as herbs and vegetables. "I bet your cats love the catnip," Sören said.
"Not just for the cats," Anthony said. "On particularly stressful days, before bed I brew a tea with chamomile, lavender and catnip from my garden."
"Sören could use some of that," Mark said, putting a hand on Sören's shoulder. "He can be high-strung."
"I can bring some over sometime," Anthony said, and then realized he'd sort-of made plans to see them again - he didn't know going into this if it would be a one-shot thank-you-dinner and he never heard from them again outside of the clinic, or if he'd be making friends. He smiled at the thought that he might get actual friends out of this.
"That would be appreciated. We could pay you with food or something else," Mark said.
"You don't need to pay me," Anthony said. "I end up with a lot every year."
Sören came to the end of the gallery. "Do you have any pictures of your pets?"
"I do," Anthony said. "They're in the folder marked Family 1." The "Family 2" folder had photos of his late parents, his uncle Nigel, his favorite cousin Judith, and a few rare pre-transition photos he'd saved for posterity.
Mark and Sören got more animated as they went through Anthony's folder and saw the cats. "The brown tabby is Solly - she's old - and the grey one is Shmuel."
"That's a beagle?" Mark asked as they came to the dog pictures.
"Beagle-Labrador mix," Anthony said, nodding at the golden-yellow dog with white markings. "His name is Maimonides."
"Ah, the Rambam," Mark said. "Excellent choice of name. I bet he's a smart boy, too?"
"Yeahhh." Anthony's eyebrows shot up that Mark recognized the name and he didn't have to explain it. "So wait... you know about kosher practices and you know who Maimonides is. Are you Jewish?"
"Not quite, but I lived in Israel at one point," Mark said, continuing to look at the photos of Maimonides being cute.
"Really." Anthony didn't know whether to be relieved that he wasn't dealing with an antisemite, or concerned that Mark might be a Christian zealot who'd made a pilgrimage, but he reminded himself that fundamentalist Christians usually weren't into metal, eschewing it as satanic, and usually weren't in gay cohabitation relationships. Now he had even more questions, wondering why Mark had lived there, not just visited, but once again he felt like his curiosity would be seen as invasive. He settled on, "That's interesting," a little no-pressure invitation to talk about it more if so inclined.
"Yeah," Mark said, still looking at Maimonides on the phone - coming to the pictures of Solly and Shmuel curled up with Maimonides. "The short version is I've seen the world a bit."
And then the questions slipped out before Anthony could stop himself. "Were you a military brat? Or a missionary's kid?"
"No," Mark said, chuckling. He sobered as he went on, "I have been in the Army - I have PTSD and Huan is a service dog - but I traveled outside of that for my own reasons. I'm... just something of a wanderer."
When Mark and Sören had come to the clinic two weeks ago, Anthony couldn't help noticing the burn scar on Mark's right hand - scarred severely enough that it was impressive Mark did things with his hands like play instruments and embroider and crochet - and then Anthony had trained himself out of looking at it, not wanting to stare. But now he couldn't help observing the scarred hand again, drawing a mental connection between that and Mark's PTSD - he was guessing from Mark's age he'd been in the Gulf, and while he'd been opposed to the US and UK going to war in the Middle East he also reminded himself the military was still one of the few options poor people had to get out of poverty, with education and job training, and regardless, he didn't want to be judgmental when Mark had clearly suffered and he knew the US government wasn't the best at taking care of their veterans. "I'm glad you've got Huan," Anthony said. "And you must have some fascinating stories. About... your travels, I mean."
"I suppose. But if there's one thing that being a rambling man has taught me, it's that there's no place like home." Mark put an arm around Sören, who smiled and kissed Mark's cheek. "I'll take stability over adventure. Family over freewheeling."
Anthony felt a wistful ache, and tried not to envy them. Before he could feel too sorry for himself, Huan came over, front paws on Anthony's knees, and started licking his face. Anthony laughed with delight and gave the dog pettings. "That's a good boy," Anthony said. "Such a good boy."
Huan barked and leaned into Anthony's touch, tongue lolling happily.
"And clearly, Huan already thinks you're family." Mark looked over, smiling fondly. "He's a pretty good judge of character."
"Our dog should meet your dog," Sören said. "Maybe sometime soon, we could take our dogs on a play date."
"I'd like that a lot," Anthony said. "I bet Maimonides would like that too. He gets along well with the cats, as you can see in the photo album with them snuggling and the cats grooming him, but he could use a dog friend."
"And we could use some people friends." Sören gave Anthony puppy dog eyes. "My closest friend lives in Montreal and around here we have acquaintances more than actual friends."
Despite Anthony's twinge of jealousy at their happiness, and not wanting to feel like a third wheel, he couldn't deny that spending a little more time with kind humans outside of work was an attractive prospect. He quipped, "Well, if you keep feeding me like this..."
Mark beamed. "It's a deal."
Sören went back to shuffling through the photo gallery and then he paused, mouth open slightly. "Wow, is that your sister?"
"Or your daughter?" Mark asked. "Looks almost just like you..."
The pit of Anthony's stomach rose. Instinctively, he got up from his seat and came closer. They were still in the "Family 1" folder - Anthony had made an accidental oversight and forgotten to move one of his pre-transition photos to "Family 2". So now they were looking at a female-presenting person named Antonia, twentysomething, with shoulder-length black hair, and Anthony's green eyes and the same face, only more feminine, before testosterone had reshaped it a bit... and a big, cheesy grin. A forced smile, since those years had been full of dysphoric misery.
For safety reasons as well as wanting to be treated the same as any man, Anthony lived stealth, only disclosing his trans status to his healthcare providers, or potential partners - hence the endless rejections and giving up on finding someone - and a few people at his shul when they'd engaged in awkward attempts at matchmaking. But now he knew that because of how many cis gay men were virulently transphobic against gay trans men, it was probably better for him to clear the air before he got too invested in this friendship, in case they belonged to the percentage that thought the LGBT community should "drop the T".
Anthony cleared his throat. "Actually, that's me, back in the aughts."
Mark and Sören both gave him a look of disbelief. "You're... a trans guy?" Mark asked.
Oh shit. Anthony braced himself, looking over at the foyer in case he was going to need to make a quick exit. He exhaled. "Yes."
Mark and Sören exchanged glances, then quickly nodded at each other, and turned back to Anthony. "So are we," Sören said.
Anthony's jaw dropped. "Both of you? You're taking the piss."
"We are, we're serious, we're not making fun of you," Mark said.
Hysterical laughter bubbled out of Anthony as relief washed over him. "Oh thank G-d, I was worried you guys would judge me, since you probably know how a lot of gay guys are..."
"I had the same worry about you when you said you were gay," Sören said. "And yeah, the reason why I left Iceland and didn't go back even with Cheeto in office is because my abusive guardians threw a shit fit over me transitioning and I'm still afraid of them."
"I'm so sorry." Anthony felt a pang of sympathy and held out his arms. Sören came over to accept a hug, and Mark tousled Sören's curls. "I left the UK for a somewhat similar reason - my ex-husband didn't take it well when I came out and he tried to ruin my life."
"Awwwwwww." Sören squeezed him.
Then Mark joined in the hug. "I'm lucky that my family was supportive, though they're dead now. But I've still had some scary times over the years. People are assholes."
"They are. You guys seem great, though." Anthony squeezed Sören back, and patted Mark.
Once Sören and Mark took their seats on the couch again and Anthony sat down, Snúður finally wandered by and allowed pettings. Anthony took a moment to skritch the cat and find his words, still completely stunned at the revelation. Finally he said, "I don't encounter other trans men offline very often, at least... not that I'm aware of." He felt himself grinning so hard his face hurt, feeling jubilant that he'd met others of his kind - not merely other trans men, but other trans men who weren't judgmental of being gay and acted like it was a lesser form of masculinity, other trans men who weren't obsessed with fitness or sports and weren't eschewing "feminine" hobbies like arts and crafts, all of which he'd seen online and had prevented him from trying to make friendships with trans men or pursue a relationship with another trans man.
"Neither do we," Mark said. "Well, that's even more incentive for us to be friends, right? Solidarity and all."
Sören nodded enthusiastically.
"Of course," Anthony said.
As much as Anthony tried to avoid magical thinking - he was spiritual but also tried to be rational - he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd been meant to cross paths... that he'd been sent a little miracle after so many years of loneliness. It was Tu BiShvat today - a Jewish minor holiday celebrating trees - and they'd planted the seed of what could become chosen family. Baruch Hashem, Anthony prayed silently, and Huan barked as if to say "amen".
go to Chapter 3 | go to story index | return to Maglor Fanfic | go to home page