Sören and Mark spent most of the next two days in bed, making passionate love for hours, licking, sucking and fucking to climax after climax, insatiable for each other. Every now and again they took breaks to feed and pet the animals, or to take Huan out to do his business, or sleep, bathe, and eat. But otherwise it was utter debauchery, lost in a haze of pleasure.
On the third day, Mark finally insisted they get some air for a few hours, and Sören reluctantly agreed. To make it worth their while, Mark suggested they head two hours south to explore the Tulum Archaeological Zone and visit Playa Pescadores, a more quiet beach near Tulum. After Mark booked a driver service, they made themselves presentable and waited in the lobby.
The drive along the coast was enjoyable - Sören watched the scenery out the window, and was amused by Mark singing along with the driver's classic rock station, especially when 80s hair metal songs were on. Halfway there, the driver asked, "¿Estás en una banda?"
"No," Mark said. "Esto es solo un hobby, no una carrera. No hay banda."
"Deberías serlo. Podrías volverte rico y famoso, hombre. Mereces ser famoso con una voz así, amigo." The driver grunted and threw the horns as "Kickstart My Heart" by Motley Crue came on, headbanging and laughing.
"What did he say?" Sören whispered, feeling self-conscious that he only knew a few words of Spanish. "Something about a band?"
"He asked if I was in a band," Mark explained. "And I told him no, and he said I should be famous."
"I agree," Sören said. "You've got an amazing voice, and you play the harp and guitar beautifully. Like, it's a crime you don't have a major record deal."
Mark chuckled. "No. No it's not." Mark shook his head. "Music is my life, but that's precisely why it isn't my career. While I do enjoy performing now and again, there's nothing that kills the joy of creating faster than turning it into what you do to make a living. So many famous musicians end up addicts because they crack under the pressure, and it seems like an especially toxic path in this day and age. I don't want to be obligated to use social media to promote my work and inevitably run into critics, and I don't want the public to turn against me because I have the wrong opinion or say something the wrong way, and I don't want parasocial relationships where random strangers feel entitled to know my personal business because they like my songs." Mark grimaced then, as if he'd touched his own nerve. "Uhhh sorry, ranting -"
"Oh no, it's OK." Sören exhaled, and shared his own sore spot. "I'm an artist. Like, I work for an insurance company because of everything you just said. Art is my passion, but I learned pretty early on it doesn't pay the bills, and I fucking hate social media. People love bullying artists, especially trans artists." Sören immediately clapped his hand over his mouth, realizing he'd just potentially outed himself to the driver, but the driver was singing along with Bon Jovi in heavily accented English. Sören turned back to Mark. "People think they fucking own you whether or not they've ever given you money for a commission - but especially if you've taken a commission from them, people act like they have the right to tell you what to create, what not to create..."
Mark nodded.
"And all it takes is a few haters to ruin your fucking life. I found out one of my now-ex-roommates got me on a blacklist of 'problematic artists not to support' for really vague reasons - when the reality is they were jealous and felt like they were in competition with me for commissions - and my commissions dried right up. If art was my only source of income?" Sören scowled. "Fuck that shit."
"I'm sorry that happened." Mark rested his hand on Sören's hand, and Sören tingled from that little touch. "I'm really glad you're out of that living situation now, even though I know everything is still up in the air."
"Yeah." Sören sighed. He knew he had to start thinking about where he was going to go from here, but he hadn't had a real break from non-stop stress and angst in months, and Sören wanted to bask in the happiness with Mark for awhile longer. "Anyway, now I'm the one ranting."
"You're commiserating," Mark said.
"Huh?" While Sören spoke English fluently, that was a new word to him.
"Demonstrating sympathy. Showing me you know how it is, too."
"Ah. Yes." Sören nodded, and tried the word. "Commiserating."
Mark grinned. "Your accent is cute."
Sören snorted. "I get that a lot. Although, when I found the private Discord server my now-ex-roommates had, they were making fun of me and Tina said I sound like the Swedish Chef."
Mark facepalmed. "No," Mark said. "You sound more like a male version of Björk."
"She's my third cousin," Sören said.
"Really." Mark took a sip from his water bottle.
"Iceland's a small country. Most of us are somewhat related. We literally have a dating app that helps us avoid dating our relatives."
Mark almost spat, shaking with laughter, turning red and tearing up. "Wrow."
Sören chuckled too, and then curiosity got the better of him. He raised an eyebrow and said, "If you don't mind me asking, what do you do, if music isn't your full-time job?"
"Well, music still is my full-time job, just not making it for consumption." Mark smiled. "I run a vinyl records shop in Portland, Maine called Wax On, Wax Off."
Sören snickered at the reference. "Good name."
"Thank you. I was proud of myself for coming up with the name." Mark's smile became a cheesy grin - one that turned Sören's stomach to butterflies; even when Mark was being a dork, he was absolutely breathtaking.
"And you sell vinyl there, já? Sweet. I usually just do streaming for music, I've heard vinyl sounds better though."
"It does. I also sell cassette tapes, 8 tracks... and memorabilia. Bunch of vintage collectibles that are worth some good cash, and I have a lot of autographed material - some of which I acquired myself, going to so many concerts and meeting musicians over the years. For example, I have stuff autographed by Michael Jackson AND Prince."
Sören let out a low whistle. "Jesus Christ, you met Michael Jackson?"
Mark nodded solemnly. "Very, very briefly. He was shy and I felt bad for him. And Michael Jackson is Exhibit A of why I don't want a recording career. It chews people up, spits them out and breaks them. Michael Jackson might still be alive right now if he hadn't become astronomically famous."
"No shit."
Sören wanted to grill Mark about his experience with Michael Jackson, fascinated - but held back, reminding himself that was part of the problem, the one he himself had just been railing against. It was bad enough to be an independent artist and have people feel entitled to knowing personal business - and opinions - through parasocial relationships, never mind the kind of fame that Michael Jackson achieved.
"Michael Jackson, si, si!" the driver yelled, then sang, "Hee hee!"
"SHAMON!" Mark added, and Sören laughed so hard he snorted.
They arrived at their destination a few minutes later, and Mark paid for their ride, tipped the driver, and in Spanish booked a return pickup. Then Mark did a brief Michael Jackson impersonation with a moonwalk and some garbled Michael Jackson-esque vocals, finishing with a spin and a "OW! HOO! HEE HEE!" which made the driver laugh, and Sören had a gigglefit.
"Shamon," Mark said to Sören, gesturing for him to follow along.
Iceland had a rich history, with sites dating back to the Viking Era, so Sören was not really impressed by what most Americans considered "old", especially in California where "old" was usually buildings from the 1950s and 1960s. But here, walking around the well-preserved stone temples by the beach and turquoise waters, studded with palm trees and lush grasses, it was a jaw-dropping experience. Sören felt a bit goofy wearing a big, wide-brimmed hat - there wasn't much shade - as if he wasn't solemn enough for the face of history. Nonetheless, he was grateful for a chance to see a piece of Mayan civilization... and sharing it with Mark made Sören feel that much closer to him.
Mark seemed just as much in awe, but there was also something wistful about his expression as he took in the sight of the stone temples... wistful and sad. Sören eventually took Mark's hand. "You OK?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm OK. Just..." Mark shrugged. "The ancient Mayans had a huge, complex civilization - they had writing, they had math, they had astronomy, they had architecture and art, they had trade and religion and agriculture - and now so much of that civilization has turned to dust, and what's left is weathered ruins. We have some idea of what their world was like, but much of it remains a mystery. There are people who walked the very same steps that you and I are walking now, and we'll never know anything about who they were... no memory remains. And humanity knows even less about the people who lived two thousand years before them... and before... and before..." Mark's voice trailed off; he squeezed Sören's hand and looked up, as if in prayer or contemplation, and Sören traced Mark's burn scar with his thumb.
"I think this is why creating things is so important," Sören said, now that Mark had gotten him thinking. "It's not just that people need to express themselves. But the things we make - art, music, stories - are some of the only things that survive through time as a mark that we were here. Each of us is our own world, containing multitudes... our own star, shining a little light, and when it finally goes out... our creation carries the fire."
Mark was silent for a long moment, and then he drew Sören into his arms, held him tight, and planted a kiss on the top of his head.
They continued to walk around the ruins, hand in hand, and when they stopped for water, Mark began to sing, his voice echoing through the stone.
We see the light of those who find
A world has passed them by
To late to save a dream that's growing cold
We realize that fate must hide its face
From those who try
To see the distant signs of unforetold
Oh oh, take hold
From a haze came a rage of thunder
Distant signs of darkness on the way
Fading cries scream of pain and hunger
But in the night the light will guide your way
So take hold of the flame
Don't you see life's a game
So take hold of the flame
You've got nothing to lose, but everything to gain
As Mark's voice soared, Sören broke out in gooseflesh, hair standing on end, a chill through him despite the oppressive heat. Their eyes met, and Mark gave a little sheepish grin, as if he were suddenly feeling self-conscious for breaking out in song, but Sören clapped wildly and whistled.
"That's fucking amazing," Sören said sincerely. "Is that one of your songs?"
"No," Mark said, with a chuckle. "Queensryche."
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Sören, and then he realized why. "Oh jæja, that's a hair metal band?"
Mark's chuckle became a full-bodied laugh. "In fairness, they were a lot less over-the-top with the glam aesthetic than their contemporaries. That said... I do love me some hair metal. People rag on it and say it's cringe, but honestly, a lot of the musicians were classically trained and have skills, and the singers have a good range. Especially Queensryche, Geoff Tate was one of the best vocalists of that time." Mark raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you've heard of them. You seem pretty young."
"I'm twenty-four," Sören said, feeling a little defensive of his age, not wanting to be thought of as a stupid kid. "And my pabbi was a metalhead. I have long hair like him. I don't remember much about them, because I was only six when they got killed in a car accident, a drunk driver on the Ring Road - I was at a neighbor's house - but that's one of the things I do remember." Sören gave a sad smile, feeling a tight ache in his chest as the few bright, precious memories came back to him - that he had been loved before the years of abuse at the hands of his father's sister and her husband. "Pabbi used to sing 'Enter Sandman' to me as a lullaby, he said I threw the horns when I was two when we went to Christmas mass."
Mark laughed harder, then he sighed. "I'm sorry they're gone. Your parents sound like cool people."
"They were," Sören said, nodding.
"And your dad liked Queensryche?"
"Jaeja, my mamma was into classic rock and my pabbi liked hair metal, and they both liked grunge."
"You're making me feel old now." Mark looked out at the sea.
"How old are you?"
"Old enough," Mark said with a smirk. But then he sobered a little and said, "Let's just say I'm old enough to be your dad, probably."
"You don't look it. Like, at all." Sören couldn't believe it, though it made sense why Mark had said he remembered the days when LGBT+ people had fewer civil rights, if he was late Gen X like Sören's parents had been.
"Clean living. Plus they say trans men look younger."
"You barely look thirty-five," Sören said.
"Well, thank you." Mark grinned, then he tousled Sören's curls. He cocked his head to one side. "I hope you don't think I'm too old now -"
"No." The answer came out more forcefully than Sören would have liked. "I, ah. I like older men." Sören had a thing for "silver fox" guys in particular, with a beard and chest hair, but even though he lacked both, Mark was undeniably masculine with his muscular body and gorgeous mane.
"Good." Mark stole a little kiss. "I may be an old fart, but I haven't lost my sense of fun and adventure."
"You do seem to have the wisdom of age, though, getting all... philosophical back there," Sören said. "With that little speech about the passing of time and what you leave behind, I can see how when you get to be a certain age you feel closer to your own mortality."
Mark looked away again, at the sea, and just said, "Yeah," softly.
From the Tulum ruins it was a short distance to Playa Pescadores - a twenty-minute walk at a leisurely pace, though it felt longer in the baking sun. The salt air was refreshing, and after they set their things down on the sand, Sören quickly stripped down to his swim trunks, eager to get in the turquoise waves beckoning.
But first... he and Mark lathered each other with waterproof sunblock, slowly and deliberately, sensually caressing. Their nipples hardened and Sören's clit stiffened as well, getting wet for him all over again. They waded out together, and Sören spent awhile just enjoying the cool water, the sun sparkling, the view of the white sands with clusters of palm trees and in the distance, the ruins. Ahead of him, the ocean and sky seemed to go on forever. Sören went out up to his shoulders and Mark up to his chest, and they held each other, the waves gently rolling, a moment of perfect peace.
Until Mark started tickling him. Sören splashed him, and Mark splashed back. They had a splash war, bigger and bigger splashes until the high tide forced them closer to shore, then Mark picked Sören up to carry him away from the rising tide, and Sören got him good, reaching into the water and splashing Mark until he was drenched. Mark spluttered, and responded by tackling Sören to the sand and tickling him furiously while Sören screamed and giggled and squealed, the tides washing over them. At last they kissed... and kissed.
Mark grabbed their belongings, picked Sören up again, and carried him out to the chaise lounges by a grove of palm trees. The beach was much quieter than the one at their hotel - the other chaises around them were empty, though there were some beachgoers reclining at the other end of the beach. Sören and Mark shared water, then another kiss. It wasn't long before they were making out, and not able to resist, Sören lay back, pulling Mark atop him.
They began to grind together through their wet shorts, still kissing, and a few minutes later they pulled their shorts down, so completely caught up in their lust and hunger that they didn't care who saw them, who would find out they were trans men. Their cunts were hot compared to their cool, damp skin, and Sören gasped with pleasure at the warm, wet silk of Mark's pussy lips on his. They held each other, kissing, rubbing together slowly, clit teasing clit, up and down, side to side, knowing just how to move together, building the tension. When Mark moved faster, he kissed and nibbled Sören's neck and Sören dug his nails in Mark's back, panting, whimpering as he lost himself in sensation, so close yet holding back, making it last, each stroke more and more delicious. Both of them were shaking, and finally Mark whispered "Come with me," just before kissing him hard. Sören moaned into the kiss and Mark did too, their cunts pulsing against each other, juices gushing. Sören gave a soft cry at the intensity of his release, feeling like he was flying, then falling... floating.
They looked into each other's eyes and smiled and nuzzled; a few tender little kisses became deeper ones, and the passion rose between them again. This time they traded places, with Mark laying on his back and Sören rode him, bucking his hips wildly, fucking Mark's clit with his clit, hard and aching. "Fuck, I love your pussy," Sören rasped, then ran his hands down Mark's thighs, up his stomach and chest and back down, enjoying Mark's perfect body. "I love all of you."
Their eyes met and Mark smiled. For an instant, Sören knew he could, indeed, love all of Mark - he could fall for him so easily. This is just a fling. Just sex, Sören told himself, rubbing harder, faster, their pussies making wet smacking, squishing sounds. Hot, nasty sex.
Mark reached out to return the sensual touch, his hands sliding, fingers brushing their way up Sören's body. "You're so fucking hot," Mark purred. His thumbs played with Sören's sensitive pierced nipples, and when he tugged on the rings Sören almost climaxed. Mark gave a throaty little growl, feeling Sören lose it a little, and then he began rocking his hips, making Sören bounce on him, making him work for it - Sören had to hold onto him to not fall off. Mark grabbed a hold of Sören's hips, and Sören felt like he was the one being fucked, with Mark in control. And he loved it. "That's it, baby. Ride me."
"Oh, fuck..." Sören bit his lip and whimpered, getting closer and closer.
The sloppy sound of their pussies got louder - Sören's thighs were slick with his cream - and they panted in time, eyes locked as their clits played in perfect rhythm. When Mark slapped Sören's ass, that sent Sören over the edge, coming hard, and a moment later Mark came too - Sören loved the feel of Mark's cunt throbbing with release, juices pouring. Sören sank down and they kissed, moaning together, breathing each other's shuddery breath. Mark held Sören tight and nuzzled Sören's beard and neck. "Good boy," Mark husked, rubbing Sören's back, petting his hair, his touch so achingly gentle that it made Sören want to cry. He knew this was just a fling and yet, nobody had ever been so affectionate, so considerate with him.
Sören closed his eyes and gave a little sigh of bliss, and then he heard a cough over them. Sören immediately looked up. There was an attractive, well-built Latino man wearing a shirt that said SEGURIDAD and shorts, and he gave them an apologetic little smile. "Disculpen señores. No sexo."
Sören didn't have to be a Spanish speaker to figure out what the security guard was saying. "Oops," Sören said, with a guilty grin. Mark bit his lip and looked away. Sören quickly got up and reached for his swim trunks. Then he observed the security guard was sporting a very obvious erection - and when the guard realized Sören had noticed, he quickly walked away without further action.
Mark also put on his swim trunks, then he checked the time. "We might as well get something to eat before our driver returns." He quickly added, "Food," and Sören snickered.
"Well, you heard the guy. No sexo." Sören watched the guard's ass as he patrolled the beach.
"I did hear the guy. He correctly gendered us and everything."
"He was also hard as a rock." Sören was half-tempted to call the guard over and invite him to a threesome, but he decided against it - he didn't know how Mark would feel about that, after all. But the thought of sucking cock and taking cock was appealing.
Then Sören realized he liked Mark's cunt even more. He still liked cock, and he didn't like women, but he loved boypussy. Rather than making him feel dysphoric, there was something wonderfully affirming about having sex with another trans man who also felt confident and comfortable with himself, and something beautifully queer about fucking one's own kind.
Once Sören and Mark were dressed and ready to head over to the seafood restaurant, Sören found himself strutting a little. But before they could get to the restaurant, they stopped to watch a family of sea turtles on the beach, adults with their young, plodding through the white sand. Sören made a happy noise and did a little happy dance and Mark laughed with delight, hugging him. "So cuuuuuuuute I'm gonna die," Sören yelled.
Sören was smiling so hard his face hurt when they arrived at the restaurant. It had been a wonderful day so far, and a good meal made it even better - they started with an appetizer of Mexican-style ceviche, and had fish tacos with a side of sopa de pescado, and glasses of ice-cold limonada.
Sören had to go to the restroom - even though he passed, public restrooms were always fraught - and he held it until the end of their meal; Mark offered to go with him after he paid. On the way to the men's room they passed a table where Gringo Suave was sitting with a different woman than the one he'd deadnamed a few days ago - this one had a lighter complexion, less obviously dyed black hair, and was wearing a skin-tight silky purple dress, and hanging all over him, cooing in what Sören suspected was a badly faked Spanish accent. Sören tried not to pause and gawk at the coincidence of running into Gringo Suave at the same place and time, but it was vaguely unsettling. Mark also raised an eyebrow, and moved them along.
When Mark and Sören were finished doing their business, just as they were coming out of the bathroom they saw the woman in the purple dress hanging around outside the women's room, on her cell phone. "Yo, it's me, Beth," she said, her accent now changed to what sounded like a New York accent. "I think I got my next one, and I think it's gonna be the big score. He's so dumb!"
Sören tried not to bust out laughing right there - he waited until he and Mark left the restaurant. "Did you catch that?" he asked.
Mark nodded. "As much as I disapprove of catfishing, I think that creepy guy probably deserves it."
Sören felt ready to burst after their big meal, but managed to make the walk back to their pickup site. The driver was on time, and playing Michael Jackson. It turned out to be an entire playlist. Mark sang along - it felt like blasphemy, but Sören thought Mark sounded better than Michael Jackson - and during "Human Nature", Sören started to doze a little, full and relaxed. Mark poked him awake when they were twenty minutes from Cancún. "Hey sleepyhead," Mark said, leaning in to give him a peck. "Almost there."
Sören rubbed his eyes, grunted, and tried to wake up. "Shit, I can't believe I fell asleep in the car."
Mark passed over their water bottle and Sören drank. "We had a big day," Mark said.
"We did. Thank you. It was perfect."
Mark smiled, his eyes soft. He reached out to play with a lock of Sören's curls. "So... you've heard me sing, and after what you said at the ruins - about why creating things is so important - I'd really like to see your art, if you have any with you or you can point me to somewhere it might be online. I think that would be a nice finish to a beautiful day."
Sören gave a nervous laugh. "I have a deviantART account but my portfolio's with me, yeah. Since I don't know where I'm going from here, I took everything with me instead of putting it in storage. I don't have much, something told me to not get too comfortable after I came over from Iceland. One carry-on, two checked luggage, all my worldly possessions. I sold and donated my furniture and stuff to help pay for my exodus from California."
Mark frowned a little, and nodded.
"Anyway, you can see it," Sören said. He felt a big twinge of anxiety, sharing his art, even though countless random strangers had seen it over the years, but somehow sharing it with Mark felt just as intimate as sex, if not moreso, like letting Mark see a piece of his soul. Then Sören reminded himself Mark had shared his voice - a beautiful, powerful, transcendent voice. So it was only fair.
Once they got back to the hotel, they fed Huan and Snúður, gave them some love after being gone all day, and then Sören accompanied Mark to take Huan for a walk on the beach. It felt good to get back out in the salt breeze and enjoy the view of the ocean, but Sören felt exhausted after walking around all day in the hot sun, and felt ready to keel over by the time they returned to the hotel room; he flopped right down on the bed. Mark seemed to sense Sören wasn't doing so well, so he took a Gatorade out of the mini-fridge and brought it over to him. "Takk," Sören mumbled.
"If you tell me where your portfolio is, I can get it for you," Mark said.
"OK. It's in the red duffel bag, it's a 3-ring binder. Prints of all my work, in sheet protectors." That bag was Sören's carry-on, to make sure nothing got lost.
Mark quickly found it and came over to the bed, gingerly climbing on and scooting beside Sören. "It's in reverse chronological order, with my newest work first," Sören explained.
The first print was of a celestial Black woman with natural hair, glowing butterflies flying out of her cupped, glowing hands. "I call this one The Dreamweaver," Sören said. "I struggled with insomnia for a bit due to anxiety and when I started sleeping normally again, one night when I was listening to relaxing music before bed I found myself working on this."
"That's gorgeous," Mark said softly.
Another Sören was particularly proud of was a Black woman wearing a rainbow gown and dancing in a redwood forest at sunset, weaving spirals of rainbow-colored energy, with magical rainbow birds floating around her. "I call this Nierika, because I was listening to Dead Can Dance's album Spiritchaser when I painted this," Sören said.
Then there was another celestial Black woman, dancing in a river with swirls of rainbow magic emanating from her hair and body down the river and through the landscape, at sunrise. "I got inspired for this on a hike," Sören said. "Sometimes when I visit places I don't just see the land itself, but ah... my mind's eye sees. My people called them the huldufólk."
Mark's mouth opened, and he said nothing, but gave him some pats. Sören didn't know if that reaction was good or bad, but he went on, to a figure standing on a cliff overlooking many rock formations in the ocean, with the night sky opening up to a fractal web and glowing blue butterflies flying around. "Butterfly Effect," Sören said.
"Quite literally." Mark's lips quirked with a small smile.
Sören nodded. "An entire multiverse's worth of quantum butterflies."
"Your art is... amazing." Mark's voice was hushed, reverent.
Sören breathed a small sigh of relief, and continued flipping through his portfolio, saving his commentary for another painting he felt needed an explanation - a fjord with a waterfall down a cliff, a stream running through a grassy, wildflower-filled meadow in the sunset, and there was a wise, ancient face in the cliff. "I call this one The Guardian," Sören said. "Inspired by the Icelandic landscape. He's like... a rock giant, the land is his land."
"I love it."
There were more rock giants in rock formations in an oceanscape inspired by the black sand beach of Reynisfjara, someplace Sören had been many times, with a mystical, vibrant aurora. "The Watchers."
And another painting inspired by Reynisfjara, this one with a hole in one of the rock formations that glowed like a magic doorway, with a wild, colorful aurora spiralling behind the rock formation. "I call this one The Portal," Sören said. Mark's eyes widened.
The next one made Sören give a little nervous laugh. "When we first met you mentioned you travel a lot, visiting different beaches around the world. I painted this about two weeks after I first arrived in the States, it's called The Wanderer." It was a long-haired man with his long dark hair flowing in the breeze, standing in the ocean, tide cresting foaming on the shore, as he watched an ethereal yet cataclysmic sky of multiple stars afire. "It's like I painted you before I knew you."
Mark's mouth opened again, wider. He made a strangled noise, and took Sören's hand; Sören's thumb tenderly traced the burn scar.
Sören thought, then, about saying It feels like we were meant to meet - and asking where they go from here, if Mark wanted to keep in touch or not. Sören held back, cautioning himself that this was just a fling, they still didn't know each other very well - though it felt like they had, indeed, known each other for years - and that hot sex didn't necessarily make for a compatible relationship. Even so, he felt a frisson through his body, an ache in his chest. A longing that he wished would go away, and not complicate everything.
Sören was silent through the next couple dozen pictures, feeling it was better to let the art speak for itself... and afraid he would slip up and say something that made him sound too attached, needy and desperate. But finally, the very last print - the first painting Sören had ever made - Mark broke the silence, his fingers brushing over the bright blue ocean waves on Sören's left arm. "That looks somewhat familiar."
It was a fire and water phoenix doing a mating dance in a nebula - not exactly like the fire and water phoenix on Sören's back, but reminiscent of. Sören nodded solemnly.
"There's a story there," Mark prompted.
As much as Sören feared that being honest about his mental health struggles would turn Mark off, he couldn't just make up something about the backstory of this piece, either. "So... when I was nineteen, I tried to kill myself. When I was in treatment afterwards, and started transitioning, I made this, and eventually I got ink based on it, kind of like... like an act of magic, but not quite." Sören let out a deep breath. "When I was four, I started having terrible nightmares about burning to death. As I got older, the dreams evolved. I was being attacked by a pack of fire demons. In therapy, I analyzed the dreams. It seems symbolic of... being bullied in school, being abused by my guardians... and especially my own body torturing me. Like, the dysphoria creating self-destructive urges, personified. I mean, the dreams always felt real, like something that had happened, that I was reliving over and over again. But my therapist agreed that was what it was. And when I worked on this painting, and got the ink done, I added water to balance out the fire."
Mark was silent again, and Sören's stomach turned to ice, worrying that he had finally said the wrong thing... and then Mark gave him a fierce, tight hug. "I'm glad you're still with us," Mark husked.
With that, Sören fell apart, relieved that Mark not only wasn't running away, but there was understanding and acceptance there. It was such a weight off Sören's shoulders to finally tell someone who wasn't a professional about the dreams, the painting and the ink, and not be judged for it, as his ex-roommates had done. Sören broke down sobbing, but Mark kept holding him, rocking him, petting him, seemingly undaunted by the vulnerability. Even so, Sören choked out, "I hope I didn't make things weird."
"No," Mark said. "Creative people are often sensitive people. More often than not... broken people, and each of our works is a piece of putting ourselves back together."
Sören wept afresh, deeply touched by his words... and the fact that someone finally got it. Sören nodded in vehement agreement and held onto Mark, like a fortress in the storm of his grief. Even though Sören was content with where he was at in his transition - he felt like a real man, he no longer felt imprisoned and tortured by his body - it had nonetheless been a very intense journey, and he often wondered how things would have been different if he'd been a cis man. He knew some things probably wouldn't have changed, like it wouldn't have saved his parents from getting killed, wouldn't have saved him from the physical and verbal abuse by his aunt and uncle, though it might have spared him from his uncle's sexual abuse. Regardless, Sören felt like all of the twists and turns of his life had led him here, to this moment, where he quite literally didn't know where he was going to go in a week - every rejection, every hurt, had brought him to this place, and Mark's deep compassion after so much shame and hatred was painful in a good way, like cleansing a long-festering wound.
Mark lifted Sören's chin with his hand, looked him in the eye, and his thumbs wiped Sören's tears. "Come on," Mark said. "Let's take a shower, it'll make you feel better."
Sören nodded and followed him to the bathroom. He did need to clean off and sweat and salt residue. Unfortunately, instead of the pelting hot water soothing sore muscles, it stung his ass cheeks; Sören yelped and whimpered. Mark quickly turned him around and made a little grunt of concern. "Your poor ass is sunburned," Mark said.
"Oh, I must have gotten that when we were fucking on the beach," Sören said; they had applied sunblock but hadn't put it on everywhere, being in swim trunks at the time.
"I'm sorry."
Sören turned around and smirked. "I'm not."
Mark howled, a big grin on his face. Then Sören asked, "How does your ass feel?"
"Fine." Mark turned around; his ass was unburned, which Sören found interesting considering he was equally fair-skinned and Mark had topped him, exposing his ass to the sun.
But he couldn't wonder about that too long - Mark's ass was as perfect as the rest of him, as if it had been carved from marble. "Your ass is fine, all right."
Mark shook his ass, and Sören managed a chuckle before another whimper - each drop hitting his ass was sending shock waves through him, almost unbearable.
They quickly washed their bodies and then Mark put conditioner in his hair, and Sören's. "We can let this sit overnight and soak up the salt, then I can help you rinse your hair in the sink tomorrow or something, if your ass is still too sore for a shower," Mark said as he lathered Sören's curls. Sören smiled at him, and melted a little at Mark's tender loving care. He tried not to like it too much - he didn't want to get too attached - but he was as starved for the gentleness as he had been for touch, for sex, and it scared him a little how much he didn't want it to inevitably end when the vacation was over.
They towelled off, Mark threw on boxers and a black silk robe, and wrapped his hair in a towel turban-style, covering his ears, and said, "I'm going to the hotel's convenience store to see if they have any aloe vera for your poor ass."
"OK, takk." Once again, Sören was touched by Mark's kindness, and he found himself tearing up again once Mark was out the door.
Sören waited, giving Huan and Snúður skritches and pettings, as his ass continued to smart... trying not to break down crying that for the first time in too long, someone was taking care of him, being so nice to him; he bitterly remembered when he had been sick as a child and his aunt and uncle had no patience for "weakness". The wait felt longer and longer, and just as Sören was wondering if they even had aloe vera or anything for sunburns, Mark arrived, waving a bottle filled with green aloe vera gel. "Success. Although, it was pretty outrageously expensive."
"It's like they price gouge knowing tourists are likely to get sunburned here," Sören remarked.
"Mhm. Anyway..." Mark closed the door behind him and cleared his throat. "Let me see that hot ass of yours. ...Literally." Mark began to take off his robe and boxers.
Sören cackled, shucked his towel, and lay on his stomach.
Mark squirted aloe vera gel onto Sören's ass - Sören gasped from the cold gel, then again as Mark began to gently rub it over the sunburn. At first it stung, but then the aloe vera began to do its job, soothing him. And Mark's touch soothed him as well - once again, Sören began to cry.
Though he tried to muffle it with the pillow, Mark still noticed. "You OK? Am I hurting you? Should I stop?"
"It's not that. It's..." Sören exhaled. Even though he deplored "boys don't cry" toxic masculinity, and Mark had seen him cry - and held him through it - a little while ago, Sören still felt self-conscious being so vulnerable in front of someone who was just a hookup, just a fling. But the words poured out of him anyway, through his tears. "You're so nice to me, and..."
Mark gently patted Sören's shoulder and gave a soft sigh. "You're touch-starved."
"...Jæja." And with that, Sören broke even harder, not even bothering to try to cry into the pillow. He hated admitting it, he didn't want to be needy, he didn't want to be clingy, he once again feared sounding desperate... and yet, Mark understood.
Mark continued applying the aloe vera gel to Sören's sunburned ass, then he stopped, closed up the bottle and put it on the nightstand, let his hair out of the towel-turban, tumbling down his shoulders and back in wet strings from the conditioner - though there was still so much of it - and he leaned in to give Sören a little kiss, then he came back around Sören, and this time started rubbing Sören's back, hands kneading and rolling. The tension melted away as Mark found knots Sören didn't even know he had; Sören involuntarily flexed his fingers and toes, like a contented cat. After a few minutes, Mark began nuzzling Sören's neck, then his back, raining little kisses over the phoenixes tenderly, reverently. Sören wept more silently, and Mark held space for him to let it out, rubbing, kissing... letting Sören soak up his touch. "Shhhh, baby," Mark whispered. "Shhh, it's OK. I've got you, honey. I'm taking care of you. You deserve this. Let me spoil you."
Mark began to kiss a trail down Sören's spine, fingers following his lips, brushing, walking, and soon Sören was whimpering for a reason that had nothing to do with his sore ass, grinding against the mattress. Mark laughed softly. "Oh, you like that, don't you?" Mark reached between Sören's legs to find him wet and wanting. "You do."
"Oh, fuck..." Sören shuddered, almost coming from Mark's skilled fingers on his clit.
Mark guided Sören into a face down, ass up position, and began to lick Sören's pussy from behind. His tongue stroked ever so slowly, deliberately, making Sören howl and whine, gripping the pillow white-knuckled. Mark's tongue teased and teased, slowly, before he drew Sören's hard, aching clit in his mouth, sucking hard but slowly rolling it around in his mouth. Sören heard himself panting and whimpering, like he was in heat, wanting so badly to come but never wanting Mark to stop. This, too, was spoiling him, especially when Mark's tongue slipped inside him and slowly rubbed at his inner walls, teasing him even more.
After a few minutes of that, Mark had Sören get up. Mark lay back, and patted his shoulders. "Sit on my face," he said. Sören straddled Mark's shoulders, and cried out as Mark took Sören's clit back in his mouth, bobbing his head slowly, sucking on it. Then more slow licking, at his clit and inside him. "I love doing this to you," Mark purred, before taking another slow lick at Sören's clit. "Your pussy tastes so fucking good." Mark licked his lips.
Sören wanted to tell him he had a talented tongue, but he could only make noises, so lost in delicious pleasure that he couldn't make words.
All sense of time slipped away and it felt like Mark was eating him for hours, the slow licking and slow sucking driving Sören out of his mind with sensation. Nobody had ever taken their time like this before - nobody had really cared about Sören's pleasure before - and Mark seemed determined to just worship Sören's pussy. Through the haze of bliss Sören noticed Mark's right shoulder moving and heard soft squishing sounds and realized Mark was touching himself, and that made it even hotter.
Mark edged Sören for an eternity, licking and sucking a little faster to get him close to orgasm, then resumed the slow teasing, building him up and up and up until Sören was shaking, grabbing the headboard, breath in shuddery gasps, and at last he found his words, begging "Please. Please..."
Mark pulled back and rasped, "Ride my face, baby."
Sören did as he was told - even though he was fucking Mark's face he felt like the one being fucked, bouncing on Mark's wildly lashing tongue, then Mark sucked on him hard as Sören rocked his hips. With his clit in Mark's mouth, Sören shattered, screaming, and as Mark lapped at Sören's contracting cunt, Mark sighed deeply and his shoulder stopped moving, and with the moan that came a second later Sören knew Mark had climaxed too.
Sören and Mark kissed - Sören's cunt throbbed again as he tasted himself on Mark's tongue - and then Mark brought his slick fingers to Sören's mouth to taste, and Sören sucked on them, enjoying the taste of Mark's juices. Mark pulled Sören close and Sören continued sucking on Mark's fingers, this time for comfort. With Mark's free hand, he pet Sören's conditioner-slick curls, and Mark whispered, "That's a good boy. That's my good, good boy."
Sören would have started crying again - something about those words was a balm for a wound Sören didn't even know he had - but he was too spent, both from crying, and from such an intense orgasm. He lay there snuggled against Mark's chest, sucking on Mark's long, elegant fingers, weightless, feeling like his brain turned to jelly. It wasn't long before Sören began to doze a little.
Before he could pass out, Mark tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Sören?"
"Mmmm?"
Mark pulled his fingers out of Sören's mouth and booped Sören's nose, making him smile. "So, you mentioned you listen to music when you paint, yeah?"
"Most of the time."
"And it... helps?"
"Jæja. I, ah. I see things in my head when I listen to music - colors, shapes, sometimes entire landscapes, people - and I try to paint what I see."
There was a pause, then Mark said, "You have like an advanced version of synaesthesia."
"Já. English is hard."
"It's Greek and Latin. Anyway, what I'm getting at is... how about tomorrow, I play music for you and you... do some art? I assume you have some art supplies or a tablet with you?"
"Both. I had to sell some of my art supplies for the move but it's nothing I can't buy again wherever I'm settled, and já, I have my tablet."
"OK. I mean, we don't have to if you'd rather not, but -"
"No, I'm honored. Your music is... is good." Sören grimaced - "good" felt like the understatement of the year, Mark was brilliant - but it was harder than usual to translate his thoughts, feeling all mushy in the afterglow.
"Good. I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with. I'd be willing to buy a canvas or print from you, I could use some art to brighten up my house."
"Oh no, I wouldn't charge you." Even though Sören could use the extra money, he felt weird about it. "You sharing your music with me is a gift, so it's... a gift for a gift." Sören smiled a little at the Havamal reference. Then he smiled bigger as he realized Mark genuinely liked his art - he could have turned cartwheels across the room if he was able to move.
"As you wish." Mark gave him a squeeze, then put his thumb in Sören's mouth.
With the cat purring beside him, and the rhythm of Mark's heart, Sören dozed off again.