Anthony smiled a little as he heard Jamiroquai playing from inside the apartment as he put his key in the lock. And when he opened the door, he realized it wasn't just that it was some of his favorite music - and he felt less alone, coming in to signs of another person there - but it was also signs of life, that Sören was... still alive.
While it had been seven years since Sören's suicide attempt, when he was Sigrit pre-transition, and just in the week they'd reconnected Anthony could tell Sören was doing a lot better these days - transition seemed to greatly improve his mental health - Anthony still worried about him. Not that Anthony had been doing great in those days either, he could look back and see when his drinking problem started and it was during their skating career - during the time Sergei had pressured him to stay closeted and live a lie - but Anthony had always felt protective of Sigrit, and even though Sören was a guy now, he still felt a bit like a concerned mother hen, hoping that skating together again and reconnecting wouldn't dredge up too many painful memories and old bad habits to cope.
For Anthony's end of things, the reunion was more sweet than bitter. He liked having Sören around; the years of distance seemed to fade away and they were right back to that magic circle of trust and bonding, which felt more intimate than any relationship Anthony had. Rather than feeling cramped by sharing a one-bedroom apartment with his best friend, he found himself dreading when Sören would return to Denver in the new year... and was trying not to think about it.
Anthony stepped into the living room and was immediately greeted by his two cats: Shmuel, a grey tabby, and Solly, a senior brown tabby. They circled around his legs, purring, and began to meow insistently. Anthony put down his grocery bags and stooped to pet them, and when he looked out into the open plan living room and kitchenette, he noticed Sören wasn't on the couch or in the kitchen, despite having music on. Anthony picked up the grocery bags and the cats herded him forward. Anthony looked at the bowls, which were freshly full of cat food - Sören had just fed them - and he scolded the cats, "Quit lying, Uncle Sören just fed you."
The cats meowed louder as if to protest it was some sort of illusion.
Anthony shook his head and chuckled, put the grocery bags down on the kitchen counter, and began loading the perishables into the fridge and freezer. He thought about calling out for Sören - he doubted Sören would have left music and the lights on if he were stepping outside or going for a walk - but he decided against it, assuming Sören was probably in the bathroom.
His assumption was correct - Anthony heard the bathroom door open, and his bladder reminded him of its existence. The non-perishables could wait to be sorted. Anthony walked down to the small hall leading to the bathroom and the bedroom...
...and was just in time to catch Sören coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, steam rolling out of the bathroom.
"Oh, sorry," Anthony said, swallowing hard. "I didn't -"
"It's OK. I didn't think you'd be back for awhile so I decided to take a shower after my workout. I ah... I had music on so I could sing in the shower."
"I get it, I just, ah... sorry..." Anthony didn't know what to say.
Sören shrugged and gave a quick smile. "No big deal."
Then Sören turned and continued to Anthony's bedroom - they were taking turns sleeping on the couch that folded out in the living room, while the other took the bed, and Anthony had given Sören permission to use his closet and drawers for his clothes and get changed in there for privacy. Though cis men typically were less reserved about being naked in front of each other in locker rooms, Anthony knew Sören had been socialized differently, and even though he didn't want to treat Sören any different than a cis guy, he also knew that Sören had been on the receiving end of intrusiveness and didn't want Sören to feel like he was on display if he invited Sören to relax and not be obligated towards modesty.
This was the first time he'd seen Sören shirtless since their reunion, and Anthony was trying very hard not to stare - once again, not wanting to make Sören feel uncomfortable and like he was a specimen in a zoo or something - and yet... Anthony's last relationship had gone up in flames, and Anthony had sworn off dating for awhile, but he wasn't blind, he still appreciated male beauty when he saw it.
And the truth was, Anthony wasn't sorry at all for accidentally catching Sören in this state, getting a treat for the eyes. Sören's body was lean and muscular, having skated his entire life, and he had nice definition without looking too ripped like a steroid junkie. He had full-sleeve tattoos on both arms - flames going up his right arm, ocean waves crashing down his left. There was more ink on his back, a fire phoenix and a water phoenix doing a mating dance. And Sören's nipples were pierced with captive bead rings. The only distinguishable difference between Sören and a cis man was the faded scars underneath his pecs, and his nipples slightly uneven, which Anthony guessed was from the top surgery. But with his beard and wild hair and the ink and piercings, the scars just made Sören look like a badass Viking warrior.
Anthony quickly let himself into the bathroom before Sören could feel him watching... and could feel himself stiffening, with a surge of lust. His face burned as he freed his hard cock from his jeans and boxer-briefs, trying to push the mental image of Sören away and do his business. Margaret Thatcher, he told himself, the ultimate boner-killer. Margaret Bloody Thatcher.
He still needed to splash cold water on his face and take some deep breaths. You can't be perving on him like this. It's going to make things weird, Anthony admonished himself, looking into his own eyes in the mirror.
Back in the day, Sigrit had been interested, and though Anthony's feelings for her bordered on romantic - and Justin knew without being told and that was why he'd been insanely jealous - it didn't cross the line into physical attraction. Sigrit had been lovely, for a girl, but Anthony had figured out he was gay as a teenager, when the female form did nothing for him and the male form very much did. Now Sören was a man - Anthony supposed he'd always been one, considering Sigrit's dysphoria, but now the male form was actualized, like a work of art. Anthony wasn't sure how he would respond to seeing all of Sören - and he wasn't going to ask, and he wasn't going to attempt to spy - but what he did see here and now, he liked.
And that was a problem. That was potentially a big problem, as the weeks went on. He didn't know how he'd respond to what Sören had downstairs - nor did he assume Sören was a bottom, and Anthony was averse to penetration after Justin - and he felt Sören deserved better than the two of them getting naked and Anthony deciding he couldn't go through with it after all; that would likely break their friendship. Of course, Anthony was sure that over the course of seven years, Sören had moved on, having been with other people, and this time he'd be the one getting rejected.
And he lives in Denver. Yes, long-distance relationships exist in the age of the Internet, but... Anthony shook his head at himself. Don't even think about it. Just... let it go. You got your friendship back, after all this time. That has to be enough.
Anthony came out and Sören was freshly changed into jeans and a Deftones T-shirt, pouring himself a glass of spring water. His curls were wrapped up in a towel turban, and his beard was still damp. There was a long, awkward pause, and then Sören lifted his hand in greeting before gesturing to the bags of groceries still on the counter. "I don't know where stuff goes, or I would have put things away."
"It's OK, you're a guest, not my servant." Anthony gave a nervous chuckle. "Honestly, guest sounds too fucking formal. You're family." He held out his fist. "My bro."
"Bros." Sören gave him a fistbump and grinned.
Anthony loved that smile... and hated himself for it, the way his stomach fluttered as Sören's face lit up. Stop it. "Uh..."
"Jæja?"
"Er." Anthony desperately tried to find his words, but it was like being in the same room with a movie star or a rock star. Anthony decided he needed to do something with his hands, and as he started to put away the non-perishables in their cupboards, and Sören continued to sip his water - nonchalant, like Anthony hadn't just seen him almost naked a few minutes ago - the words finally came to him. "OK, so I know we were eating like bodybuilders when we were training back in the day, and I still try to eat healthy, but I wanted some comfort food and got two frozen pizzas while I was out. Does that sound good for tonight?"
Sören nodded enthusiastically. "That sounds great."
Anthony preheated the oven, then he took out some frozen spinach and frozen fruit. "You want a smoothie while we wait?"
"Yes, please."
Then Anthony felt another twinge of anxiety, as old memories rolled out of the fog in the back of his mind. "I swear I'm not trying to force you on a diet or anything -"
"I know. It's cool."
Anthony smiled, and got to work loading the blender. There was an unpleasant noise - the cats ran off and hid - and then Anthony poured the mixture into two tall glasses and handed Sören one, and they took it to the couch. When the oven beeped, Anthony loaded the pizzas in and sat back down. The cats came out of hiding and wanted attention.
Sören turned off the music. "You want to watch something?"
"Yeah, let's see what's on."
They decided on reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Back in their Olympic skater days, they'd bonded over being Trekkies - back before it was cool to be a geek; they also both collected Marvel comics and were big fans of the X-Men, joking about how they were both mutants. It felt like old times as they watched Picard and his crew go boldly where no one had gone before, right down to both of them having seen the episode "Yesterday's Enterprise" so many times that they could recite lines from memory, and did so, making each other laugh.
When their pizzas were done they ate together, periodically fending off the cats who begged and even tried to steal their toppings, as if the cats had never been fed that day. Despite the cozy atmosphere, Anthony found himself periodically glancing at Sören and alternating between feeling self-conscious at how attractive he found Sören as a man - and feeling a prickle of concern, watching him eat, making sure he was actually eating. It was still a bit surreal to see Sören actually eating instead of picking at his food, but then, Anthony kept reminding himself things were very different now.
Different enough that when Anthony took out a container of peanut butter cookies he'd picked up at the supermarket bakery, Sören accepted and took two. It did Anthony's heart good to see Sören indulging himself a little, after...
Suddenly, Anthony's cell phone went off. Anthony grumbled as he went over to where it was charging, took it off the charger, and swiped on Sergei's number. "Hello."
"Anthony. Hello. I hope this is not a bad time."
"It's never a good time," Anthony said, looking over at Sören again, who mouthed "who is it", and Anthony mouthed back "Sergei". "But I assume you're calling for a reason and this isn't a social call."
"Right. This also involves Sören, but I keep going straight to voice mail, so please pass on the message to him as well. I have arranged for an interview with the both of you and People magazine, as well as National Public Radio - your local Boston station. I will give you the dates for your appointments -"
"No wait, hold up." Anthony found himself putting up a hand as if he were talking to Sergei in person. "You did bloody what? You scheduled us interviews without talking to us first? I realize you were our coach for years and something of a manager, but that still doesn't give you the right -"
"Anthony, I understand you and Sören both dislike dealing with the media. I do. But Sören is the first Olympic athlete to... ah, transition. Coming out of retirement after seven years to do this event, it was not going to go unnoticed."
"Yes, I know. Sören and I have been talking about meeting with the press... eventually. After we've had more time to research reputable media outlets that won't twist words out of context, and will also be sure to print a statement to respect our privacy -"
"Look, People and NPR aren't gossip rags. And I know you may not feel ready to talk about things, especially if they want to bring up why you retired. But the longer you put this off, the more the paparazzi are going to follow you around and make your lives miserable. This way you get to settle the score now, and yes, there may be more attention and scrutiny in the coming weeks once the interviews are publicized, but it will be over soon enough when the world finds the next thing to gawk at."
Anthony sighed with frustration. He couldn't fault Sergei's logic, but he had been hoping for more time - in part because he was sure it was going to come out that he'd been involved with the famous footballer Justin Roberts, and he didn't want to talk about Justin's abuse and risk Justin coming over from the UK to Boston to start more trouble, however slim that likelihood as Justin had probably moved on to other victims.
"I'll write down the dates," Anthony said, grabbing a pen and notepad. "But for future reference, don't fucking spring shit like this on us without notice. At least ask first and touch base with us."
"The media have been pestering me too, Anthony, trying to force me to make some sort of statement. I thought it was better that you speak for yourselves." There was a long pause. "I owe you coming out on your terms, since I stifled you for so long."
Anthony grimaced. While part of him forgave Sergei, knowing it was less disapproval and more trying to keep them from the sort of media shitstorm that would have arisen from Anthony coming out as gay at the turn of the millennium or the early 00s, that there was now in 2013 with Sören living as a man... part of Anthony was still bitter. The pressure of staying closeted - and then unknowingly taking up with an abuser because Justin understood very well "don't tell" - had driven Anthony to self-medicate and while sobriety was less challenging now, he still resented that he'd descended into the abyss and had to fight so hard to climb out, because of it.
Sergei didn't wait for Anthony to respond - seeming to know Anthony couldn't, not able to find the words for the messy emotions. "I will give you the dates now."
The minute Sergei and Anthony were off the phone, Sören rose up from the couch. "Gotta piss," Sören said.
Anthony sat down, and then that twinge of worry came back. Despite his manners cautioning him that it was rude, Anthony tiptoed down the hall and paced a discreet distance away from the bathroom - just enough to hear if Sören was actually pissing or was forcing himself to vomit. Anthony breathed a small sigh of relief when he heard actual tinkling noises, then the toilet flushing, then the water faucet running. Anthony decided to back away a little bit - still within listening range - but he wasn't fast enough and the bathroom door opened. Sören put his hands on his hips.
"This is getting to be a habit," Sören said, narrowing his eyes.
"The first time was an accident, I swear, I wasn't, like, trying to perv on you." Except I'm totally perving on you, Anthony thought to himself but didn't say aloud, cheeks burning as the mental image of Sören in a towel came back. He refocused his attention to the here and now.
"So this time was deliberate."
Anthony nodded and decided to just come out with it. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you weren't... you know." He made a purging-vomit gesture.
Sören looked down at his feet, and Anthony's stomach sank - he knew he'd touched a nerve - and then Sören looked up and shook his head. "Those days are behind me, Anthony. I swear it." Their eyes met. "I mean, you've seen most of me, now. I wouldn't be able to maintain a figure like this if I was..." His voice trailed off. He didn't need to complete the sentence.
"Yeah. I'm an idiot. I just... I worry about you. I care." Anthony swallowed hard. "I feel like I should have done more, back then, when I knew -"
Sören reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "You did try to convince me not to... yeah. And it's not your fault."
"No, it's bloody Sergei's fault." Anthony felt that flare of anger again, even as he knew Sergei probably had apologized to Sören just as Sergei had apologized to him.
"Not just that, but it was also the dysphoria. I felt like my body was a prison, and it was the only way I had at the time of controlling it." Sören took a few steps forward and pulled Anthony into a hug. "Look. I appreciate that you're trying to look out for me. But I had a lot of therapy when I was inpatient, and I had to do a lot more therapy to transition. I'm not fucked up the way I used to be, OK? And now that we've reconnected..." Sören touched Anthony's cheek; Anthony leaned into the touch, melting a little. "I promise I will tell you if things ever get bad again. But I don't think they will. I feel free now."
Anthony nodded. "I don't feel the same urge to drink or use drugs now that I'm not hiding in the closet and not dating abusers. So I sort of get it."
"Good." Sören took Anthony's hand and led him back towards the living room. When they approached the couch, Anthony let go reluctantly - wishing they could keep holding hands, wishing... Seriously, fucking stop it. "So what did Sergei have to say?"
"Fuck." Anthony gave a nervous laugh. "He scheduled some interviews for us. I'm... not pleased."
"Jæja, well, we were going to face the music sooner or later. I'm just sorry that my transition is making this into such a big deal -"
"Considering the circumstances of our retirement, it would have been a big deal even without that, and no..." Anthony turned to face him, and took Sören's hand again. "I don't blame you for that. We were both spiraling downward, just yours was faster."
Sören squeezed his hand and then tousled Anthony's hair - he was the only person in the world who could get away with that. Anthony smiled, and fought back the urge to attempt a kiss. What the fuck. STOP, Anthony told himself. You're going to fuck everything up.
"Anyway," Sören said, "as much as I really don't love being hounded by the paparazzi, it is what it is."
"I'm just worried for you. I know they're going to put you under a microscope way more than they will with me, and some people might, ah..." Anthony cringed, and tried to remember the word from the trans glossary he'd cribbed the day after Sören came to stay with him, not wanting to make any faux pas. "Deadname you."
"Probably." Sören nodded. "It already happened with that one reporter. But if it happens, I'll push back until they get it right. And yes, the public might say shit, when this starts circulating, I expect Fox News to have a field day..."
"Oh, fuck." Anthony facepalmed.
"But statistically speaking, I can't be the only trans Olympic athlete, just the first on the radar. Maybe me opening up about my transition might help other pro athletes. Like who knows, maybe someone like... like... Bruce Jenner might come out as a woman."
"That would be something."
"And not just pro athletes but I mean, we had no gay and trans role models growing up. Now a teenage gay boy can look at you and know there's someone like him and be proud of who he is, and not take anyone's shit for being a 'sissy' or whatever. Maybe there's kids like the way I was - I didn't even have a word for what was going on with me until seven years ago - and not just realize they're not alone, but they can look at me and feel proud instead of the way I felt like a fucking freak."
Anthony felt his chest tighten, a lump in his throat, touched by those words - knowing how true they were, remembering how lonely it was all those years ago - and it made him admire Sören all the more, a beautiful heart to match the beautiful form. He held out his arms, and they hugged. "I'm proud of you," Anthony husked.
Sören patted him. "Hi Proud Of You, I'm Sören."
Anthony snickered, and once again he thought about giving Sören a little kiss, and stopped himself.
"Here," Sören said. "How about we go for a walk - get some air, get our minds off things - and when we get back, we can play Sonic or Mario, just like old times?"
"Sounds good."
There was a small park not far from Anthony's apartment complex - about a twenty-minute walk - and at this time of evening there weren't many people. Sören headed over to the swing set like a big kid and after a minute of watching Sören swing - watching the simple joy on his face - Anthony climbed into the other swing and they swung together for awhile, yelling "wheeee" and laughing. When they were done swinging, Sören poked Anthony and said, "Tag, you're it," and took off on a run. Anthony chased him around the park. It was a return to innocence, for a perfect moment in time they were wild and free, no cares in the world, like two pups playing together.
And then, when Anthony caught Sören and tackled him to the ground, his feelings were far from innocent. Feeling Sören's body under his, against his, and looking at the naughty "what are you going to do now" smirk... Anthony's mouth was dry as he felt himself go half-hard, dangerously close to acting on his recurring urge to kiss him.
But he didn't. He was a gentleman and got up, and helped Sören up. Let's assume that he even still has feelings for you, and doesn't think you're being creepy. What if you see him naked and you're not into what he has downstairs? And then everything goes to hell and you lose him all over again. Anthony exhaled, feeling the weight of that uncomfortable thought like a leaden shroud, killing the joy they'd just shared. He couldn't bear rejecting Sören and hurting him again - once had been enough, over a decade ago. While he knew now that Sören had been struggling with a burden far greater than unrequited love, Anthony still carried the guilt around of having contributed to Sören's breakdown at least a little bit; Sören seemed stronger now but Anthony knew from firsthand experience that being hurt in love could fuck you up like nothing else.
They walked back to the apartment, got changed into their pajamas, and Anthony set up the gaming console. Sören found the container of peanut butter cookies and actually indulged himself with a third cookie, which made Anthony weirdly happy.
"You're staring again," Sören said through a mouthful of cookie.
"I'm sorry. I just. You know." Anthony shrugged. "I like seeing you eat."
"That's what he said," Sören replied and Anthony facepalmed and cackled.
"You're still terrible." Anthony walked over with a couch pillow and gave Sören's ass a playful swat, then tried not to stare at Sören's ass, hugged by the pajamas just right.
And tried not to think about Sören giving a blowjob, or rimming a guy.
This is going to be a long almost-two months.
September 2001
It was September twelfth. Yesterday, Anthony and Sigrit had both seen the news footage of the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers in New York City. Though it was across the Atlantic Ocean, it nonetheless felt too close - if it could happen to the Yanks, it could happen anywhere, and Anthony couldn't help wondering if London might face a similar disaster in the near future. Anthony and Sigrit were both so disturbed by the attack that they'd asked Sergei if they could take a few days off from practice, but Sergei was adamant that they continue to keep to business as usual. "No slacking off. Just a few days off the ice will make you weaker. You must always keep to your routine."
So here they were, both feeling shaken and not really feeling it, but forced to go on anyway. Sigrit was all worried brown eyes, and she was feeling anxious enough that she'd brought a small bag of crisps with her to practice and was nibbling on a few of them now, on their break. Sergei came over and snatched the bag away from her.
"No snacking," he said, waving a finger at Sigrit. "You will get fat."
Sigrit put a hand on her hip. "Don't you think I get enough exercise?"
"I think you have put on a few pounds in the off season. So no more of that." Sergei stomped off and threw the bag of crisps in the garbage can, then blew his whistle, not giving them any more break time.
"I'm sorry," Anthony whispered as he and Sigrit moved onto the ice. "I think you look fine."
But despite his reassurance, Sigrit was still noticeably "off" for the first half of their resumed practice, distracted and upset. When Sergei finally shook his head with disapproval and made a guttural sound of disappointment, that seemed to snap Sigrit back into "the zone", as if she were determined to prove him wrong, and she danced flawlessly, with such beauty and grace that it would have brought tears to Anthony's eyes if he didn't also feel so angry on her behalf.
"Let's go an extra ten minutes, so you can make up for your disasters," Sergei said when it was time to stop.
Sigrit rolled her eyes, but she and Anthony went on. And at last, Sergei applauded, smiling.
"I know this is a difficult time, with everything going on in the world," Sergei said as he approached them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders, as if he, too, was trying to make up for his own disaster. "How about I take you out to dinner?"
Unfortunately, dining with Sergei was even more unpleasant than the break. Sergei insisted Sigrit get a large salad as her main course, while Anthony got to order anything he wanted, and when Sigrit was barely halfway through a bowl of rice, Sergei said, "You don't need all that," and pushed the bowl off to the side.
"Hey," Anthony snarled, fed up with Sergei shaming his best friend. But before he could read Sergei the riot act, Sigrit got up from the table, and waited for them outside in the parking lot.
That night, when Anthony returned to his parents' house - wishing he'd stood up to Sergei sooner, wishing there was something he could say or do to console Sigrit - both Elaine and Roger were watching the news, which was still playing footage of the September 11th attacks. Roger was muttering racist and Islamophobic remarks under his breath, while Elaine was pacing around, wringing her hands, and the minute Anthony walked through the door Elaine rushed over to him and gave him a tight hug.
"Mum, I was just at practice."
"I know. But I still worry something could happen while you're out. Copycat attacks, here in London. I..." Elaine put a hand on her heart. Then she took Anthony aside into the kitchen.
"Anthony, I want you to invite Sigrit over for Shabbos dinner."
Anthony blinked and his head snapped back, stunned. Though Elaine took pride in her Jewish heritage, as the daughter of a Holocaust survivor, she also was secular - she'd married a goy, and the last time Anthony had set foot inside a shul was when he had his bar mitzvah. "You... what. You're not religious."
"No, but..." Elaine made a vague hand gesture. "I still believe in G-d, and I think inviting in the spirit of Shabbos is something the world really needs right now. A time of rest... a time for family. It might make people reflect on what's really important in life, and cultivate love and gratitude, not hate." Elaine cast a worried look in Roger's direction. "Your father is..."
"A Tory."
Elaine gave a wry chuckle. "Labour is keen on going to war, too, Blair is great friends with Bush."
"Shabbos isn't going to make Dad stop being, you know." Anthony didn't want to come right out and say his father was racist, because Roger was right in the other room and Anthony didn't want a confrontation with his father on top of the near-confrontation with Sergei today - and he hated that, feeling like a coward.
"Maybe not. But I don't want to give up on him, and I've learnt he doesn't respond well to lectures." Elaine gave Anthony a look. "You come by that honestly."
Anthony smirked.
Sigrit accepted the invitation to Shabbos dinner - she was a guest often enough, and wasn't put off by the religious overtones. Elaine made cholent in the slow cooker, and loaves of challah... and as a treat, she'd made a tray of home-baked peanut butter cookies. Elaine was taking them out of the oven just as Anthony and Sigrit were coming in.
"That smells amazing," Anthony said, and swiped a peanut butter cookie from the bottom right corner of the tray.
Elaine put her hands on her hips and scowled, but her eyes were smiling. Then she made a "come here" gesture to Sigrit. "Well? Go on."
Sigrit bit her lip and looked off to the side. "Er... no thank you..."
Elaine scowled for real this time. "One or two won't spoil your appetite for dinner, really, people just say that."
"It's not that," Sigrit said. "It's..."
Anthony elbowed her and then nudged her forward. He took a cookie out of the middle of the tray, and shoved it at her. "Fuck Sergei," he whispered in her ear.
Sigrit politely nibbled on the cookie, and smiled, and Elaine smiled back, just before Elaine took another corner cookie to fill the "hole" so the cookies looked symmetrical, even though Anthony knew she would be transferring them to an airtight container momentarily.
Dinner was good - the last time Anthony had cholent had been some years ago at his Bubbe's house - and Elaine kept pushing food on Sigrit, who gave in to Elaine's demands and had two bowls of cholent, a few pieces of challah, and two more cookies. After the candle-lighting ritual and welcoming in Shabbat - even Roger was respectful - Anthony and Sigrit retreated to Anthony's room to play video games; on the way there Anthony stopped at the liquor cabinet, swiping a bottle of brandy.
As Anthony set up the gaming console, Sigrit went to the bathroom. Over the Playstation music, Anthony heard coughing, gagging and hacking noises, and he froze. "Sig, you OK?" he called out, alarmed.
"Yeah, I'm fine." Then Sigrit turned on the water.
A few minutes later Sigrit came out. She smelled like toothpaste and mouthwash, but beneath that there was something acrid, like she was masking the taste of vomit.
Anthony and Sigrit managed to get lost in their gaming, laughing and joking together - Anthony got more animated after a few shots of brandy - and when they were tired enough to wind down, they got in their pajamas and built a blanket fort, since Anthony's twin bed wasn't really big enough for two people. They snuggled together - it felt good to hold someone and be held, even though they weren't involved, as a gay man and a straight woman. And yet, Anthony did feel love for her, and wished things could be different, somehow.
Through the haze of being somewhat drunk, concern swept over him again, recalling the noises he heard in the bathroom. Anthony's brain put two and two together. "Siggi, were you making yourself honk in there?"
Stony silence.
Anthony sighed. "Sig, come on. Sergei's a fucking idiot -"
"Look mate, don't preach at me about what I do to stay thin, and I won't preach at you about your drinking."
Anthony winced - he couldn't be drinking that much, could he? Then he gave Sigrit a resigned little squeeze. "OK. Just... you know. Sergei's an arse. I'm here for you, if ever you need me."
Sigrit patted him. "The problem is I want you." Then it was her turn to sigh, and she rolled onto her side. "Night, Anthony."
Anthony moved closer, spooning her, holding her again. "Sweet dreams."