Two weeks later, Sören and Anthony had given their interviews with NPR and People, and as they predicted and feared, there was a bit of a media circus as the story got circulated across different news outlets. Fox News, in particular, was giving the story a lot of attention, deadnaming and misgendering Sören and warning that acceptance of Sören's "transgenderism" would set a bad precedent and make it "cool" for young people to "go against nature" with transitioning and lead to "moral decline". One pundit on Fox said Sören "went from the Olympics to the Oppression Olympics", and another Fox commentator even blamed Sören's transition on Obama, despite the fact that Sören's transition care had started when Sören had moved back to Iceland in 2007, a year before Obama was elected. And there was special ire directed at Sören's skating camp for at-risk youth twice a year, accusations of "grooming" youth into the "transgendered lifestyle", despite the fact that to Sören's knowledge, none of his students had transitioned and he was only out on a need-to-know basis.
Sören had been prepared for it, and it still felt devastating to see all of the public scorn and ridicule - not just from obvious places like Fox News, but it seemed like even people who had evolved enough to "tolerate" gays and lesbians still couldn't wrap their heads around the existence of someone like him. Before the public outing, Sören had passed well enough to go stealth in his day-to-day life - people assumed he was no different than a cis man, and treated him accordingly. Now, it felt like all of the time and trouble he'd gone to - especially the pain in the weeks after his top surgery - had almost been for nothing. Sören still didn't regret transitioning, it had been for himself to feel more comfortable in his body. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt to see so much backlash, people insisting he was still female, and some sort of sick, disordered one at that.
And it didn't stop there. A couple of the volunteers for Sören's skating camp e-mailed him to withdraw in light of the news, and donations had dried up; one donor had even sent him a hateful e-mail demanding their money be refunded, starting with "If I'd known you were a QUEER PERVERT..." It was looking very probable that Sören's skating camp wouldn't run next year and was finished altogether. Sören also now had to think about the future - while he hadn't been looking for a partner in awhile, after his last bad experience, he typically only disclosed after the third date, before any sex happened - both to avoid the sort of mocking harassment and creepy chasers he'd attracted by disclosing up-front on dating apps, and also so a guy wouldn't rule him out immediately for being trans but might open up to the idea of being with a trans man once he got to know and like Sören. Now that Sören had been outed very publicly, there was no way to go back to this. He was looking at returning to the world of chasers or rejection.
Sören had known since he started transition that there was a good chance he wouldn't be able to keep it private forever and it would eventually become public knowledge somehow - he was surprised it took this long. But there was that, and there was this. Even with giving interviews to reputable news sources, the narrative wasn't entirely in his control anymore, and the hate was worse than what he'd feared.
Sören felt utterly demoralized, and had been strongly considering dropping out of the impending event and going back to Denver, even though he knew that, too, would cause a backlash, considering tickets were already sold out and many people had said they were coming to see Sören and Anthony specifically, being two-time Olympic medalists and a sensation back in the day... and he knew it would also upset Anthony. As it was, Sören and Anthony now had to wear hats and masks just to do things like grocery shopping without being recognized and harassed, and Sören was accompanying him on errands and leaving Anthony's apartment less and less, as the anxiety got worse and worse - Sören thought the short attention span of American news media would have kicked in by now and they would find someone else to poke at, and instead it was still going, now with discourse about theoretical sports competitions with trans people.
Today Anthony was at the store without him, because Sören's anxiety had gotten that bad - and had been gone long enough that Sören was starting to worry something had happened, that maybe someone had recognized Anthony and decided to engage in a bit of gay-bashing. To distract himself from the anxiety, Sören had his laptop open and was looking to see how much flights would be back to Denver within the next week or so. He still hadn't decided - he hadn't bought a ticket yet, he was hesitating - but the urge to run was getting stronger and stronger, as guilty as he felt about it, when he was reconnecting with Anthony after all these years. Indeed, the thought of leaving Anthony behind again - and possibly burning the bridge this time, if Anthony felt betrayed - tore at him.
And if you stay here... your feelings aren't going away. You're just going to torture yourself, pining for someone you can't have. Sören was sure that Anthony would never entirely be able to stop seeing him as a girl, since they'd known each other before.
Just before Sören could click a button to start the process for reserving tickets in two weeks' time, the apartment door open and Anthony walked in. Sören put down the laptop, came over and gave him a hug - a wave of relief rolling over him that Anthony was OK and hadn't been attacked while he was out. Then he took a couple bags of groceries and Anthony followed him inside. In the kitchenette, Anthony pulled off his blue knit balaclava and put down a purple paper handled bag that wasn't from the supermarket. "I went to the mall while I was out," Anthony explained.
"Ah, OK."
"I got you something." Anthony thrust the bag at Sören.
Sören took the bag to the couch and waited while Anthony put away the food that needed to be put in the fridge and freezer, fidgeting with anticipation. He thought it would be rude to open the bag with Anthony not there to watch. The cats came over to investigate and Sören stroked and skritched them; when Anthony was done he took off his outerwear and then joined Sören on the couch. "Well, go on," Anthony said.
Sören opened up the purple shopping bag, reached inside, and felt something cloth... like a T-shirt. Sören pulled out the black T-shirt and unfolded it. The shirt had a picture of Obama wearing sunglasses and making fingerguns, and the caption THANKS OBAMA.
Sören laughed so hard his sides hurt and he teared up. He reached over and gave Anthony a hug; Anthony gave him a squeeze and some pats. "It's perfect. Holy shit."
"I was hoping it would cheer you up a bit." Anthony sighed. "I'm really, really sorry all of this is happening." Anthony looked down. "I was so mad at Sergei back in the day for keeping me in the closet, but as much as what he did wasn't right, I understand now he was trying to keep me from the kind of backlash you're getting."
Sören nodded. "Like, you're still getting a bit of backlash from the obvious conservative outlets like Fox, but it's not like what it would have been in 1998 or 2002 where everyone would have lost their fucking minds, society is more accepting of gay people nowadays. Meanwhile... there hasn't been a lot of trans visibility and people aren't 'there' yet. It's going to take awhile, I think."
"Yeah." Anthony put an arm around Sören, who tried to fight the way his body tingled, a frisson down his spine. "I just wish I could make it stop." He turned his face to Sören, his green eyes kind. "It kills me to see you like this."
"I fucking hate it. I feel like such a coward, hiding at home all the time..." Sören quickly corrected himself, cheeks burning at the slip. "Your place, I mean."
"It's OK." Anthony chuckled. "My home is your home. You're family."
Sören swallowed hard - he was touched by that, of course, but he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed by that, wishing Anthony would see him as something more. And he hated himself for feeling that way, like his attraction to Anthony was like an addiction he was powerless to fight.
Anthony glanced over at the open laptop and his eyebrows shot up. "You're looking at flights?"
Sören sighed deeply, his shoulders heaving. "I was, but I haven't booked a flight back to Denver. I'm sorry. It was... panic. I -"
"I get it. I just wish you'd talked to me first. Not just about feeling scared enough to run, but... I don't want to see you fall apart again, and if you're doing this badly -"
"I promise you it won't be like before. The darkest days are behind me. But I'm not gonna lie, it's been really unpleasant to be under a microscope and have the entire world laughing at me. And I fucking hate that I can't even make myself go to the store with you, wearing a mask..." Sören's eyes teared up again, this time not from laughter but raw pain. It was harder to cry on T, but the tears were coming now, and even though Sören had sworn to himself years ago he would never be a macho man who believed "boys don't cry", it still felt like yet another defeat.
"Tell you what," Anthony said. "I have a meditation class tonight, before we go practice. Why don't you come with me? If anyone gives you shit - which I highly doubt, it's a more enlightened group of people - I'll give them hell right back, OK?"
After a moment, Sören nodded. He reflexively clenched his fists - he needed to try to fight the urge to hide before it turned into full-blown agoraphobia and he became a recluse. He had spent so much time, money and pain working to align his body with his mind and be happy with himself and thrive in the world instead of just existing, and recent weeks had made that seem all for nothing. "OK."
"Good." Anthony patted him again, and once again Sören's body responded to that touch, cunt twinging.
After dinner and before they left, Sören put on his new THANKS OBAMA shirt, making Anthony laugh.
Over the last few weeks that Sören had been staying with Anthony, he'd watched Anthony meditate, but it was an entirely different thing to watch Anthony teach other people how to meditate. Anthony had a calm, gentle, compassionate demeanor - he reminded Sören a bit of Mister Rogers or Bob Ross with the softness of his voice and the kindness of his words, putting everyone at ease. And while Sören had been somewhat intimidated by Anthony's meditation practice - curious to learn for himself, but thinking he probably wasn't capable - hearing Anthony explain it, and guide everyone into a meditative state through breathing and body awareness made it sound so easy. Sören meditated along with Anthony's students, and for the first time since the news broke, the leaden weight of anxiety rolled off him.
Anthony smiled at Sören after a few rounds, each progressively longer than the other. "How was that?" he asked.
"Good," Sören said. Then it clicked. "It feels familiar, like the way my mind shifts gears when we dance."
Anthony nodded. "When we ice dance, it's like a moving meditation."
"Have you ever tried that with your class?" Sören looked around, then back at Anthony. "Maybe we our last round for the night, we could get people moving. Not skating, obviously." Then Sören looked back at the middle-aged guy in a wheelchair and half a leg, who gave him a concerned frown. "This'll be for everyone," Sören assured him with a smile, and the guy smiled back and gave a thumbs up.
Sören went over to the collection of music Anthony kept at the studio - mostly instrumental New Age CDs, with some Enya and Enigma... and Spiritchaser by Dead Can Dance. Sören put on the first song from that album, "Nierika", and once people were deep breathing, he had everyone roll their heads around, "like the way the Earth spins." Then he had people gently flap their arms, and paddle. "Like the wind and the water. Fly away from your troubles, swim away from the pain." He thought about the fire and water birds on his back, that he'd designed himself, and told himself You too.
At the end of the class, people thanked both of them, and once everyone was gone, Anthony turned to Sören and hugged him. "You're really good at this," Anthony said.
"I had a good teacher." Sören patted him.
Anthony tousled Sören's curls. "We make a good team."
On the way to the skating rink, they continued listening to Spiritchaser in the car. For a little while they were silent, enjoying the music and decompressing after being in a crowd... and then Anthony looked over and said, "You know, it would be fun to have you as an assistant with my meditation classes."
Sören smiled. "I'd like to bring you on to teach meditation at my skating camp, help the kids learn to tame their brain, except... there might not be a camp anymore, after the way people are freaking out."
"I'm really sorry." Anthony sighed. "Well, if it's really a bust and you still want to make a difference and help people somehow, you could take those weeks you'd spend doing the camp and come out here and we could run a special moving meditation workshop, maybe?"
"I'll think about it." Really, the answer was yes - Sören had assumed once this was over they'd go their separate ways, keeping in touch over phone and e-mail and maybe getting together once or twice a year, and the thought of seeing Anthony for a few weeks if not a couple of months every year filled him with joy. He had missed his best friend so much, and they were so back.
And yet... it was like a moth to a flame. You know it's just going to make it worse, Sören admonished himself. Eventually he'll find a guy, and you'll be like the Little Mermaid, turning to seafoam as you watch your beloved with someone else, all over again.
Sören tried to push those dark thoughts away - he'd had enough angst for one day - and relished the closeness to Anthony as they huddled together under an umbrella, arm-in-arm on the way across the parking lot to the skating rink, in the cold November rain.
They warmed up to "Smooth Criminal" by Michael Jackson and "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" by Queen, before rehearsing their numbers - the rhumba to "Remember The Time" by Michael Jackson that won silver in 1998, the paso doble to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana that won gold in 2002. In the months prior to the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin - before their crash-and-burn a month and a half before the event, they'd been planning on a salsa to "I've Had The Time Of My Life" from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, which would have been their swan song, hitting the peak of their career and retiring. Now, after they did their routine to "Smells Like Teen Spirit", Sören and Anthony looked each other in the eye and Sören could practically read his thoughts. Often during their skating days they'd had moments of thinking what the other was thinking, having been so in sync when they danced together... and here it was again.
"'Time Of My Life'," Sören and Anthony said in unison, then started laughing.
"Great minds." Anthony patted Sören - once again sending a frisson through him, clit stiffening - and then Anthony skated off to the music selector.
It was bittersweet, revisiting the dance moves that would have been their last big dance together, hoping to strike gold for the second time. Once again, the years melted away and they moved together like they'd been practicing every day all this time.
"I think," Anthony said as they made their last lap around the rink, practically sailing on the ice, "we should give them three songs instead of two, with this as our closing act."
"I agree." Sören squeezed Anthony's hands.
When the song was over, they hugged each other tight. Sören rested his head on Anthony's shoulder, and once again the tears flowed - agreeing to dance the number that they hadn't been able to perform in Turin because everything came crashing down, felt like they were coming full circle. They'd both battled their demons over the last seven years and they were like the fire and water phoenix on Sören's back, who had flown and swam away from the madness and found freedom. As devastating as it was for Sören to be attacked so viciously in the news, and by the average citizens who commented with bigoted remarks - a fate that Anthony had been spared from a decade ago, though he had paid a severe price - nobody could take this away from them, this time. They had their dance. They had each other.
"It's going to be OK." Anthony rocked and pet him, his own voice shaking. When Sören looked up, silent tears were rolling down Anthony's cheeks, his eyes too bright.
"I didn't mean to make you cry," Sören said, crying harder, crying for Anthony, not just himself.
Anthony shook his head and hugged him tighter. "It's good for the soul."
They hit the soda machine on the way out, to get an overpriced Gatorade. There were hockey players coming out of the hockey rink in Crystal Emporium, laughing and talking loudly, and Anthony suddenly froze, eyes wide. When the group of hockey players came into closer range, a few of whom nodded in their direction and they nodded back, Anthony relaxed a little, breathing harder, and when the hockey players left, Anthony leaned against the soda machine and exhaled sharply.
"Are you OK?" Sören asked.
Anthony rubbed his face like an annoyed wet cat, blinked, shook his head, and then he said, "I thought for a minute one of those guys was Justin. Looked a lot like him. It wasn't, but."
"Oh. Oh shit, I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Anthony looked down at his shoes. "Me too."
They were quiet on the ride back to Anthony's apartment - Sören wanted to give him space and let him decompress. Anthony called it a night earlier than usual, going to his room to read, which Sören understood. Sören was troubled by Anthony's flashback, wishing he could help, but he knew sometimes you just had to let someone be. Sören took out his tablet and worked on a digital painting in progress - a landscape inspired by Iceland, a waterfall and dramatic rock formations, where if you looked closely the rocks appeared to have faces, like guardian spirits - and did that until his eyes were heavy, at which point he brushed his teeth and went to bed.
In the middle of the night, Sören's bladder woke him up, and on his way down to the bathroom he heard the TV going in Anthony's bedroom - not very loudly, but noticeably on - and when he was finished doing his business, concern got the better of him; Anthony's bedroom door was open a little and Sören peeked in. Anthony was still awake, leaning back on propped up pillows, skritching Solly beside him. Their eyes met, and Sören gave an awkward little wave.
"Sorry, just checking on you," Sören said.
"Yeah." Anthony sighed, then made a "come here" gesture.
Sören got on the other side of him to not bother Solly, who got up anyway, yawning and stretching, and walked over to give Sören some love. A moment later Shmuel hopped up on the bed with a chirp, and proceeded to headbutt each of them in turn, purring loudly, before climbing into Anthony's arms and kneading his heart; Sören melted a little at the cuteness, reaching in to give Shmuel more skritches, and then he skritched Anthony too, which made Anthony laugh and skritch his beard in return.
"Rough night?" Sören asked.
Anthony nodded.
Sören nodded too. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, I just -"
"No, it's..." Anthony sighed again. He muted the TV, and sat up a little more; Shmuel got down and began kneading the blankets at their feet. "Seeing that bloke who looked like Justin, tonight, really threw me."
"I bet."
"Like..." Anthony scowled. "I haven't wanted to say this, because I know you've had it worse with the media circus, being the first Olympic athlete to come out as trans and all, but... I've been low-key afraid that our return to the public eye meant Justin would find me and... start shit."
"I get it."
"I keep telling myself that's a stupid fear. I'm not exactly impossible to find - I didn't change my name, and... everything... like you did, which was why I couldn't find you and get back in touch with you when he was gone. I'm across an ocean and it would be a lot of trouble for him to track me down just to fuck with me, but he is that kind of crazy, and as the years went on and he didn't do that, I figured I was safe. But now that we're more visible, that fear got louder, and when I saw that guy..." Anthony's voice trailed off.
Sören quietly took his hand, and Anthony squeezed it. Sören gave him space to collect his thoughts, and after a few minutes Anthony went on, "I bloody hate that all these years later, seeing someone who somewhat resembles him sends me into an entire fucking tailspin."
"I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't offend you by peeking in, I don't want you to feel like you're under surveillance -"
"No, I get it. I mean..." Anthony gave a wry smile. "I've watched you eat and there was that time I eavesdropped on you in the bathroom to make sure you weren't making yourself honk. To be very honest, this is one of those days when I'm reminded that sobriety is a day by day battle. I had urges to go out to the liquor store, drink and just... get numb... but I didn't indulge them."
"I'm proud of you." Sören reached over to give him a hug, which Anthony returned, and for a long moment they just held each other; Sören's eyes started tearing up again, feeling that fierce, tight ache in his chest, wishing he could slay Anthony's demons for him, knowing how hard it was to fight his own.
When they pulled apart, Sören said, "I take it shit with Justin was... really bad. Worse than you've let on."
Anthony exhaled. "Yeahhhh." He looked down. "He wasn't just physically and verbally abusive. He..." Anthony closed his eyes and winced like he was in pain, then he opened his eyes, which were misty, and his voice shook as the words came out. "So this is TMI, but before I met Justin, I was... more of a top. I didn't mind bottoming once in awhile, but Justin wanted it... more than once in awhile. And he got really pissy if I said no. So I started going along so he'd treat me decently. I should have left then, but I'd lost so many boyfriends when Sergei kept me in the closet, I was lonely and this was the first guy who was willing to deal with being kept a secret... I was an idiot to not realize the reason why was so he could get away with abusing me. Anyway. I felt coerced into it, it wasn't enjoyable..."
"Right, saying no wasn't really an option."
"And then..." Anthony closed his eyes again. "I didn't get the option at all. He just... took what he wanted."
"He raped you."
"He raped me so many times I lost count." Anthony buried his face in his hands and began shaking with silent sobs.
Sören pulled Anthony close and Anthony broke, weeping audibly now, and harder. Sören cried too, hurting for him... and feeling a surge of murderous rage towards Justin. Sören held Anthony and let him cry it out, crying with him, for him, being a living shield wall against the great dark tide of grief, knowing Anthony was reliving those memories, and wishing so very much he could go back in time and keep any of it from happening at all.
At last Anthony lifted his head up, wiped his eyes with his hand, and grabbed a box of tissues from the nightstand, taking some for himself and passing the box to Sören. "I should have left, when it started."
"It can be hard to leave an abuser."
"It was. I felt so worthless, so... so fucking powerless. It took him pushing me down a flight of stairs, and getting injured from that, for me to finally leave, because I knew after that if I didn't he'd likely end up killing me."
"So you've spent these last few years worrying that someone you had a valid, understandable fear of murdering you would eventually find you, and for a moment you thought you saw him tonight, I can see how horrific that is."
Anthony nodded. "I've been in therapy. I don't drink anymore. When I got sober, it wasn't just a struggle in and of itself, but I started to feel all the feelings I'd been numbing away and it was... unpleasant. I spent the first two months crying all the fucking time, it feels like. But even after years of trying to heal, shit like this happens and I feel like I've taken entire leaps backwards, not steps."
"I get it, though I think it's a big deal you didn't hit the bottle tonight."
"There were other times when it was really tempting. The last relationship I was in, was with a guy named William. A little younger than me. I told him up-front I had an aversion to bottoming - like it was fine occasionally before Justin, but after..." Anthony shook his head.
"And let me guess. William still wanted you to take it once in awhile."
Anthony nodded. "And when I said no, he accepted that answer, unlike Justin... but then I found out he was cheating on me with guys on Grindr who would bottom. I caught him in bed with one of them. He not only betrayed my trust, but he was rawdogging it with these guys and put me at risk for a disease. I had to go get tested after I threw him out, and thank fuck I'm clean, but..."
Once again, Sören felt himself burning up with rage, wanting to annihilate William as well as Justin. "Hvað í fjandanum. Hvað í FOKK. Þvílíkur einskis skítur sem hann er, algjör óþverri."
Anthony chuckled through his tears. "I know you're pissed when you lapse into Icelandic."
"Jæja, well, you can't blame me."
"No, sir."
They hugged again. "I'm so sorry," Sören said. He sighed. "I wish I'd been there. Maybe I could have helped -"
"I don't know if I would have listened." Anthony patted him. "At least we're here now." Anthony looked into Sören's eyes. "Please, don't go. Not till this is over. It's not just that we're doing this for a good cause. I need you in my life. I know it's been really scary to watch the freakout since the news broke, but you're not alone. If we're out together and anyone wants to start with you, they have to go through me first, OK? I don't take any shit anymore."
Sören smiled and squeezed him. "OK. I'm sorry I even thought about it. And... same. If we were to run into Justin, while I'm out here... I'm gonna fuck him up."
Anthony laughed. "He might kill you."
"Then I'll go down fighting, to Valhalla."
Anthony laughed harder. "My hero."
They just looked at each other then - Sören fought the urge to kiss him, not merely because he still feared rejection, but it was the wrong time after Anthony had confessed to being violated repeatedly, and was so vulnerable now. But sharing that vulnerability made Sören love him even more, admiring his strength and resilience, the way he hadn't given into bitterness with the cruelty shown him but instead was committed to kindness and compassion, teaching others the way of peace through meditation.
"Should I let you try to get some sleep?" Sören asked, glancing over at the time - it was just after 2 AM. "It's late."
"Stay with me?"
They had shared a bed often during their ice dancing days - on the nights when Anthony wasn't off with some guy, and it stopped once Anthony got involved with Justin - but now, it was like old times, except this time Sören was the big spoon and Anthony was the little spoon. "I've got you," Sören said, his arms around Anthony's waist.
Anthony rested his hands on Sören's hands. "I've got you, too. Always."
February 2002
Sigrit hissed between clenched teeth as the sting seared through her skin and she watched the blood trickle down her arms. "Bleed it out," she told herself, putting the razor down on the sink counter.
Both her arms were covered in a series of thin scrapes, weeping small amounts of blood. Not enough to need medical attention - she'd taken care of it with antibiotic cream and bandages plenty of times before. Just enough to hurt, to bleed... just enough to leave behind faint scars, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for, and she'd taken to wearing elbow-length gloves as part of her ice dancing costume to hide them. Off the ice, she was prone to wearing long sleeves, even in the summer - she favored baggy, body-hiding clothes in general.
Each time she cut, in that first moment of completed work there was the rush of self-loathing, and this was no exception, coming on louder and harder than ever. What the fuck are you doing? You just won a gold medal, and this is how you congratulate yourself? You're fucking pathetic.
Sigrit let herself bleed for a few minutes, watching it with a kind of fascinated horror... feeling like her mind was leaving her body through the stinging, ringing pain. Through the haze of numbing relief, she found herself reaching for the first aid kit, but just sat with it, blood dripping onto the floor, the roar of seething pain dulling to the background as her thoughts came to a standstill and there was perfect silence.
This was why she did it. Since they'd come to Salt Lake City for the Olympics, it had been like sitting in a pressure cooker. Now that it was over, they'd finished their performance and won their medal... she could release that pressure. There was the relief, and the escape. She felt herself float up, up and away, the sense of hovering just outside the prison that was her body, the entire world fading -
"Siggi?"
Sigrit startled and dropped the first aid kit on the floor. Reflexively, she bent to pick it up, and when she looked up, Anthony was standing there in the bathroom doorway, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
"Siggi." Anthony's brow furrowed. "What..."
Sigrit looked off to the side, face on fire as reality came crashing back. "I thought you wouldn't be back for awhile, dude." That was why she'd left the bathroom door open - Anthony had gone out drinking to celebrate, Sigrit wasn't in the mood to watch him get plastered yet again and had elected to stay behind... she'd needed to decompress anyway after the crowds and the noise, feeling overstimulated. So she'd assumed, wrongly, that she'd be here all by herself for awhile, and didn't want to be claustrophobic in the suite's tiny bathroom.
Anthony put his hands on his hips. "Sig. Siggi, did you... did you do that to yourself? I just..." Anthony stepped forward, his arms out like he wanted to give her a hug... and then, with a look of alarm on his face, he fell on her and vomited.
It would have been comical if it wasn't so painful. This was not the first time Anthony had been drunk to the point of vomiting, in front of her, but it was the first time he'd vomited on her, getting it all over her light blue nightshirt. Sigrit gently maneuvered to get up off the toilet, open the toilet seat, and guided Anthony into place, holding him as he retched again. It wasn't the first time that toilet had seen vomit today, Sigrit had taken a detour after lunch.
Sigrit poured a Dixie cup of water as Anthony caught his breath, and when he was ready, she handed it to him. "Jesus Christ, you look like hell," she said, glancing at the mussed hair, the glassy eyes, the incorrectly buttoned oxford that signalled Anthony had been fooling around with someone while he was out. Delicious hell, Sigrit added to herself, hating that she still wanted him, even like this.
"You're one to talk," Anthony slurred, taking one of Sigrit's arms and looking at it. "Fucking hell, Sig, you... why?"
"Probably the same reason you get shit-faced all the time." Sigrit folded her arms, then realized she shouldn't have done it when the sting hit like a lightning bolt. With a noise of exasperation, Sigrit took the first aid kit and marched to her bed. Just as she sat down, she remembered she had Anthony's vomit all over her nightshirt. Not even caring that Anthony had followed her out and was watching, Sigrit took off her nightshirt, revealing her bush and small-but-hated breasts, rummaged through her luggage and got out another nightshirt, this one lavender. She pulled it on, making a face at having to deal with her naked body at all, put the soiled nightshirt in the laundry hamper, and then she sat back on the bed, opened up the first aid kit, and got to work.
Anthony sat on the opposite bed, just continuing to watch her in stunned silence, as she cleaned and dressed her wounds. When Sigrit's arms were all bandaged up, Anthony said, "Sig, I wish you wouldn't do that to yourself."
"And I wish you wouldn't get so drunk that you puke all over me, but here we fucking are."
"Please don't be mad at me." Anthony frowned. "I'm not mad at you. I say this because I care. You... you deserve better than... than... that."
"Do I?" Sigrit shook her head. The self-loathing was back, and she spat it out, hearing the venom in her voice, the faint, lingering traces of her Icelandic accent taking over her Scottish accent as blinding rage hammered in her ears. "I won a gold medal, I busted my arse training non-stop for months and... for what? I have no friends besides you, I have no one, I feel stuck in the wrong body that everyone looks at. People think I'm this spoiled little ice princess and that I have it all, and I have fucking. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I've never felt more like a failure in life than I have tonight."
Anthony swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "Yeah."
"You feel it too. That's why you went out and got drunk. ...Again."
Anthony nodded and looked down. "I hate being in the fucking closet. I hate living in a world knowing that the minute the world finds out I'm a faggot, we're done, and I..." He couldn't finish the sentence, breaking down.
Sigrit had a harder and harder time crying, lately - she'd been forcing herself to become as hard and cold as the ice, so she could power through training, and the competitions on the way to the Winter Olympics, and the Olympics itself, without completely losing it. But now she gave in, crying with Anthony.
They both got up and made their way over to each other, and then sat together on the floor of their hotel suite, holding each other, sobbing together. "We're a fucking mess," Anthony choked out, tousling Sigrit's curls.
Sigrit sang in her husky contralto: "We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year..."
Anthony held onto her tighter. "I'm sorry I'm so fucked up, Sig."
"Hi Sorry I'm So Fucked Up Sig, I'm Siggi."
Anthony snickered and elbowed her. Then he got up, helped Sigrit off the floor, and into his bed, where he just held her close for awhile, and she listened to his heartbeat and let herself rest in those strong, powerful arms that had picked her up and carried her and spun her around so many times over the years. For a little while she could almost pretend they were lovers, instead of a gay man and an unwoman in love with their own self-destruction.
In the morning Anthony was gone - he was usually an early riser, while Sigrit was very much not a morning person, but it was still unusual when Sigrit expected him to be hungover and non-functional. He'd left a note: Went to the store to get some provisions, will be back sometime between 10-11 AM.
Sigrit hit the gym to work out her ongoing frustrations and get a hit of endorphins - and burn off her breakfast. When she returned to their suite, Anthony was back, stocking their mini-fridge. Sigrit paused, waving hello. "Hey," she said.
"Hi." Anthony gave her a hug. "I'm sorry about last night."
"Me too."
Their eyes met - they both knew it would happen again, but it didn't change their regret that the other had seen them in that state.
"I, ah." Anthony cleared his throat. "I have something for you."
Sigrit waited; Anthony reached into a shopping bag and pulled out a small box of assorted Snoopy bandaids. Sigrit laughed and cried, amused, touched and heartbroken all at once.
"I know I can't make you stop cutting yourself. I wish you wouldn't, but I get why you do." Anthony handed her the box. "At least next time when it happens, remember that I care about you. We may have next to nothing, but we have each other."
They hugged again. "I love you," Sigrit said softly.
"I love you too."
I wish you would love me the way I love you. But Sigrit didn't say it aloud. She didn't need to. Anthony knew, and that was arguably part of their problem.