Anthony woke up just as the sun was rising... with Sören in his arms, snuggled close to him. Even though Anthony's bladder was nagging him, he didn't want to get out of bed just yet. It was too cozy.
Back in their Olympic ice dancing days, they had shared a bed often, cuddling up for comfort, back when they were so lonely and isolated burdened with secrets and the pressure to be perfect in the public eye - "us against the world". Since Sören had found him laying awake a couple of weeks ago, having flashbacks about Justin, they were starting to make this a habit again.
But it wasn't like the "good old days". A lot had changed. Sigrit had been like a sister... and Sören was a very attractive man. In the soft gold light streaming into the room, Anthony couldn't help but admiring the beauty of Sören asleep, with his mane of dark curls tousled, long lashes framing his cheeks, full lips slightly parted. His body was starting to respond to the feel of Sören's body against his, lean and muscular and powerful, all male.
And yet, despite the awkward boner threatening to make itself known, Anthony couldn't bring himself to let go, savoring the closeness, the peace and safety he felt with Sören here. He was going to miss this, when the charity event was over and Sören went back to Denver. Even with a promise to keep in touch and visit, the thought tore at him.
It was a Sunday morning - it was November twenty-fourth, the day before Sören's thirty-third birthday on the twenty-fifth - and Maroon 5's song "Sunday Morning" popped into Anthony's head, but with the gender changed.
And I would gladly hit the road, get up and go if I knew
That someday it would lead me back to you
That someday it would lead me back to you
That may be all I need
In darkness, he is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave
Anthony swallowed hard, resisting the urge to kiss him awake, like a fairy tale. It was time to face facts. Jesus Christ, I'm in love with him.
The thought that immediately followed: No shit, Sherlock.
Anthony exhaled as Justin's old words rang through his head: You're bloody in love with her. Of course, the "her" was now a "him" - the "her" had always been a "him", deep down, and on some level Anthony had recognized that. The physical attraction hadn't been there - Anthony had seen Sigrit naked more than once, and it had done nothing for him. Now... things were different, and he couldn't deny that there had always been a spark between them, emotionally.
Justin had been wrong about a lot of things - calling him pathetic and useless and stupid, among other insults... and yet, he'd been right about this.
And as Sören opened his eyes and gave him a slow, sleepy smile, and Anthony felt those butterflies in his stomach, he once again thought about the inevitability of Sören going back to Denver in January, and it ate him alive.
Stay with me, Anthony's mind spoke, but he didn't dare speak the words aloud. Stay with me. I need you...
December 2005
"Sig? Siggi? You're late for practice."
It was unlike Sigrit to ever be late. Because she had short-term memory problems and could be sometimes scatterbrained - "brain farts", she called it - when she wasn't hyperfocused on something, she made it a point of showing up for appointments and events early, which had gotten Anthony in the habit.
Today Sigrit was a half-hour late for practice. Anthony, sensing something was wrong, had walked down to her flat - she lived within a few blocks of the skating rink; some time ago, they'd exchanged keys so they could just come over whenever they felt like it, though Sigrit rarely came to Anthony's flat because she'd picked up on the fact that Justin disliked her.
The lights were on, indicating someone was home - the fairy lights were turned on the small Christmas tree, even - but there was silence. Anthony marched through the living room down the hall to Sigrit's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, the lights were off, and Anthony peeked in - Sigrit was laying on her bed in a long pastel blue nightshirt. Anthony pushed the door open, wondering if Sigrit had perhaps taken a nap and overslept.
"Sig. Hey, you're late for practice, sleepyhead." Anthony turned the light on.
Sigrit would usually wake up at something like that, but she still lay there, motionless, eyes closed. Anthony came closer. "Hey Siggi, wake up. Wake up, we gotta train. The Olympics are in less than two months, we need to practice today."
As Anthony stood over Sigrit, that was when the alarm bells went off in his head. Her chest wasn't rising and falling normally. He leaned down to touch her, and her skin was cold. She didn't respond to his touch, either - that would have surely woken her up.
Then Anthony looked over at the nightstand. There was an open bottle of prescription pills, an empty water bottle, and a note. Heart pounding in his ears, Anthony picked up the note. It was in Sigrit's handwriting and simply said:
I'm sorry
"Oh no. Siggi?" Anthony's voice broke. He dropped the note on the floor, his hand to his open mouth, and reflexively took a step back. "Siggi?"
Sigrit continued to lay there.
Anthony sprang into action. He immediately pulled out his cell phone and dialed the emergency number. When he got the dispatcher on the line, he said, "Hullo, ummm... I just came over my friend's flat to check on her, and I think she tried to commit suicide."
"Is she still alive? Is she breathing?"
Anthony knelt down and felt for Sigrit's pulse. "Very weak pulse."
"We'll send an ambulance. Do you know how she did it?"
Anthony looked at the pill bottle - Sigrit had a prescription for muscle relaxers after an injury earlier in the year. She had only needed them for two or three days, being fairly stoic about pain, and had most of a bottle left. Until now. "She overdosed on cyclobenzaprine."
"OK. Stay on the line, help is on its way."
Anthony could barely make words, sobbing into the phone as he continued to check Sigrit's faint pulse, watching her carefully - it seemed like moment by moment, the life was draining from her. When the paramedics knocked at the door, Anthony ended the call, promptly let them in and pointed the way to Sigrit's bedroom. A few minutes later, they had Sigrit on a stretcher, and Anthony was invited to ride along.
In the ambulance, Anthony was asked a bunch of questions, and he answered them to the best of his ability, trying to keep calm, but seeing them take Sigrit's vitals - dangerously low heart rate and low blood pressure - shattered him all over again. He fell apart, weeping and rocking himself... angry with himself for not being able to keep it together, but it was devastating to see Sigrit on death's door.
With Sigrit's long mane of curls fanned out, an oxygen mask on her face, Anthony got the mental image of the famous painting of Ophelia, drowning herself in a river.
He took Sigrit's cold hand. "Stay with me," he heard himself say, voice shaking. "Stay with me. I need you. I need you. Don't die. Please don't die. Please, stay. Stay with me, don't give up. Don't give up on us, please stay..."
Once they arrived at the hospital, Anthony was told he couldn't come back to where they would be working, but if he stayed in the lobby, someone would eventually be out to talk with him, and if he needed to go home, he could leave his cell number and someone would call him. Anthony was all nerves - his car was at the skating rink, and he would have to take a bus or tram to get back there, and he was not in a state to drive. So he opted to wait.
He went back and forth between pacing around the lobby, and rocking himself in a chair, his mind's eye replaying finding Sigrit over and over again... seeing Sigrit with the oxygen mask in the ambulance, the alarming vitals. His mind's eye giving him mental images of Sigrit dead, having a funeral, the end of their skating career.
But the prospect of losing Sigrit bothered him even more than losing their career. Sigrit was the light of his life. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to go on without her, and yet, the very real possibility was staring him in the face, and it felt like a piece of his soul was dying along with her.
Anthony wasn't a religious man - he hadn't set foot in a shul since his bar mitzvah, which his goy father had been reluctant to attend - but now he remembered a prayer his usually-secular mother had often said when his father had a heart attack, and his beloved Bubbe had cancer... word for word. After he sat down again, he found himself praying it aloud too, covering his face with his hand and rocking as his mother had.
Mi Shebeirach avoteinu: Avraham, Yitzhak, v’Yaakov,
v’imoteinu: Sarah, Rivka, Rachel v’Leah,
Hu yivarech virapei et hacholah Sigrit bat Brynhildur.
Anthony added in English, Please G-d, if You're out there, do something.
Time seemed to slow down until it stopped, with the gears in Anthony's head spinning over and over, fearing the worst. Eventually his cell phone went off, and he immediately took it out of his pocket, wondering if the hospital had assumed he'd gone home and was calling him - and there was Justin's number.
"Hi," Anthony said.
"Where the bloody hell are you?"
Anthony exhaled. "I'm at the hospital."
"What." A pause. "Did something happen?"
"Not to me. Sigrit overdosed on medication."
Another pause. Then just the name "Sigrit," drawn out.
Anthony's stomach turned to ice. He knew Justin didn't care for her. "Look. I realize it's... it's late..." Anthony looked up at the clock; it was now seven PM, he'd been here for almost six hours, and was three hours past his usual time of getting back. "But I want to hang about at least a little bit longer, until I hear what's going on, if she's going to survive or not -"
Justin gave a bitter, derisive chuckle. Then he spat, "You're bloody in love with her."
"Justin, I'm gay." Anthony quickly looked around, hoping nobody heard that, in case anybody recognized him, or it would be all over the tabloids tomorrow. People seemed preoccupied in their own waiting; Anthony stepped off to the side anyway. He lowered his voice. "If you think I'm cheating, you can come down to the hospital and see for yourself, I'm in the lobby -"
"That's not what I meant. I believe you're at the hospital. What I meant was... you're not her blood family, someone could call you with the news, whether she pulls through or bites it, you don't have to stay there, but being at her side is more important than spending time with me, because she's the one you really love."
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe you're pulling this shit and making it about you. Have a little compassion. I found her and thought she was dead, I have no idea what's bloody going on, I'm too shaken up to try to get back to my car and drive home -"
"You could take a cab, y'know wot I mean?"
"Because I really want to deal with bloody strangers when I'm at my wit's end. Look, Justin, I'm sorry I'm late. Truly." Anthony hoped Justin picked up on the sarcasm in that word. "But this is my ice dancing partner, my best friend, she may not be blood family but she is like family to me -"
"She might as well be your wife."
Anthony wanted to bang his head against the wall. He felt like he was going to throw up. "Again. It's absolute shit that you're doing this now. I've already had the worst day of my fucking life without you getting pissy and saying 'me first' -"
"The problem is, I'm always second to your girlfriend there. So I'll tell you what. Get your arse home, or don't bother coming home, and your things will be out on the curb tomorrow." Beep.
Anthony narrowed his eyes at the ended call and resisted the impulse to throw his phone across the lobby. "Fucker."
Anthony took a few deep breaths, stomped down to the restroom, splashed some cold water on his face - fighting the urge to break down and cry again - and his stomach began to growl. There was a vending machine with snacks, and a cafe where it probably wasn't too late to get a sandwich or salad, but Anthony decided he needed to return home and appease the wrath of Justin, and if they had news he'd get a call... and proceed from there.
As Anthony glanced at himself in the mirror and saw the dead look in his green eyes, he gave a sigh of resignation, shoulders heaving. It was strongly tempting to go home, pack his things, and leave Justin for good - Justin had crossed a line today. And yet, Anthony thought about all the guys who'd dumped him after a few dates for being closeted due to his career and necessarily discreet about his public activity, trying to avoid the tabloid circus that would happen if he came out or was outed - which was Sergei's rule, Anthony just wanted to come out, but he knew Sergei had a point that it would likely end his career. Justin was the first and only guy so far who was OK with being Anthony's little secret, because Justin himself was a pro footballer, playing for Arsenal, and in a macho sport like football Justin would never live it down.
But he was tired of this. And he knew, today, that his career might be over anyway, if Sigrit didn't pull through - he wouldn't have the heart to go it alone as a solo figure skater, that felt like dishonoring her memory. He would be free to come out if he had to retire from sports, and then he could shop around for another partner.
And yet, the unknown was full of risks. Justin was clean, and Justin had his own sporting career so on some level they got each other, the way that someone from another background wouldn't and might be intimidated by Anthony's celebrity athlete status. Maybe Justin would see the light and apologize later - Anthony realized that maybe he should be grateful that Justin cared enough to want to spend time with him and maybe he was the one being selfish, putting his ice dancing partner ahead of his boyfriend... but the call with Justin still rubbed him the wrong way. He still felt sick to his stomach.
He would head home, but he would hit a pub first, have a bite to eat and a few drinks. He very, very, very badly wanted to get drunk, until the pain - and this cruel world itself - numbed and faded away.
November 2013
"OK. Thanks." Anthony hit End on the call, shoved his phone into his hoodie pocket, and stepped out of the bedroom just in time for Sören to leave the bathroom.
Sören folded his arms with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Here we go again."
"I promise you I wasn't listening, I believe you that you're past... you know..." Anthony made a purging gesture. He shook his head and waved his hand. "After I got done changing for practice, I made a call, and just happened to finish the minute you were done in there."
"OK." Sören nodded, and reached out a hand, putting an arm around Anthony as they walked down the hall together. Anthony felt a tingle down his spine and that thrust in his loins just from the little touch. "So... this is none of my business, but I'm nosy. Everything all right?"
"Yeah." Might as well tell him now. "I was going to wait until tomorrow morning, or at least until our practice today got over, to mention this but - your birthday's tomorrow, and I made us reservations at a surf-and-turf place to treat you for your birthday."
"Awwwww, Anthony." Sören's face lit up. He stopped and gave Anthony a big hug; Anthony squeezed him, and his cock threatened to wake up. Down, Anthony told his cock. "That's so sweet of you. That must be expensive, I really wasn't expecting -"
"You're worth it. Besides, we might as well get some extra meat, training like we do."
Sören snorted, and Anthony knew his mind went immediately in the gutter - just like the old days - and Anthony chuckled too.
And fought back the urge to say, I've got some for you in my pants.
They got in the car and Anthony began the drive to Crystal Emporium. As the November rain pelted down and the windshield wipers clacked back and forth, Anthony stole an occasional glance at Sören, and those butterflies started up again. Anthony swallowed hard. Tomorrow at Sören's birthday dinner, he was planning on using the romantic atmosphere to confess he had feelings, and wanted to see where it went. He didn't want to make things awkward if that ship had long since sailed and Sören wasn't in love with him anymore - he definitely didn't want to ruin Sören's birthday - but he couldn't help hoping, just a little, that Sören would give him a chance.
After avoiding it during these last few weeks of ogling Sören because he felt like a creepy fetishist, earlier that day - while Sören was taking a shower - Anthony had retreated to his room with his laptop and finally given into his curiosity about what Sören had downstairs: if he'd be able to work with Sören's "original plumbing"; it seemed unfair to try to start a relationship if they were sexually incompatible... and he'd watched some porn involving FTM men having gay sex with cis men. To his relief, he got hard, and he'd given into his first masturbation fantasy about Sören, topping him in different positions, and came within minutes, having an intense orgasm. So he knew that for him, being gay wasn't about liking cock, as so many made it out to be - including the famed gay advice columnist Dan Savage, who accused gay men who dated trans men of "being bi". His attraction was about male presentation - he wasn't turned on by trans women, after all. Sören was all man, as far as Anthony's cock was concerned.
If only he'd been able to transition sooner...
But Anthony knew he'd been a mess back then and Sören had deserved better; he was clean and sober now, and had made peace with himself - a peace that he tried to pay forward as a meditation teacher and yoga instructor, since meditation had helped him so much during rehab.
When they arrived at the rink, Anthony had something else to worry about.
Five days ago, it had appeared in local news that he and Sören practiced at Crystal Emporium, and since that time there had been crowds showing up at the entrance; access to the rink was reserved by the hour so they didn't have to worry about being hounded while they skated. That said, most of them were actually friendly - which was nice to see, after all of the bigotry aimed in Sören's direction particularly - and he and Sören had been willing to stop and sign autographs on their way in and out of the building. There had been a few hecklers shouting slurs...
...and today, there was a small group with signs that said GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES TRANNIES. One middle-aged woman was wearing a shirt that said GOD HATES FAGS DOT COM.
"Oh no, it's Westboro Fucking Baptist Church." Anthony's jaw dropped. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, as hateful as they were towards the LGBT community, and yet he was surprised that they'd traveled all this way to picket their practice; if he'd expected them at all - which he had not - it would have been less surprising to see them at the performance in New York City on New Year's Eve.
Sören winced and glanced around, still wearing his seatbelt, not getting out of the car just yet. "Um... do you even want to do this now?"
Anthony took a deep breath. His stomach felt like ice, and he had the strong urge to run, and he tried to center himself. Do right, fear no one, he told himself. He looked Sören in the eye. "We need to keep practicing for the event, and give people their money's worth for the charity. Westboro usually just says a lot of nasty shit but keeps their hands to themselves. I don't want to let them bully us out of this, because it'll keep happening and pretty soon we'll be off our game."
"OK." Sören sighed, looked down, and nodded.
Anthony took his hand. "It's just words, it's just ignorance, but I'll protect you, OK?"
Sören smiled and nodded again.
Anthony patted him.
They got out of the car and pushed their way past the Westboro Baptist Church people who were chanting "God hates fags! God hates trannies! You're going to burn in hell! You're going to burn in hell!" And then one portly middle-aged man stood in their way, shouting, "REPENT OR BURN IN HELL, FAGS! GOD HATES YOU! GOD HATES YOU!"
"Actually, the G-d of Abraham doesn't say any of that, it's a mistranslation of the Torah," Anthony said, remembering what his Jewish mother had told him when he'd finally come out to her. "Jews don't believe in hell, it's a Pagan myth that Christians appropriated into their heresy."
The middle-aged man roared, "THE JEWS KILLED OUR LORD AND SAVIOR JESUS CHRIST! YOU ARE OF THE SYNAGOGUE OF SATAN!"
"Am Yisrael Chai and kiss my Jewish faggot ass," Anthony snarled, grabbing Sören and marching him along; Sören put up both middle fingers and blew a raspberry at them.
As they got to the doors, they slowed down - there was the now-usual throng of autograph-seekers, a smaller group than previous days, in the heavy rain. Sören looked over and then behind his shoulder at the Westboro Baptist Church protestors who were undaunted by the rain and coming closer, about to take another opportunity to get in their way. "If we stop to sign autographs, those idiots..." Sören didn't need to finish the sentence.
Anthony nodded. He apologetically waved his hands at the crowd. "Not today, guys. Maybe when there's not haters ruining it for everyone."
There were some groans of disappointment, and a small chorus of "I'm sorry."
"At least not everybody in the world hates us," Sören said, shoulders heaving with a deep sigh as they got inside the arena. "But it sure is hard to think otherwise with that out there."
"Yeah." Anthony sighed too. "It's... unsettling. Hopefully they'll go away in a few days if they see we're not backing down and letting them stop us from doing our thing."
"Hopefully."
They checked in, picked up their keycard at the desk, and headed to the rink. It became clear during warmup exercises that they were both badly shaken and not really feeling it today, but Anthony was determined to keep pressing on. They'd stepped up their game a little, now that they were in the habit of regular practice again, and ran through each of their numbers three times - "Remember The Time", "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and "I've Had The Time Of My Life". They still weren't quite able to get in the zone - it wasn't a complete failure but their routine was far from flawless. After the third round of "I've Had The Time Of My Life", Sören said, "You want to try one more or call it a day?"
"I think we better stop for today," Anthony said, nodding. He patted Sören's back. "Tomorrow's another day."
"Yeah." Sören looked down at his skates. "I really hope these assclowns aren't going to camp here for the next month or so, or we're gonna have to find another place to train."
Anthony nodded again. "I'm thinking we might have to go somewhere outside Boston entirely if we do that, throw the goon squad off our tail, but we'll give it a few more days."
"I hate this."
"Me too."
Sören gave a nervous laugh. "I'm honestly so wound up about this it's making me have to anxiety pee."
Anthony laughed too. "OK, we'll hit the bathroom before we leave."
Though the ice skating rink was reserved by the hour, the two restrooms were public use - indeed, one didn't even have to be a member, and sometimes there was the odd homeless person using the bathroom to wash up. The men's room had stalls as well as urinals - Anthony noticed Sören used a stall or he didn't go; Sören had explained a couple of weeks ago "I pack in public, but it's not stand-to-pee, I tried one and I can't go like that." Anthony decided he might as well do his business here instead of waiting till they got home, and as he began to undo his pants while Sören headed for a stall, a tall, gaunt white man in a black windbreaker and all black, wearing a black balaclava, came charging out of the stall and got in Sören's way.
"You're that famous figure skater," the guy said, his voice muffled by the balaclava.
"Ice dancer," Sören corrected him.
"I've been waiting for you."
Anthony stopped what he was doing - he sensed trouble rather than someone taking an autograph opportunity - and just as he was heading over there to get Sören away and defend him if necessary, the guy went on, "The one who came out as a tranny. You think you're hot shit, spreading your filth around so you can turn everyone into disgusting trannies like you."
Sören took a step back. And another.
The guy pulled out a handgun and aimed it at Sören's head. "Die, tranny bitch!"
Anthony yanked Sören away just as the gun went off - the bullet missed Sören's head but Sören cried out as he hit the floor. Adrenaline surged through Anthony, his heart pounding, and not thinking, just acting, he didn't let the perp get to finish the job. Anthony pulled out the pepper spray he kept on his person and blasted it. The perp dropped his gun and screamed, holding his face, and bolted out of the bathroom.
Anthony turned to Sören, who was on the floor, breath in shuddery gasps, eyes wide. There was a huge spot of blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt on his shoulder. "Oh no. Sören. Sören..."
"It... hurts." Sören shivered and swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "Mér líður eins og ég hafi fengið högg með sleggju og það brennur. Það brennur svo fokking illa, að það logar í öxlinni og handleggnum."
The gun was still laying on the floor a few feet away. Anthony carefully kicked it into the stall in front of Sören, so if the perp came back he'd have to get through them, and then he took out his cell phone and dialed 911.
"911 Emergency."
"I'd like to report a shooting. I witnessed it, I'm here with the victim. I pepper sprayed the gunman and he ran off, he's likely in the vicinity."
"What is your current location?"
"Crystal Emporium in Boston. I'm in the men's restroom with my skating partner."
"Are there injuries?"
"He got hit in the shoulder. He's bleeding."
"Það er sárt. Það er fokking sárt. ÞAÐ ER FOKKING SÁRT. JESÚS FOKKING KRISTUR," Sören cried out.
"Can you describe any persons or vehicles?" the dispatcher asked.
"Guy about six one, skinny, wearing all black, black pants, black shirt, black windbreaker, black balaclava. He got pepper sprayed, so I don't think he'll get very far. He dropped the gun when I sprayed him and I kicked it into the stall, if you need fingerprints or whatever." Anthony knelt down beside Sören - there was blood on the floor now. "Sören's bleeding really bad. Should I put pressure on it?"
"Yes. Please stay on the line if you can, paramedics and police are on their way."
Anthony put the phone down, set it to speakerphone, and began to press on Sören's shoulder; his hands quickly got warm and wet with the blood seeping from the gunshot wound. Sören wasn't swearing in Icelandic now, only making weak little moans, his eyes closed, shivering with pain. Tears spilled down Anthony's cheeks and he tried to answer the rest of the questions as they came, his voice shaking, but he felt like he was starting to float out of his body. In his mind's eye he saw a flash of mental images - himself getting stabbed in a parking lot, himself in an Audi in London getting hit by a McLaren running a light with the windshield shattering, as if he were having visions of his own brushes with death in other universes. He tried to focus again on Sören, switching from his hands to using his knee.
Sören opened his eyes and whispered, "Á ég að deyja?"
Anthony didn't speak a word of Icelandic but he knew, somehow, what Sören had said. "Not if I can help it."
Sören passed out from pain - still breathing - and a moment later Anthony heard sirens, a moment later there were walkie-talkie sounds, and a moment after that the paramedics entered the bathroom, accompanied by police. Anthony stepped back and showed the police where the gun was. Then he turned to the paramedic team who was loading Sören on a stretcher. "Can I come along to the hospital?"
A bald, beefy handsome Black guy said, "Yes, of course. Can you answer some questions about his medical history?"
"Probably."
Anthony was allowed to get in the back of the ambulance with Sören, who was still pretty out of it, and in between answering the paramedics' questions he kept checking Sören to make sure he was still alive. It was a fifteen-minute ride to the hospital, and along the way the paramedics worked to do what they could for Sören. When the ambulance drove into the hospital parking lot, Anthony reached for Sören's hand - Sören's eyes opened slightly, and the words poured out of Anthony, whether it was the right time or place or not. "I love you, Sören. I love you. I love you so much. You are my soulmate, the love of my life. Please, please hang in there. Get through this. I love you so, so much. I love you..."
Sören's eyes closed again.
December 2005
There was a small lounge on the psych unit where patients could receive visitors, and Anthony braced himself, stomach churning as he waited there for Sigrit. After what felt like an eternity, one of the staff members in blue scrubs walked past the panel of lounge windows, Sigrit walking beside - a slow death march - and there was a beep. Sigrit stepped in, and the door closed behind her.
"Hi," Sigrit mumbled, looking down at the floor.
"Hey." Anthony patted to a spot on the sofa beside him.
Sigrit came over, and Anthony gave her the biggest hug. Sigrit was wearing light green scrubs and dark blue grippy socks, her long mane of curls was hanging loose, and the scrubs really accentuated how thin she was - she wore baggy clothes regularly except to perform. She looked more pale than usual, with dark circles under her eyes... and those brown eyes had a thousand-meter stare.
"How are they treating you?" Anthony asked.
Sigrit shrugged. "They check on me every fifteen minutes, we have stupid, useless groups, everyone here is way more nuts than I am and a few people genuinely scare the fuck out of me, they put me on an antidepressant and my mouth is dry all the fucking time."
"That sucks. Hopefully you'll be getting out of here soon, right? Home for Christmas, I hope?"
Sigrit looked down again. "So, about that."
"Oh no, don't tell me they want to lock you up. You're not dangerous -"
"No. It's... not quite that." Sigrit's shoulders heaved with a deep sigh. She looked up at the ceiling, then she turned to Anthony. "After I... woke up, and all of that, they said I was underweight. I'm about eight stone, at one hundred seventy-seven centimeters."
"Yeah, that's pretty skinny." Anthony grimaced - he knew Sigrit had been too thin, but he didn't realize it was that bad. The Olympics could potentially disqualify her at that weight.
Sigrit nodded. "They ran my bloodwork and I've got nutrient deficiencies. They know I... I starve myself and make myself throw up. So when I'm discharged from here, day after Christmas, I have to go straight to a treatment program for eating disorders. They're sending me all the way to Manchester."
Sigrit had been inpatient for a week, it would be Christmas in two days, and the Winter Olympics were on February tenth. "How long," Anthony said.
"Ninety days."
Anthony's mouth opened.
For a long, painful moment there was just silence. Then Anthony said, "You're going to miss the Olympics. We're going to miss the Olympics -"
"I know. I'm sorry. I don't really have a choice." Sigrit looked away. "Truth be told, when this is over, I think I'm going to leave the UK and go back to Iceland for awhile. I haven't lived there in years, not since I came to live with my aunt Gitta in Scotland, but I need to just... reset my life."
"So you're retiring."
Sigrit nodded. "I still think a lot of this therapy stuff is stupid fucking bullshit, but one thing they managed to get through my head is that all the pressure on me hasn't been good for my mental health. Once they figure out how to fix whatever's broken here -" Sigrit tapped her temple. "Then I can't blow it going right back to the same shit that made me lose it in the first place. I need a break."
Anthony wanted to be angry with her. He knew that another person sitting here likely would be furious. She wasn't just ending her career but his too, after he'd dedicated so much of his life to it, and now it was all falling apart - they were going to miss the Olympics, and there wasn't going to be another chance. They were already both twenty-five, and they would peak soon - most figure skaters retired in their mid-20s - and while they could do shows for a few more years yet, they had planned on this being their competitive swan song. Now that swan was going up in flames, and the ashes were raining down over them.
But they'd medalled twice - silver and gold. That had to be enough. And Anthony couldn't hate her for this. Sigrit had almost died, and if it hadn't been the overdose, the eating disorder would eventually have killed her. Anthony loved her enough to want her to be well again, even if it meant they had to end their careers now instead of next year. He wasn't that selfish.
"I understand," Anthony said, taking her hand.
"I'm so sorry." Sigrit's eyes welled up. "If there was any other way -"
"I know." Anthony took her in his arms, and his own tears came. It almost felt like they were married and had lost a child and were burying it; the grief was swift and sharp. He couldn't blame Sigrit for her own self-destructive habits, when he'd been getting drunk every day since Sigrit's overdose, self-medicating to try to keep from following her off the cliff into the abyss. "I love you. Your life is more important than... than this. We had a good run."
"Still." Sigrit sobbed onto his shoulder. "Please forgive me."
Anthony kissed the top of her head and squeezed her - then wished he hadn't, since she felt so thin and frail in his arms it was as if she would break. "Please just... please take care of yourself, OK? That's what matters." Anthony picked Sigrit's chin up and looked into her eyes. "I know we have... incompatible orientations..." Anthony glanced out the panel of windows to see if there were any eavesdroppers, not that it mattered anymore, he wouldn't need to be closeted after today if he was retiring, Sergei be damned. "And I wish I could make you a guy, we would be good together... but I do love you. I almost lost you, days ago. Just work on getting better."
Sigrit patted him and gave him a wry smile. "You too, you know. You're not exactly an example of healthy living."
"Yeah, piss off," Anthony said, not unkindly, then they hugged again.
November 2013
Anthony spent time talking to the police - the perp had been taken into custody - and then he was in the lobby, reliving 2005 all over again, the last time he thought Sören was going to die. Time ticked on, and more than once Anthony knew he should call a cab, stop at home to feed his cats, and come back, but he told himself he'd do that later and wait just a little more. Just a little more.
His body reminded him it was thirsty, after the physical exertion followed by the adrenaline rush - he was also hungry but couldn't bring himself to eat just yet. He went down to the vending machine to get a Gatorade, and then his feet took him to the interfaith chapel, where he sat down and began to pray.
Mi Shebeirach avoteinu: Avraham, Yitzchak, v’Yaakov,
v’imoteinu: Sarah, Rivka, Rachel v’Leah,
Hu yivarech virapei et hacholeh Sören ben Sigurð.
Then Anthony whispered over and over again, like a mantra: r'fuah sh'leimah.
When Anthony was ready, he walked back to the lobby and sat down. Animal Planet was on the televisions, and once again Anthony felt guilty about the cats being home alone for so long, though they likely still had water. Just as Anthony was about to take out his phone and text his mum to let her know what happened - there was a non-zero chance the BBC would have a story about it, and he wanted to tell her before she found out that way and flew into a panic - a short, plump redhaired middle-aged nurse stepped in. "Anthony?" she called.
Anthony walked over, heart pounding. Please G-d let him be alive. Please G-d. Please... "Yeah?"
"Sören is awake and asking for you."
"So he's... he's OK?"
The nurse nodded. "He's going to be OK, yeah. The doctor can give you more information."
Anthony almost skipped his way to the room. Sören was semi-sitting up, wearing a johnny gown; there was an IV in one of his arms. Sören gave a weak wave with the other hand. Sören's dark curls were a mess, he looked pale, his eyes were tired, but he was the most beautiful man in the world to Anthony, all butterflies again as Sören smiled.
Anthony rushed over and pulled up a chair beside Sören; the nurse stepped out, giving them privacy. "You're alive." Anthony started crying. "You're alive. You're..."
"They tell me it was a through-and-through," Sören rasped. "The easiest kind of wound to survive, if you get shot. I lost a lot of blood, but no major arteries hit. I'm on antibiotics and some other shit. They say I can probably go home tomorrow, but I'll have to take it easy for a few days. I may or may not need physical therapy for this shoulder depending on how it heals."
"Maybe we shouldn't do the show -"
Sören shook his head. "I think we can still do the show, I just may not be able to lift you. We'll see as the days and weeks go on."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't even be asking about whether or not we can do the show. How are you?"
"I feel like shit, yo." Sören laughed. "0/10, do not recommend."
"I bet." Anthony sighed, and broke down weeping again. "I'm so glad you're alive. I... this scared the everliving fuck out of me. The thought of losing you..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
With his good arm, Sören took Anthony's hand, and to Anthony's surprise and delight, he kissed it, then pressed it to his heart. "So um. Anthony?"
"Yeah?"
"I know I wasn't all there in the ambulance, but I thought I heard you say 'I love you, you're my soulmate, you're the love of my life.' Was I just that out of it, or..."
Anthony exhaled. "No Sören, you weren't." Anthony smiled through his tears. "Justin was right about one thing: I'm in love with you."
"Hi In Love With You, I'm Sören."
Anthony tweaked Sören's nose and gave him a noogie, and with his good arm Sören stuck a wet finger in his ear, then made a "come closer" gesture. Anthony leaned in, and so did Sören, and they kissed for the first time. Their lips crushed together and then their tongues met, shy and searching at first, then deeply, passionately.
They pulled back, breathing harder, looking into each other's eyes. Anthony stroked Sören's cheek and Sören leaned into his touch, smiling. "I'm in love with you too," Sören said. "That never stopped, you know."
"So... does that mean you'll be my boyfriend?"
"Duh?"
They laughed again, then Anthony kissed the tip of Sören's nose. They had to keep it chaste - for now - so Anthony restrained himself from kissing Sören again, not wanting to get into a full-on makeout session and end up with an awkward hard-on. But there had been two miracles today - Sören survived, and they were together. Anthony wasn't sure if they'd be able to dance again, but his soul was dancing.