Monday came, and with it the promise to spend time with Mark, working towards friendship. Sören woke up at ten AM, earlier than his one PM rise the previous day, but Mark was already awake - he could hear Mark puttering around in the kitchen. Sören saw as he peeled the covers back that he was just in boxer-briefs and didn't want a repeat of Mark seeing him in his underwear with even less clothing than before. He quickly ducked into the bathroom, and took a shower to try to help himself wake up.
When he came out, freshly changed into jean shorts and a Super Mario T-shirt, he saw Mark sitting in the living room, writing in a paper journal.
"Good morning," Mark said without looking up. "And it is actually morning this time."
"Jæja." Then Sören realized he needed to take his meds and instead of the med minder being in the kitchen, Mark had brought it into the bedroom last night. Sören went back into the bedroom, grabbed his med minder, and took his meds with iced coffee. He went out on the deck, looking at the beach, and after a few minutes of drinking coffee and breathing the salt air, continuing to try to wake up, Mark joined him on the deck.
"Did you have anywhere in particular you wanted to go today?" Sören asked.
"Where did you go yesterday?"
"Mostly walked around Bridgeway. There was a lot to see. Went to Schoonmaker Beach for a bit."
"Is that where you smoked -"
Sören nodded. "Some hippies on the beach, offered me a hit from their joint."
"Jesus Christ, Sören, you ought to be more careful than that. It could have been laced -"
"I know." The words came out a bit more forcefully than Sören had intended; if anyone knew about surprise substances it was Sören, who had been roofied at a party in Toronto and raped, several months before he decided to leave for the States. "But they seemed mostly harmless." Sören threw the Douglas Adams quote in for levity; Mark's arms were still folded, his face stony. "And as you can see, I'm fine. I also scored some good weed out of it if you're interested in partaking..."
"...I don't, but thank you."
Sören raised an eyebrow at that. "You live in Oregon, you have long hair, you're a musician, and... you don't smoke weed. Really."
"My only vice is alcohol and that I try to be moderate about." Mark looked away. "I don't always succeed there."
Sören snorted. "I bet seeing you drunk would be interesting."
"It's unlikely to happen, if you have to watch your own alcohol intake on your meds. Anyway... shall we get going?"
Sören nodded. "I walked, and would recommend that we walk rather than drive for this. We can take your car if we go other places, just..."
"That was the plan."
Walking down Bridgeway with Mark was a bit of a different experience than seeing it by himself, though Sören appreciated that Mark didn't make small talk - Sören was terrible at small talk - and only spoke when he had something to say, which mostly was commentary on the art at the galleries or items sold at the shops - some of which was snarky commentary about fashion or impracticality of various accessories or furnishings.
Finally, as they stopped at a taco shack for lunch - which was easier on Sören's budget than the bistro he'd been to yesterday, and the food felt a little more authentic - Mark said, "It's amazing how much this town has changed since the last time I've been here."
"Oh, this isn't your first time here?"
"No. It was why I got a rental here... nostalgia reasons, I guess you could call it. This town used to be a lot more residential, while it always had a bit of tourism, but now it's very touristy." Mark made a face. "I was picturing something more quiet and sleepy when I'd made the booking."
"Oh." Sören frowned. "Well I mean we're technically tourists too..."
"Yes, but. I don't know. It's me being a grumpy old man. I'd probably complain less if people were actually having a good time out here that didn't involve, like, posting pictures of what they're eating to Facebook and Instagram."
Sören laughed. "I fucking hate Facebook. I'm only on there because my brother's on there and he defaults to telling people stuff on Facebook, but I don't sign in very often."
"That's good. Well, I mean... I shouldn't be so judgmental, maybe. You have family to keep in touch with. It just makes me feel a little less... out of step with the world to know I'm not alone in my hatred of social media."
"It's not just you." Sören sipped his drink. "I did take some pictures yesterday, couple selfies too, but mostly I was just looking around, taking it all in."
They continued walking after they ate, going to the boardwalk on the southern end of Bridgeway. "This was in a movie," Mark told him.
"Really?"
"The Lady From Shanghai. Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles."
"Wow, that's old." Sören's eyebrows shot up. "You like old movies?"
"I don't know about 'like', but I've seen a number of them, yes." Mark looked out at the sea.
"That's something we could do then, if you wanted to. Watch old movies. From when the world was in black and white."
Mark looked back at Sören, with eyes narrowed. Sören gave him an innocent face that wasn't, really.
"The world was not in black and white then, Sören."
"How do you know? Were you there?" And at the filthy look Mark gave him, Sören elbowed him, laughing. "Sorry, I had to. I imagine in ten years when I'm your age I'll probably be sensitive about the old people jokes, too. But I was serious about watching 'classic films'." Sören made air quotes. "It would expand my horizons a little - I don't think I've seen anything older than E.T. I know about Orson Welles because of history, but -"
"Are you serious."
Sören nodded solemnly. "Now classic books, and of course the old masters - that I'm familiar with. I have kind of an obsession with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood - don't get me started about Dante Gabriel Rossetti - and even though my work isn't Impressionist or post-Impressionist at all I can go on forever about Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Renoir..."
"Do you like classical music at all?"
"I haven't really heard much of that, either."
"Blasphemy."
"I know."
"Well, Sören, to be honest with you, not all old movies are worth watching - Plan 9 From Outer Space comes immediately to mind, though something tells me you'd enjoy it... but older music, as in a few centuries old, is worth listening to, and that is something I feel more inclined to share. Though I could be persuaded to watch a few classic films as well."
"Like Plan 9 From Outer Space?"
"No, Sören, we are not watching that."
Mark and Sören headed back. Once they arrived at the house, Sören brought out the oil pastel project he'd started last night, while the sea was fresh on his mind. He thought of Sharon again as he worked on the mermaid, and found himself drawing Sharon as the mermaid with the pastels. He would give this to her, though he felt self-conscious about having a little crush on a girl he didn't even know, really, who had a boyfriend. But he remembered her dancing, and her simple happiness - the sort of bubbliness that Seth stole from him.
And as he drew, Mark pulled out his keyboard and said to Sören, "This is 'Moonlight Sonata' by Beethoven."
It made Sören's hair stand on end, bringing tears to his eyes. Sören blended the pastels to create a night sky with the moon, a feeling of yearning now, not so much for Sharon herself as the happiness that she reminded him of, that he'd lost. The deep melancholy in the notes of the piano, the mental image of Mark watching the moon at the sea and feeling that same envy of happy people, his own wonder if he'd ever be happy again, not wanting to dare to hope...
When Mark stopped the song, he looked a little shaken, as shaken as Sören felt hearing it. Mark got up and stretched, and said, "I'll be back in a bit," and before Sören could ask, Mark went out to the deck, and Sören saw him go down the stairs, presumably heading out to the beach. Sören knew he probably needed to be alone, and Sören himself welcomed the silence as he continued to color and blend.
After close to an hour Mark came back. He looked a little damp, which suggested that he'd gone into the water at least partway. "I'm going to take a shower and then get started on dinner," Mark said.
"OK."
Sören tried to not look in the direction of the bathroom when he heard the shower turn off, but he did as Mark came out in a towel, and Sören caught the briefest glimpse of him with his hair completely soaked, beads of water clinging to his toned, muscular body - he was built like a soldier, and there was a scar on his right shoulder like he'd taken a bullet. Sören wondered about it as he looked away, face burning, knowing he shouldn't have looked.
Mark came back out in a Def Leppard T-shirt and jeans, and put the stereo on as he got to work in the kitchen. The classic rock station played and Sören thought of the hippies again. And Sharon. He thought about calling her, and held back.
Mark made shrimp scampi with a side of greens; they ate on the deck, watching the sunset. After Sören did the dishes he finally remarked on the music. "What you played was gorgeous."
"Thank you."
"I'd like to hear more Beethoven."
"Tomorrow, perhaps?"
"OK, but the night's still young." Sören didn't quite want to be alone right now.
"Well... you know, we could see the film I told you about."
Mark purchased a copy online, and the flat screen TV in the living room had access to the Internet. They watched The Lady From Shanghai together, which was neither the best movie Sören had ever seen nor the worst. When the movie was over, Mark asked Sören, "What did you think?"
"I think I'm glad my life isn't that complicated," Sören said, not really thinking about his response, just saying the first thing that came into his head. "Who the hell wants to fake their own death, anyway?"
Mark gave him a thin smile. "All right, it's getting late."
"It's not that late."
"You have UPS coming tomorrow, yes? They sometimes deliver earlier than you've gotten up the last couple of days. I'd recommend setting your alarm, too."
"Ugh, you're right." Sören facepalmed. "Well, thank you for the company today."
"You're welcome." Mark's smile was less thin now, and Sören smiled back. God, he's gorgeous, Sören thought to himself for what felt like the hundredth time.
_
That night Sören dreamed of the house of mirrors that had been at the end of the movie, but each mirror was another universe, and in some of the mirrors when he looked at himself, he was looking at a man who looked very much like Mark but somehow was not him, wearing a scarlet robe and a silver crown set with three blazing white gems. And then, like the shootout that had happened at the end of the movie in the house of mirrors, bullets were flying, and Mark was in the uniform of a soldier - what Sören recognized as American World War II uniforms from learning about them in history. A bullet hit Mark in the right shoulder, and Sören shoved him down on the ground before he could get hit with another one. Mark was bleeding, and Sören drew on his knowledge from med school to try to take care of the wound. Mark's blood was all over his hands. Then "Moonlight Sonata" was playing again and Sören's forehead was pressed against his; they were both bleeding together. The flame tattoos on Sören's arm were actually burning, as was the phoenix on his back.
Mark held Sören as he burned, and cried "No, don't leave me again -"
_
Sören woke up just before his alarm went off, heart racing. His first instinct was to check on Mark, to make sure he was OK.
Despite Mark's snarky commentary on Sören sleeping in, and admonishment to set the alarm to be up in time for UPS in case they delivered closer to nine than the middle of the day, Mark was sleeping soundly in his bed. Sören watched the rise and fall of his chest, the proof that he was still breathing.
Then Mark sat up with a start, gasping, and when he saw Sören he glared, before taking a couple of deep breaths.
"Oh god." Sören realized then that with Mark having PTSD, he was probably a light sleeper and the movement outside the bedroom door was enough to startle him awake...
Mark confirmed that by saying, "Light sleeper."
"I'm sorry." Sören swallowed hard and looked down. "I wanted to make sure you were OK..."
And Sören realized that his own trauma issues were coming into play as well. When his mother had laid down for a nap, and it was the last time she closed her eyes... a few hours later when she wouldn't respond to the children calling her, Sören came to check on her and she wasn't breathing...
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Sören. You all right?" Mark raised an eyebrow.
"Um." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls. He did not need to think about that trauma right now, which felt ancient and still recent all at once. Time doesn't heal all wounds, just makes them easier to ignore."You want some coffee?"
"OK, I guess."
Sören stumbled into the kitchen in his boxer-briefs and the T-shirt he was wearing yesterday, and poured them each a cup of iced coffee. He worked on making another pitcher of iced coffee, much as his eyes were still bleary and his body protested at being awake now, wanting to crawl back into bed. Mark finally came out in a Metallica T-shirt and jeans, hair disheveled, and Sören thought he looked even sexier with his hair messed up.
Stop that.
"Here," Sören said, handing him the cup, and then Sören set about taking his morning meds.
"So... you wanted to check on me."
Sören let out a deep sigh. "Let it go, Mark."
"I would let it go but it's clearly bothering you."
"I had a bad dream, and... well. My mother died when I was almost six, I was the one who found her body. She died in her sleep, taking a nap - brain aneurysm, the coroner said."
"Jesus." Mark put his coffee down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's awful, Sören."
"I felt like I was responsible somehow, like I could have saved her if I knew what to do, even though later on I knew that wasn't right, but it's how some people cope with things, when life feels out of control, we try to take back control in dysfunctional ways, like believing we're responsible for things that aren't our fault. I decided after she died that I wanted to be a doctor, and I went to med school."
"But you're... not a doctor now."
"No. I couldn't handle seeing people die during my internship and when I lost a patient who looked like my mother just before the holidays in 2004, I." Sören showed Mark his wrists - underneath the tattoos were a series of scars. "I slit my wrists and overdosed on a bunch of shit."
"Sören. I don't know what to say."
Sören nodded. "So I... sometimes I get paranoid, and I really did not mean to wake you up and startle you like that. I imagine you have your own trauma about being woken up, just like I get paranoid with people sleeping..."
"Could say that, yes."
Trying to mentally connect the dots with Mark's PTSD, even though he knew he shouldn't, Sören looked at Mark's badly scarred right hand, and remembered the scarring he'd seen on Mark's right shoulder which did not make him look any less delicious shirtless and fresh from the shower. Sören's face burned again at the memory, and to try to get it out of his mind he kept staring at Mark's hand, even though he knew that was rude; Mark saw Sören staring at his hand and he said, "It's an old war wound."
"Iraq? Afghanistan?" Sören did the mental math and Mark was the right age to have been in the second Gulf War in the years immediately after 9/11.
"It's also a sore subject."
"Sorry." Sören frowned into his coffee. "Well, this morning is off to a fucking great start."
"Could be worse." Mark glanced at Sören over his coffee. "At least we haven't had an earthquake. Yet."
"Eh, we get little earthquakes all the time where I'm from. It's volcanoes that you have to worry about. I keep wondering when Mt. Hood is gonna blow. Fuck that shit when it does, we should be OK down in Corvallis but, like, Gresham is done."
"This conversation is getting more and more pleasant all the time."
"It is, isn't it? Let's talk about something more positive... like the Spanish Inquisition."
Mark actually laughed at that, and it made Sören grin and laugh too. He realized it was the first time he'd ever really seen Mark have a full-bodied laugh, and he kept smiling when Mark calmed down enough to finish his coffee.
Then Mark began to rummage around in the fridge. "I'm making breakfast."
"Hi Making Breakfast, I'm Sören."
Mark glared at Sören over his shoulder. Sören pouted and said "Hey, you wanted to lighten the mood a bit -"
"I know. Anyway, I am making eggs. You are having them with me."
"I told you I don't do breakfast -"
"Try it this once?"
"Oh, all right."
"How do you take your eggs?"
"Ah, I usually don't. It's been awhile, but... scrambled, I guess."
"Omelet OK?"
"OK."
Sören went to put on jean shorts and a Joy Division shirt while Mark cooked - once again painfully aware Mark had seen him in his underwear - and a little while later Mark handed him a plate with a perfectly fluffy cheese omelet that had leftover salsa in it from the nachos they made on their first night. It smelled delicious enough that Sören decided he was in fact in the mood to eat even though there was still a lingering desire to crawl back into bed.
When Sören did dishes after breakfast, Mark did some warmup exercises on the keyboard and Sören was reminded of the haunting "Moonlight Sonata". And he thought of the painting, of Sharon, and realized he felt drawn to Sharon because the few memories of his mother he had, she had been the same way - laughing, dancing, singing, kind to everyone, made more remarkable for being widowed at a young age. It was the same sort of optimism he'd tried to cultivate after his bipolar diagnosis, when he met people in the mental health system who were arguably far worse off than he was, and he tried to keep a sense of perspective, that he didn't have it as bad as some. He'd tried to see that he'd been given another lease on life, after his suicide attempt. But then one thing happened after another. Losing his sister... then the art scene in Toronto, which led to the party scene and being roofied... then coming out to Oregon and finding Seth...
The memory of Sören's sister - a transgender woman named Margrét - was particularly painful. Margrét had been killed by Sören's abusive uncle Einar, married to his father's sister Katrín, and it was made to look like an accident, but Sören knew better. Sören had left Iceland not long after that, because he was tempted to kill Einar and Katrín both, not just for what had happened to Margrét, but for the hell his aunt and uncle had put them through - his sister, his twin brother Dagnýr, and their cousin Ari, who had grown up with them like a sibling. And he still missed Margrét terribly. He'd been closer to her than his brother, initially, only really bonding with Dagnýr after he went to stay with his brother in Toronto, which was where Sören went back to school and got his doctorate at the age of twenty-seven.
He hadn't spoken to Dagnýr in a couple of weeks - Dag knew he was going to Sausalito, and the dates of his stay, and Dag tended to worry about him. Sören wasn't in the mood to check Facebook - he was hoping to avoid Facebook as much as possible this summer - so he called Dag's cell phone. At least this time he was a couple hours behind, rather than being a few hours ahead, so he knew he wouldn't be waking his brother up.
"Sören."
"Dag! Sorry I didn't call sooner..."
"It's fine, I've just been playing a thousand worst-case scenarios in my mind about what could have happened to you."
"No, I've just been settling in and all that shit. Still not completely settled in yet, waiting on UPS to bring my art supplies sometime today."
"OK. I'll try not to worry, then. Though... you're sharing that house, right? Have you met your roommate yet? Are they decent?"
"It's one of my colleagues, Mark Lauer. He teaches music theory."
"Did you know that he was going to be sharing the house with you?"
"No."
"That's... a weird coincidence, then." Dag's voice lowered to a near-whisper. "You think he's stalking you?"
"Jesus Christ, Dag. No. Come on."
"After that fuckhead Seth..."
"He's not Seth." Sören's voice said that forcefully enough that he saw Mark look up and give him a funny look, and Sören facepalmed. Great. "Really. Things have been fine."
"I don't know. It just seems weird..."
"Here. Let me just..." Sören walked across the living room and handed the phone to Mark. "Will you say something to my idiot brother, so he doesn't think I'm in some sort of danger?"
Mark took the phone and said, "Hi, Sören's brother. I'm not a serial killer." He handed the phone back to Sören.
Sören couldn't resist. "Hi Not A Serial Killer, I'm -"
"BUT HE SURE TRIES MY PATIENCE." Mark gave Sören a look.
"Well, at least I know if he kills you, there's a valid reason," Dag quipped.
"Yeah, fuck you too," Sören said.
"I shouldn't worry so much. I know. I know I'm being a paranoid pain in the ass. But..."
"Well, we've lost family. It's... understandable. Really though, it's lovely here, Mark is cool... this promises to be a good vacation. The first nice thing I've done for myself in a long time."
"OK. I'll take your word for it."
"How about you? Enjoying your summer off? How are the kids?"
Dag had a five-year-old twin son and daughter - named Magnús and Margrét, the boy named for their sister's pre-transition name - and he was raising them as a single father, after the death of his late partner. More than once, Dag had offered Sören a chance to come back to Toronto and help with the kids, but Sören was reluctant to leave his teaching job behind, or the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, which he'd fallen in love with. As importantly, he had a sense of independence that he hadn't had living with Dag, and he felt like if Dag was going to move on with his life and eventually find his kids another stepfather or stepmother his chances were better without his brother living with him.
Dag took Sören's inquiry as an excuse to put the kids on the phone, who babbled to him in a charming mix of Icelandic and English. They had gotten a goldfish tank, and Magnús was disappointed the fish didn't do tricks, and little Margrét was now fascinated by marine biology and Dag was letting her watch old Jacques Cousteau documentaries, who she called "the old French guy with the red hat". She proclaimed that she, too, would be a marine biologist someday.
"I'm not surprised one of your kids wants to be a scientist already," Sören said when Dag got back on the phone; Dagnýr Sigurdsson was a well-known astrophysicist who had worked on the Large Hadron Collider and was published in several scientific periodicals, as well as co-author of a book with Neil Degrasse Tyson.
"I am. She gets to see firsthand how boring the life of an academic is. But maybe she'll go on deep sea expeditions when she grows up, or something."
"I seem to recall you at her age saying you wanted to be a scientist when you grew up."
"Have we grown up? Who the fuck let us be adults?"
Sören laughed.
"You know it's true, Sören. I tell people I had kids so I have an excuse to play with Legos and eat fruit snacks, still."
Sören laughed harder. "I'm a little envious."
"Grass is always greener, and all that. It's more work than play. And I probably worry about my kids too much, too, after Sarah -"
"Yeah." Sören sighed. "I know."
"Anyway, UPS hasn't come yet?"
"No, not that I'm aware of."
"I better let you go so you're not on the phone when they come... you know, if they come anytime soon."
"I bet that I got up early and everything for this and they're not even going to come until close to five. But OK."
"Try to remember to call me, if you're not checking Facebook. Doesn't have to be every day or even every week, but... you know."
"I know." Sören wished he could give his brother a hug right now. "Love you."
"Love you too."
Sören hit End, and leaned against the cupboard, taking a deep breath. Then there was a loud knock at the door.
Mark answered - Sören recognized the brown uniform of UPS. Mark stepped aside and Sören signed for the package, and then Mark helped Sören drag it inside. Mark produced a utility knife that had a boxcutter attached, and Sören opened up the package and started carrying his supplies in trips to the bedroom - easel, then a stack of canvases, then his bin of paints, then his bin of brushes and cleaner.
Mark lingered at the bedroom door, watching Sören get set up. Before Mark could walk away, Sören noticed the sadness on his face. "You all right?"
"Yeah. I just..." Mark looked away. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Sören realized the tables were turned from this morning.
"Hearing you talk to your brother, well. I miss my brothers, is all."
"Oh. Why don't you call them?"
"They're dead, Sören."
"Oh. Shit. Oh, Mark, I'm sorry..."
Mark looked down. "Yeah. Me too."
And without thinking about it, Sören crossed the room and gave Mark a hug. Sören had been hesitant to touch Mark before this, but now it felt like the right thing to do, and after a moment - a fraught moment when Sören worried Mark would push him away, offended, and things would be tense the rest of the summer - Mark put his arms around Sören, accepting the hug, returning it. Sören just held him for a moment, feeling dwarfed by his size; at six feet tall barefoot Sören wasn't short, but Mark had close to a foot on him, and it was one thing to stand and walk beside him, another thing for that kind of height to be right there. And yet, Mark felt safe rather than intimidating. A gentle giant, as broken as Sören was, and like Sören, determined to be careful with others and not hurt them, or do the best he could not to, anyway.
Sören could feel Mark get a little choked up, which brought tears to his own eyes. "Oh. Oh..." Sören's arms tightened around him, and he started to rock him.
After a few minutes, Mark tousled Sören's curls. "Thank you."
"Hey, look, I have an idea." Sören pulled apart slowly, reluctantly. "I was gonna work on art, but maybe it's better after the way today has gone so far that we're not hanging around the house thinking about stuff. Let's go out and do something."
"Such as..."
Sören rubbed his beard, thinking, and then it came to him. "There's a ferry that goes from Sausalito to San Francisco. Let's take the ferry to San Fran and... I don't know. Walk around, look at shit for a couple hours."
"That's a decent plan."
Mark drove them to where they needed to board the ferry, and it was a half-hour journey over the water. They sat together. Sören felt a little seasick at first, dizzy and legs wobbling, and Mark noticed his discomfort and began to sing.
Somewhere beyond the sea
Somewhere waiting for me
My lover stands on golden sands
And watches the ships that go sailin'
Somewhere beyond the sea
She's there watching for me
If I could fly like birds on high
Then straight to her arms
I'd go sailing
Mark's lovely tenor made Sören relax, and he relaxed more - though he also felt a little flutter - when Mark patted his knee at the end of the song.
"Deep breaths," Mark said.
"I can do this." Sören set his jaw. "I'm doing it."
"Good."
Sören quoted What About Bob, holding out his arms and yelling "I'M SAILING."
Mark grinned. "Hi Sailing, I'm -"
Sören gave him a withering look and Mark laughed. Then he tousled Sören's curls again, and Sören felt another flutter. That doesn't mean anything, stop noticing how... fucking... attractive he is when his face lights up.
Sören focused on the sea sparkling in the sunlight, the silver-blue waves. In his mind's eye he saw a flash of silver-blue eyes, that reminded him of Sharon's, only prettier. Long dark lashes... an intense, almost-angry look in them... but not anger. A frisson down Sören's spine, and then as quickly as the vision had come, it was gone, and it was just the water again. The sea, the sky, the distant shore. The salt breeze in the air, stirring his curls and Mark's long mane. He felt almost stupid at having had the motion sickness, with everything so peaceful out here. We could sail forever.
From the ferry building they got on the streetcar. Sören had taken the streetcar on his odd trips to Portland, but it was something else to get on the iconic streetcar and tour San Francisco that way. They just rode for one circuit, watching out the window and taking it in, and then they decided to get off at the Castro District, which was known as a gay mecca, and where the camera shop of Harvey Milk had been located. There was a lot of male eye candy walking around, which Sören noticed and appreciated, though his glance kept stealing to Mark, who Sören found more attractive than anyone on display, and was annoyed with himself for doing so.
Mark seemed less interested in the men strutting around as he was in the pipe organ at the Castro Theater. Sören snapped a few selfies at the historic landmark, and then a picture of him and Mark. Mark did not smile for the camera, and he gave Sören a stern look when Sören put his cell phone in his pocket.
"Sören, do me a favor, and don't post that to Facebook or anywhere on the public Internet."
"Aw, I wanted to show my brother, but OK." Sören frowned. "You don't want to be seen hanging out with me?"
"It's not that. I told you I hate social media and it's not just because people spend more time posting to Facebook than they spend actually enjoying the thing they're posting to Facebook about... it's privacy concerns. I keep a low profile, as low as I can teaching at a university. I have my reasons."
"OK. I was stalked for awhile, so I can't blame you."
"Seth?"
Sören pursed his lips, and just nodded.
"I overheard some of your conversation with your brother, and you'd mentioned Seth the other day, as offering to marry you once -"
"Jæja, so you know how you don't want to talk about being in the service? I... don't want to talk about Seth, if that's all the same to you."
"Fair enough. Here, it's warm out, let me get you a drink or something."
They stopped at a group of food trucks and got some water and a light lunch. Sören realized he'd been eating more than one meal a day since he went on this vacation and it was, in fact, helping with his mood and his concentration. He wondered if he'd keep the habit when the school year started again and he went back into nervous-ball-of-energy mode.
They took the streetcar back to the ferry station, and on the ferry ride back Sören immediately wished he hadn't eaten anything at all today, his stomach lurching. Mark gently rubbed his back and sang again. Sören calmed down, focusing on the beauty of the sparkling sea and the wide open sky once more. When the ferry dropped them off in Sausalito, before they could walk back to the car, Sören gave him another hug.
"Your singing is like magic," Sören said when he got in the passenger's seat.
"Awwww." Mark smiled. "Well, I'm glad it made you feel a little better."
"I feel a lot better, actually. That was a nice trip."
"It was."
"I think I'm getting to be OK with having you as a roommate for the summer. You're good company."
"You too."
As Mark pulled out, the classic rock station blaring "Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Sören said, "I'm going to a drum circle tomorrow night, at seven o'clock. You want to come with me? I was told I could bring a friend."
Mark gave him a peculiar look. "I didn't know you were the type of person to go to drum circles."
"If you mean am I some kind of witch or something, the answer is no. I don't really... I don't disbelieve in it, but I don't believe, either. I don't know what I believe. I'm Lutheran on paper, and I go to church on holidays but that's force of habit. I don't... anyway." The topic made Sören uncomfortable, as he'd heard from Ari that his aunt had gotten a bad case of religion the last several years. If she wants forgiveness she can start with confessing to the police her husband is a murderer, Sören had said about that. "It's not really a religious thing, it's a people-having-fun thing. So I was told."
"Which is... the other issue. I don't really do people. Or fun."
"I don't either, to be honest with you, or at least not after... some stuff..." Sören didn't want to talk about his club days in Toronto and the incident with being roofied and raped while unconscious. "But I'm making myself do it tomorrow night. And even though they have some rules - no weapons, no narcotics - I'd still feel better if I brought along someone I know. And you like music. That entire evening will be music and dancing. I thought that sort of thing would be -"
"I'll think about it?" Mark looked at the road. "That's the best answer I can give you. I won't and can't decide till tomorrow night. I don't want to tell you yes and then be in a horrible mood and have to say no and disappoint you."
"That's fair."
"I appreciate the invite, though." Mark tried to smile.
A few moments of silence passed between them, "Dream On" by Aerosmith playing on the radio, and then Sören observed aloud, "I get the sense that we're two people who both could really use a vacation from our problems."
"Probably."