For the next few days after Sören masturbated in the shower fantasizing about Mark, he avoided him as much as possible. It was impossible to completely avoid him, not simply because Mark was his roommate, but also because they were sharing meals, and Sören was genuinely fond of Mark and didn't want him to feel like he was being deliberately ignored and something was wrong; as a fellow socially awkward introvert Sören knew Mark would probably wonder if he'd said or done something to offend, and Sören didn't want Mark to beat himself up. But, every time Sören saw Mark, he was reminded of that delicious sexual fantasy he'd entertained and how hard he'd come.
And, as delicious as that fantasy had been, Sören didn't want to ask to make it a reality. He didn't want to strain things further if Mark wasn't interested, especially when they both taught at the same university and would be seeing each other around campus in the fall. And though it had been over six months now, Sören still felt raw after what happened with Seth. The masturbation in the shower had been the first time Sören had been feeling that randy in a long time, and he supposed it was a good sign that he was moving forward - indeed, he'd brought his toys with him on the odd chance he might want to use them finally, even considering that as a possibility was also a good sign. But Sören mostly just felt wary.
And that was what it all came down to. Sören didn't want to get hurt again. Not physically, not emotionally.
Yet, there was a gentleness to Mark, that made Sören let his guard down when they shared meals; Mark made him feel safe, and at ease despite the tension of having masturbated to him. There was a sadness to him, that Sören knew, one PTSD-addled survivor to another, Mark was careful around him, the same way he tried to be careful around Mark.
Sören managed to make the avoidance look not deliberate by setting up his easel and painting. He found himself working on a painting of Mark, dancing as he had at the drum circle... except that he felt weird about it being Mark, when he was so protective of his privacy, so Sören changed the facial features a bit - made them a little more like his own. Fuller lips, like his own. Made the hair longer - much longer. Made the eyes intense, brilliant blue. The dancer was bare-chested, with Sören remembering what Mark looked like fresh from the shower. And the dancer had a sword in his hand. In the night sky above the sea in the background, Sören painted storm clouds and lightning.
The man in Sören's painting seemed too beautiful to be real, and indeed, it was someone Sören had never seen before in his life, something out of his imagination. Sören felt utterly consumed by the project, and in those first few days following the drum circle he only left his room to use the bathroom, eat with Mark, and go on short walks down to the beach by himself to get some air. He'd spent so much time painting that by Saturday morning he was almost done - in fact the painting would be done if Sören hadn't felt like something was missing. But he didn't know what.
Then it came to him. In a distant corner of the sea flowing behind the dancer, Sören painted a bright light, something gleaming moving in the water. He added a faint iridescent rainbow effect to the white light, and then as he paused with the paintbrush in his hand, taking a few minutes to look at what he'd just done, and take the painting in again as a whole, to see if now it was done, he had a mental image of Mark throwing a brilliant gem into the sea, and in his mind's eye he saw the star-blue eyes of the dancer looking at him. A shiver went through him.
Sören gasped, and dropped the paintbrush on the floor. It wasn't the first time a painting had interacted with him, like he'd made something come to life, or perhaps accidentally channeled something, but this time felt more powerful than anything else.
The floor of Sören's room was bare wood, but there were Oriental rugs on the floor, and of course the paintbrush was on one of the rugs. "Oh, SHIT," Sören yelled, grabbing the paintbrush.
"Sören? Are you OK?" called Mark from the living room.
"Shit, shit, SHIT. Blóðugur helvítis fjandinn, helvítis tík..."
That response wasn't an answer to if he was all right or not, and just as Sören ran out to grab rubbing alcohol from the bathroom, Mark was in the doorway of his room and they were close enough to touch for the first time in days; Sören could feel Mark's breath. A frisson went down Sören's spine.
Mark folded his arms. "Sören?"
"I... dropped... paint. On the fucking rug. I need to get rubbing alcohol and a paper towel-"
"Mkay."
Mark walked off and came back with the requested items. "Takk," Sören said, and hunkered down on his hands and knees, Mark watching as he applied the peroxide to the paper towel and rubbed the spot on the carpet.
"I take it you've had experience with this before," Mark said.
"Jæja." Sören scowled. "I have wall-to-wall carpeting in my fucking house. I'd have it ripped out and just have a wood floor - would be better for my allergies and asthma - but I rent the house. Professor Dooku owns his and he's got wood." Sören pressed his forehead on the floor with a snort, shaking with silent laughter. "Er. Uh."
"I knew what you meant, Sören." There was laughter in Mark's voice.
Sören picked his head up, his eyes met Mark's, and they started laughing again.
Then Sören's mind went to the thought of Dooku with an erection - not at all an unpleasant thought; Sören had definitely found him infuriatingly attractive when they'd been feuding neighbors, but Dooku was another one where Sören tried to not look, let alone touch, not wanting to ruin what had become a lovely friendship by expressing any sort of attraction.
God, why am I like this. "Er, I need detergent." For my filthy mind, too.
There was a washer and dryer in the basement, and Mark came back with a small cup of laundry detergent. As Sören dabbed detergent onto what was left of the stain, he made a mental note that he needed to do laundry now that he'd been here a week. He'd been avoiding going into the basement because basements still reminded him of Seth...
The stain was finally gone after the detergent sat and Sören wiped at it with water, and Sören breathed a sigh of relief because replacing the rug would have been a bigger expense than he'd planned for. Then his relief turned to panic when he looked up and saw Mark look at the painting that had been eating Sören alive for the last few days.
"Oh." Sören was on his knees - painfully aware for a moment that he was level with Mark's crotch - and Sören leaned on his chair to get up. He looked at Mark, and then at the painting. "Jæja, that's my latest..."
"I see that."
Sören looked down at his feet, which were bare inside the house.
"That's almost like looking at a photo. Except... surreal." Mark's voice was soft.
"Oh, jæja, I try to paint my subjects photorealistic..."
"You succeeded." Mark looked back at Sören. "Who is that?"
"I don't know."
Mark scowled, as if he wasn't satisfied with that answer, and he looked at the painting again.
Sören came clean - or at least on this, anyway. "It started off as you, and then I remembered what you said about wanting to keep a low profile, so I, ah, changed it. I guess that's your long-lost, secret uncle or something." Sören gave a nervous laugh.
Mark narrowed his eyes and Sören stopped laughing, realizing he shouldn't have made that joke knowing Mark had dead brothers, but then Mark said, "How much?"
"How much for..."
Mark blinked slowly at Sören and said, as if he was trying to explain to a five-year-old, "The painting. How much do you want for the painting."
"I. Ah. Oh god." Sören flopped down on the edge of his bed. While he had an inkling that the painting might eventually be for sale, he hadn't had time to think of how much was fair to charge, and since he considered Mark a friend now he didn't feel right charging full price, whatever that even was. Sören rubbed his beard, trying to think, while Mark kept looking at the painting, mouth slightly open, pupils blown wide. Sören finally gestured to the chair in front of his easel. "Take a seat."
Mark sat, which gave him another view of the painting, more at eye level. He was scowling at it now, a furrow creased in his brow. He is more attractive than he has any right to be. Sören licked his lips, mouth dry, feeling even more nervous now, and he tried to pull himself together.
After another moment of silence Sören said, "You don't have to pay me money, I'd ask to eat free for the rest of the summer."
Mark gave a little laugh and then he glared at Sören. "That's not enough. Don't get me wrong - I'm happy to let you eat off me for the summer -" Sören's mind went immediately into the gutter, and at the way Mark blushed and looked away it became apparent Mark hadn't thought about his choice of words and was thinking about it now. Mark looked down, and continued, "But the expense of food for the next two months isn't near what this is worth. And if you think so, you're not charging enough for your labor."
Sören still didn't feel right about accepting money from him, so Sören thought about it, and then said, "OK... well, write me a song, then."
"You. What."
"You said you paid for your harp with a song. Pay for this with feeding me and... a song you compose."
Their eyes met. "Sören, normally I'd be happy to do that, but when I compose it's really personal -"
"But you paid for your harp with a song? Or did you know the person who made it, and..."
Mark looked away with a deep breath. "Those were in times when my music wasn't as..."
"As what?"
Mark looked down. There was a long moment of silence - Sören waited - and then Mark nodded. "OK, I'll write you a song. Though even that, I think you're selling your work short."
"I could say the same about you, just from what little I've heard of you playing and singing."
Their eyes met again, holding for longer.
Then Sören's phone went off in his pocket. Sören wanted to ignore it, but something told him not to. He took out his phone and saw Sharon's number.
"Sharon! Hi!"
"Sören, heya! I'm calling because me and Lucas and Matt and Marguerite and Herb are going to have a cookout with a couple friends on the beach tonight, if y'all want to come."
"Let me ask Mark..." Sören's eyebrows shot up and he hissed, "Mark, come with me to this cookout."
Mark folded his arms. "How many people?"
"Not many, I thiiiiink..." Sören spoke louder into the phone. "When you say 'a couple friends', you mean..."
"Like three or four max."
"Like three or four besides Sharon and her boyfriend and the nice old hippie couple and their son," Sören said to Mark. Then he made the puppydog face.
Mark let out a little sigh of resignation. "Dammit, Sören..." He nodded. "Kay."
"OK, we'll be there," Sören said back to Sharon. "What time?"
"Seven PM usual?"
"Should we bring anything?" Mark raised his voice.
"Whatever you feel like bringing," Sharon told Sören. "If you're on any kind of special diet or something then yeah, bring that, otherwise bring whatever."
"She said bring whatever," Sören said. "And seven is good, I think." Mark nodded.
"OK, see you then!" Sharon hung up.
"We're going to the store," Mark said.
"I love how you say 'we'," Sören snickered.
Mark raised an eyebrow. "If you're dragging me to a cookout, I'm dragging you to the store."
"Hi, Dragging You To The Store..."
Mark gave him a death glare, then he rolled his eyes, barely restraining a grin, and tweaked Sören's nose. "Come on, you."
_
Being in such close proximity in the car and walking around together at the store, Sören was once again reminded of his masturbation fantasy a few days ago, and couldn't help stealing glances at Mark every now and again, admiring him... and not just his looks, and the powerful, fluid grace of his movements, but he even smelled good, like the sea, petrichor, and an herb garden all at once. When they passed through the produce section and Mark picked up some fresh cut pineapple, Sören wondered what Mark actually tasted like, having heard that tropical fruits made one's semen taste better.
Mark got the makings for skewers, which Sören approved of, and Sören picked out a tray of cupcakes to bring along for dessert. Sören also picked up a box of orange creamsicles, a treat he hadn't had in a long time. When they got back to the house everything went into the fridge, except the creamsicles which went into the freezer; it was hot enough outside that Sören wanted a creamsicle right away, so he tore one out of the box and leaned against the kitchen counter.
Sören was alone in the kitchen and then Mark poked his head in. "I forgot to put gas in the car on the way back, do you need anything at a convenience store?"
Sören shook his head and said, "No," and then put the creamsicle back in his mouth.
"You sure."
Sören was sucking the creamsicle slowly, and when he saw the color in Mark's cheeks his own face started to burn. Sören's instinct was to pull the creamsicle out of his mouth, but it was hot enough that the creamsicle started to drip right away, and without thinking about it Sören chased the drips with his tongue, licking the creamsicle. Mark's eyes widened, then he turned away and Sören heard the jangle of his keys as he walked to the door. Sören felt like an ass - he hadn't meant to be inappropriate - and he nipped off the tip of the creamsicle. It was melting enough now that a piece landed on his T-shirt. Sören dabbed at it with a paper towel but it made a stain, and as he tried to get it with a wet paper towel another piece of creamsicle fell onto his shirt.
"Oh, fuck it."
Sören downed the rest of the orange creamsicle and pulled off his shirt on the way to the bedroom. He picked his way through his dwindling supply of clothing and glanced at the laundry bag hanging from the back of the bedroom door, which now had more clothes in it than what was hanging in the closet. There was no doubt about it, he was going to have to do laundry if he changed his shirt now, or he would have no clean clothes tomorrow.
He'd been dreading the basement, putting off laundry till the last possible moment. Now was the last possible moment. Sören took a few deep breaths. You can do this.
Sören's aversion to basements was such that he'd stopped doing laundry at his own house - where the washer and dryer was in the basement - and did his laundry at Dooku's once a week; Dooku's washer and dryer were in his pantry. Sören would have hired movers to bring the washer and dryer up from the basement except they had to be down there, his pantry had no room and no place to hook them up. Dooku didn't quite know the story of why Sören no longer went in the basement, though Sören imagined he wouldn't be surprised to find out, being Dooku knew most of what Seth had done. Sören didn't like talking about it. He didn't like thinking about it.
As he dragged his laundry bag to the top of the stairs leading down to the cellar, he thought about waiting till Mark got back - he was only going for a quick run to get gas, after all - but he felt like he was already being enough of a pain in the ass by asking Mark to go along to the cookout tonight, never mind asking to be handheld like a baby. Sören took a few deep breaths and started down the stairs, the laundry bag bumping behind him.
It's just a basement. Seth's not here. Seth's long gone. You got this.
Sören continued to take slow, deep breaths as he continued down the stairs, and once he was at the bottom of the stairs, inside the basement - laid out so much like his own, right down to the stone walls, the gritty texture of the floor, same weird pea green color of the washer and dryer - his breath came in more shallow gasps. His hands were shaking. The afternoon light even streamed in through the one small window the same way it had that afternoon...
Sören walked quickly to the washer. All of his clothing was dark colors, so there was no need to separate. He threw everything in, and added a cup of detergent. The detergent was a nice, pleasant lavender smell - Sören looked at the bottle and saw it was one of those eco-conscious brands, presumably left by the house's owners. Sören took a whiff before adding the cup of detergent, and then he started the washer machine. It was an older machine, like the ones in the basement of his own home - a surprising contrast between a "green" detergent and older machines that were less efficient and used more water and power. It also made a lot of noise. Sören checked the time on his phone and set the phone alarm for forty-five minutes. Before he could head back up the stairs, he tripped on his shoelace, which had come untied on the way down, and took a spill on the cold basement floor, falling with a cry.
After laying dazed for a moment, pain throbbing through his body, he checked to see if anything was sprained or broken. As far as he could tell nothing was, but he'd taken a hard enough fall on the rough texture of the floor to have skinned a knee and an elbow. He was going to need to clean the wounds and dress them as soon as possible.
First, he tied his shoe and then he rose up, slowly, hanging onto the dryer. Just then the washer entered its first major cycle, even louder than before, obnoxiously loud enough that Sören winced. And as he was bent over the dryer, his eyes caught the box of fabric softener sheets - so much for eco-friendly, Sören thought to himself - but the box looked close to being empty, and, having an ADD moment, he was distracted from his wounds long enough to decide to take a guess at how many sheets were left, to tell Mark in case he used them...
...He felt the presence before he saw the shadow, looming over his own. Sören startled, dropping the box of fabric softener sheets on the floor, with the remainder tumbling out onto the floor. And he just froze. He was bent over the dryer, just like when...
"Sören? You OK?"
Sören made a noise that sounded like a strangled whimper. His entire body was shaking, locked up, lost in the flashback of being bent over the dryer, Seth...
"Sören. You're bleeding..." A gentle touch near the bleeding elbow.
"Don't you fucking TOUCH ME, you son of a bitch -"
And then Sören realized he wasn't yelling at Seth, but a very stricken-looking Mark - Mark, who didn't look anything like Seth - who now took a couple steps back.
"Oh god. Oh god, Mark..." Sören tried to take a couple deep breaths. Tears were burning his eyes.
He was getting blood on the floor - like the way Seth made me bleed, after - and there were the fabric softener sheets. Needing to try to snap himself out of the flashback, Sören stooped down to pick up the fabric softener sheets, his hands continuing to shake. "I... I knocked what was left of the fabric softener sheets all over the floor. I've got dryer balls in my laundry bag, but Mark, I'm sorry if you use the sheets..." I can't do anything right.
"Sören. Never mind that right now. You're hurt..." Their eyes met. "I came down because the basement door was open and you weren't around and then suddenly I heard you yell and..."
"Jæja, I was just doing laundry, nobody broke in..." But of course, what Mark didn't know was that fear was a little too close to Sören's reality. His voice broke and he started to sob.
"Sören. Let's get you upstairs, OK?"
Mark led the way, Sören following; every few steps Mark looked over his shoulder. When they were at the top of the stairs, Mark charged off and came back with a first aid kit. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and watched as Sören began to clean and dress his wounds.
"I would offer to help, but." Mark looked away.
"Oh god, Mark." Sören realized that with the awkwardness of the creamsicle scene just before Mark went out for gas, he probably thought Sören was yelling at him, and Sören felt terrible. "No, please..." Please was such an awkward word for him still, even as he'd been away from Iceland since 2006, having to learn social graces abroad. "It wasn't you. I..." Tears came to Sören's eyes again, and his voice broke once more as he choked out, "I was having a flashback."
Their eyes met. Mark's own eyes were too bright now. He slowly reached out a hand, and Sören nodded, and Mark put it on his shoulder, patting him. "I'm sorry. I know what those are like."
"I bet."
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not right now." Sören took a few more deep breaths, continuing to shake with his tears and the leftover panic response in the basement, though Mark's hand on his shoulder was comforting. But the hurt in Mark's eyes... knowing Mark lived with his own private hell, too, whatever it was...
Sören started to ugly cry, making a mess all over his new clean shirt with snot. Mark walked off and came back with a box of tissues. He pulled up a chair at the table after he passed the box to Sören, who soaked through a few tissues very quickly, sobbing. It's been over six months since Seth and I broke up, and it still feels like everything happened yesterday. I hate that he owns my head like this, still. And Sören knew from his trauma with other things - being roofied and raped in Toronto, the physical and verbal abuse from his aunt and uncle growing up, the bullying in school - that just like those things still hurt and made him feel powerless years later, even with therapy and meds, this was going to keep hurting him, keep having power over him, for years to come...
"Can I get you anything?"
"Water?"
Mark got up, got Sören ice water, and sat back down.
"Is there anything I can do for you right now to help you feel safe?" Mark asked.
Sören took a deep breath. "Honestly?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want you to be honest, Sören."
"When my wash is done, I... I don't want to go back in the basement." Sören made a face. "I know I have to go down there the next time I do laundry, but..."
"Well, I can go down with you the next time, if it spooks you. I'm not great in dark, small enclosed spaces myself..." Mark cringed, and Sören wondered now what he was remembering - and realizing that Mark had faced his own fear to help Sören when he heard the yell and thought the worst, made Sören start sobbing all over again. "But I'm probably better at it than you are right now. And as far as when your wash is done, I can throw stuff in the dryer for you this time. What setting do you use?"
"Low." And then Sören pursed his lips - he didn't want Mark to trigger himself trying to help him be less triggered in the basement, that wasn't fair either. "If you hate basements as much as I do, we should just go to a laundromat."
"Oh thank god." Mark let out a nervous laugh. "Now I can do that without worrying you'd judge me -"
"Oh my god, are you serious? You worried about that? Even though you know I have mental health issues too?"
"Some of the worst crap I've ever seen is from people who say they struggle with mental health issues but they 'overcome' with 'willpower' and..." Mark shook his head. "If only it were that easy. I didn't necessarily think you'd be one of them, but I've learned to keep some things to myself so I don't hear about how if I just 'tried harder' or did exposure therapy or this or that I wouldn't feel like I was drowning in something that resembles a cell."
"Mark... forgive me for asking this... but were you a prisoner of war?"
Mark looked away, and his gaze was very far away. "Yes and no."
That answer made no sense, but Sören would accept it, already feeling like he was prying by asking.
Sören sipped his ice water, tears subsiding a little, and then he held out his arms. Mark took the hug, hugging Sören tight.
When they pulled apart, Mark asked him, "Are you still up for going to the cookout? I can make skewers here if you're not up for it."
"Part of me wants to stay here and decompress from... that..." Sören made a vague hand gesture towards the basement. "But I know if I do I'm just going to feel sad all night and it'll be even more of a vicious cycle with being pissed off at myself for one more thing that níðingr stole from me. So I ought to go, for mental health reasons. Unless you're too triggered -"
"No, if you want to go, then I better go with you, for the same reasons. Well... not the same. Well... sort of. I don't know."
Sören realized Mark could probably guess who he was referring to with the ancient curse word, though he hadn't come right out and said what had happened. Sören finished his ice water, and he and Mark sat in silence, till Sören's phone alarm went off. "Dryer time," Sören said, apologetically.
Mark nodded, and got up.
When Mark was downstairs, Sören realized He isn't just going down there where he's uncomfortable, but I basically asked him to touch my underwear. This is getting more and more awkward all the time.
_
In addition to the cupcakes and the ingredients for skewers, Mark brought his acoustic guitar to the beach. Sharon bounced up and down, waving, as she saw Sören carrying the cupcake tray and Mark carrying a grocery bag and his guitar slung over an arm. Sören waved back with his free hand.
"Oh my goodness, are you OK?" Sharon asked, looking at Sören's bandaged-up elbow and knee.
"Jæja, I tripped when I was doing laundry." Sören caught the scent of patchouli and lavender as he came closer to Sharon, who took the cupcake tray.
Sharon, Lucas, Matt, Herb and Marguerite were joined by one of the African-Americans who'd been at the drum circle, and two middle-aged white guys who Sören could tell were gay by their body language with each other, and were wearing wedding rings. "Sören, Mark, that's Thomas," Marguerite said, pointing to the tall black gentleman, who looked to be about the same age as the gay couple, "and Bill and Ted."
"Are... are your names seriously Bill and Ted." Mark raised an eyebrow.
"That's excellent," Sören said, getting that reference.
"Oh my gawd, we get that all the time," Bill said with an eyeroll.
"You might even say it's... bogus." Ted grinned, and Bill swatted him in the shoulder; Thomas smacked Ted in the back of the head.
As the cookout started, with Mark and Herb at the grill, it came out that Thomas, Bill and Ted were in a polyamorous triad. They were all computer programmers which was how they knew Lucas, who apparently was a computer programmer also. And it came out that Marguerite owned a boutique on Bridgeway, specializing in "unique artistic home decor", and Sharon was one of her employees. Matt was a student at UC Berkeley, going into computer science; Lucas had been his tutor and they got to be friends. Sören started to get the sense that Matt and Lucas were a little more than friends, and wondered if Sharon knew. He decided it probably wasn't his business.
That got Sören to briefly, casually mention his job as an art teacher, and Mark as a music theory teacher. And then, when the skewers were ready - chicken, mushrooms, peppers, onion, pineapple, grilled to perfection - Bill asked Sören and Mark, "So how long have you guys been together?"
Sören almost choked on his chicken, and before he could say "we're not", Mark beat him to it.
"We're not exactly together," Mark said.
"Oh, FWBs?" Ted asked, raising an eyebrow, looking Sören up and down.
Sören was starting to feel like he was the meat being served instead of the burgers Herb had on the grill. He didn't think he or Mark was obviously queer, though Sören had been accused of being a "stereotype" by Seth more than once, and it was indeed a stereotype that art and music professionals tended to swing that way; Sören wondered if the invite to the cookout was anyone trying to set people up, assuming that all the queer guys would be interested in fucking, which was an assumption that had started to get old about ten years ago.
"I'm not on the market," Sören said, "if that's what you're asking."
"Pity," Ted said, and Bill nodded.
"I'm not either," Mark said.
"We like friends though," Sören said. "Friend friends."
But then Sören's curiosity was answered when Thomas said, "Sharon showed us the portrait you did of her as a mermaid and Marguerite and Herb showed us the sketch of them and we like it very, very much."
"Oh, takk," Sören said, and then he added quickly, "Thank you," remembering people didn't usually speak Icelandic outside of Iceland.
"You Danish?" Ted asked.
"Icelandic."
"Oh, nice."
"Beautiful people," Bill added.
"Anyway," Thomas said, "we wanted to know if we could commission you."
"Depends on the commission," Sören said mildly, sipping the orange soda he was nursing.
Thomas looked at Bill and Ted. "The three of us, together."
"Together as in... not safe for work? I can do erotic art but it's extra." And it's not an invite to shag, he added silently in his head.
"Together as in, what you're comfortable with. We admit our first preference would be a more sensual pose, but we can go for something romantic and not too sexy if you'd rather."
Sören worked on his skewer, considering. "I was almost a doctor so I can handle seeing the naked body without reacting." Unless it's Mark, apparently. Though Sören hadn't seen Mark fully nude - but what he had seen had been enough to get his blood racing. "So I'll tell you what. I'll give you my rates for what it would be per hour for a nude piece and for a non-nude piece and you can decide."
Thomas looked at Bill and Ted again, and the three men nodded.
Sören gave his usual rates. Mark cringed a little - Sören could tell Mark was thinking they were too low, but Sören found from past experience a lot of people thought art wasn't work and were barely willing to pay a fair minimum wage per hour for a commissioned portrait, let alone something above that. It was why Sören rarely took commissions, preferring to sell finished pieces only. That, and he preferred having full creative control over something as sometimes - often - the work took on a life of its own, going where it wanted to. He didn't have that same freedom when he was hired to paint someone else's vision.
After Sören gave his quote, he nibbled on the skewer and Bill made a noise of disgust. Ted shook his head and said, "I'm sorry, honey. You're good but you're not that good."
It stung. Sören didn't know how to even respond to that; before he could say anything, Mark was on it, snarling "The fuck is your problem?" Mark dropped his skewer and gave the men a filthy look.
Your art's not that great. Seth's words in Sören's head. And Einar's: I don't know why you waste your time with that stupid shit.
Even though he was considered good enough to be an art professor - one who consistently got good ratings on Rate My Professor, praising both his art and his teaching style - and he'd had exhibits at galleries in Portland, Seattle, Toronto and Montreal, and he'd sold at least fifty paintings over the last ten years, Sören felt all those insecurities well up. He knew that art was subjective and not everyone had the same tastes, but he was the kind of person where if ninety-nine people liked something and one didn't, the one criticism was going to stick in his head more than the praise. And this criticism hit a nerve.
"I'm just telling it like it is," Ted said, and Bill nodded. "I don't know why he needs to charge that much."
"Yes, God fucking forbid people make a living wage for their work," Mark said, sounding like he was personally offended even though the criticism hadn't even been at him. He put down his plate of food and got up.
"Oh please," Bill said. "It isn't that hard to twirl a brush around, kids do that in kindergarten for free. Makes you wonder what else he's charging for, Mr. I'm Not On the Market, hmmm?" Bill winked at Sören and mimed a kiss.
Mark decked Bill, who fell over in the sand. Ted and Thomas got up and lunged for Mark, and Sören tugged on Mark's arm, yanking him back. "Let's go," Sören said.
Mark spat, grabbed his guitar case, and as Sören had dragged him away from the fight, now Mark was dragging Sören to the car.
"Yeah, honey, let your pimp take you home," Ted jeered.
"You. Fucking. Filth." Mark's eyes flashed, and he was ready to run back for more, and Sören got in his path and pushed Mark towards the car.
"Let's go," Sören said more firmly.
Mark took a deep breath, gave a small nod, and said, "Sorry."
"Don't... be sorry." Sören found Mark's explosion strangely comforting rather than triggering. "I just don't want trouble with the police."
"Yeah, we better get out of here."
"Sören! Wait!" Sharon was running after them.
Sören turned around, and Sharon gave him a hug. She looked like she was crying. "I'm sorry those guys were such fucking assholes to you," she said.
"Jæja, me too." Sören rubbed his beard.
"Lucas thought it would be a good idea to invite them..."
Of course he did. Sören had a feeling now that he had been set up to be humiliated, and he didn't like it. It also meant Lucas saw him as a threat, and he didn't know if he should find that to be a confidence booster or slightly worrisome. "I see. Well... we're not going back over there, and to be honest, we're probably not going to accept any more invites to do stuff."
"Awww, but I understand. Can you keep in touch with me, at least?" Sharon gave him a sad smile.
And Sören nodded. He patted her on the shoulder. "You, I will."
"Thanks. And for what it's worth, I don't think you charge enough for your art." Sharon hugged him again. She looked at Mark, silently mouthed "you're fucking awesome" and then she ran back to the cookout.
"Mkay." Mark opened the passenger door for Sören. "Get in."
When they were on the road, Mark and Sören looked at each other and Mark said, "You only took a few bites of one skewer."
"And I didn't touch the burger. So much for dinner. Which is too bad because that skewer was fucking amazing."
"I'll make them again some other night. I'd offer to cook once we get back to the house, but I don't think it's a hot idea for me to be around knives right now..." Mark rolled his eyes with a little smile, to show he was joking; Sören managed a grin. "And I'd have to go back to the store and it's just been... a day."
"It has."
"We can stop somewhere and get dinner..."
"I don't want to deal with crowds or people." Sören made a face.
They hit a McDonald's drive-thru and ate in the car, pulled over. Mark looked a bit disgruntled. "I never eat McDonald's, and I never eat in my car," Mark said.
"There's a first time for everything."
"I guess so. It could be worse, I suppose."
"I would have suggested In N Out -"
Mark gave Sören a wide-eyed look and Sören laughed so hard he sprayed french fries on himself, which made Mark double over laughing, making inhuman noises.
"In N Out is a restaurant," Sören said when they calmed down. "Please don't tell me you haven't heard of it. And you've been to Sausalito before, and the chain isn't exactly new, so..."
"Yeah." Mark looked out the window, and Sören wondered when the last time was that he'd been to Sausalito, and under what circumstances, that he wouldn't have seen an In N Out around.
"Anyway... I've never been to California myself, before now, but I've heard of In N Out, because, well, you know. I'm forever twelve like that, and so's my cousin, and he asked me 'are you gonna eat at In N Out hurr hurr' when I made plans to visit Cali. So I made him a promise I'd go there at least once, and I hear their burgers are pretty good. But there's no drive thru at the location here, so... McDonald's."
"Here." Mark gave Sören one of his chicken nuggets. He put it in Sören's mouth like Sören was a cat taking a treat. "I'm sorry today was such a clusterfuck. And your friends..."
Sören shrugged. "Eh. I don't need friends who are just gonna sit around and let people talk shit to my face. It's disappointing, but."
"Yeah. I know. Especially with people like us, we don't make friends easily."
"No, we don't." Their eyes met. "But you know what? I'm more disappointed that I didn't get to hear you play guitar."
When they got back at the house, Mark gestured for Sören to follow him outside. Mark carried his guitar case; they walked down to the beach, and they sat together in the sand, watching the waves.
"I think I know what would make you feel better right now," Mark said.
He started to play and Sören's eyes teared up with a mixture of happiness and sadness - touched by the gesture - at the familiar opening notes. Mark's tenor sang
There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven
When she gets there she knows
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for
Oh oh oh oh and she's buying a stairway to heaven
When the song was over, Sören said, "Takk," softly.
"I remember you telling me your mom sang you that as a lullaby when you were small..."
Sören nodded. "I can't believe you remember that." Gentle teasing. "But you didn't remember In N Out is a restaurant."
"Yeah." Mark rolled his eyes. "Well, brains are funny that way."
"Can we..." Sören looked up at the stars. "I don't want to go in just yet. Can we sit out here a little while longer? Do you mind playing another song?"
"No, I don't mind. You have any requests?"
Sören tried to think, and his mind drew a blank. He was exhausted from all the adrenaline of the day. "Something you want to play." Sören grinned. "You like hair bands, don't you?"
"I do, but Def Leppard, Motley Crue, and whatever is probably not what we need right now. But. I think I've got something."
Sören vaguely recognized the acoustic intro from classic rock radio, but not well enough to place it. Mark sang:
So you think that it's over, say your love has finally reached the end
Any time you call, night or day, I'll be right there for you
If you need a friend
It's gonna take a little time, time is sure to mend your broken heart
But don't you even worry, pretty darlin', 'cos I know you'll find love again
Love is all around you, love is knockin' outside your door
Waitin' for you is this love made just for two
Keep an open heart and you'll find love again, I know
When the song was over, Sören was quiet - a reverent hush came over him, the song was downright pretty and not what he'd expected for a hair band song. And then Sören asked, "What was that?"
"'Love Song' by Tesla. One of my favorites." Mark grinned sheepishly.
"When was that?"
"1989."
"So you were... fourteen?" Sören did the math. "I'm trying to picture fourteen year old you with teased hair and eyeliner and shit..."
"Hells, Sören."
"I want yearbook pictures."
"No. You don't." Mark patted his shoulder. "Let's go inside before I get tempted to play something cheesier."
Sören's laundry had long since been done, and Mark brought it upstairs.
"I'm gonna zone out for awhile," Mark said when he dropped the bag off in Sören's room.
"Hi, Gonna Zone Out For Awhile -"
"Sören, I swear."
"Sorry."
"No, you're not." Mark gave him a stern look, but there was mirth in his eyes.
"OK, well... thank you for, well, everything today. Especially the laundry." Sören took a whiff, enjoying that fresh-laundry smell.
"You're welcome. And, well... to keep destressing from today, do you want to get out of the house tomorrow? Do something lame and touristy?"
"That sounds good." Sören nodded.
"OK." Mark lingered, and then he gave a little wave. "Night, Sören."
"Night." Sören sighed when he heard the door to Mark's bedroom close - Mark didn't usually sleep with the door closed, which Sören now guessed was due to his dislike of enclosed spaces. He wondered if Mark was feeling emotional and didn't want Sören to see him cry; Sören felt like crying again, himself.