The next day, Sören and Mark decided that their "lame and touristy" activity to get out of the house would be to visit the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Sören had seen pictures of it since he was a child, but now he was actually on the Golden Gate Bridge with Mark. Sören had taken several photos with his cell phone camera for his own posterity - some when they were driving there and the bridge was at a distance, and most from the bridge itself. Sören snapped a few selfies; Mark conceded to be in one photo if Sören promised not to post it anywhere public.
However, Sören shared Mark's sentiment about people who went places and spent more time taking photos and engaging with social media liveblogging the experience than actually being immersed in the experience, so most of his time atop the bridge was just walking around, standing and looking at the view, taking it all in.
After they stood for awhile, watching the Bay, Sören said, "This really gives me a sense of perspective."
Mark nodded. "I imagine it would give anyone with a soul a sense of perspective."
"Well, jæja, I mean, it's a lovely piece of architecture, a fine testament to the human ability to create and make magnificent things. But it isn't just that. It's..." Sören gestured. "It's a big bridge. I don't just mean that it's physically big and we're small in comparison, but standing here, right now, someplace I only used to admire in books and magazines when I was a kid... the world is a much bigger place than I know. I've lived in three different countries, which is a lot for a lot of people, and yet it's still..." Sören paused, searching for the right words. "It's not all there is to see. I wanted to travel, when I was small, and my aunt and uncle thought that was ridiculous - their entire world was Akureyri, their idea of anyplace big and important was Reykjavik. They were convinced I'd never amount to anything so me thinking of going anyplace else was just a stupid pipe dream to them. And yet, here I am. Seeing someplace famous. And feeling like there's so much more of the world to explore, to take in."
Mark said nothing, though his brow furrowed.
"You've done some traveling, já?"
"A bit."
And then Sören felt stupid and self-conscious. "Oh. You've been in the service, you've seen war." Sören facepalmed. "Ohgod. I -"
"No, it's fine." Mark's tone had a slight edge to it, like it wasn't really fine. His long hair stirred in the breeze, and Sören watched it, fascinated. He has such nice hair. And yet, there was a sadness in his eyes that kept it from being full-on ogling. Sören wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling.
"I'm guessing we have a different perspective on seeing the world," Sören said.
"Sometimes it's nice to stay in one place for awhile and have a quiet, boring life." Their eyes met, briefly, then Mark looked back at the Bay, almost like he was searching for something.
"The grass is always greener, I guess. Well, not much grass up here." Sören laughed self-consciously. "I could have brought some."
"This is probably a bad place not to be sober."
"True." Sören took a deep breath, thinking of accidental deaths... and not so accidental. "This is probably a bad place to be too sober, too."
"Too sober." Mark gave a bitter little laugh. "Yes, that... sounds like a very familiar frame of mind, right there."
"I honestly could have seen this place years ago, if I'd gotten a wild hair up my ass and asked Dag to take me on vacation. But, ah." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls, feeling weird about being this honest and raw in front of someone he didn't know terribly well yet, and yet, after yesterday, there was an understanding; Mark got him. "Let's just say that years ago it might have been a bad idea."
"You mentioned you tried to kill yourself in 2004."
"I wish I could say that was the first and last time I thought about suicide. I was a quiet, depressed kid, I remember thinking about suicide way the hell back when I was nine. Not planning it, but still... thinking about it. Normal, well-adjusted nine-year-olds don't think about killing themselves. In hindsight it was understandable, with the abuse from my aunt and uncle, and being picked on in school as one of the smart kids, but." Sören shrugged. "I thought about it all through my teenage years, finally attempted it when I was twenty. My brother pushed me to go back to school when I moved in with him in Toronto and amazingly, I managed to get a Ph.D., but the way there was hell, and I walked close to the edge a few times. My own lifestyle choices probably made things worse." Sören thought about the college party scene, the drugs and meaningless sex. He'd done ecstasy and ketamine more times than he could count. He remembered the comedown - the night terrors, sleep paralysis, paranoia, the crash in his mood. That was a walk in the park compared to the night he got roofied in 2011. He hadn't touched E or K since then. "Though the worst of those thoughts, since 2004, wasn't when I was living with Dag, it was after..." Sören's voice trailed off, feeling like he was being unfair by dumping all this on Mark when they'd come here to have fun and relax.
"After what, Sören?"
"Forget it. It's not important."
Mark gave him a look. "It is to me."
There was a lump in Sören's throat, touched by the care and concern in those silver eyes, in his voice.
"So, I mentioned I was in a car accident back in December, it's why I don't drive, and why Professor Dooku has been driving me around Corvallis. What I didn't tell you is how."
Mark waited.
Sören went on. "I was seeing this guy Seth, for about a year and a half. First three months were fine, he started to get a little weird around six months. Things... got worse. A lot worse. He was verbally abusive - for awhile it was just verbal abuse. Then it was also physical abuse. It wasn't every day, but it had a pattern. If you're wondering why it lasted a year and a half, I tried to break up with him more than once. First few times I got sucked back in with 'baby I'll change' and the song and dance of making me feel sorry for him. Then." Sören closed his eyes. "That panic attack in the basement yesterday..."
"...was because of him."
Sören opened his eyes. Mark's gaze held his. Sören just nodded. "I was down in the basement, doing laundry. Seth got in and..."
"Hells." Mark's jaw set. Sören could feel the anger emanating from him, thrumming like a storm. "He..." Mark already knew without Sören saying it.
"He raped me, yes. It wasn't the first time... and he wasn't the first person to rape me, I was roofied at a party when I lived in Toronto. But that time in the basement was particularly... unpleasant. He invited himself over after that, and tried to move in with me while I was too shell-shocked to fight him off. He was in my car on the way back from the store, and tried to manhandle me and something in my brain just snapped and I tried to defend myself and that got... ugly. I lost control of the wheel and crashed the car. He was mostly unscathed, I had a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and a couple broken ribs. Thankfully nobody else was hurt... well, just a tree. Professor Dooku beat the shit out of him and Seth left town, though he told me what happened on his way out. It wasn't the first time Nico kicked his ass, either - Seth made the mistake of backhanding me in front of him one day - but this time it was pretty brutal."
"One of these days I should buy that man a drink. The professor, I mean, not your shitbag ex."
"I knew who you meant." Sören sighed. "If you're wondering why I didn't go to the police, well... the way the police and court system handles rape in this country leaves a lot to be desired, especially if you've ever had a promiscuous sex history - which I did in Toronto, and Seth had a white-collar job, he could afford a better lawyer... I didn't want to go to all that trouble of re-traumatizing myself with a rape kit and having to prove what happened for what I knew would be a losing battle. I feel guilty about it, which is not an emotion I really need to have on top of everything else, like I 'let him get away with it', but..."
"Sören, I don't even know what to say. 'I'm sorry' doesn't really cut it. You've been through a special kind of hell."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have unloaded like that when..."
"No. You needed to get it out."
"I suppose." Sören looked back at the Bay. "Anyway... it was early December, the accident happened. And at least a few times since then I've had the thought of 'it would have been better if I died in that accident, it would have been better if he killed me'. It's not anything I plan, it's just thoughts. My psychiatrist and therapist tell me there's a difference between suicidal ideation and suicidal intent. It's intrusive thoughts, I can usually distract myself. I'm not going to jump from the bridge. It's... it's kind of amazing that I can stand here right now and say no, I'm not jumping from this bridge. That a few months ago I just kind of wanted to slowly drift away, could barely get through each day, didn't have a lot of hope for the future and now I'm thinking 'hmmm, it might be nice to travel and see more of the world.'"
"Sören, can I..."
Sören put out his arms, and Mark hugged him. When they pulled apart, Sören saw Mark was a little teary. "I'm glad you're at a place again where you're thinking about the future," Mark said. "And I, for one, am glad you didn't succeed with..."
Sören looked down. "Well, I mean, a lot of people say things like that to be nice..."
"No, I really mean it. I'm glad I met you and I'm glad I'm getting a chance to get to know you and Sören I swear if you say 'Hi Glad' -"
Sören's laughter rang out. He bat his eyes and gave Mark his best innocent face, which wasn't innocent at all. "Would I do that?"
"Yes. Yes you would."
"That's another thing." Sören was serious again. "I joke a lot because humor is how I cope. A lot of people assume that the funniest people are the happiest, but -"
"Comedians have a disproportionately high rate of mental health issues, substance abuse, and suicide. No, Sören, I already knew you being 'the funny guy' was not because you don't take anything seriously, but precisely because of how things weigh you down."
Sören nodded. "And I like making other people laugh. It's one of the reasons why my students like me. If I get to be too much of a pain in the ass, though..."
"I'll let you know."
Sören frowned. "Seth often told me I wasn't funny. There was a period of some months there where I wasn't joking around or really myself at all... so I suppose I'm getting back to the way I used to be, before him. Except hopefully stronger this time." Sören swallowed hard.
Mark patted his shoulder. "It sounds that way."
"Takk."
They fell back into silence, watching the Bay, looking around at the vastness of the structure of the bridge. And it seemed to Sören then that having that catharsis here was powerful - he was burning one more bridge to his past and the power it held over him, building a new bridge of trust and emotional intimacy, after keeping people at arm's length for so long.
_
After opening up on the bridge, Sören went back into his shell a little over the next few days. He and Mark still had dinner together, and interacted off and on, but Sören didn't invite him to go anywhere, and Mark didn't invite Sören either. Even though Sören was the one who had started keeping a distance again - feeling self-conscious that he'd opened up so much - he was worried that he might have said or done something to offend Mark or otherwise make him uncomfortable, and relieved when Mark stopped in the doorway of his bedroom and said, "I need to make a grocery run tomorrow. You want to come along?"
Sören nodded.
"You want to go anywhere first?" Mark shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I was going to ask you sooner than this, but I didn't know if you needed some space after our talk on the bridge, if anything was upsetting you..."
"Oh god." Sören rubbed his face. "No, it was." Sören looked down. "I thought I put my foot in it..."
"No, Sören, I told you it was OK. Look." Mark folded his arms. "I know you probably have a lot of experience with people not meaning what they say - your ex, for instance - but I try to be as honest as possible. If I thought that we weren't compatible as friends I would have told you. And, speaking honestly, you're the first real friend I've had in awhile. I'm not good at people."
"I'm not good at people either."
"So we can be bad at people together. Do you have any thoughts on where we can go before food shopping to go be awkward dorks?"
Sören laughed. God, I like him. "Well..." He ran a nervous hand through his curls, thinking. "I wouldn't mind poking at Bridgeway again. Sharon did ask me to keep in touch and she works at one of the boutiques..."
"Mkay, we'll do that." Mark was about to walk off, then he paused. "Did you take your night meds yet?"
"Yes, Dad. I'm just waiting for them to kick in."
Mark grinned. "Hi, Just Waiting for Them To Kick In -"
"OK, that's my joke, you butt."
"But you called me Dad, and it's technically a dad joke."
"Oh..." Sören blew a raspberry. "I'd tell you go to eat a dick, but..."
Mark looked away. "Yeahhhh. It's been awhile."
Sören was surprised by that - though he knew he probably shouldn't have been, since Mark was sleeping alone, and hadn't given any indicators that he was dating anyone or looking. He wondered just how long "awhile" was, and internally kicked himself for having that curiosity, as well as his mind going places again with what Mark might have done with other men...
Sören got wound up enough that it was taking him longer than usual to get to sleep. He'd learned about distraction as a coping tool for intrusive thoughts or emotional disregulation in therapy, so he got up to get a glass of ice water, as that usually grounded him. Mark wasn't in bed yet, but was in the living room, writing in a paper journal with the TV playing as background noise. Sören paused in the living room sipping ice water when he saw it was a rerun of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
"There's my boyfriend," Sören quipped with Picard on the screen.
Mark rolled his eyes. "You're invited if you want to watch this."
"I won't bother you...?"
"No."
Sören sat down on the couch - Mark was in the armchair. Mark continued to write for a bit; Sören wondered what he was writing. After Sören had been in the living room for a few minutes Mark stopped writing, turned up the volume, and paid attention to the show.
"Oh god, this is the one where they get stuck in the time loop and die over and over," Sören said.
"Do you not want to watch it, then?"
"I didn't say that. God, if I only liked fluff I wouldn't be a Next Gen geek, that show deals with some heavy shit. Just saying, I really feel for them, especially when they start having déjà vu." Sören rubbed his beard. "You ever get moments like that, where something you're saying or doing for the first time feels... familiar?"
"On occasion."
"Me too. Actually... it feels like we've watched Next Gen together before, but I have no idea why. My brother is an astrophysicist and writes about the possibility of parallel universes and stuff, maybe it's happening there." Sören laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, being a bit unsettled by the idea. He decided to stop thinking about it and just get back into the story... and ogle Picard.
Mark checked the channel schedule during a commercial break and he said, "This airs the same time every weeknight if you want to make this a routine."
"That sounds good."
The show and the ice water had the intended effect of getting Sören out of his own head enough that he relaxed and his night meds started kicking in. He was aware of the show ending, and Deep Space Nine coming on after that - the two of them mentioning they were also Deep Space Nine fans, Sören saying "there's my girlfriend" at Kira Nerys - and then he dozed off. Mark gently shook his shoulder and Sören woke up with a start as the end credits for Deep Space Nine were rolling.
"Sören, go to bed."
"Oh. Oh god, did I fall asleep?" Sören mumbled.
"Yeah." Mark smiled. "You snored a little..."
Sören facepalmed. "Sorry."
"It's OK. Now go to bed."
"Aye, sir."
"Make it so."
Sören laughed as he stumbled to his room.
_
Sören slept late enough the next day that Mark woke him up a little after twelve noon. "Sören, you alive?"
"No," Sören quipped, and groaned as the daylight hit his eyes.
Mark already had a fresh pitcher of iced coffee made and a glass poured for Sören when he made it to the kitchen. Sören took his morning meds and whined again at the bright daylight.
Despite usually needing more time to wake up, he hit the shower not long after, not wanting to keep Mark waiting to go anywhere. He was glad that his hair was still damp and provided a bit of a buffer against the heat when they stepped outside. Sören didn't like hot weather, not just because he'd grown up in Iceland and then lived several years in Canada, with winters on par with his home country, but he always ran hot naturally, something partners had remarked on, like sleeping with a furnace. Mark noticed Sören was too pale in the summer heat and looking like he was wilting.
"You sure you still want to do this?" Mark asked, pausing as they walked along Bridgeway. "We can do something else..."
"Jæja, I'm sure I want to do this." Sören nodded. He thought of Sharon.
Sharon was, in fact, working when Mark and Sören entered the boutique, which sold handmade furniture and home decor as well as antiques and vintage finds. Sharon's face lit up when she saw Sören.
"I've been hoping I'd see you again," she said.
"I did promise I'd keep in touch. My word is important to me."
Sören did wonder if the enthusiasm was hoping he'd be a paying customer that she'd get commission pay out of, but she didn't try to sell him anything. That in turn made him more inclined to look around the store himself than if he'd been dealing with a pushy salesperson. Most of the items in the store were well above Sören's price tag, even as a university professor - Sören could certainly appreciate artisans charging a living wage for their work, wondering how on-board Marguerite had been with the snark from her "friends", in light of that - but there was a reason most of what was in his house was from IKEA or thrift shops. Even when he moved up the financial ladder as a professor, the poverty of his childhood had taught him to be frugal and live more simply; this trip was him treating himself after a year of hell. However, he certainly admired fine craftsmanship when he saw it, and he wondered about taking a few smaller-ticket items back home to Corvallis to brighten his place up, to make it feel more like "his" again and continue to exorcise the ghost of Seth. He hadn't outright moved after what happened because he and Dooku had become close friends...
A stained glass box caught his eye. The box lid had a mirror flanked by two stained glass panels on either side, a sun on one, a moon on the other. Sören's bedroom at his home in Corvallis had a celestial theme, and it would fit the motif nicely. Sören wondered what he'd keep in such a box - maybe a discrete place for condoms and lube, if I ever have sex again. Not that Sören had been planning on it anytime soon.
He kept watching Sharon across the store, her slim body in a tie-dye shirt and broomstick skirt. Wondering if she was blonde all over. Stop that.
But he wasn't blind, and he had needs that he'd been denying for months. He hadn't been with a woman since he lived in Toronto. He missed eating pussy...
OK seriously now, stop that.
Sören felt shy and self-conscious as he brought the box up to the counter to pay for, and Sharon waited on him. "Oh, that's one of my favorites, I'm so glad it's going."
"Did you make it?"
"Ha ha, no, I wish. I don't know who made it, that's one of the vintage pieces here."
"I'd love to get into glass art," Sören said. "I do ceramics besides painting and that's pretty therapeutic, to work the clay."
"I don't make art, I just sell it," Sharon said. "I took art in school and I loved doing it but I'm not any good at it -"
"Every good artist says they're not any good at it, myself included." Sören pursed his lips. "Honestly, though... I tell my kids this - er, my students, I don't have any biological children." That I'm aware of, Sören thought to himself; he'd had the occasional moment of paranoia about Toronto, even though he'd been diligent about using condoms... mostly. There had been a few slips. "The point of making art is not to be good at it or not, it's to make art. It's to express yourself. Taste is subjective and one person's masterpiece is another person's disaster. I think everyone can and should make things once in awhile, though not everyone can and should make art for a living. If you want to make money, art's not the right job for it - I only make money because I teach. But seriously, don't let 'not being good at it' discourage you from it if you feel like making stuff."
"Awwwww, you're sweet." Sharon smiled.
"I brought my supplies with me - well, not all of them, my ceramic stuff is back in Oregon - if you want to get together some time and make art." Oh god, let me die please. Sören felt so awkward, worrying he was coming off as creepy. He was attracted to Sharon, but the offer was genuine friendship, not an attempt to get up her skirt. She was taken, anyway.
"I'd like that. Maybe this weekend? Saturday afternoon, July first?"
"That works for me."
Sören had a little spring in his step on the way out, and Mark noticed.
"And you say you're not good at people," Mark said.
"I'm not. That was me in teacher mode. It's a role I play to pretend to be a functional adult."
"I... feel so called out by that."
Sören laughed and patted Mark's shoulder. "The struggle is real."
"All too real. The difference is I don't always put the Teacher Mark hat on when I'm off the clock. Most of the time if I hear someone singing or trying to play an instrument at a club or busking or on YouTube or something I think to myself, don't quit your day job. Though I do appreciate genuine enthusiasm and passion for something, even when a person isn't good at it." Mark made a face. "Unless it's Eurovision. No amount of enthusiasm can compensate for that."
Sören gigglesnorted. "I didn't know how many Americans watch it. I watch every year because, you know, Iceland."
"What I don't understand is Iceland produces a lot of actually good music compared to what you send to Eurovision."
"'You send?' I didn't send it."
"I should hope not, or I'd have to dissociate from you immediately."
"You know, all this is rich coming from the guy who likes hair metal."
Mark glared. "Listen. Spandex, hairspray, and cocaine aside, a lot of those musicians were classically trained and you can tell. Metal is a lot more complex in its composition than most non-musicians think it is, and those singers really tax their voices..."
"I'm just busting your ass, Mark. You can like something because it's fun to listen to, you know."
"I don't do fun. We went over this."
"Before the end of the summer? You're going to have fun if it kills me."
_
When they got back to the house, Mark put on hair metal, which amused Sören. Sören hadn't thought of himself as much of a metal fan before now - he had an eclectic taste in music but he gravitated towards R&B and hip-hop, and he had a goth phase as a teenager which he still fell back on when he was feeling angstier - Joy Division had seen him through more than one depressive episode. Sören found himself appreciating Def Leppard and Van Halen and Whitesnake and Warrant and Slaughter, and Mark appreciated his appreciation.
Mark made skewers for dinner, and then they watched Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Sören took his night meds, but he wasn't especially tired, some of which could be chalked up to sleeping till noon, some of which could be chalked up to the enjoyment of the day - a faint excitement at seeing Sharon again on the weekend, satisfaction in having gotten himself something pretty. He felt another painting coming on.
When he sat down to paint he saw the Golden Gate Bridge in his mind's eye. And with most of his works the mundane transformed into something magical. He thought about the mythology he'd learned in school, the Bifröst bridge between the realm of gods and the realm of man, and the story of the gods disguising themselves as men and staying with human families unaware, blessing them for hospitality. He wasn't in Iceland now, but a country where people had come from all over the world, a place where cultures mingled and melded. The stories are never over. Under his brush the Golden Gate Bridge became something more, a bridge across worlds, shimmering with energy.
Sören knew from past experience that when the muse hit, he could end up lost in it for days. It was something he had to keep on a tight leash during the school year, first as a student and then as a professor, having to adhere to a schedule. But in the summer months he had no obligations to keep "normal people hours". Last summer, 2016, had been ruined by Seth - his muse had dried up considerably when they were together, with Seth ridiculing his art on a regular basis. Now, all the unspent creative energy was coming out, and this indeed was what Sören had been hoping for when he decided to treat himself on a summer vacation, that he would finally relax enough for his muse to feel safe to come out again.
At two in the morning Sören took a little break. He knew he should probably go to bed, but he wasn't tired yet. When he came back from the bathroom he heard movement in the kitchen, which surprised him - Mark was usually in bed before now. He walked back into the hallway and sure enough, Mark was in the kitchen, his acoustic guitar case slung over one arm, about to go out the back.
Mark paused. "You're awake."
"You're awake."
"Didn't you take your night meds?"
"I did. I... can't sleep." Sören rubbed his beard. "Been painting."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Are you hypomanic?"
"Jesus Christ, Mark. Like it's one thing for you to nag me about taking my meds, but I've lived with this for a long time now and I try to be self-aware about mood changes."
"Sorry. I... shouldn't have asked. I guess I worry too much."
"I shouldn't get mad at you for worrying, I appreciate that you care, but... the answer is no. Or probably not. I'll keep an eye on it and see if I've got any other hypomanic symptoms, but no, Mark, once in awhile my muse just likes to keep me making art for a couple days and that in and of itself is not super concerning." Sören gestured to Mark. "You're not sleeping, either?"
"No." Mark took a deep breath. "I do actually understand about getting bit by the creative bug and getting... lost in it. I was going to head down to the beach so I didn't wake you..."
"Well, I need to stretch my legs and get some fresh air before I get back to work. So do you mind company?"
"I'm working on something and I normally don't let people hear works in progress."
"I normally don't let people see works in progress, but I'll show you mine if you show me yours." As soon as that came out Sören wanted to crawl in a hole and hide, not intending how it sounded.
Didn't you, though? Sören's eyes couldn't help raking Mark up and down, all that long dark hair, the way even under a T-shirt and jeans Sören could see the muscle definition of his lean, hard body...
Mark made the "come here" gesture and Sören followed him outside. They walked from the steps of the deck out to the beach. The beach was quiet and vacant, and they spent a few minutes walking along the shore, taking in the salt air and the soothing roll of the tide before finding a spot to sit down.
Mark began to play a chord cycle, light becoming dark. Sören watched the waves as Mark played, and his mind's eye began to flash images - not the painting he was working on, but Mark as a child, then as a young man, and happiness became sadness. There was fire, then winter, violence, blood, wandering alone. Attachments - friends, the occasional lover - and parting. Impermanence.
Then towards the end the chords cycled back up, dark into light, but not the same chord progression of before. A different key. A new chapter. Sören thought of the bridge of his painting now, the feeling that their conversation on the Golden Gate Bridge a few days prior had built a bridge they both needed. A connection.
"It's not done yet," Mark said when he stopped playing.
"It's still beautiful." Sören looked at him. "Made me feel a lot of things." He wondered about the details, the pain behind the music, weeping through his guitar.
"It sounds better on the harp."
They went back inside and Mark played it on the harp. Sören thought it sounded equally good on harp or guitar, but there was a resonance with the harp, and watching Mark pluck the strings was rather like watching an artist paint or what Sören imagined a wizard doing magic, or a god creating, would be like. There was a quiet intensity to him that was fascinating and a little unsettling to watch.
It also stirred the creative impulse in Sören once more. He got up as quickly as he could and dragged down his easel and the rolling cart he'd set up with his paints, brushes, and cleaner. As Mark continued to play, Sören got back to work, painting.
Mark played other songs on his harp, noting that they were other pieces of his that he'd written in different points in time and he liked to revisit them periodically, sometimes refine them, adding to it or remaking an entire portion. The harp was the perfect soundtrack for Sören's bridge across worlds, the sky itself now tinged with different shades as different lands were viewable on different shores.
A couple hours later, when Mark took a break, so did Sören. They looked at the time and laughed. Then, when Sören had Mark get up and look at the easel, Mark wasn't laughing at all.
"It's not anywhere near done," Sören said.
"It's still amazing."
Sören looked down. "My ex used to say I have no talent -"
"Your ex sounds like a douchebag and his opinion doesn't count."
"I told myself that but it still kept me from really digging in again. Coming here... helped." Sören's eyes met Mark's. "Your music helped, tonight."
"So you don't take your own teacherly advice about creating for its own sake, whether or not you're any good?"
"Ouch." Sören frowned.
"You are, however, very good." Mark studied the canvas again. "And I think we should celebrate the return of your muse."
"Such as?"
"Let's go get breakfast. Yes, I know you don't do breakfast, but..." Mark looked at the clock again. "It's four in the morning. I don't know what's open at this hour..."
"I do."
_
Mark rolled his eyes so much as they walked into the Denny's that Sören thought it was a wonder Mark even had eyes.
They sat with their menus; Mark looked over his but Sören knew right away he wanted a Grand Slam. Mark ended up going with the same thing.
As they waited for their food, Mark said, "I've never been to a Denny's."
Sören almost choked on his drink. "So... you want people to not think you're one of those snooty classical music people, but you've never been to Denny's? And how do you spend forty-two years avoiding Denny's? I've only been in the States since 2013 and I've been to Denny's a fuckton."
"Something about having good taste."
"Says the guy who likes hair metal."
Mark kicked Sören under the table. "You can't exactly talk now, yourself."
"I also don't pretend I have standards."
Mark laughed out loud. "Everyone has standards, Sören."
As Mark said that, a trio of face-painted juggalos wearing Insane Clown Posse shirts walked into the Denny's. "OK, not everyone," Mark said.
"Wow, juggalos are real?" Sören's eyes widened. "I thought that was something Americans made up, like Bigfoot or Johnny Appleseed..."
Mark laughed so hard he teared up. "Oh, Sören. You... should have seen my music theory class a few years ago. It's not as popular now, I guess, but a few of my old students are indeed 'down with the clown'." Mark made a noise. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation."
"And having this conversation at a Denny's. You'd think I dragged you to a gulag or something." Sören snorted. "The Denny's Archipelago, by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn."
"I'm... I'm surprised you even know who Solzhenitsyn is."
"I didn't get a Ph.D. sitting on my hands, even if I was doing a lot of drugs on the weekend. And I survived some of my worst depression crises reading about people who were having a shittier time, helped put things in perspective. Mostly." Sören scowled. "I hate it when people who don't deal with depression say things like 'people are dying' as a reason why we 'shouldn't feel sorry for ourselves'." Sören made air quotes.
"I hate that too. Just because someone is hurting more, doesn't invalidate that you're hurting as well."
Their eyes met. "There was a lot of pain in those songs. I heard it. But you never talk about your life."
"There's... not much to talk about."
"Except that you've never been to Denny's."
Mark facepalmed, laughing. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"I'm just curious why in forty-two years you've never set foot inside a Denny's."
Mark shrugged. "I like cooking. I prefer to cook for myself and... not have to go out and be around other people to eat."
"Well, I'm sorry that I made you -"
Mark put a hand on Sören's arms. "I offered. It's... this is different."
Their food came, and Sören pointed at Mark as he told the waiter, "He's never been to a Denny's." Sören couldn't help the words that spilled out of his mouth next. "I've taken his Denny's virginity."
"Oh my god, Sören." Mark turned red, shaking with laughter.
It was made worse when the waiter brought back a ginger ale for Mark with a single maraschino cherry in it. Sören took it and bit it, and Mark was in hysterics.
"Wow, talk about a Grand Slam," Mark said.
Sören's face was burning now as well.
They quieted down for the rest of their meal, and on the drive back, hair metal was playing on the classic rock station. Mark turned it way up when "Up All Night" by Slaughter came on.
When evening comes I am alive
I love to prowl around in the streets
It's the moonlight that controls my mind
Now I've got the power to speak
(Awake from dusk to dawn)
Watching the city lights
(Stars are shining down)
They'll be shining down on you and I
(And when the morning comes)
And I'll hold you till the morning light
Up all night, sleep all day
Up all night, sleep all day, that's right
Sören played air guitar and actually headbanged, which amused Mark. When they got back to the house, Mark said, "OK, we should actually get some sleep."
"You mean for once you might sleep till the afternoon?"
"I ate at Denny's... I'm sleeping in till the afternoon... yes, I am living dangerously."
"I like getting dangerous." Sören grinned.
Before they headed to their respective rooms, Sören said, "Thank you again for playing while I..."
"Yes, and thank you for... creating with me. Seeing you paint inspired me to break out some old stuff and work on it."
Sören didn't realize he'd actually been helpful. That felt good - there was a synergy there. Sören wondered if that could be harnessed somehow, but now was not the time to explore that. Part of him wanted to paint some more but he knew if he was awake all day he'd be cranky later and didn't want to inflict that on Mark. "Sweet dreams," Sören said, and ducked into his room.