Sören spent the rest of the week intensely focused on his painting of the bridge across worlds, though he took time for breaks which included going for walks along the beach and riding along with Mark into town. They also spent time together at dinner and what had now become a routine of watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine after dinner.
Saturday came, hitting Sören like a ton of bricks. He'd been looking forward to spending time with Sharon, but had almost forgotten about their plans; his phone went off while he was in bed sleeping.
"Hey Sören, I'm on my way," Sharon said.
Sören rubbed his face, squinting as daylight seared his eyes. When his bleary eyes made out the numbers on the clock he said, "Oh shit," realizing he could have been still sleeping when she arrived, he'd forgotten to set his alarm.
"Are you OK?"
"Jæja, I'm fine, just... waking up." Sören gave a nervous laugh.
"You want me to bring anything? Do you need coffee?"
"I have coffee but I won't turn down one of those fancy iced lattes from Starbucks or something. Um... just bring yourself, maybe a swimsuit if you want to go to the beach later."
Mark knew Sören was having company, and they had an agreement this was fine, but Sören couldn't help noticing Mark looking a little uncomfortable when Mark got to the door first.
"Hi, is Sören here?" Sharon asked.
"I'm here," Sören said, poking into the living room.
Sharon was wearing a usual tie-dye shirt and broomstick skirt. There were new beads in her blonde dreadlocks which she also had in a ponytail today, and she wore a choker necklace of turquoise nuggets and chunky raw amber. She carried a backpack and a tray with three iced coffees - Mark accepted his with a mumbled thanks, and then went to his bedroom and closed the door, which made Sören feel a little awkward; he knew Mark was trying to be a friend and not intrude, but it made him feel bad all the same. He tried to not dwell on it, though, sitting across from Sharon in the living room.
"This is such a nice place you have here," Sharon said.
"This is just the living room. I'll take you on a tour."
Sören showed Sharon the rest of the house, excluding Mark's room. Despite Sören forgetting to set the alarm last night for Sharon's visit he did have things set up for her to take him up on his offer to make art with him, and she looked over the art supplies with wide eyes.
She was intrigued enough by the selection that she wanted to get to work right away. Sören thought about resuming his work in progress while Sharon was there - she spent a few minutes admiring the painting on the easel - but it also felt strangely intimate to be working on in front of her, and sometimes when he had works in progress it did him some good to take a break and work on something else before returning to the original piece. He also wanted to work in the same medium as her for easier cleanup. When Sharon elected to work with watercolor pencils, Sören gave them each a sheet of watercolor paper and they sat on opposite ends of the desk in his room.
They listened to the radio as they drew and colored, which was nice, though Sören was reminded of a few nights ago when Mark played on the harp as he painted, the synergy they had, and he thought about asking Mark to play for them now. But Mark didn't seem like he was in a social mood with a stranger, so Sören didn't want to bother him.
Sören drew a rose bush populated by faeries, and when Sharon was done she showed him, and hers was a heart made out of seashells, surrounded by a mandala-like pattern of swirling water.
"It's not very good," Sharon said.
"No, that's actually not bad at all," Sören said. He'd seen better, but he'd also seen worse. "It's cute," he said, and meant it. He stopped himself from adding, You're cute.
Sharon smiled and bit her lower lip, showing the gap in her front teeth, and her dimples. She picked up the drawing and handed it to Sören. "Here," she said.
"That's for me?"
She nodded.
Sören felt his stomach flutter. Does this mean anything? Does she like me? It was a heart, but it was also something he'd complimented and maybe she was being nice. And she has a boyfriend.
Wanting to also be nice, he gave her the picture he'd drawn of the flower faeries. Sharon let out a squeak and came up and threw her arms around him. Sören's cock stirred a little, and he gently returned the hug, in part to direct her body against his in a less arousing manner and so she wouldn't feel the semi. "This is two pictures you've given me," Sharon said. "I feel like I ought to give you something..."
"Well you did, just now." Sören's finger lovingly traced the edge of the seashell heart. "I will treasure this." It would be something to remember her by when the summer was over. They could keep in touch, of course, but everything felt so uncertain somehow, like Sören wasn't sure what he'd be doing in two days, never mind two months. And he worried that he might scare her away, if she caught wind that he had a tiny little crush on her and didn't feel the same...
"I gave you one picture, you gave me two. And I mean, you're a really talented artist - I could probably sell these and get money, if I felt like selling them, which I don't. Unlike those assholes from that night we invited you for dinner, I know your work is worth something. Maybe I could take you out to dinner sometime."
"A gift is a gift, you don't owe me -"
"I'd still like to."
Their eyes met. Sören wondered if she was asking him out. He couldn't tell, and he didn't want to make things awkward by asking. "Well, OK, sometime, but let's not decide that right now." He felt like he would definitely make things awkward if they continued on that subject. He looked out the window, with his view of the beach. "This picture puts me in the mood to go down to the water."
"Yeah, good! I brought a swimsuit with me. Uh... can I change in your bathroom?"
Sören was already feeling a little aroused - and self-conscious at his arousal - and it got worse when Sharon came out of the bathroom in a blue two-piece. She was on the thin side, and small-breasted, with a tan, a pale scar from appendix removal near her stomach, and a sprinkling of freckles over her shoulders and back. Her navel was pierced, and she had a tattoo of a blue-and-purple butterfly as a "tramp stamp" on her lower back. Her legs and armpits weren't shaved, something Sören always found sexy, especially the implication that she didn't shave anywhere - something he found very sexy. She wasn't a perfect model, but she didn't need to be to get his attention. Her blonde dreadlocks were free of the ponytail now, hanging loose. She gave him an adorable smile when she stepped out of the bathroom, and the bright blue of her eyes was as alluring to him as the rest of her.
While Sharon changed in the bathroom had Sören changed in his room. His swim trunks were orange, which matched the flame sleeve tattoo and fire phoenix on his back. The blue of Sharon's bathing suit matched Sören's ocean sleeve and the waterbird on the other side of his back. His skin was like milk by virtue of having grown up in a northern climate, though he had scars on his arms and back that the tattoos mostly disguised unless you looked closely. Sören noticed Sharon looking at his ink - he turned his back so she could see his back. Her gaze drifted upward to his chest, where his nipples were pierced. It wasn't the first time Sharon had seen him shirtless, he'd had his shirt off dancing at the bonfire on the solstice, but they had both been distracted by the crowd and what they were doing - now she seemed to be studying him.
"Did that hurt?" Sharon asked.
Sören got that a lot when people saw him shirtless. He laughed. "It hurt a little, but to be honest my ears hurt more. And my PA hurt too, I suppose."
"PA?" Sharon gave him a puzzled look.
It just slipped out; Sören wished he could shove the words back in, his face burning. "Prince Albert. Um, my..."
He didn't need to explain. "Oh. Oh." Sharon's eyes widened. Sören's face burned more when he saw her glance at his crotch, quickly looking back up again. "You're the first guy I've met who has that done. I've heard about it, but..."
"Jæja, I. Ah." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls. "Got it done in 2005. Let's go to the beach."
Mark's bedroom had a sliding glass door with a patio and a way out to the beach but his door was still closed; Sören led them through the kitchen, out to the deck, down the steps. They carried towels, Sören brought his sunblock, and Sharon had her backpack with her. When they found a good place to stop Sharon opened her backpack, retrieved a blanket, and put it in the sand. Then she took out a bottle of suntan lotion, with an SPF lower than Sören was comfortable with. Sharon began to rub herself down, and Sören took the opportunity to apply his own sunblock. The touch of his hand and watching Sharon work the lotion over herself made that awkward half-aroused feeling come back, and Sören worried if he got too aroused she'd see, being his trunks didn't leave much to the imagination.
It got worse when Sharon turned her back and said, "Can you get my back? I can't reach. I'll do yours if you do mine."
Touching her was difficult. He tried to keep it clinical, drawing upon his past memories of med school, but his mind raced with thoughts of what it would be like for his fingers to play over her tan lines, followed by his tongue. What it would be like to spread her here on the beach blanket and make her howl with pleasure. Her breath was coming a little faster as his hands applied the lotion, and he stopped himself from going more slowly and deliberately, turning it into a caress. We're just friends.
Her applying the sunblock on his back was even more torturous. "You're so pale," Sharon said as her hands rubbed; he could feel her breath against his skin.
"Well, yeah, I'm Scandinavian, and I've spent my entire life in cold places. Iceland, Canada."
"Oh, you lived in Canada? Far out."
"Toronto. It's where I went to school. My brother moved there, let me stay with him while I worked on my Ph.D."
"Oh. I knew you were a teacher, didn't realize..."
"I'm a professor." Sören nodded.
Sharon laughed. "Nice." She kneaded his shoulders. "You're so tense."
I have a pretty girl rubbing her tits against my back and haven't had sex in months. Yes, I am a little tense right now. Sören didn't say that out loud. "Pale and tense, that's me." He facepalmed. "Pale and tense, that's me?" God, I sound like a dumbass.
"Well, hopefully the sunshine will do you some good." Sharon gently turned him around. "Was it hard?" She bit her lower lip. "Your Ph.D., I mean."
It's definitely kind of hard, Sharon. He started walking her towards the waves, hoping that the cold water would help him calm down. "It was difficult. On the one hand I already had the learning curve because I went to med school first -"
"Seriously? Yeah, I think I remember you saying you were almost a doctor... Holy shit." Sharon raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
"I realized being a doctor means dealing with people dying. I couldn't handle it." His ankles were in the water and he gasped from the shock of the cold, even though he'd been in colder water in Iceland before. "So I already had the experience of needing to knuckle down for the routine of school, but I had a lot of emotional shit going on. I... still have a lot of emotional shit going on." Sören rubbed his beard. "I'm kind of a hot mess."
"Yeah, me too," Sharon said, nodding.
Sören was in up to his knees now. The waves felt soothing, like being in a living whirlpool. "You go to school? Gone to school?"
"UC Berkeley, but I dropped out." Sharon looked ahead. "There was a lot of pressure on me to 'make something of myself', I'm an only child, and I'm still figuring a lot of shit out."
"You know, I don't even know how old you are? Over eighteen, I'm hoping over twenty-one, but..."
"Twenty-two."
Sören let out a low whistle. "I'll be thirty-three in November, Sharon."
"Yeah, you don't look it. I thought you were my age till you said you were a teacher." Sharon grinned. "Old man."
"Not that old yet." Sören waded out to his waist. "Mark's forty-two."
"Wow, shit, he doesn't look it either. Thirties, maybe."
"You think you might go back to school?"
"I might, but... what I really want to do is write. And I know there's no money in it. I work where I can keep flexible hours and enough to pay the bills so I can write in my spare time."
"Oh, what do you write?"
"Fantasy stuff. A lot of worldbuilding. It's interesting you gave me a picture with the roses and faeries because one of the stories I've been working on recently is about the Fair Folk of legend wanting to take back power because of how much humans have destroyed the planet." Sharon looked down. "That sounds stupid..."
"No, it doesn't. I... I'd like to read it."
Sharon laughed. "We'll see. But anyway, my parents are up my ass about it because 'writing isn't a real job'..."
"Are you dependent on them for anything?"
Sharon shook her head. "I live with Lucas, and before I moved in with him I was living in a camper RV, which is in his driveway right now."
"Then fuck 'em. Writing is real work, whether or not you see money from it. I've had to justify doing art to people. The world needs creativity and imagination just as much as it needs doctors and lawyers and police and plumbers and engineers and whatever." Sören and Sharon had most of their torsos submerged now, facing each other. "It needs it now more than ever. So much hope is gone from the world. When humans create it's a way of connecting us with that divine spark that made everything, like... I don't believe in God the way most people who say they believe in God believe in God, but I believe in, like, a clockmaker, I guess. Makes the clock and it runs on its own. We came from apes and long before that the primordial soup but there might be something watching all of that like 'yes, good, keep going'. Whatever force set that into motion, I think is in us and when people create it's a reminder we can be so much more than we are. That we're not extinct as a species yet because we are capable of beauty, not just ugliness and horror. It's that spark, that fire that refuses to die that's kept me going this long." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls, before realizing he was making his hair wet. "Sorry, I talk too much."
Sharon came closer to him and put her arms around him. "No, you don't."
"Yeah, I do." Sören's face burned.
"Don't argue with me, you butt. I liked what you had to say. It's very... deep." Sharon's eyes held his. "I don't get to be around that a lot."
"Really? 'Cos I mean, before things went pear-shaped with those three guys insulting me and your friends doing nothing about it, they seemed like cool people..."
"Cool and deep aren't the same thing." Sharon patted him. "I'm a writer, I get tired of being around vapid people. People who don't even know what 'vapid' means."
"It's something to do with vaping, right?" Sören quipped. He knew it didn't.
Sharon splashed him for that. Sören splashed her back. That led to an all-out splash war, Sören getting a mouthful of salty seawater, spluttering. He splashed harder, and she took a flying leap onto him, giving him noogies. He put a wet finger in her ear, she gave him a wedgie with his trunks, and he tickled her in retaliation. She tickled him back.
There was a moment when Sören wondered - half-hoping - that they would kiss, and then they saw the tides were rising higher. They moved closer to shore. "Want to get out? I have prune fingers," Sharon said.
They dried off on the beach blanket, and Sharon stretched out for awhile. The warm sun felt nice after the cool water, and Sören enjoyed the view of the waves, the sand, and Sharon's golden brown body posed delectably. Then it got too warm. "Head back inside?" Sören asked.
Sharon changed in the bathroom and Sören changed in the bedroom. Mark's bedroom door was open now but there was no sign of him in the kitchen or the living room, and when Sören went in the kitchen to get them both lemonade he saw a note from Mark saying he went for a drive and would be back before dinner. Sharon came out and they stood in the kitchen, looking at the sea again, this time from the glass doors.
"This place is fucking lit," Sharon said. "Not even Herb and Marguerite have someplace this nice."
"It's just for the summer. I couldn't afford this year-round. I could barely afford it now. I made myself go on vacation. Had kind of a shit year."
"Aww, I'm sorry to hear that. What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"
Sören rubbed his beard. He decided to give her the condensed version of events. "My shitty boyfriend and I broke up. I was in a car accident."
"Oh... so you're gay? I kind of wondered..."
Sören snorted. "I know I'm pretty flaming, but... bisexual."
Sharon's eyes looked him up and down again. "Me too." She grinned.
"Oh, nice." Then Sören facepalmed, self-conscious at what slipped out. "I mean, ah..."
Sharon laughed. "It's OK, Sören. It's... more than OK."
Sören's face burned. He had a feeling now that there might be interest there and it wasn't just wishful thinking, but he felt at a loss of where to go with it.
Sharon looked at the clock. "Marguerite is coming to pick me up in about an hour. I'd stay longer but I have some shit I need to get done, like I do laundry at her place."
"Ah, OK."
"You have any ideas for how to pass the time between now and then?"
Eating your pussy? Sören behaved himself. He wanted, but he didn't want Sharon to cheat on Lucas with him, also he was enough of a mess of issues after what happened with Seth that he couldn't predict what would happen with spontaneous sex, if it would make him panic or not. And he rarely took under an hour for sex, besides. "You want to smoke a bowl, and I'll show you my portfolio?"
Sören brought a glass pipe designed like a turtle in his luggage from Oregon, and he fished it out and packed it with a pinch of the weed Herb had sold him. Sharon shook her head when she looked at the bag. "Herb tried to rip you off, man. Probably thinks because you're a foreigner -"
"I am not an 80s band." Sören thought of Mark, and hoped Mark wasn't in a bad mood, wherever he was.
Sharon howled.
Then Sören said, "I figured he was charging a bit much, which was why I tried to negotiate with him. Now that I know it was intentional..." He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "Why do you associate with those people? I know your boyfriend was Matt's tutor, but..."
"Marguerite is a friend of my mom's and I guess it's like... I'm not on great terms with my parents but it's something familiar."
"Still sounds like there's things to be desired there."
"I guess. It's better than not having friends, though."
Sören shrugged. "I'd rather be alone than settle. I did... enough of that in my life." He lit the pipe.
Sören got out the large portfolio folder with laminated prints of his paintings, most of which had sold, some of which had been gifted, some of which he'd kept for personal reasons. "These are fucking amazing," Sharon said, lingering on a print Sören had done of his late sister Margrét, skin blue like the dead of Norse myth, wearing a crown of bones and flowers, spiked rings on her fingers - nails like claws - holding a skull turned into a drinking vessel full of mead, face stern and haughty. "Especially that one. That looks like one of the warrior queens I imagine in my stories. Fierce."
"That's my sister. She was murdered." Sören swallowed hard.
"Oh Jesus, Sören."
"That was... well, I still haven't recovered, all those years later, but that was part of the grieving process. I suppose her spirit would be angry about how she died. I was angry about how she died."
Sharon took his hand and squeezed. She kissed his hand gently. "If I ever self-publish stuff... if I let my stories see the light of day... can I hire you to make covers?"
"Oh. Wow." That question took him by surprise, knocking him away from the oncoming rush of grief, back into the present. "Um... I guess so. And I do think that yes, you should try to show your work somewhere. Like I said, I want to read it."
"Maybe next time we hang out I can bring over a notebook for you to borrow. You have to promise not to make fun of me, though."
"I make fun of everyone, but I won't make fun of your writing." Sören grinned.
They smoked till the bowl was gone, and when they'd reached the end of the portfolio they sat there on Sören's bed in silence... sitting a little too close, leaning on each other. Sören felt the buzz, nice and mellow - he'd forgotten to ask Herb when he bought the weed if it was an indica or a sativa, and this seemed to be an indica which was a relief because sativa tended to make him feel a bit restless and sometimes even paranoid. Sören thought of his indica plants at home, the Northern Lights strain, which Dooku was looking after - the mental image of Dooku checking in on pot plants amused him.
There was beeping outside. "Ah shit, that's Marguerite." Sharon frowned.
Sören walked Sharon to the door. They hugged, and lingered. "I had fun. Want to get together sometime later in the week or maybe early next week?" Sharon asked.
"Yes, please."
"Kay. I'll call you." Sharon grinned and walked off to Marguerite's car.
Sören went back inside. He flomped on his bed, and after he lay there for a little while, zoning out, he took his cock out and slowly stroked himself, allowing the fantasy of peeling off Sharon's bikini, licking her tan lines, nuzzling her blonde bush, eating her, watching her ride him... letting her feel the PA inside her, which everyone he'd taken had raved about. Then the fantasy changed to topping Mark, the two of them flip-fucking, taking turns inside each other... his hands caressing Mark's sculpted torso, playing with his glorious mane... heat in those silver eyes, like mercury...
Sören cried out Mark's name into his pillow, coming hard, shaking violently, his toes curling.
He felt embarrassed - he had been trying very hard to not think of Mark that way, not wanting to ruin the nice friendship they had going. But his libido wanted what it had wanted.
Stoned and sated for now, Sören pulled his boxer-briefs and jean shorts back up, and curled up for a nap.
_
Sören woke up to the sound of Metallica. He stretched, yawned, and stumbled out of his bedroom. Mark was in the kitchen chopping vegetables.
"There you are. I worried I was going to have to wake you up and you'd be all surly."
Sören looked at the time - it was after seven PM. His nap was longer than intended. "Wow, shit, that was a nap."
"I guess so." Mark raised an eyebrow, glancing at him between slices with the knife. "You get up to anything interesting?"
Jerking off thinking about you. "We did watercolor pencils, took a swim, smoked a bowl. Showed her my portfolio."
"Is that what you're calling it now?"
Sören snorted. "There was none of that going on, Mark."
"Could have fooled me. I see the way the two of you look at each other."
"Oh god, is that why you took off, trying to give us some privacy? 'Cos you didn't need to. Probably." Sören hated that last word slipping out, not wanting to get his hopes up... not wanting things to be complicated. "She's got a boyfriend, yanno?"
"That hasn't stopped some people."
"It would stop me. I don't go there if someone is taken unless they're in an open relationship and I know about it. Besides, I've got issues." Sören poured himself ice water. "I've got subscriptions."
"Issues also haven't stopped some people."
"Well, look, Mark. This is your house too. I kind of felt bad. To be honest, it would have been nice if you were hanging out with us."
"I told you I don't do people, Sören. She's your friend, I don't know her."
"You could know her. She's a nice girl."
Mark shook his head. "I'm good, Sören. I took a nice drive."
"OK. She's probably coming over later in the week or something, and I don't want you to feel like you have to take off..."
"It's courtesy. Because like I said, I've... noticed." Mark chopped harder, his jaw set like he was a little irritated. Sören couldn't figure out why.
"Suit yourself." Sören was about to walk out of the kitchen.
"Where are you going?"
"Room, I guess."
"No, here." Mark gestured to a bowl that looked like he was putting together a sauce or dressing. "Taste this."
Before Sören could protest, Mark put a little on a spoon and put it in Sören's mouth. Mark watched Sören's lips wrap around the spoon, tasting it.
"That's good," Sören said. "It has just enough kick without being overpowering."
"That's going on the skewers."
"Awesome."
Sören followed Mark outside to the deck when it was time to grill. A nice breeze was going, and Sören admired Mark's hair again, in between glimpses at the sea. "So where did you drive off to? Anyplace interesting?"
"Just... drove. No place in particular. Drove for the sake of driving. Helps me clear my head when I need it." Mark looked out at the waves.
"You got stuff on your mind?"
"I always have stuff on my mind, Sören."
"Yeah. Me too." Like you on my cock, earlier. Sören's face burned, not wanting to think about Mark that way.
Tonight's skewers were chicken, tomato, peppers, onions, mushrooms, and squash. They ate in companionable silence outside, watching the tide roll in, listening to the sea whisper and roar, the occasional cry of a seabird settling in to nest for the night. Sunset was fading to twilight, and the first star rose in the sky as Sören and Mark each had a frosty Dos Equis. Sören was still feeling the buzz from the weed he'd smoked earlier - not as strong, but now he was in that phase of an indica high where he wanted to paint. The beer took enough of the edge off from earlier forbidden thoughts that he could be around Mark without feeling so tense.
They sat in the living room and watched Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine as usual. Sören tried to pay attention but his mind kept going elsewhere, to the unfinished painting on his easel. When it was over, Sören took a deep breath and blurted out, "What we did the other night... you make music, I paint... can we do that again?"
Mark's eyes lit up. "I've been waiting for you to ask that."
Sören laughed. "Awwww, Mark, you could have asked me..."
"I didn't want to... intrude. I know your art can be a personal, intimate thing for you, like music is for me."
Their eyes met. "Well, you're not intruding. We worked... really well together. I'd like to see if we can capture that same magic, tonight."
As Sören brought his easel down to the living room, he noticed Mark setting up what looked like audio recording equipment. He raised an eyebrow.
"If you don't mind," Mark explained, "I'm getting the itch to work on some original stuff and it's better if I improvise... the recording is so when I play it back later and listen I can write it down."
"No, I don't mind."
"This isn't a professional studio," Mark said, cringing a little, "but it'll do for what I need to do."
Sören wheeled down his cart of paints, brushes, and cleaner. They settled in, and Mark started with warmup exercises on his harp.
Just the warmup exercises, which weren't properly songs, got Sören into the zone, back to the vision of the bridge across worlds. He resumed work on the water under the bridge, sparkling under the sky, tinted differently in different realms.
He knew when Mark was beginning the real work because he could feel it. He could almost smell petrichor in the room as he drew the sky opening with a storm over the center of the bridge with its traffic and tourists - the part that was the realm of humans, where it all came together. Lightning flashed under Sören's brush, and he could feel the thunder in the harp, the quiet intensity of Mark exploding to life, playing the storm.
The storm quieted, and Sören cleaned his brush and worked on the soft dawn over the city of gold and marble, large dragon-like birds sailing in the sky, a single ship sailing out into the sparkling water. Mark's harp was peaceful, then almost playful... the calm after the storm, the sun shining through, yet the undercurrent that something was yet to come. Sören spent time getting the sail just right, the statues in the city that looked magnificent yet also vaguely unnerving, like something wasn't quite right.
In another realm the sky was blue and wide, forests leading to what looked like a great temple or mansion. The feeling of sailing in that sky, so small against the greatness of the open sky and the stretch of tall, ancient forest, and yet at home. Sören's finishing touch in this realm was flying gliders, something that looked like a balloon but wasn't quite on its way to a cloud. More color added to the trees.
Sunset, ruins, ashes with some embers and small fires going. A shrouded figure that Sören couldn't tell was male or female, alone, lost in grief. It made the bustle on top of the bridge even more dramatic - a sense that the wanderer would end up there, somehow, because there was nothing left. Mark's harp played the descent, the cataclysm, world going up in flames, then quietly fading, smoking out, ashes blown on the wind. Sören's brush filled in the last little details there, every ember, every stone, every crumbling remnant of what had once been.
The bridge again, Mark's harp climbing up, up, up. Two people, one male, one female, building a shelter from the storm, a little fire... eyes bright with an unearthly glow as if they could see the reality everyone else could not, that there were several worlds superimposed on this one. As if they could see the realm of ruins in particular and were beckoning to the wanderer...
Hopeful notes, tinged with sadness. Lingering, waiting.
Sören put down his brush and took some deep breaths. The painting was finished now. Mark's song was finished. He looked at the time. That song had been going on for hours, like a jam band at a concert. Perhaps it was several songs, but it all seemed to fit together. Sören had squeezed every last detail he could out of the painting, which was elaborate even by his standards, often messing with something long after others would consider it done to get it just right, things most people wouldn't notice but he did.
Mark turned off the recording equipment. He got them water and then he looked at the easel.
"Hells, Sören."
"What?" Sören's face fell. "You don't like it?"
"No. That's..." Mark made a little noise. "I do like it. It's just..." He pressed a hand to his heart, then his stomach. "Like a punch." He looked away. "I don't expect you to understand," he mumbled.
"Well, I know it's probably, like, symbolic. I don't fully understand all of this myself, it just... felt like... I don't know." Sören made a face.
"Symbolic is one way of putting it. It's like you saw into my head. My life." Mark put a hand on Sören's shoulder. "An internal landscape, of sorts. It's a little unsettling." He studied the painting some more. "You have an amazing eye for detail." He pointed to the ship. "The sail on that alone."
"Takk." Sören got up and stretched. He was feeling awkward again. He was also feeling a thrum of excess energy that needed to go somewhere. "You want to go to Denny's?"
Mark laughed. "I wouldn't go there of my own volition -"
"All right, let me rephrase that... I want to go to Denny's. Come with me?"
_
The juggalos were at Denny's again, a couple stoner hippies were at another table reeking of marijuana all the way across the restaurant, and there was a paranoid-looking man eating by himself. Mark and Sören got the same table they had last time, and the same Grand Slam they had last time.
"The food here really isn't great," Mark said.
"Nobody goes to Denny's expecting a fine dining experience, Mark. People go to Denny's at this hour because it's open... and they're awake at this hour for some ungodly reason."
"I still can't believe that painting. If I hadn't had the after music buzz I'd still be awake just..." Mark shook his head.
"Your music was something else, too. I never knew purely instrumental music could be so expressive. It was like... words without words."
Their eyes met, and then Sören sipped his drink, feeling awkward again.
"Well, congratulations, because you got to see me improv. It's been awhile since I really let loose like that." Mark glanced at him again.
"We really..." Sören fit his hands together. "Mesh. We make a good team. There's been a magic there those two times we've worked together. I'd like to do that again."
"Absolutely." Mark nodded.
"Fire feeds fire, I guess."
Mark looked away. Sören felt a strange ache, and the mental images came flooding back of his fantasy earlier. He shoved them away as quickly as possible. I barely know this guy.
Which was part of the problem right there. "Mark, you said it's like I saw inside your head, saw something symbolic about your life, but, like... I know pretty much nothing about you."
"There's not much to know."
"Oh no. I doubt that very much, not someone who can play and compose like you do." Sören gave him a stern look. "I get it that us folks with PTSD, we sometimes don't want to talk about things because we think we're gonna be a downer, or people will hit us with platitudes, or both, but really..." Sören leaned back in his seat. "You know more about me than I do about you. I'd like to change that."
"Well, OK. Ask me stuff." Mark looked uncomfortable.
"What's your family like? Fucked up?"
Mark shook his head. "No."
"Really. Almost everyone else I know with PTSD, they've got some childhood horror story..."
"Really. My parents were great. I worshiped my father. He tried not to play favorites, but... I was his favorite. He was very supportive of my music, very... encouraging. He was an artist, so he had a lot of strong feelings about creativity and its place in the world. Both my parents were artists - my mom was a sculptor - but my father was driven, obsessive about his craft."
"Wow. So you had kind of a bohemian upbringing?"
"I dislike calling it that, but I suppose."
Sören did the math. "1970s seemed to be the right time for that. I sometimes think I'd be better adjusted if I lived in the 70s..."
"From everything I've heard it was a pretty wild time, yes." Mark looked off to the side again.
"From everything you've heard... Were your parents swingers, or something?"
"Um, yes. That... they didn't call it that, but... yes." Mark shifted in his seat. "They had an open relationship."
"Interesting. You have any siblings?"
"I'm the second of seven children. All boys." A pause. "All dead."
Sören put down his drink. "Jesus Fucking Christ, Mark, I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too."
"The fuck..." Sören took a few deep breaths. "How are they all dead? Was there an accident?" Then he looked at Mark's scarred hand, remembered him saying it was a war wound. "Oh Jesus, were they in the service too? Was it war? The Gulf War?"
"We'll go with war. I don't want to get into detail. Though my older brother killed himself because of his own PTSD with the conflict."
"God."
"Now you see why I don't talk about my life. Not exactly a fun conversation when people are talking about their families. I could lie, but that would just feel worse, like I'm disrespecting their memory somehow." Mark gestured across the table. "Anything else you want to ask me, strike while the iron is hot and the wounds are already bleeding."
Sören thought for a moment. "You ever been married?"
"Once. Briefly."
"That didn't work out, I take it."
"No, not at all." Mark cringed.
"Any kids?"
"A son. He's an adult now." Mark sighed and looked out the window. "For a long time, I didn't even know I had a son, which tells you something about how bad things were. I don't know where he is now. I kind of hate myself for it."
There was a long, awkward silence. Their food came and Mark just picked at his. Finally Mark broke the silence and said, "You must hate me now, thinking I'm a deadbeat dad..."
"I'm thinking you probably had a shitload of issues contributing to why you weren't there. It's easy for people to point fingers if they see one side of the story. I'm not making excuses or saying you did nothing wrong, just saying that I at least understand that your life was probably a hot mess for awhile. My own life has been... well..." Sören bit his toast. "I've had my ups and downs. Literally, with bipolar, but. Yeah."
"Yeah."
"You don't try to find him now, though?"
"It's easier for an adult to slip under the radar and elude being found, than it is for a child." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "For all I know he's dead."
"Well, shit." Sören didn't know what to say.
There was more silence. As they waited for the check, Mark said, "At least with my teaching job, I feel like I'm doing something right, helping the next generation. It's probably compensating for my failure as a parent, with these kids - my other kids -"
"I think of my students as my kids too. And I think I know what you mean. Teaching gives me a sense of purpose."
"My father taught me so much... he really, really tried to instill values and a sense of depth in how I see the world, and it was precisely in trying to fulfill that commitment to freedom and justice that I feel like I completely fucked up, and not just my own life. This is me redeeming myself, I guess. Not just to myself, but to his memory."
Sören reached across the table and put his hand on Mark's scarred hand. "I think your father would be proud of you now, wherever he is."
_
They drove back as the dark of night was fading into twilight. When they got out of the car, the first light of day was upon them. "I feel like going for a walk," Mark said. "You want to walk with me?"
Sören nodded.
They went out back, out to the beach, and walked along the shore together as dawn rose over the water and there was a fine mist of fog in the air. They didn't speak, only listened to the sea, the birds waking up. Mark's hair stirred in the breeze, and he looked out at the distant waves like he was waiting for something, but nothing was there. Sören wanted to hug him, but he stopped himself, not knowing if it would be welcome.
And yet, as the gold and pink burned in the blue, Sören continued to ache for him. And suddenly, their hands reached out, and held. Sören wasn't sure which one of them had initiated the contact, or if it had perhaps been both of them acting on the same impulse at the same time. But there they were, watching the ocean, holding hands for a few moments, an act of solidarity, that as different as they were there was also an understanding of the kind of pain they both lived in... and the drive that kept them going.
"Kindred spirits," Sören heard himself say out loud.
Mark squeezed his hand before letting go.
They walked back up to the house. "I'm gonna hit the hay," Mark said.
Sören had to. "Hi Gonna Hit the Hay -"
Mark gave him a little swat. "Take your night meds."
"Night, ha ha. It's morning now, but..."
"Your before-bed dose." Mark looked at the clock. "Laundry day today when we get up."
"Exciting."
Mark snorted. "I could bring music to the laundromat. You haven't lived till you've done laundry to Black Sabbath."
Sören laughed. "Why stop there? Viking metal... raid other people's laundry..."
"Hells, Sören."
"It's not a serious suggestion."
"I hope not."
"Hair metal on the other hand... 'hmm, what's this white powder?' 'It's detergent, man.'"
Mark laughed and shook his head. "Go to bed, Sören. Take your meds, go to bed."
Sören blew a raspberry. "Party pooper." Before he headed off, he said, "So if we have to be responsible adults later, maybe we can do something fun Monday? Jæja, I know you 'don't do fun'... but seriously, let's do something fun."
"Well... you have any suggestions?"
"I've never been to this part of the country, but you said you have, so if you have ideas..."
Mark thought for a couple minutes, then he said, "How do you feel about a hike through Muir Woods on Monday?"
"Oh what is that..."
"Redwood forest."
Sören gasped and nodded vehemently. He clapped like an excited big kid, then felt self-conscious about it; Mark laughed softly and patted his shoulder.
"Good night, Sören." Mark lingered before ducking into his room. "Thank you again."
Their eyes met, and held, and then Mark was in his room and Sören took his meds alone in the kitchen.