Gilgul is the concept of reincarnation or "transmigration of souls" in Jewish mysticism, which is a major recurring theme in my multiverse.
There was rain and sleet the following Saturday, but thankfully they didn't have far to go for services at the synagogue. It did however put a damper on their plans to have another picnic, this time at the park - so instead they went back to Anthony's house.
Anthony lived on the opposite end of town from Sören, and in a much smaller house than Yeyette and Victor - Anthony's house could more properly be called a cottage, not quite a tiny house, but bordering on one. It was a cute small house with a sea green exterior, white gabled roof and white porch, a garden on the front lawn that was sleeping for the winter though the bird fountain was still going, and birdhouses with a bird feeder hanging from the porch, as well as a porch swing.
Anthony's homeowners' association required everyone to decorate for the holidays, so Anthony had put up blue-and-white lights, and on the front door hung a Magen David wreath with blue and silver balls and ribbons tucked into the greenery. "And I threatened to call a lawyer if they gave me a hard time about it," Anthony explained on their way in.
"I can't believe they would even require you to have a fucking wreath in the first place," Sören grumbled. "Our association doesn't care, they just don't want people to have really obnoxious decorations, like the house across town with the Santa that yells HO-HO-HO and plays music at all hours."
"See, my association doesn't care that I have a bunch of bird stuff, but they care if nobody has decorations, they interpret that as being 'hostile'. As opposed to, you know, forced assimilation being hostile. I imagine if I had Muslim neighbors or someone of another faith we could band together and try to get the HOA to change their bullshit rule but right now I'm the only religious minority in the neighborhood." Anthony sighed. "I just consider myself grateful that nobody has bricked my window the years I've had a Chanukiah on display, even when I was secular. I came all the way from London to get away from that shit."
Sören gave him a hug. "Your bravery inspires me, elskan. I've been wearing a kippah in public again."
Anthony hugged him back, then booped his nose. "I'm proud of you."
Sören got choked up but tried to lighten the moment. "Hi Proud Of You, I'm Sören."
"You know, I'm older and should be the one telling dad jokes."
"Hi Older And Should Be The One Telling Dad Jokes, I'm -"
Anthony playfully swatted Sören's ass, making Sören squeak - and his cunt throbbed in response. Even though he'd been beaten by his aunt and uncle, he fantasized about getting spanked by a lover. Especially an older, father-figure lover. Rather than re-enacting abuse it felt like taking back control. Of course, Sören felt it was too soon to discuss that with Anthony, but he couldn't help but wonder if he could brat his way into Anthony spanking him one of these days.
As soon as they stepped inside from the foyer, Shmuel and Solly began to hover, tails in the air, meowing. "Oh yes, you poor cats are starving," Anthony said with an eyeroll, and turned to Sören to say, "I fed them before I left so it's not been that long."
Shmuel yowled harder as if to disagree.
Anthony conceded by putting out some kibble for the cats - they still had wet food from this morning, which appeared to be only halfway eaten - and after they took off their outerwear and shoes, Anthony put on tea. As Anthony puttered around in the kitchen, Sören sat on the couch and looked at the fireplace, various family photos and heirlooms on the mantle, and a framed painting of Starry Night by Van Gogh - Sören's own favorite piece of art - hanging above.
Anthony's living room was done in earth tones with dashes of cream, grey and muted blue, which was tasteful without being bland and felt very restful. The living room had two main sections. Sören was in the part with a couch, a love seat and an armchair in brown leather and crocheted throws in chevrons of brown/cream/steel blue, the hardwood floor had matching blue-and-brown rugs, there was a large flat-screen TV and two wooden shelves of DVDs in plain sight, and a glass-topped wood-legged coffee table between the seats. On the other side of the living room was a stereo system including a record player and large vinyl collection, hardwood shelves filled with old books, a handsome antique desk, and an electric keyboard on a stand that Sören hadn't noticed before. Between the two areas was a bay window with a cozy nook of large plush-looking pillows, and assorted cat furniture and cat toys - the window overlooked Anthony's tiny yard, with a tall grey fence and in the enclosure were potted plants and dwarf trees and another, smaller birdbath. Here and there, the wood-panelled walls of the living room were hung with framed Impressionist and pre-Raphaelite art.
The living room was tidy but felt lived in, like an actual home. Sören had lived in a duplex in Boston before escaping to Yeyette's basement after the hate crime, and most of his stuff was still in storage - he had been sitting with the fact that he would probably need to sell or donate almost all of it in the coming year, and that made him a bit sad. But Sören mused now that even when he'd had his own place in Boston, it didn't feel as homey as Anthony's place did now, with a welcoming vibe.
Anthony came back with a bone china tea service and piping hot tea. He sat next to Sören, fixed a cup of tea for Sören then for himself, and after a minute he turned on the stereo, putting on a jazz playlist. "I like your tea set," Sören said, leaning in to get a good look.
"It was my gran's, and managed to survive being shipped overseas. I only use it for special occasions so it doesn't get broken."
Sören's cheeks flushed. He bit his lower lip. "So this is a special occasion?"
"You're very special." Anthony smiled, his eyes soft.
Sören leaned on him, and Anthony put an arm around him. Sören savored the moment of hot Earl Grey tea and the very hot man sitting next to him, the warmth of their affection, the smooth jazz and pouring rain.
"This is nice," Anthony said.
Sören turned his head to kiss Anthony's cheek. "I could get used to this."
"Me too."
"I like spending time with you... and it feels cozy here, I really like your decor." Sören snorted. "Listen to me, I sound like a stereotype again."
"Slay, queen."
Sören almost spilled his tea. When he stopped laughing, he gestured at the framed Starry Night above the fireplace. "That's my favorite work of art."
"Mine too." Then Anthony gave Sören a pointed look. "Though I might end up with a new favorite. Did you bring your portfolio?"
Sören nodded. "I did, but I'm no Van Gogh."
Anthony grinned - Sören loved the way it lit up his face. "Hi No Van Gogh, I'm Anthony."
Sören tweaked Anthony's nose, finished his tea, then got up to where his messenger bag was hanging on the coatrack in the foyer, took out his portfolio and brought it into the living room.
They spent the next while looking through the 3-ring binder full of laminated prints of Sören's art over the years. At first Sören was nervous about showing his art - he always was, but especially now when he didn't want it to be a turnoff if Anthony didn't like it - and to his relief and delight Anthony took time to study each piece and gave a thoughtful compliment for each one. And when they had gotten through all of the prints, Anthony went back and revisited them from the beginning. "It's hard for me to pick a favorite," Anthony said, "but I think I like this one..."
Anthony pointed to a seascape with basalt rock formations rising from the frosty waves into a wild sunset-aurora sky.
"And this." He rifled through to the one at the end, two phoenix birds - one made of fire, one made of water, and they against a backdrop of space, appearing to rise out of nebulas.
"The first one you picked out was me feeling homesick for Iceland - trying to combine something like the basalt stacks of Reynisfjara with the intense sunsets and vibrant auroras I'm used to, and I ended up making something more like an alien world, but I suppose it's a world that lives here." Sören tapped his forehead, then rested his hand on his heart. "As for the other one..." He took a deep breath, feeling that self-consciousness surge back. "That was my first painting."
"For your first ever painting that makes it even more bloody amazing."
"It's also my most personal piece, the only one of my paintings I won't sell for any price."
"Oh?" Anthony turned to look at him. "Sounds like there's a story behind it."
"Jæja." Sören reminded himself that Anthony had already heard most of his personal tragedy and probably wouldn't run off screaming, but he still felt like he was potentially going to scare him away anyway. He looked into Anthony's green eyes, warm and understanding, and he said, "So, when I said I got help to transition, I mean that I ended up in the hospital after a suicide attempt and had to explain why when I woke up. I was inpatient for a bit, and they helped me to stop hating myself for feeling like I was a boy on the inside and like I was trapped in the wrong body, that I could transform my body to look more how I wanted it to, how I perceived myself. We had art therapy, and I made that to remind myself there was hope and I could rise from the ashes of my trauma."
"But there's water, it's not traditional phoenix symbolism. That isn't a criticism -"
"There's more to it, yeah. I started having recurring nightmares when I was four, about fire and burning to death. Nothing I'd seen on TV, no neighbors had a fire, just... completely random. When I got older the dreams had more detail - I was ambushed by a pack of fire demons who had flaming whips, and I was mortally wounded, fire and blood. It seems kind of obvious in hindsight, my dysphoria, the abuse at home, the bullying, but it always felt so real, like something that happened. The water was a way of tempering the fire, like a magical act."
Anthony nodded. "That makes sense. And wow, those dreams sound intense."
"A few of them were even worse than that, there's a backstory - I was running away from my people because I was angry at our gods and called them useless, I led a group of followers, we ended up wrongfully killing people from another place on the way out, then we wandered through a frozen, barren landscape and just when I thought we'd come to the new land, was when I got ambushed. I started having THOSE dreams just before I met Karen, before I left Iceland, and I couldn't help but think later on that it meant something, somehow, whether it was just symbolic of the anger I felt towards the religious abuse from my aunt or if it was equal parts gilgul and brain shit, or if G-d was sending me a message, or maybe all of the above... because my conversion to Judaism feels like that dream in reverse - making my peace with G-d, joining a people who've been exiles and experienced genocide and standing with them, coming home." Sören had chills speaking the words aloud, breaking out in gooseflesh under his sweater. "I've never told anyone all of that before - other friends know the surface reason why I converted, Karen's example and vibing with Jewish traditions and values, and some friends know about the fire nightmares, but never all of it, all at once."
"That's powerful," Anthony said. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me."
"You don't think I'm crazy?" Sören swallowed hard.
"No." Anthony held out his arms, his eyes too bright. "C'mere."
Anthony hugged Sören tight, and Sören cried on his shoulder, feeling like Anthony had put salve on an old soul-deep wound with his tenderness and acceptance. Anthony cried a little too, squeezing and rocking him. "I'm glad you're still here," he said softly. Then he took Sören's chin in his hand to pick his face up, their eyes locked as he stroked Sören's face and played with a strand of curly hair. "I know you said you won't sell the painting, but would it be possible for you to make another print of it, so I can -"
Sören hugged him harder, sobbing and nodding. When he calmed down, he said, "Although... you might get sick of seeing it so much."
"I doubt it. Besides, it's not like I spend every waking moment at home in the living room -"
"No, what I mean is..." And now came the other part - Sören was less anxious about this, since they were Reform, but he'd gotten a few remarks in the summertime at pan-Jewish events. "Before I converted, I turned the painting into a tattoo. I was going to tell you I have ink and piercings before we..."
"Oh!" Then Anthony chuckled. "Well, I'm not the Halacha Police."
Sören snickered, and then he couldn't resist flirting. "Too bad, handcuffs might be fun."
Anthony threw his head back, laughing harder. "Wow." Anthony cleared his throat and looked off to the side, cheeks flushed slightly pink. "Yes, they might be indeed."
Sören smirked, satisfied Anthony wasn't offended - and felt a frisson of desire that Anthony might have the same kinks he did.
Anthony quickly got back to the subject, though he looked flustered and his voice was a little breathier. "But seriously, I eat treif once in awhile, I'm not going to judge you." Anthony bit his lip. "Can I see?"
Sören took off his kippah, turned around and pulled off his black sweater vest and blue turtleneck, giving Anthony a view of his back, where the phoenixes did a mating dance. Then he faced front, showing the full sleeve tattoos on his arms - flames on the right, ocean waves on the left - as well as his faded-but-noticeable top surgery scars and the captive bead rings in his nipples.
Anthony stared at him open-mouthed for a minute, then he turned beetroot, eyes crinkling as his face lit up again. "I know I just said I'm not the Halacha Police, but I think we broke the commandment of no fire on Shabbos because damn, it got hot in here."
Sören cracked up laughing - overjoyed that Anthony liked what he saw, but also finding Anthony's cheesy pickup line ridiculous and yet the silliness made him even more attractive. And then Sören couldn't help taking the window of opportunity given him. "Hi Not The Halacha Police But I Think We Broke The Commandment Of -"
"OY."
When they calmed down, Sören put his turtleneck and vest back on, but let the kippah rest on the coffee table. "So now it's your turn."
"To take off my shirt?"
Sören laughed again. "I won't say no but what I meant was you said you would play piano for me if I showed you my art."
"Oh right. Sorry, I'm... distracted." Anthony smirked.
"Hi Distracted I'm -"
Anthony stuck a wet finger in Sören's ear, making him squeak, then Anthony gave him noogies before getting up and gesturing for Sören to follow. Sören sat at the desk while Anthony sat on a stool at the electric keyboard.
Anthony warmed up with scales, then he played Debussy's "Clair de Lune", simple but lovely. Then he played Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", which gave Sören chills and made him tear up, feeling the melancholy longing - Anthony's heartbreak and hope. Anthony seemed emotionally affected by it too, at the end, and paused before he switched to something lighter, playing "That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John.
Sören gave him a hug when it was done. "You're good," he said sincerely.
"You're better," Anthony said, touching his face, "but I still tried to share a little of my soul with you."
"It's beautiful." Sören took his hands and kissed them. "Thank you for sharing yourself with me, this way."
They held each other for a few minutes, then Anthony said, "You want some cholent? I've had it going in the slow cooker. I've got challah, too."
"Takk."
Anthony served them and they sat on the couch again, fending off begging cats. Sören was reminded of Karen's cooking, though Anthony's cholent and challah didn't taste exactly the same as hers. But it was still delicious and the same warm, caring energy was there, nourishing and comforting on a bitter cold day like today. "This is so good," Sören said through a mouthful of his second bowl of cholent.
"It's my mum's recipe." Anthony sighed, looking at one of the photos of his mother on the mantle.
Sören put a hand on his arm, wishing he knew what to say - knowing how much Anthony must miss her - and feeling like anything he could say would be trite. But his touch spoke for him, and now it was Anthony's turn to lean on him.
After they were done eating, Anthony got up to visit the bathroom and Sören used a feather toy to play with Shmuel. When Anthony came back, he had a concerned expression on his face, enough so that Shmuel made a chirp that sounded like a question. "What is it? Are you OK?" Sören asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine." Anthony turned and looked out the window, where the cadence of the rain had changed. "But it's changing from sleet to freezing rain outside."
"Oh shit." Sören grimaced. "That's dangerous to drive in, even for a short distance."
Anthony nodded. His eyes met Sören's. "If it was just you living by yourself, or if you think the people you live with won't catsit, I'd risk it so your cat isn't all alone overnight -"
"If this means you're inviting me to spend the night, I can text Yeyette - she won't mind watching Snúður for me." Sören felt a pang of guilt about being separated from his cat, knowing Snúður would be upset with him gone so long, but Yeyette and Victor spoiled their cats and Snúður too, who would be in good hands.
"I am," Anthony said. He cocked his head to one side and looked Sören up and down. "I'm a little taller than you but we're otherwise of a similar build and my pajamas would probably fit you, and I can wash the clothes you've got on now to wear when I bring you back tomorrow - the weather should let up by tomorrow afternoon and the plows will be out."
"OK." Sören nodded. "So I guess this is our first sleepover."
"I guess so." Anthony smiled, cheeks turning pink.
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