December 2016
"It belongs in a museum."
Sören pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Here we fucking go again. Sören gently but firmly closed the genuine Fabergé egg, careful not to slam it.
It was not the egg Nicholas was talking about - the Fabergé egg had been a gift from Anthony's late grandmother Anthea, which Sören kept on a shelf in the bedroom - but what was inside it. Sören had taken Anthony on a trip to Iceland back in February, and as the trip was winding to a close they visited Reynisfjara and Sören found a white stone on the beach. Not any white stone, but more brilliant than a diamond - glowing like a lamp. It would have been remarkable on its own, but it was a stone Sören had dreamed of - more particularly, he'd dreamed of creating it, one of a set of three - and finding it in reality was disturbing, as it implied Sören's other dreams were not simply dreams. But disturbing or not, the stone felt like his. Sören hadn't told Nicholas about the dream, knowing how completely daft it sounded, but he felt that even without the dream legitimizing a claim, he still found it, and therefore it belonged to him.
Nicholas, being a Classics professor, felt otherwise, and at least once every couple of weeks since Sören came back with the stone - putting it in the egg for safekeeping - Nicholas had gotten on his case to turn the stone in to a museum. Sören had finally, last month, asked him to stop nagging him, and for the last few weeks Nicholas had let it go and Sören thought that was the end of it and Nicholas was done pushing about it.
But now... it was two days before Christmas, and five days before Nicholas's sixty-eighth birthday, and Sören really didn't want tension with his nesting partner.
He knew that all couples had conflicts from time to time, and he and Nicholas had been very lucky thus far to make it almost two years without any major trouble, more remarkable considering their differences. Nicholas wasn't just Sören's senior by thirty-six years, but Nicholas came from money and Sören came from poverty, Nicholas had refined tastes and Sören's tastes outside of art were more basic, Nicholas was reserved and serious - though he could be quite warm privately, and sometimes even playful - and Sören was a jokester and could be hot-tempered. Sören was also polyamorous - Nicholas was his primary partner but not his only partner - and Sören had an extensive sexual history, while Sören had been Nicholas's only partner, period. They certainly had enough common ground to keep a relationship going, both intellectuals, and their personality differences balanced each other out - Sören helped Nicholas lighten up, and Nicholas was the strong father figure Sören needed, not just his lover. And Nicholas wasn't just physically active, but he had a strong libido and Sören had no complaints about their sex life.
Something like this, though, seemed to magnify their differences, the ways they were worlds apart, and Sören feared that the tension was going to unravel the relationship altogether. It wasn't an unfounded fear - Sören's partner Anthony had been an ex-partner for some time; when Sören and Anthony had lived together in Kingston, it had been the little things that eventually piled up and caused the breakdown of their relationship. Even though Sören and Anthony had finally gotten back together back in February, Sören didn't want to go through that with Nicholas. One bad breakup was enough.
Sören turned around to see Nicholas standing in the bedroom doorway. Sören tried to keep his body language neutral and his tone calm, though he was very annoyed - not just with Nicholas's insistence that his stone belonged in a museum, but with Nicholas bringing it up again after he was asked not to. "Could we not?" Sören asked.
Nicholas scowled. Sören usually found Nicholas's grumpy face endearing and sexy, but now it just intensified the tension in the room. "I don't like sounding like a broken record, but I am very uncomfortable with that stone in our flat. It belongs to science, and historical research -"
"It belongs to me. I found it." Sören shrugged. "A museum can have it after I die."
Nicholas facepalmed. He turned away, but then he looked over his shoulder, glaring at Sören. Sören glared back. "You don't know what that stone is made of. The way it shines suggests it produces a lot of energy... perhaps scientists could study it and create green energy or other important technological advances. As you know, climate change is affecting your own home country of Iceland -"
"No shit, Sherlock, I think I know about how the glaciers are melting back home." Sören realized then that he'd called Iceland "back home" - he had UK citizenship now, had come here in 2010 to work for the NHS, and still did even though he no longer needed them to sponsor a visa. Those two words spoke volumes, hinting that maybe Sören wasn't feeling at home when Nicholas was being like this.
"I don't understand why you want to keep it. It seems selfish -"
Sören's nostrils flared, and his fists clenched though he was trying to remain outwardly calm. He couldn't believe Nicholas had just called him selfish. "If you're going to go there, then I don't understand why you want to keep all of the thousands of books you own, you could sell them and donate the money to charity and help starving children. I don't understand why you want to keep all of the antiques you own, you could sell them - some of them are probably pretty fucking valuable - and you could donate the money to cancer research, or something. You know what I'm saying? I'll be the first to criticize rich people for excess - look at all the fucking doctors in the United States who want three homes and a yacht while people die without medical treatment because it's not free over there - but goddamn it, I found this during a personally meaningful trip, it has sentimental value, it's pretty... Let me have nice things, for fuck's sake."
Nicholas sighed. "It's getting late. I'm tired. I shan't argue with you about it anymore tonight. Let's... just get ready to go to bed."
Sören grasped at sorely needed levity. "Hi Tired I Shan't Argue With You About It Anymore Tonight -"
"Sören." But Nicholas's lips quirked, and when he shook his head he had a fond little smile.
They did their nightly tai chi routine, changed into pajamas, brushed their teeth, and climbed into bed together. Sören was still tense and, he knew, quite a bit angry, but when Tobias hopped on the bed for pettings and Nicholas doted on the cat, Sören's heart melted a little and he found himself rolling towards Nicholas. Nicholas pulled him close and for a few minutes they just snuggled together, petting the cat, in silence except for Tobias's deep, rumbly purr. Sören relaxed a bit against the shield wall of Nicholas's body, and couldn't help rubbing his nose in the exposed silver chest hair. Nicholas kept one hand on the cat, continuing to stroke Tobias, and with his other hand he gently rubbed Sören's head.
"I love you, you know," Nicholas said softly.
Sören looked up. Nicholas kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you too," Sören said. "I wish you would stop nagging me about the stone."
"I feel it is my duty as an historian to... well, preserve history."
"That's all fine and good... but what about your duty as my partner?" Sören frowned. "What about my happiness and well-being?"
Nicholas frowned too, but then he kissed Sören's brow and tousled Sören's curls. "I'm sorry," Nicholas said. "I don't want to fight with you."
Sören skritched Nicholas's beard. "Please, just let it go. OK? I don't like fighting with you either."
Nicholas hugged him tight. Sören's tension continued to drain away as Nicholas rubbed his head, rubbed his back, and Tobias kneaded them, purring even louder. Sören closed his eyes and hoped that was the end of it; when he and Nicholas cuddled like this, Sören could believe everything would be OK, somehow. Exhausted, he drifted off to sleep.
He is twelve again, living with his aunt Katrín and his uncle Einar. He is a sad, brooding, withdrawn boy - he gets bullied in school as the runty, asthmatic nerd who's no good at sports, the sensitive one who cries and gets picked on even more. When he comes home he gets bullied by his aunt and uncle, especially if they're drunk.
He escapes through art. He loves to draw. He wants to be able to paint, but there is never any money for art supplies. Einar is frequently between jobs, getting fired for coming into work drunk or hungover and starting incidents with other employees or his bosses. Einar and Katrín spend a lot of their money on alcohol, and going on holiday together to make up after one of their blowouts, leaving the kids alone to fend for themselves. They don't go on holiday enough for Sören's liking, wishing they would just disappear for good.
He takes different routes home from school to evade the packs of boys who like to chase him and beat him up. One day he is walking home and finds some used furniture - worn, shabby-looking but still serviceable - on the roadside in front of a house, and a few cardboard boxes. Most of what's in the boxes doesn't interest him, books he's already read or that don't look interesting, old records and even some 8-tracks and cassette tapes... but one of the boxes that says Ókeypis is like finding the holy grail. There are unused canvases and blank sketchbooks, including a blank book of watercolor paper. A box of colored pencils. A box of oil pastels, some of which are worn down to nubs but still have life in them. Boxes of used watercolors and oil paints that were lightly used. Sören lets out a happy squeak, picks up the box, and carries it home.
Einar and Katrín go on another one of their benders and for days they don't notice; Sören is also careful to hide the box in his closet when not in use. But then one afternoon he's painting with the watercolors and Katrín is home much earlier than expected. Sören jumps when he sees her standing in the doorway.
"What is that?" Katrín asks in a flat tone of voice.
"I... ah."
"Where did you get that? You don't have any money to buy something like that."
"Well, no." Sören doesn't want to answer; he knows any and every answer is the wrong answer.
"Answer me. Did you steal it?"
"No." Sören is aghast. "I found a box on the sidewalk, it said 'Free'..."
"Oh, did it? So you just took it, like some trash-picking beggar?"
Sören finds this bitterly ironic, considering he wears neighbors' kids' castoffs, neighbors who know what Katrín and Einar are like but don't want to get involved. Even though he knows what's going to happen, he can't stop himself from answering back. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe if you didn't drink so much there would be money for things and we wouldn't have to live like this?"
"I've had enough of your smart mouth, boy." Katrín marches over and backhands Sören. His hand instinctively goes to his stinging cheek. His heart pounds, and he freezes, not able to run away. His eyes start to fill with tears and his fists clench - he does not want to give her the satisfaction of making her cry. She is determined, and reaches out to slap him again. He ducks. She grabs him by the hair and the dodge brings out the fury in her. She hits him again and again, shoves him onto the floor and kicks him. She takes the paint set from the desk, throws it on the floor, and wet paint splatters everywhere. She pours the cup of water over Sören's face. "Now you clean this mess up, and you put your garbage in the trash where it belongs." She storms out, muttering "Wait until your uncle gets home."
Sören lays there on the floor for a few minutes, dazed, his mind going somewhere else. He comes back to himself when he hears his aunt slamming things around in the kitchen. He quickly gets up and starts cleaning up the paint set and the spilled water... and crying. Feeling his dreams die.
He expects Einar to beat him when Einar gets home, something Einar has done hundreds of times by now, enough where Sören frequently has welts under his clothes, has scars on his back. But Einar does something even worse this time.
"I hear you went picking in the trash," Einar says.
Sören doesn't answer. He can't answer, too afraid to speak.
Einar looks him up and down with utter contempt. "Jæja. Well, if you like trash so much, tonight you can be trash."
It is February and bitter cold. Sören is forced to sit outside all night in a dumpster in the city, shivering, covering himself with filthy, smelly garbage to try and stay warm. For weeks he can't get the smell out of his outerwear, even after washing it several times. For months he has a panic attack every time he sees a dumpster.
He does not paint again for years.
Sören woke up crying, and Nicholas was right there, petting him, rocking him. "Shhhh, sweetheart. It's OK. It's all right." Nicholas stroked Sören's face, his own eyes too bright, full of concern. "You had a bad dream, love. You're here with me."
"Oh god." Sören sobbed. "It was a flashback."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Sören pursed his lips, realizing that he didn't feel like discussing it, not wanting to fight again about how the bad feelings of being asked to give up the stone were connected to the bad feelings of this trauma... and that spoke volumes.
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