The very last thing Sören wanted to do after a fourteen-hour shift was go out with Anthony's friends, and yet here they were on a Friday night. Sören couldn't wait to get home, cuddle with Anthony and get to sleep. He was exhausted enough - and bored, listening to Anthony's friends prattle on about their latest toys and how much they spent on them - that it was a struggle to stay awake even with having coffee. Every time his heavy eyes closed, he made himself snap to attention, not wanting Steve to throw water in his face like he'd joked about months before. But even with the possibility that Steve might do that - and get into a fight with Anthony - Sören was finding it harder, fading a little more and a little more each time, his reflex to wake back up getting slower.
And then he heard a spoon bang on a glass - Anthony's - and he startled awake, giving a little gasp. Anthony gave him an apologetic smile-frown and reached to squeeze Sören's knee under the table.
"I have an announcement to make," Anthony said.
All eyes were suddenly on them. Sören had a feeling he knew what the announcement was and he felt like crawling under the table to hide. Oh god. Oh no.
"Sören is having some of his paintings on exhibit at a gallery in Bermondsey in two weeks, on Friday, March twenty-second." Anthony gave Sören a proud smile, kissed his cheek, and put an arm around him, tousling Sören's curls.
"Oh, nice," Jack said in a very bland, not-really-excited tone of voice. "Which gallery would that be?"
"Blue Moon," Anthony said. "The show is at eight PM."
Sören was really hoping that Anthony wasn't going to invite his friends, but then, he hadn't told Anthony that he couldn't - Sören thought about it, but he decided that would come off as rude and possibly cause problems. But now that it was done, Sören wished Anthony hadn't. He didn't like being around them, and he didn't want to potentially subject his art, something sacred to him, to their scrutiny.
And yet, Anthony was so proud, beaming at Sören, already excited for the show, so much like an eager puppydog that Sören couldn't be angry or upset with him for sharing the information. Anthony kissed his cheek again, eyes shining, happy for him. Sören managed a smile and patted Anthony's shoulder.
"My girlfriend and I can't make it, apologies," Lawrence said. "We're going to see a jazz concert."
"I won't be able to make it either," Steve said, and Sören heard himself breathe a small sigh of relief. "That's when I begin spring vacation, I'm going to the property my grandmother left me for two weeks."
Anthony looked disappointed, frowning slightly, his brow furrowed - meanwhile, Sören fought off a grin that Steve wasn't coming; of all of Anthony's friends he liked Steve the least. And then Trisha and Vincente looked at each other, and Trisha said to him, "Hm, darling, what do you think? Should I wear the little black Dior, or should I wear something bolder, like the red Dolce and Gabbana dress?"
Sören's jaw dropped. Blue Moon was an artsy, bohemian little gallery in Bermondsey, on a street of artisan shops and eateries - it was between a vegan restaurant and a boutique of handmade clothing designed by two aging punks. Trisha was acting like she was getting dressed up to go to Christie's.
"Well, you'd look lovely in anything," Vincente said, taking Trisha's hand and kissing it.
"Isn't... isn't that overdressing?" Sören raised an eyebrow.
"Oh heavens no, Sören, have you seen the art world? People put on their best to attend these things." Trisha giggled and sipped her champagne. Then she leaned forward. "So tell me, what are you planning on wearing?"
"Uh." Sören's face fell. "I hadn't thought about it, really." The show was two weeks out and Sören was still deciding what pieces he was going to display - he was sharing the show with two other artists and each of them got to display ten paintings, for thirty total. What to wear was of much less concern, since the focus was on his art, not him. Or so Sören thought.
Trisha tutted, sipping her champagne again, and Sören decided he needed to think fast. He stroked his beard and after a minute he said, "I suppose I can wear, like, the black ruffly pirate shirt and black leather pants I've worn on dates with Anthony. It's got an artsy flair."
Trisha giggled, facepalmed, and shook her head. Vincente chuckled and rolled his eyes. Then Vincente looked him in the eye and said, "Sören, you can't wear that. You need to look professional."
Sören narrowed his eyes. Blue Moon didn't give off a "professional" vibe, it gave off an artsy vibe. But then, Sören had never been to an art show before and he didn't know what to expect, and the gallery owner hadn't told him anything about expected dress code or the like, as if he assumed Sören already knew. "I take it you guys have been to art shows, then?"
Trisha nodded. "My sister Julia paints and makes pottery, she's had a fair few shows over the years. The shows that I've been to, people dress up."
"Suit and tie," Vincente said. "That's what you should wear to the show."
"Well." Sören glanced at Anthony. "I guess that means I'll be borrowing one of yours, then." He looked back at Trisha and Vincente. "I don't own a suit and tie."
Trisha's mouth made an "o" and Vincente's eyebrows went up. Vincente then gave Anthony a confused look.
"How is it you're dating someone who doesn't own a suit and tie?" Vincente asked.
Anthony looked a little offended now, glaring at them. "I like Sören the way he is," Anthony said. "I didn't get in a relationship with him to try to change him, try to 'tame' him or 'refine' him." Anthony grinned at Sören then and said, "He's my wild boy."
Sören grinned back, heart soaring, feeling giddy at Anthony's words. He was also relieved - sometimes he felt acutely self-conscious of coming from such a different background, feeling out of place in the world Anthony and his friends traveled with ease. Knowing Anthony didn't merely accept him as he was, but it was part of the attraction... Sören appreciated that, and now it was his turn to kiss Anthony on the cheek, making Anthony blush, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he bit his lower lip with a shy smile that Sören found incredibly adorable and sexy, wanting to drag Anthony off and ravish him.
"Well, that's all very fine and good," Trisha said, with an edge to her voice that made it clear it really wasn't, "but Sören, you should own at least one suit. You never know when you might have occasion to wear it, and really, your upcoming show is that sort of occasion."
"I don't mind borrowing one of Anthony's suits," Sören said.
"The two of you are of a similar build but Anthony's, what, a good five centimeters taller?" Vincente shook his head. "That makes a difference in how the suit fits, it might be only a subtle difference to you if you're not in the habit of wearing them but other people will notice, and you don't want someone judging your sense of aesthetics on the basis of a suit not fitting properly."
Sören thought that was ridiculous and his art should speak for itself, just like his taste in music had little to do with what the performers looked like, but before he could say as much, Trisha said, "Sören, let us take you shopping for a suit."
Before Sören could protest, Vincente said, "Yes! It would be fun to go shopping with you. A bonding experience, get to know Anthony's fiancé a bit better..."
Sören thought a root canal without anaesthesia would be more fun, but he didn't say so aloud. And there was Anthony, nodding. "That's nice of you," Anthony said. "It would be good if you could be friends, considering we go way back..."
"Absolutely," Trisha said. "We're a part of your life and we're not going anywhere, and with Sören being such a big part of your life, well... it's only right to try to include him more." She smiled at Sören, but it didn't meet her eyes - it seemed the sort of smile Trisha would give a client or opposing counsel, cold and distant. Sören didn't trust that smile.
"When's your next evening off, Sören?" Vincente asked.
"Monday," Sören said, trying to hide the weariness in his voice.
"Er," Anthony said. "Monday won't do. I told my dad I'd help with the garden -"
"You go help your dad," Trisha said. "We can take Sören out by himself. Like I said, it'll be a chance to bond. He'll be in good hands with us." Trisha gave that cool, aloof smile again.
Sören felt a prickle of apprehension, desperately wanting to say no. He'd been looking forward to a quiet Monday evening at Elaine and Roger's, especially when after that he'd be working the next six days before he got another break. Going out with Trisha and Vincente and being social would be draining even if he liked them. And he did not. He not only merely did not like them, but he had a bad feeling about this whole thing. He didn't understand why, and he thought maybe he was being unfair. I should give them a chance and not judge a book by its cover. After all, Anthony turned out to be wonderful.
But that was Anthony. He doubted very much Trisha and Vincente were down-to-earth behind closed doors the way Anthony was.
Sören looked at Anthony and Anthony just nodded, patting Sören. "Go make friends," Anthony said.
Fuck.
In the car on the way back, Sören was completely silent. Some of it was just being exhausted from a long shift and then dragged out to socialize when he would have rather stayed at home. But some of it - most of it - was Sören's discomfort with the impending shopping trip...
...having yet another free night taken up by Anthony's friends.
Sören continued his silence on the way upstairs, and though he'd taken a shower after work, before they went to the restaurant, Sören felt like he needed to scrub a layer of skin off and hopped in the shower again, as hot as he could stand it. He locked the door to the bathroom before he took a shower, so Anthony wouldn't join him in the shower - he needed to be alone right now. He wasn't quite angry with Anthony, but he wasn't happy with him, either.
Anthony was waiting for him, already in a T-shirt and his boxer-briefs, when Sören finished his shower and walked into their bedroom, in a towel, so he could get changed into pajamas. Anthony was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands between his knees, looking down at the floor, and when Sören came in he looked up and their eyes met before Sören turned his back to open the dresser drawer.
As Sören began pulling on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, Anthony said, "You're upset with me."
Sören sighed. He paused, standing there shirtless in his pajama pants, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look. Anthony. I've had a very long day -"
"So have I."
Sören took his hand down from his face and folded his arms. Now he was pissed off. "Oh, have you?" Sören heard his voice rising, and he felt the sneer on his face. "You were up since three AM this morning, spending fourteen hours on your feet?"
"No, I was only up since five this morning... after being up till eleven PM last night." Anthony gave Sören a withering look. "You know, I get it that you work really brutal, intense shifts. But just because you have it a bit harder doesn't mean I don't have it rough at all, and that's quite honestly really insensitive of you to dismiss my job like that. We both save lives, you do it in your way, I do it in mine, and we both go down to the pits of bloody hell to rescue those poor souls, day in, day out. So don't you stand there and act like you're the only person bleeding out here. Don't you fucking dare."
Sören was taken aback. He knew that Anthony argued for a living in court, and he knew that Anthony had a reputation as "the Shark", metaphorically going after blood when he smelled it. But up until now Anthony had always been gentle and tender with him, and now Anthony was showing him a different face, and Sören knew it wasn't even all that Anthony was capable of.
Despite himself, Sören's cock stirred, as their eyes met again and Sören studied the intense, fierce look on Anthony's face.
"I wasn't trying to imply that what you do doesn't matter -"
Anthony turned his head. "Forget it."
"No. I told you I'm tired and had a long day because I didn't want to have this conversation, but now that you've started it, we're going to fucking finish it." Sören responded to Anthony's pride with his own, anger surging in him, his cock throbbing, wanting to bite and scratch and be bitten and scratched and slam into him and be pounded into, struggling for dominance. "I do not appreciate you pushing me to go out with those people on the only night off I am going to have for the next fucking week. Anthony, we've been together for over a year now, surely you must realize that I don't have time or energy for this shit, and even if I did, I'm not exactly compatible with your crowd."
"I know that you haven't given them a chance," Anthony said, meeting Sören's eyes again. "You've written them off because they're rich people and you're from a working-class background and that makes you uncomfortable. But they're trying to make you feel included and welcome. You're not being fair."
"No, what I'm being is tired," Sören said. "Do you not understand that on the only night I have off for the next week, the very last thing I want to do is bloody suit shopping with those two? And here you are pushing me along."
"I did it because it's not good for you to be so isolated," Anthony said. "You don't have friends. I get that some of it is lack of time and energy, I'm not disputing that's in short supply, but a lot of it, and you and I both know this, is because you were bullied too, as a kid, you made friends just to have them turn against you and join the crowd that picked on you. I get it. But maybe it's time for you to try to start moving on with your life."
"Oh, really? And maybe I should be the judge of when it is or isn't time, instead of you trying to make that decision for me about when I should be over something that happened to me." Sören shook his head, feeling even angrier. His heart was hammering in his ears. "I can't fucking believe you."
"I'm trying to look out for you." Their eyes met again and Anthony's voice broke, just a little. And then Sören saw Anthony's eyes were too bright, on the verge of tears. "We're going to be married later this year, I'm trying to share my life with you..." Anthony looked away and covered his mouth with the heel of his hand, and Sören saw his jaw tremble. Anthony blinked, and his free hand clenched, as if he were fighting back tears.
Sören felt like his heart was breaking. He hadn't meant to make Anthony cry. In the back of his mind he could hear Elaine's warning: Be careful with my son. ...You are his safe place, Sören. He hasn't just let you into his home, but you are his home. When I look at my son, with you, I see the same sweet, sensitive boy who was chased into a tree and fell out and broke his femur, whose spirit was broken that day. You give him back a part of himself that he's lost.
"Hey." Sören sat on the bed next to him and pulled Anthony into his arms, began to rock him. "Hey. Hey."
"I'm sorry." Anthony sniffled. He closed his eyes. "I shouldn't cry..."
"To hell with 'should' or 'shouldn't', spare me that he-man macho crap." Sören stroked Anthony's face, smoothed his hair. Then he cupped Anthony's chin and made Anthony look into his eyes. "Look. We're both tired, and emotions are running high when we're like this. I just..." Sören sighed and shook his head. "Maybe you're right that I'm being unfair with Trisha and Vincente, but I can't shake the gut feeling that if I go out with them on Monday, it won't end well."
Anthony pursed his lips. He took a deep breath, and then he took Sören's hand and kissed it before putting it to his heart. "I don't like fighting with you."
"I don't like fighting with you either." Even though apparently it makes me fucking horny.
"I don't mean for you to feel... forced." Anthony frowned, his brow furrowed. "After what you've been through, I don't want you to feel like you're being pushed into anything without your consent -"
"I know. And I know you didn't realize that when you..." Sören sighed. "I know you were just trying to help."
"If you really, really do not want to go with them on Monday, I'll understand." Their eyes met, and held. Anthony chuckled then. "I can make up something, like I can lie and tell them you have a migraine and your stomach's bothering you..."
"Please don't do that." Sören was uncomfortable with that, especially when he would be at work the next day and one of his patients might be someone who knew them.
"I was just trying to help," Anthony said again, and there was sadness in his eyes and Sören could hear the hurt little boy in his voice who just wanted friends, wanted to belong somewhere, wanted to share with his very best friend. "I don't want you to feel left out, and, well, I had this stupid idea that my friends could be your friends and we'd all -"
Sören felt like his heart was breaking again, like he was disappointing that small, hurt boy, and he held Anthony again, squeezed him tight. "I'll go."
"You..."
"I said I'll go." Sören sighed. "I'll try to give them a chance."
Anthony threw his arms around Sören and hugged him hard. He kissed Sören's cheek. "Thank you."
"Anything for my little brother," Sören said without thinking about it - it just slipped out. It felt so natural to call him that, now.
Anthony's response was to grab Sören's face and kiss him hungrily; Sören knew that their game of being brothers awakened passion in them both, but he also knew the hurt part of Anthony that just wanted friends and to belong somewhere was responding, and Sören found himself kissing Anthony back with all of the fire in him, feeling fiercely protective of him in his vulnerability. Let me make it better, my love.
Then Anthony bit Sören's lower lip, hard enough to draw blood - both a tangible way of acknowledging their bond as brother-lovers, in the other world of their dreams, and a call back to the aggression of a few minutes ago. Sören groaned as Anthony sucked on his lower lip, tasting the blood, and moaned as they kissed again, tasting the metallic tongue of his blood on Anthony's tongue. Anthony was palming the hard-on in Sören's pajama bottoms now, and when he started kissing Sören's neck, Sören heard himself say "oh shit," melting as Anthony's lips and tongue teased one of his most exquisitely sensitive places.
Anthony's hand rubbed the hard bulge in Sören's pajama pants more firmly, insistently, and before they could get too carried away, Sören said, "Here, let's get ready for bed."
Anthony pouted, and Sören said, "Someone has to be the adult," chuckling, and Anthony laughed too. He followed Sören to the bathroom and they brushed their teeth together, then stole a few minty-fresh kisses in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the sink as they held each other, hands roaming, kisses deeper and needier until they were both breathless and trembling and Sören wasn't sure who was dragging who back to the bedroom.
Their nightclothes quickly fell to the floor in a haphazard heap and they tumbled into bed together, laughing before kissing fiercely, like they were starving for each other. Sören took their hard cocks together in his fist, stroking slowly, shivering as Anthony's hands slid over him, moaning as Anthony resumed kissing his neck. He cried out when Anthony bit his neck, and cried out again when Anthony bit his shoulder, his cock jolting, throbbing, spurting a little precum, aching for relief.
There was a wicked look in Anthony's eyes before he claimed Sören's mouth again. "Someone likes that."
"Mmmm."
Anthony raised an eyebrow, his lips quirked with amusement. "It seems almost as if you got aroused by us fighting."
"Yeah, a little." More like a lot. Sören giggled and gave him a kiss. "You look so sexy when you're pissed off."
"So do you." Anthony kissed him back, fingers brushing one of Sören's nipples before he tugged on the ring and pinched it, making Sören gasp and quiver. "I don't like fighting with you, but..."
"But." Their eyes met. Sören grinned. "Now we can have makeup sex."
"OK." Anthony laughed before he kissed Sören again.
Sören rolled Anthony onto his back and now it was his turn to kiss Anthony's neck, cock throbbing as he licked Anthony's neck, nibbled it, and Anthony moaned in response, arching to him. Sören used his teeth a little more, growling, his cock twinging urgently at Anthony panting, grasping at him feverishly.
"You called me your wild boy," Sören rasped, nipping at Anthony's throat before soothing with his tongue. "I think I'd like to show you just how wild I can be."
"God, yes." Anthony grabbed Sören and kissed him hard. "Bring out the beast, Sören." Then he chuckled. "Though, go easy on my neck, people have to see that."
"That's fine. I'll just leave love bites all over the rest of you." With that, Sören nibbled on Anthony's chest, licking between bites, and he nibbled and licked his way down. When he tugged a nipple with his teeth, Anthony's breath hitched, and when Sören nibbled on it Anthony cried out, Sören's cock jolting, wanting to take him and be taken.
But he didn't give in to that urge just yet, making good on his promise to bite Anthony all over. Sören licked every place that he bit, smiling at the way Anthony trembled and broke out into gooseflesh, making the most delicious moans as Sören got him where he knew Anthony was sensitive - nipples, stomach, hips, thighs, behind the knee, and back up to nibble and lick Anthony's thighs, growling, as Anthony shuddered and clutched at Sören, moaning. Anthony at last found his words and ground out, "Fuck me, big brother."
Sören was too far gone in his lust to deny him any longer. He growled as he reached for the lube, kissed Anthony fiercely as he readied them both. He showed restraint as he pushed in, not wanting to hurt Anthony, but when he was all the way inside and Anthony had time to adjust, Sören showed him no mercy, Anthony's legs on his shoulders as he pounded him into the mattress, a savage, furious rhythm. Anthony loved it, clawing Sören's back, biting his shoulder, making feral noises as he rocked his hips back at Sören, matching his pace, giving it back as good as he got. They lost themselves in the fuck, reaching that place of pure animal fever, where the only thing that existed was their need for each other, all pleasure, all possession. Sören loved unleashing like this, and he loved that Anthony was just as wild, able to keep up with him, fire calling to fire.
When Anthony climaxed, spouting over Sören's chest and stomach with a cry, Sören stroked his face - tenderness in the eye of the storm - savoring, cherishing the look on his face, completely gone into ecstasy, looking like he was having a religious experience. The shuddery sigh Anthony gave as he trembled, continuing to spend over him, made Sören sigh too, tearing up at the beauty of him in orgasmic bliss, just before his own release, spiraling into blinding light, then down into blessed darkness where everything was peace and nothing hurt.
"I love you," Sören heard himself say, over and over again. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
They rested for awhile and then they nuzzled, petting. Little kisses gave way to deeper ones, and Sören rose again, slipping out of Anthony and rolling onto his back. But then Anthony gave him a wicked grin before grabbing Sören and rolling him onto his stomach. Sören gasped, and his cock jolted. He thrust his ass out at Anthony, and almost sobbed with relief when Anthony took him, stretching him, filling him, claiming him. "Yes, yes, yes," Sören panted.
Anthony leaned down, laying against Sören's back, and bit the place where Sören's nape and shoulder met, then started to thrust, just as hard and fast as Sören had fucked him. Sören howled, fingers curling, fisting the pillows, rocking back at him. "Oh shit, oh god, yes," Sören cried out. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me, brother..."
Anthony growled and bit Sören's shoulder, bit his neck, grabbed Sören's curls. "If this is what happens when we fight, maybe we should make up shit to argue about," Anthony teased.
Sören tilted his face to grin at Anthony. "You talk too much, elskan," Sören teased back, and gave Anthony a deep, passionate kiss.
By the time Vincente's BMW pulled up in front of Emporio Armani, Sören was already feeling sick with anxiety. He had been riding in the back seat, with Trisha in the passenger's seat, and Vincente had the car stereo on - some indie band Sören didn't recognize - but despite music, Sören was on edge, made worse by Vincente and Trisha making small talk with him. Sören hated small talk.
Anthony had handed Sören one of his credit cards before he left; though Sören could afford an Armani suit or two, Anthony knew Sören wouldn't be suit shopping of his own accord, and felt responsible for encouraging Sören to go out with them, so he felt providing the funds for the shopping trip was also his responsibility. What Anthony didn't say, but Sören also picked up on, was that Anthony was a bit old-fashioned, thinking of Sören as being like his "wife", which Sören didn't mind exactly - he thought it was adorably quaint - but Sören did wish that Anthony was a little less hung up on the idea that he had to "provide". And Sören was very, very uncomfortable about spending someone else's money, even someone he was going to marry in November.
Sören started off being fitted for a suit, with an associate taking his exact measurements. Then Vincente and Trisha led him around the store, pausing Sören every few paces to hold up jackets and trousers against him and exchange glances, making commentary on what would look good or not. Some pieces were put back, but Vincente began to amass a pile, and when they'd narrowed it down to three suits, they dragged Sören to the fitting rooms to try things on.
Sören felt ridiculous as he tried on the first suit, a dark navy pinstripe with a lighter blue shirt, feeling like he was performing drag badly. When he looked in the full-length mirror of the changing stall, his eyes widened with disbelief - now he thought he looked ridiculous too, like he was wearing something that was so obviously not him. Nonetheless, he came out, hesitantly, where Trisha and Vincente were waiting.
"Oh, very nice," Trisha said, and for once her compliment sounded sincere.
"You look very dapper," Vincente said, nodding. "That's a good color on you."
Sometimes it was hard for Sören to believe that Vincente was straight, though Anthony had described Vincente as "metrosexual" more than once and Sören supposed that explained why Vincente was as fashion-and-appearance-conscious as the gay stereotype. Sören mumbled a "takk" before he ducked back in the changing stall.
The second suit was charcoal grey and looked exactly like one of the suits Anthony owned, right down to the white shirt that went with it. But, Sören thought it looked better on Anthony. Once again Sören felt like an impostor, his cheeks burning as he stepped out of the stall.
"Oh, I think I like that better than the first one," Trisha said.
Vincente nodded. "Grey and black seems like it suits you more."
"Black has always been my color," Sören said, and immediately felt stupid saying it.
The last suit was burgundy wool, a bit bolder while the color was still muted and not garish. When Trisha had added it to Vincente's pile, Sören had thought initially that maybe this would be the one, since as an artist he lived for color and this seemed to have a little more personality. And now, looking at himself, he felt the most uncomfortable in this, like he stood out too much, intensifying the feeling that he was an impostor and didn't belong in a suit or a world that required him to wear a suit.
"Never mind what I said about grey and black being better on you," Vincente said. "That's the one."
"I don't know." Trisha frowned. "I still like the charcoal one more."
Sören sighed. The charcoal grey suit stood out the least of the three of them, which was better for the purposes of discomfort, but it also felt the most "professional" and the least him. Nothing was really going to make him feel OK with wearing a suit, and he didn't want to have to pick it out himself.
"Why not get both the burgundy and the charcoal suit, and let Anthony pick it out for you?" Trisha asked, as if she sensed Sören's reluctance to make a decision. "It's always good to have one suit, but you ought to have more than one, being engaged to a lawyer, really."
Sören balked at the price tag, feeling ready to shit himself at the counter. Anthony knew he was getting a suit, it was another thing entirely to get two suits and spend over two thousand pounds of Anthony's money. Sören felt himself choking a little as the sales associate rang them out, not even able to muster a polite reply to anything the man was saying. Sören had spent more on clothing in this trip than he'd ever spent in his entire life, and it just cemented that feeling that he did not belong in this world.
I don't belong anywhere. I am in this world, but not of it. In his mind's eye Sören saw the painting he had made awhile back, called Spirit of Fire, himself molting with feathers of flame like an ancient, forgotten deity, half-phoenix, half-man. His skin felt on fire now, as if something older were stirring in him, and for the briefest instant his mind's eye saw everything go up in flames, then rise from the flames, the building transfigured into a cathedral-palace of crystal and glass and gold, the walls chiming like water in glass or singing bowls...
The fuck. Sören blinked as Trisha waved a hand in front of his eyes. "Earth to Sören," Trisha said. "You ready to go, or do you want to look around some more?"
"I think we better go," Sören said. "I've spent enough today."
Vincente and Trisha laughed like this was the funniest thing they've ever heard. "Oh, you," Trisha said, waving her hand.
"Two thousand quid at Armani is light shopping," Vincente said, chuckling as he led them out of the store.
Sören looked back over his shoulder as they headed out to the car, both in disbelief that he'd been in Emporio Armani at all - it felt surreal, like he'd hallucinated the entire experience... the brief hallucination he'd had in the store felt more real, and that was the other reason why he was looking over his shoulder, to make sure the store was still the store, that it hadn't magically transformed. Yet Sören could smell the faintest hint of woodsmoke...
He shivered as he got in the back of the BMW, even though he was dressed for winter and it wasn't particularly cold on this early March day.
Sören had known in advance that Trisha and Vincente wanted to take him out to dinner after the shopping trip, as part of the package of offering friendship. Sören was not surprised Vincente was taking them to an Italian restaurant, since that was his heritage, though Sören thought the best Italian food came from humble little hole-in-the-wall family-owned places - he and Anthony had a favorite for delivery - and here was a very upscale restaurant, where the maître d' was wearing a tuxedo and gave Sören a disapproving look.
There was no official dress code - Vincente was wearing a black blazer and trousers, white shirt, no tie, and Trisha was wearing a royal blue pantsuit with a lighter blue camisole, her hair in a messy bun. But as they were led to their table, Sören saw most of the restaurant patrons were wearing ties if not suits, Vincente and Trisha looked a bit underdressed compared to most of them, and Sören himself was even more underdressed even though he was in a black button-down long-sleeved shirt and black trousers.
Sören felt even more nervous looking at the menu, where none of the meals were under sixty quid. Everything also seemed much more complicated than what Sören was used to at other Italian restaurants - he just wanted a simple lasagna or eggplant parmesan or maybe some pizza. In the end, Sören decided to go with what Vincente was having, trusting his judgment as someone who had been here before.
After their wine was brought to the table, while they waited for their food, Sören shifted in his seat awkwardly, watching as Trisha and Vincente made eyes at each other. Finally Sören felt like he ought to break the silence, even as he felt uncomfortable initiating conversation, and he said, "So Anthony tells me you guys go back a bit, já?"
"He was in our diploma conversion group," Trisha said, nodding.
"He was a bit older than us, by a few years, and he was the best student in our class. He just knew so much, and he was confident. And he'd had more life experience than us too, he'd been to Europe. It was impressive." Vincente smiled.
"He had all these stories of his travels, the places he'd been, the things he'd done."
"Like a regular Bilbo Baggins," Sören said, sipping his wine, though his brain nagged him with No, not Bilbo. And definitely not a hobbit. He found that reaction curious, but put it on the shelf.
"Anthony's a dear," Trisha went on, "and we're glad he's finally settling down. Though I have to say, I never thought it would be with someone so..."
Sören waited, stiffening, his eyes narrowing.
"Different," Trisha said, her lips quirking slightly before she sipped her wine.
"Jæja, Anthony and I are very different," Sören said, feeling himself bristle - he didn't need the obvious pointed out to him, and wondered what the point was of making such a statement, unless it was to make him uncomfortable. "But you know what they say, opposites attract. And he and I are alike in ways that matter." Sören sipped his wine. "We both want to help people. We're both driven, like a fire consuming us." Like we're meant for something more.
"It's nice when you have someone who understands you," Vincente said, and Trisha nodded.
Sören needed to change the subject. "So Anthony told me a bit about why he went into law..." He gestured to the both of them. "What about you?"
"Papa is a barrister," Trisha said. "He's a QC now..."
"QC?" Sören had heard Anthony say the abbreviation before but it didn't register - sometimes Anthony spoke legal jargon like he just assumed Sören knew what he was on about, and Sören didn't have the faintest clue apart from it seemed to be Anthony's endgame for his legal career, something he aspired to eventually.
"Queen's Counsel. Also known as a Silk. Law runs in my family, my grandfather is an earl and he was a barrister his whole life. He comes from a long line of barristers." Trisha swirled the wine around in her glass. "I have no brothers, it's just me and my sister. My sister went into art, and I carried on the family legacy of law, traditionally held by the men of the family. I'd thought about going into theatre when I was in public school, but Papa did so want someone to fill his shoes."
So you're doing it to please your family and not because you actually want to do it. Sören felt vaguely disgusted by that.
"But I can't complain too much, the money is good, and it will only get better as time goes on." Trisha grinned, and reminded Sören very much of a hungry wolf who had spotted prey.
"Yeah, that's why I got into law." Vincente also smiled. "The money."
"Indeed." Trisha raised her glass, and Vincente clinked it. "The lifestyle to which we are accustomed."
The two of you fucking deserve each other. The sick feeling that Sören had on the way to the Armani store came roiling back. Your clients are people, you're playing with people's fates, people's lives, and they're just pound signs to you.
Even though the meal was good - a chicken and pasta dish - Sören found he had no appetite, nibbling and finally asking for a container to bring the rest home. He felt relief sinking in as he got in the back seat of the BMW again, wanting to be done with this experience, wanting to go home and take a hot shower, scrub off the icky feeling he had around them.
But they weren't heading to Kingston just yet. Sören felt a twinge of anxiety as Vincente drove. "Um... where are we going?" Sören asked.
"We have one last destination on our itinerary," Trisha said.
She wasn't going to volunteer any more information than that, and Sören was afraid to ask. Then when Vincente slowed down and pulled into a parking stall Sören saw where he'd been taken - a hair salon.
"Oh no." Sören shook his head, feeling a wave of terror. "Oh no no no no no -"
"It was really tough to make this appointment with Jean-Yves on such short notice," Trisha said.
"Jean-Yves is my stylist. You'll be in good hands," Vincente assured him.
"I don't want my hair cut." The words came out through gritted teeth, and Sören stopped himself from tossing in a f-bomb, not wanting them to complain to Anthony later.
"Sören, everyone gets split ends and needs a little trim once in awhile," Trisha said, sounding like a parent dealing with an unreasonable child having a temper tantrum. "You don't want people turning up their noses at your art because you can't be arsed to take care of your split ends, do you?"
Sören didn't think his hair was that bad - Anthony had certainly never complained about it, and Anthony seemed like the type of person who would politely, gently suggest trimming split ends if they were a noticeable problem. But Sören didn't know what to think, as it was he hadn't thought borrowing one of Anthony's suits would be that big of a deal and they were telling him someone would notice it didn't fit him as well as something built for his exact measurements. So reluctantly he followed them out of the car, walking slowly to the salon, feeling like his every step was leaden.
The salon purported to be unisex and the inside of the salon was done in soft creams and pinks, with vaporwave playing in the background. "We're here for Jean-Yves," Trisha said at the desk, and a middle-aged woman with long silver curly hair, wearing a maroon dress and a lot of beaded necklaces, nodded and walked off.
A few minutes later she came back with a short, slender man with a black fauxhawk, goatee and intense grey eyes, wearing faded skinny jeans and a long-sleeved purple button-down shirt that was open a few buttons at the top, a black rosary around his neck. He clapped his hands. "Allo, allo!" he called out. "I am 'ere for ze 'aircut. 'Oo 'ave we got today?"
Trisha pushed Sören forward.
"Oof, I see," Jean-Yves said, clicking his tongue and making a face like they had dragged in Sören from the street. He reached out a hand and mussed Sören's mop of curls; Sören felt the urge to smack his hand away. "Come along, cher, Jean-Yves will feex zat 'air of yours."
Vincente hung back, reading a magazine, and Trisha followed Sören, taking a seat to watch as Jean-Yves got to work. Sören had a very bad feeling about this entire thing, heart hammering as he sat in the chair, but he started to relax a little as Jean-Yves began to shampoo his hair, enjoying the scent of the soap and the feeling of the scalp massage.
Then the unthinkable happened. Jean-Yves took a hunk of Sören's hair and chopped it. Sören's eyes blinked open with alarm and when he looked at himself in the mirror he saw Jean-Yves hadn't taken "a little off, just split ends" like Trisha had assured, he'd cut that piece of hair short.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Sören screamed, not caring if he made a scene.
Jean-Yves blinked and paused, and gave Sören a look like he was offended. "Monsieur, I am cutting your 'air. Like zere was an appointment to do -"
"No fucking shit, Sherlock." Sören was furious now. He glared daggers at Jean-Yves, then at Trisha. "You said it was to trim split ends, not cutting my hair short -"
"Sören, calm down," Trisha said, her reaction completely neutral - like this was a courtroom and she was keeping herself guarded. "There was a misunderstanding, was all."
"Was there?" And Sören felt it, then - this was why his gut told him this entire thing was a bad idea. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was what Trisha had been planning on, there was no misunderstanding, no accident.
"We'll... we'll fix this," Trisha said, eyes widening as if she knew that Sören knew, that he'd seen through bullshit.
"No, we fucking can't." Sören looked at himself in the mirror. "There's no way I'll be able to... to disguise the unevenness with a different hairstyle and I'm not in the habit of wearing hats or scarves constantly, not that I can wear that at work anyway, and I don't wear protective headgear constantly..." Sören pinched the bridge of his nose and made noises.
"Should I stop, monsieur?" Jean-Yves was glaring at Trisha now too.
"If you stop it's just..." Sören buried his face in his hands and sighed. "Gonna be that big piece looking all... fucky... and I have the show coming up and I need to look professional..." He took his face out of his hands and blinked back tears. He would not, would not would not give Trisha the satisfaction of crying in front of her, if she had done this to bully him.
"I weel do mah best to make eet look nice, monsieur." With that, Jean-Yves resumed combing and cutting.
It already was nice, I liked my hair and you fucking ruined it. It'll take months, maybe even a year, to get it back the way it was.
Sören fought back tears all the way home, his face on fire, feeling like a limb had been cut off, feeling like he'd been stripped naked in public and forced to march through the streets. He felt intensely vulnerable with his new short hair...
...short hair that he hadn't signed up for.
He felt like he'd been violated. It wasn't the same as when he'd been raped in Iceland, but something had still been done to his body without his consent, and he still couldn't shake the feeling that it had been done deliberately, that Trisha had done this to fuck with him. He felt like that bullied kid he once was all over again, and he hated that he was feeling like this as an adult, when he had much more power and control over his life than he did back then. It was a helpless feeling; it was a terrifying feeling.
Trisha and Vincente kept trying to give him assurances that his new haircut looked nice on the way back home. "You've still got your curls," Trisha said. "Look on the bright side, it'll be easier to take care of now -"
Sören had enough of her. He finally exploded. "Shut up," he hissed.
Trisha blinked in the rear-view mirror. "I beg your pardon?"
"You. Fucking. Heard. Me. Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP!" Sören clenched his fists, and restrained the urge to take the Armani bag in the back seat and throw it at Trisha. I do not hit women.
They were only a few blocks away from Sören and Anthony's flat, and Sören grabbed the Armani bag and ducked out of the car, into traffic, narrowly missing an oncoming car, making a mad dash for the sidewalk, heart pounding as the driver beeped at him and screamed out the window. Sören kept running, asthma be damned, not wanting Trisha and Vincente to drive by and try to get in another apology, more meaningless words.
Sören finally slowed as his flat came in sight, reaching for the inhaler in his pants pocket. Anthony's Audi wasn't there yet, and Sören didn't know whether to be relieved or not.
He took a moment to rest his lungs before marching himself upstairs, and on the flight of stairs he broke down crying, weeping hysterically as he put his keys in the door. Though he'd been craving a shower to wash off the miasma of being around those two, now he just collapsed on the couch, huddling in the fetal position, crying so hard he was screaming.
Sören's sobbing quieted, but his tears still flowed silently, when he heard Anthony's car pull in. Then Sören started weeping again, and he heard Anthony call "Sören?" from the stairwell and heard his brogues lope up the stairs, running as if he were concerned it was an emergency. Sören tried to pull himself together, not wanting to cause alarm, but when the door opened Anthony froze and his jaw dropped as soon as he saw Sören.
"Oh my god." Anthony blinked slowly, the shock on his face obvious.
"Don't look at me," Sören said, looking away, hot shame searing him.
"Sören. Oh my god, Sören, elskan." It was the first time Anthony had ever called Sören an endearment in Icelandic, and normally under any other circumstance Sören would celebrate the occasion but Sören knew it slipped out because Anthony was sharing the horror, desperately clutching at something, anything that would comfort him. Anthony went right to him, knelt beside him on the couch, and tried to gently pull Sören into his arms.
Sören shoved him away. "Don't touch me, don't look at me, just..."
"Sören. Please." Anthony stroked Sören's face, a waver in his voice.
"It looks horrible. I look..." Sören made a vague hand gesture. "I..." He couldn't even find words.
"This..." Anthony took a deep breath. "This explains the text Trisha sent me."
"What exactly did she say?"
"She called you a psycho," Anthony said bluntly.
"Well... she convinced me that guy was just going to trim my split ends, not hack off a huge chunk of my hair." Sören was livid. He tugged on what was left of his curls. "I didn't ask for this -"
"No. I know." There were tears in Anthony's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry." He pet Sören's curls. "It'll grow back..."
"It'll take months to grow back, Anthony. It may not be all the way grown back by our wedding. And I have to live with this in the meantime, look at it every fucking day..."
"I'll miss your hair," Anthony said, nodding, and Sören was relieved that Anthony was with him on the side of keeping his hair long - Anthony really didn't want to try to "tame" him, and Sören desperately needed that reassurance right now. But another wave of shame flooded Sören, because if Anthony liked him better with the long hair, that meant Anthony was going to be less attracted to him with the short hair, and...
Sören started to sob.
"Oh, honey." Anthony continued petting Sören's curls, stroking his face. He pulled Sören into his arms again and this time Sören didn't push him away. Anthony rubbed his nose in Sören's curls and rested his nose there for a moment, breathing in the scent of the shampoo, before he kissed the top of Sören's head. Then he took Sören's chin in his hand, thumb stroking the beard, and looked into Sören's eyes. "You're still beautiful to me, Brown Eyes."
Sören tried to manage a smile, but it didn't come. More tears came instead. More tears, more hot anger, sharp as a knife. "Trisha had some nerve, calling me psycho."
"She said you ran out of the car into traffic -"
Sören exhaled sharply. "You think I wanted to spend another second in that car with them after what they did?"
Anthony blinked and his eyes widened as if he were in shock. "Sören, are you..." He shook his head.
"Am I accusing Trisha? You're damn right I am. I don't buy it for a second that there was a 'misunderstanding' with what this Jean-Yves guy was supposed to do, or he wouldn't be in business long. She did this deliberately, and she did it to be a fucking bully. I had a bad feeling about her offer of 'friendship', because Trisha is like every mean arsehole I went to school with who pretended they wanted to be my friend just so they could get dirt on me to make fun of me to their friends later. She did this to hurt me, and she did this to hurt us, to try to drive a wedge between us -"
"Sören." Anthony glared. "I've known Trisha for years and I don't think she's the type to do something like this..."
"For a barrister who deals with guilty people all the time you sure as fuck are blind to what's going on right in front of you," Sören snapped.
Anthony recoiled, looking stung, and Sören knew he'd crossed a line. I'd cross it again. Fucking idiot.
Anthony got up, and Sören expected him to storm off, maybe leave the flat altogether, but instead he quietly, calmly went over to the kitchen and began puttering around.
"What... what are you doing?" Sören asked.
"I'm making fucking tea."
You are so British it hurts. And then it came out before Sören could stop himself. "Hi Making Fucking Tea, I'm Sören -"
Anthony leaned against the fridge, half-laughing, half-crying. "Dammit, Sören." He wiped his eyes.
A moment passed and Sören grasped at levity again. "So, fucking tea. Is that some kind of aphrodisiac..."
Anthony snorted. "I wish." Then he glanced back over at Sören, his eyes too bright.
"I'm not going to apologize for what I said about Trisha," Sören said, setting his jaw, folding his arms. "I get it that she's your friend and you've known each other for years. That still doesn't make what happened OK. I'd love to be wrong about all of this, I'd love for it to all be a misunderstanding. But it doesn't feel like a misunder -"
Anthony put up a hand, cutting him off. He cleared his throat and then he put his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I'll talk to Trisha and Vincente," Anthony said. "I'm willing to mediate so they can explain their side of things, and you can calmly explain yours..."
"Oh for fuck's sake, could you stop being a lawyer for five fucking minutes?"
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose, and then he gave Sören a stern look. "I'm trying to fix this. I'm trying to de-escalate things and keep them from getting worse -"
"There is no fixing this. This is worse." Sören tugged on his short curls. "I don't need a barrister right now, I need you to be my fucking partner."
Anthony sighed. When the tea was ready he came back with it, and after they had a few sips Anthony pulled Sören back into his arms and held him tight, rocking him.
After they finished their tea Sören shuffled off to the bathroom and got in the shower, as hot as he could stand it. He didn't lock the bathroom door and a moment later Anthony was there, naked, and stepped into the shower with him. For a moment they just stood there looking at each other and then Sören was in Anthony's arms again, and Anthony held him, rocked him as the scalding water beat down on them. Sören started to sob on his shoulder.
"Let it out," Anthony soothed, rubbing Sören's head, his back. "Let it out, sweetheart. I'm right here."
They went to bed after the shower and brushing their teeth, just holding each other. Sören felt drained - too exhausted to do anything other than lay there in Anthony's arms, but too upset for his mind to shut off and sleep yet. Anthony felt him still awake a little while later and he made tender noises, skritching Sören's beard like he was a cat.
"I hate this," Sören mumbled.
"I know." Anthony kissed the top of Sören's head. He sighed and rubbed his nose in Sören's curls. "Trisha hadn't explained why you'd run out of the car, I had no context for what was going on until I saw you -"
"It looks shitty."
"I like your long hair better, honestly, but... like I said, you're still beautiful. It isn't bad, just different."
"It's different bad. I hate it. I fucking. Hate. It."
Anthony kissed Sören's brow. "Well, your hair isn't the only reason why I'm attracted to you. And it's not just physical, either. It's here." He put his hand on Sören's heart. "You've got a beautiful heart, Sören. A beautiful soul. That is what I love about you, more than anything else. You're still you on the inside."
Sören needed to grasp at levity again... and he ached to get out of his head, go someplace better for awhile. There was one thing that was particularly good at accomplishing that. "You speak with such authority, like you know that for a fact."
"I do."
"I don't know about that. I think my insides might warrant further investigation."
"Mmmmm." Anthony chuckled, and nibbled on Sören's lower lip, reaching around to grab his ass. "Yes, I think you might be right."
Sören smiled before he grabbed Anthony's face and pulled him into a kiss, and Anthony rolled Sören onto his back, Sören melting at the love in his eyes before Anthony kissed him back, pulling down Sören's pajama bottoms and grasping the stiffening cock.
Sören and Anthony are on the beach, holding each other. Sören basks in the warm glow of the day, the smell of the salt air, the peace here at the ocean, the endless sky above them. Most of all he basks in the safety of Anthony's arms, the respite, not wanting to go back home to the wife who has long since fallen out of love with him, no time or cares to give him anymore. His bed is cold when his brothers aren't in it.
"I love you," Anthony says, seeming to pick up on Sören's prickle of loneliness, the aching need in him.
"And I love you, my brother."
Anthony plays with a strand of Sören's knee-length black hair. "And I love your hair." A smile quirks his lips. "I wish I had dark hair like you and our brother."
"Oh no." Now Sören reaches out to play with Anthony's long hair, enchanted by the way it shifts in the light, silver then gold, like the flash of an iridescent stone. Like the way the sky shifts at certain times of day. "You have the most beautiful hair. It's enchanting."
"If you say so. I still like your hair better."
And Sören sees it then in his mind's eye - a tribute to the brothers he loves. Anthony's hair, and their other brother's eyes. The spark of creation crackles inside him, and the fire begins to consume him, needing to bring this to life. Needing to show them. This is how I feel about you. This is how you inspire me, my beauty.
Sören knows the gods will be interested in his work - his great work, his work of works. They will want to ask what the masterpiece is made of, when it is time to show the world. So as much as Sören wants to take a lock of Anthony's hair as one of the components, he knows it will be too blatant - there is no way he can mention that without the obvious love on his face, in his eyes, without the gods sensing it, the forbidden passion. That won't do at all.
Instead Sören takes a lock of hair from Anthony's daughter, with hair so like her father's. They are not happy about it - she knows about the sin between them and she is against it, and he resents that she is a living reminder of the marriage Anthony was forced into, no love between Anthony who prefers men and his wife who prefers women; it was Sören who made Anthony spill his seed for her conception, one of the handmaidens taking it to his wife for her female lover to guide into her. But it is what it is, and Sören pays her for the theft of the lock of her hair with a necklace. Hate me you might, but you at least love and appreciate my work, which is more than I can say for that wife of mine.
More than any other project, this one drives him close to madness. He can feel it take a piece of his soul, but that is all the better, because this is love.
Anthony is delighted when he sees the finished product - before the rest of the world gets to see it, Sören's brothers do - but he also laughs, "I still wish I looked more like you and brother."
Eons later, Anthony is reborn with black hair.
chapter 34 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index