It was Friday, March fifteenth, a week before Sören's show at Blue Moon in Bermondsey. He had been at work since seven AM and it was now eleven PM and he was finally going home. It had been one of those days where most of the day was spent in a single surgical procedure, so he was more exhausted than usual. Anthony had been to see him on his break hours ago, coming straight from work to give him coffee and hugs, and now hours later Anthony had come back, waiting for Sören in the Audi, wanting to drive him home himself. Sören mumbled a greeting as he climbed in the car and gave Anthony a tired kiss on the cheek.
"Here." Anthony handed Sören a bag of food, still hot. "I hit a drive-thru on the way here, I know it's not the healthiest thing in the world but it was open this late -"
"No, god, I'm fucking starving, I don't care." Sören tore the bag open and grinned at the chicken sandwiches inside. "Oh my god yes, you know what I like."
"Also, I'm breaking my no-eating-in-the-car rule, go ahead."
Sören reached over and touched Anthony's face, who gave him a tired smile. "You take such good care of me."
"I try."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
Sören wolfed the chicken sandwiches and fries down, absolutely famished from the long day. Every now and again Anthony stole glances at him, and Sören felt a little sheepish at the way he was devouring the food, but then Anthony just grinned when Sören had fries hanging out of his mouth and said, "You're cute."
"I am not cute," Sören said through a mouthful of fries.
"Yes you are." Anthony reached over to tousle Sören's curls.
Sören sighed - as much as he enjoyed Anthony's touch, having his hair touched right now was a painful reminder of the haircut a week ago. He still wasn't over it - it was not something one could just get over - and it didn't help that he was still, a week later, getting questions and comments from colleagues and returning patients. Any time any of them told him "it looks better", it took Sören every ounce of restraint he had not to scream back "It fucking does not." He was tired of being constantly reminded of his shorn hair, and though he knew Anthony was just petting him affectionately, instinctively, nonetheless Sören held back the urge to recoil from the hand on his head, not wanting to offend Anthony by shrinking from his touch. Anthony could touch him anywhere else and it would be more than fine. But the hair...
To make matters worse, he and Anthony were going to breakfast with Trisha and Vincente at nine AM on Saturday morning, Anthony's decision as he wanted to try to mediate. Sören was not interested in hearing whatever sorry excuses they had, and he was a little annoyed that Anthony was insisting on an intervention, but he was too tired to argue his way out of it. And he knew that Anthony meant well - he really wanted everyone to just get along and be friends. Sören knew it was that hurt little boy part of Anthony that didn't have friends growing up and had them now and desperately wanted to hang onto them, and he ached for that hurt part of him and didn't want to cause him even more hurt. But Sören was dreading tomorrow morning, and that, too, was contributing to his exhaustion. He was done with Trisha and Vincente, and yet he couldn't be done. He had to go into work Saturday afternoon and he couldn't sleep in or relax on his morning off, he had to spend it putting out a trash fire.
Anthony wisely did not bring up the next morning's meeting on the way home, letting Sören eat in peace, and then zone out in the car after he was done eating. Anthony shook him gently when he pulled into the parking stall at their flat, and Sören leaned on him on the way upstairs, every step leaden with exhaustion. Sören took a quick shower to decontaminate, and after they put on pajamas and brushed their teeth they climbed into bed together, Sören too tired to do anything but lay in Anthony's arms and fade. Before Sören could go too far under, Sören felt a little pang of guilt, hoping Anthony wasn't too sexually frustrated. But then Anthony's arms tightened around him and Sören felt a gentle kiss on his brow. "Sleep, love," Anthony said, rubbing his back, and soothed by his touch - and the assurance that Anthony understood he needed his rest - Sören passed out minutes later.
Sören was woken up to another gentle kiss on his brow, and when he smiled he felt kisses fluttering over his face, making him wrinkle his nose and giggle. He opened his eyes to see Anthony, already fully dressed in a steel blue cashmere sweater and dark indigo jeans, sitting on the edge of the bed. Anthony reached over to the bedtable, picked up a mug of coffee, and passed it over to Sören, who accepted it with a mumbled "takk" and inhaled deeply before drinking. Sören glanced over the rim of the mug and saw it was five minutes before eight.
Anthony had let Sören sleep until the last possible minute, and when he finished his coffee Sören scrambled to get ready. Even though it was clear Trisha and Vincente were judgmental of appearance, Sören wasn't going to go out of his way to get somewhat dressed up for them, and indeed, wearing jeans and a T-shirt felt like an act of defiance in the face of their judgment. He put on faded jeans and his Joy Division shirt over a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and cringed when he looked at himself in the mirror and saw his short hair. He still wasn't used to it.
Sören had a thermos of coffee in the car on the way to the restaurant - even though they'd be ordering coffee with breakfast, Sören was not a morning person and he was still exhausted from yesterday. Anthony was quiet on the way to the restaurant, letting Sören wake up, but he kept looking over at Sören and noticed him tensing, as Sören was not in the mood to deal with two of his least favorite people, and especially not first thing in the morning. And as they approached the restaurant, Anthony reached over and put a hand on Sören's knee, strong and reassuring. Sören covered Anthony's hand with his, rubbing and patting it.
"I love you," Anthony said softly.
"I love you too."
The restaurant was a quaint little gingerbread house cottage with climbing roses on the roof that would bloom later in the month, and a garden with a pagoda out back and tables for those who wanted to eat al fresco, but it was too chilly on this March morning. Trisha and Vincente were already at a table when they got there, and Anthony pulled out a chair for Sören before taking his own seat. The furniture was all wood and the tables were set with baskets of fresh flowers and Sören saw some of the patrons eating on floral china. Sören thought the restaurant was a bit twee but he was also relieved that it didn't seem ridiculously upscale and he wasn't getting any dirty looks for showing up in a T-shirt and jeans, and he wondered if Anthony had negotiated the meeting place beforehand.
Sören immediately grabbed a menu and hid his face in it, not wanting to even look at the couple seated across from him, and he decided he was going to have a big stack of pancakes. There was an awkward silence, and after the waitress came to take their order and their menus the silence was even more awkward, with the four just looking at each other and their coffee cups.
Finally Anthony broke the silence. "So... you all know why you're here."
"Yes." Vincente cleared his throat, and then he put out his hand to Sören. "Sören, I'm really sorry about what happened when we took you out."
Sören didn't take his hand, and after a minute Vincente withdrew it, looking uncomfortable. Sören raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"
Trisha frowned. "Look, Sören. I'm sorry that you feel like we did this intentionally -"
Sören noticed that was a non-apology - I'm sorry you feel that way rather than an admission of wrongdoing. He pursed his lips, restraining the urge to come back at her right away.
"- but really, truly, we want to be friends." Trisha gave a thin smile that did not meet her eyes, and Sören wondered how many times Trisha had given that same smile in court or in chambers with clients or opposing counsel. "We'd like a second chance, if you're willing to give it."
"I dunno." Sören sipped his coffee.
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose and he gave Sören a pleading look. "Sören, they apologized. Could you... give them another chance?"
"Do you see this?" Sören tugged on his short curls. "Do you understand how upsetting this is to me?"
"And it was an accident," Anthony said; Trisha and Vincente nodded solemnly.
I'm sure you've said that about people you've defended in court who were guilty as fuck, too. Sören sipped more coffee. He didn't like that Anthony was trying to defend them to his own partner; Sören felt like it was minimizing his pain, somehow. Like his friends' need to not be the bad guy in this is greater than my need to not have to put up with people who make me uncomfortable.
"I can't give you your hair back," Trisha said, "but maybe we could treat you to lunch or dinner sometime."
Vincente nodded again. "Before this little incident happened -"
Sören's eyes widened and he felt himself giving them a death glare. He put his coffee down on the table and his fists clenched. Little incident? But before he could scream, Anthony made a "wait" gesture and then reached for Sören's hand under the table.
"- Trisha and I were talking about inviting you guys to go on some double dates with us," Vincente went on.
"Oh yes. We belong to a steampunk club that meets once a month and it is so much fun, you should really join us sometime," Trisha said.
Steampunk wasn't really Sören's thing, and in over a year of being with Anthony he'd never seen Anthony express interest in it either, but it was out of the ordinary enough that it disarmed Sören for a moment - not something people talked about every day in his presence, and it made Sören wonder if maybe there was more depth to Trisha and Vincente than he'd given them credit for. "Steampunk, huh?" Sören picked up his coffee again.
"Of course, going to the meetings involves getting in costume, but we'd be happy to help with costuming, if Anthony doesn't already have appropriate suits in his wardrobe."
More showing off with clothes. Sören fought an eyeroll.
"But it's not just about the clothes," Trisha said, as if she somehow could tell how Sören was reacting internally. "I adore Jules Verne, the His Dark Materials series by Philip Pullman, books by Michael Moorcock, all of that."
Sören tried not to guffaw at the surname "Moorcock" and he glanced over at Anthony, who swallowed his coffee hard. They exchanged glances, both trying to keep straight faces, but Anthony's eyes were laughing. Then Sören's attention turned back to being surprised Trisha actually read, but then she'd mentioned being in theatre in public school. "You like to read, já?"
"Yes, though my preference is really for modern authors who write steampunk or literature from the Regency Era or the Victorian period. Like think Jane Austen..."
Sören fought another eyeroll at the mention of Jane Austen, having tried to read her years ago and finding her stories incredibly boring as well as classist in a way that turned his stomach. He decided to be polite and focus on what he liked rather than criticize what he didn't but someone else did like. "I like the Brontë sisters. Jane Eyre is one of my favorite books."
"Oh, that. I never cared for Jane Eyre, myself."
No, you wouldn't. Sören sipped his coffee.
The waitress came with their meals - a fruit plate for Trisha, a full English breakfast for Vincente, a cheese omelette with rye toast and hash browns for Anthony, and a stack of pancakes and side of bacon for Sören.
"The history of that time period is also really interesting," Trisha said before she nibbled on a forkful of melon.
Sören couldn't completely hate someone who liked history, much as he wanted to hate her. He wondered if he had misjudged her as a snob, and if she was in fact actually as much of a nerd as Anthony was in private and that might be why they'd been friends all this time. Sören felt a small prickle of guilt, but he was still wary, not entirely convinced yet that Trisha was telling the truth that the haircut had been accidental rather than malicious.
"All of the events around the world, the intrigues of famous people who shaped the culture of the 19th century, and the scientific advancements," Trisha said, waving a forkful of banana slices back and forth like she was a conductor with an orchestra. "And little details too, like the language of flowers that people used to communicate discretely in courtship and friendship..."
That was an obscure piece of information - Sören wasn't aware anything like that had even existed, so he was now a little impressed that he'd learned something new.
"I'm rambling, sorry." Trisha shoved banana in her mouth.
"No, it's all right," Sören said. "That's... wow. I didn't think..."
"No, no one thinks the rich blonde bimbo would have academic interests." Trisha scowled.
And then Sören felt even more guilty, like he had in fact misjudged her. There was still a red flag in the back of his head, don't trust it, she studies people for a living and she figured out how to play you, and the non-apology at the beginning of the conversation still rang in his ears, but the wistful puppydog look on Anthony's face - the hurt little boy part of him that just wanted everyone to be friends - made Sören reach under the table and squeeze Anthony's knee, and then he sighed and said, "All right. A second chance."
"Thank you, Sören," Vincente said, smiling.
"Yes, thank you." Trisha met his eyes, but hers were cold, watchful. "We really appreciate it."
Anthony squeezed Sören's knee back, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Once again Sören got off work at eleven PM, and Anthony was there to pick him up, with a bag of food. Sören ate in the car and Anthony kept silent, letting Sören eat and decompress, but when they were halfway home, Anthony finally broke the silence.
"Thank you for..." Anthony's voice trailed off and he looked back at the road, swallowing hard. "You know."
"Being willing to give them a second chance?"
Anthony nodded. "Yeah."
Sören sighed. He wasn't entirely happy about it - he was still wary of them, and he was still vaguely displeased with Anthony for interfering - but then he thought of the puppydog look Anthony gave him in the restaurant, and what he knew of the lonely, hurt boy who just wanted friends, and was so needy for friendship that he was willing to accept the crumbs of shallow people. He leaned over and kissed Anthony's cheek. "I did it because I love you." That answer was as true as any.
"Well, I love you, a lot." Then Anthony's brow furrowed with concern. "You look exhausted, darling."
"God." Sören facepalmed, and rubbed his face, even though he still felt unclean from work, despite frequent handwashing. "I mean, I worked less hours today, but it's doubling up from the long day yesterday, and not being able to sleep in..." Now it was Sören's turn for his voice to trail off, not wanting Anthony to feel bad about this morning's breakfast. But then he felt a small stab of resentment. He should feel bad. Yet more of my precious, limited time taken up by having to play nice with his shitty friends.
Anthony looked a little sad, as if he did, in fact, feel guilty. He stroked Sören's face. "We'll be home soon, love, and then you can rest."
Sören felt ready to drop by the time they reached the second floor and the door of their flat - he could remember few times in his life when he'd felt this exhausted, more and more leaden, the energy siphoning out of him with every step. As soon as Anthony opened the door, he picked Sören up off the ground, making Sören squeak and giggle as he carried Sören across the threshold into the flat. He closed the door behind them with his hip, and continued carrying Sören down the hall to the bedroom, where he put Sören on the bed and helped him undress.
Despite the heat in Anthony's eyes as he peeled the scrubs from Sören's body, exposing Sören's naked flesh, Sören was too tired for sex. Too tired for life, Sören thought to himself as he stumbled off to the shower. When he got back to the bedroom, a towel around his waist, Anthony was in bed waiting for him, bare chest showing under the covers pulled up. Sören quickly pulled on pajama bottoms and climbed in beside him, and Anthony turned out the light. Sören rolled into Anthony's waiting arms and their legs braided, Anthony petting Sören's hair. As much as having his shorn hair touched was still a sore spot for him, Sören knew Anthony was doing it to be comforting - it was force of habit, Anthony was so used to petting him - and tonight Sören was so far gone into his exhaustion that he melted into Anthony's touch, flexing his fingers and toes like a cat kneading, breathing a little sigh as relief flooded his body.
Then Sören felt a prickle of panic - it was yet another night that they weren't making love, and Sören worried about Anthony being sexually frustrated, especially after having undressed him, remembering the lust on Anthony's face just before he got in the shower. Sören felt like he was being selfish, somehow, and if he wasn't so exhausted he would want sex, himself; he never got bored of making love with Anthony. But he was bone-tired, soul-tired, craving sleep like a drug. He had tomorrow off, and maybe sometime tomorrow, before or after they went to Anthony's parents' house...
I can sleep in tomorrow. Thank fuck. Sören breathed another sigh of relief, and snuggled closer to Anthony, listening to his heartbeat, comforted by the rhythm of the warm breath on his skin.
"I missed you today," Anthony said softly, tracing lazy hearts on Sören's back.
"I missed you too, elskan." Sören gave him a sleepy kiss. "I'm sorry that we're not -"
"You need your rest." Anthony kissed the top of Sören's head and his arms tightened around him. He began to rock Sören, gently. "It's all right, sweetheart. Go to sleep."
Sören is at the hairdresser's again and Jean-Yves hacks off a chunk of his hair. But it feels like he's being stabbed with a hot poker, and Sören's hand flies to his head. When it comes back down Sören sees blood on his hand.
Trisha has a whip and it binds around Sören, holding him in place as Jean-Yves cuts and cuts and cuts his hair. Sören screams in pain, in fear, trying to pelt Jean-Yves with his fists, hit him with any objects within reach, at last finding a pair of scissors and stabbing him with it over and over again, to no avail. Jean-Yves's scissors have become a whip of fire. The hair on the floor starts to burn, and soon everything is on fire, Sören himself is on fire, and he can feel himself rising, rising above the flames, even as he is still burning.
It was just an accident, Trisha's voice mocks him. Just an accident. Just an accident...
Sören is standing on a cliff now, looking out at ships, ships of people who have spoken against him, false friends. Traitors. "Burn them all."
He watches the ships burn, like a Viking funeral.
"Sören. Sören."
Sören's eyes flew open with a gasp. He was drenched in sweat, almost unbearably hot. The sheets were tangled and Sören's heart was racing, hammering in his ears.
"Sören. Honey. You were having a nightmare." Anthony reached out to pet him, and kissed his brow.
"Oh god." Sören felt himself tearing up, and immediately got angry with himself for doing so. I will not cry for these fuckers. But there it was, he couldn't hold back the tears. I'm going to lose Anthony. I'm going to lose Anthony because of them. Things are going to fall apart...
And a truth dropping like a hammer on an anvil. He went away before. He took the first of the traitors. Sören could see the nightmare replaying in his mind's eye, the remnant of traitors that had not gone with Anthony when he left, and he had lost his wife, he had lost Anthony, now his other brother-lover was being an ass and he could feel the madness rising in him, something in him snapping. Burn them all. Burn them all...
"Sweetheart." Anthony spoke softly, as was his wont. "What did you dream about? Maybe talking about it will help."
"Oh god." Sören sobbed louder, ugly crying, making him cry all the harder for how he knew it looked, so embarrassed. And he was getting angrier and angrier with himself, furious with himself for crying about Trisha, furious with his brain for not letting him sleep through a night when he desperately needed it - he looked at the clock and it was 3:17 in the morning. "Oh god. Oh god. Oh god..."
"I mean, you don't have to. But..."
Sören took a few deep breaths. "I dreamt I was burning to death. It's... it's a recurring nightmare I've had, since I was four." That was not a lie; what was different this time was burning up in the hair salon, his curls tinder for the flames.
"Oh no." Anthony frowned with concern and compassion.
"And it was my hair on fire, this time." Sören wasn't going to tell him about the flash into the past - or what felt like the past, anyway - with the burning ships. "It -"
"Oh god." Anthony pulled Sören close and wrapped his arms around Sören, holding him tight, tight, rocking him. Sören felt Anthony shaking with silent tears, and Sören felt like screaming at him You know how much this is upsetting me. Why did you push me to give them a second chance? Why couldn't you have left well enough alone? I'm your partner, you should be on MY side.
But he didn't. Sören remembered his words in the car: I did it because I love you. He thought about the boy who was chased up into the tree, fell out and broke his femur, could have broken his neck or his spine or even died. He found himself tracing the scar on Anthony's left thigh with his thumb, knowing exactly where it was even in the dark. I did it because I love you. Because I love you. In his mind's eye Sören saw a small boy with long silver-gold hair, running excitedly to hug him, scooped off the ground and spun around, carried piggyback. Then the boy as a beautiful man, leonine, fierce, giving him a passionate embrace. It has always been you, the blond man said.
Sören swallowed hard, tears sliding down his cheeks.
"Sören, you know that I... I still love you even with your hair short, right?" Anthony kissed Sören's tears. He took Sören's chin in his hand and looked into his eyes, his own too bright. "And I still want you."
Sören snuffled, feeling his jaw tremble. "I still feel..." He closed his eyes and opened them, eyes rolling up, not wanting to look at the love and compassion in Anthony's eyes; it hurt too much. "Not me. Like when they did that -"
"When the hairdresser did that."
Sören now looked into Anthony's eyes and glared. His nostrils flared. But he was too tired to argue that he still couldn't shake the feeling that despite Trisha's apology - which had really been a non-apology - it was still an act of malice on Trisha's part. "Like they cut off a limb or, I don't know, a piece of myself. I know that sounds daft, but..."
"You're an artist and your hair is part of how you express yourself," Anthony said, nodding.
Why is it you get me so fucking well, better than anyone else has ever gotten me, and yet you're too fucking blind to see what's going on here.
"I just... I hate it." Sören rubbed his head, grimacing at the feel of the short curls. "I know it's such a stupid thing to be upset about this much with all the tragedy happening in the world..."
"No, Sören, I understand." Anthony kissed the tip of Sören's nose. "I wish there was something, anything I could do to make it better."
Sören closed his eyes again and he rolled back into the pillows. He couldn't get back to sleep just yet, he was still too shaken up from the nightmare, but he didn't know what else to do. He felt defeated, like he was fighting some sort of war he didn't even know he'd been dragged into and he'd already lost, somehow.
Sören entered that haze of half-consciousness, too rattled to sleep, but too exhausted to be fully awake. He was vaguely aware of Anthony getting out of bed, leaving a cold, empty place beside him, and Sören made a noise of protest. A few minutes later he heard Anthony walk back in the room, he felt Anthony sit next to him on the bed, and then he heard a "Prrrp?" and felt something hairy or furry hopping on him.
Sören opened his eyes just in time to feel it land on his head, and Anthony grinned at him and gave him a kiss. "There," Anthony said. "George wanted to help."
It was so delightfully ridiculous that Sören threw his arms around Anthony and had a gigglefit, Anthony laughing too. Anthony pet George and said, "That's a good George," and Sören laughed even harder, tearing up and snorting.
"George felt bad for you, didn't you, George?" Anthony asked, and he reached up and lifted up the wig a little, making it nod, and then Anthony made the wig hop down onto Sören's shoulder and headbutt Sören like a cat. "Meow," Anthony said. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."
Sören doubled over, wheezing, his sides hurting, his face hurting. "Oh my god. Anthony. Anthony. Anthony please..."
Anthony laughed with him, and then Sören's laughter turned into crying again, overcome by feeling touched that Anthony wanted to cheer him up like this. He felt guilty for being angry with him. He's a good man. He's my good man. I love him so much...
"Hey," Anthony said, stroking Sören's face. "Hey."
Anthony put George back on Sören's head, making Sören giggle again before he cried some more. Anthony kissed Sören's tears, and then his mouth, and tasting the salt of his tears on Anthony's lips made Sören cry harder, the feeling of loving and being loved, accepted...
"Shhhhhh, it's OK," Anthony soothed. "It's all right. It's going to be all right." Anthony kissed him again.
Sören found himself kissing Anthony back, hungry, felt himself arching to him as his cock stirred, nipples aching.
When Anthony pulled back he looked at Sören in the glow of the nightlight - Sören could feel his own mouth open, breathing harder, could feel his eyes wide - and Anthony gave Sören a look like he wanted to eat him alive before grabbing his face in his hands and kissing him again with fire and fury. Sören moaned into the kiss and Anthony gave a deep groan, and when their mouths pulled apart Sören felt Anthony's hard cock against his thigh and gave a little whimper, hating that he was so tired and yet so needy.
Anthony started kissing Sören's neck, knowing that was one of Sören's weak spots, nibbling when he felt Sören quiver. Anthony reached down to palm the hard bulge in Sören's pajama pants, and after he licked Sören's neck he took out Sören's cock and began playing with it, kissing Sören's neck some more.
"I know what you need," Anthony husked. "Let me give you what you need. Let me take you to a better place for awhile."
"Please," Sören whispered.
Their mouths met again, the kiss deep and fierce. They kissed and kissed, and then Anthony's kisses trailed along Sören's jaw, back to his neck. Kissing, nibbling, licking, making Sören pant and whimper and tremble, at last digging his nails into Anthony's hips. "Please," Sören repeated.
Anthony smiled just before he licked and nibbled at Sören's collarbone. Then he kissed his way down to Sören's nipples and feasted, licking around and around a nipple, lashing his tongue, suckling hard, then teasing with light, slow strokes before tugging the ring with his teeth and sucking some more. He went back and forth, over and over again, until Sören's nipples were peaked, swollen, glistening, and his cock was dripping precum. Anthony slid down, kissing lower, kissing, licking and nibbling Sören's stomach, and then a thigh.
He finally took Sören's cock into his mouth, meeting Sören's eyes as he swallowed it down inch by inch. When Sören was buried in Anthony's throat he gasped, shuddering, and clutched Anthony's head.
"Mmmmmmmm." Anthony let the cock glide in and out of his mouth, working his tongue as he sucked, kissing it. "Mmmmmmhmmmmm."
"Oh god." It felt incredible; Sören arched to him again, panting, shivering as he broke out into gooseflesh. He heard himself whimper.
Anthony sucked him slowly, teasing his cock, Sören getting more and more lost in the sweet surrender, all of his pain and anxiety temporarily forgotten and replaced by pleasure. Soon Sören was writhing, his cries getting louder, hips rolling, gently fucking Anthony's mouth. Then Anthony sucked him harder, faster, growling as he sucked, like he was devouring Sören, starving for him. Sören's keening whimpers became shuddery gasps, not able to make words, not able to make sounds at all, the only thing that existed was the feel of Anthony's mouth around him, Anthony's passion for him, taking away his pain, fighting the fire of his nightmares with the fire of their love.
Sören got closer, closer, his body desperate for release, but also wanting to stay lost in this ecstasy for as long as possible, nothing better. He felt his balls tightening, the tension coiling in him, winding and winding deeper and higher. His thighs were quivering, foot thumping as he edged closer.
Anthony took Sören's cock out of his mouth, gave him a knowing look, and took a long lick from the head down the shaft to the root, and back up again. He traced the veins in Sören's cock with his tongue as Sören gasped, shaking, and then he licked around and around the head. Chased drops of precum down the shaft with his tongue, and swirled his tongue around the head some more. He licked at Sören's foreskin, fluttered and rubbed his tongue on the sensitive frenulum as he cupped and rolled Sören's balls in his hand. Sören grabbed the headboard, whimpering again, keening, sobbing with frustrated bliss, going out of his mind with pleasure so intense it almost hurt.
"So fucking hot," Anthony whispered before he licked around the head of Sören's cock again, licked up and down like he was enjoying an ice cream cone. There was a teasing, amused look on his face, such naughty innocence that Sören had the urge to just throw him down and pound into him. But then his cock was in Anthony's mouth again, Anthony sucking slow, focusing on the head as his hand rubbed the shaft, and Sören couldn't even think. Just feel.
"Mmmmmmmmm." Their eyes met again, and held. Anthony took Sören's cock out of his mouth, slapped it against his tongue a few times, making streamers with Sören's precum, and after a few more teasing licks he put the head of the cock back in his mouth, sucking, kissing. "Mmmmmmmmmm..."
"Oh god." Sören found his words now, giving a shuddery sigh. "Oh god. Anthony. Anthony."
"Mmmmhmmmm." Now Anthony was taking more of Sören's cock in his mouth, the cock sliding in and out again, as Anthony continued to play with Sören's balls. "Mmmmm."
"Ahhhh." Sören lost his words again, trying to find them, and instead babble came out of his mouth. "Ahhh. Raaa. Ara. Ara..."
"Mmmmhmmmm, mmmmm." Anthony sucked harder, faster. Through the haze of rutting fever Sören saw Anthony's left shoulder moving, and realized Anthony was stroking himself as he sucked.
That made Sören even hotter. He grabbed Anthony's head and started fucking his mouth again. "Oh god. Ahhhh." And there it was again, the babble. "Ara. Ara. Ara. Ara..."
"Mhmmmm. Mmmmm, mhmmmm." Anthony knew Sören was getting closer, and started sucking him for all he was worth.
The sound of Anthony sucking him sent Sören hurtling towards that edge. Their eyes met again and Sören felt himself right there, ready to fly. "Oh god. Oh shit. Oh fuck..." Sören let out a helpless whimper, feeling his cock throbbing, jolting, the pressure starting to release.
"Mmmmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm," Anthony encouraged.
And then Sören let go, screaming. "Oh fuck, Anthony! Ahhhh!" A tortured sob of, "Ara, ara! Fuck!"
"Mmmmmmf," Anthony moaned with his mouth full and then Sören saw him shaking, and Anthony let out a deep "mmmmmmmmmm" before he swallowed it down, and then there was the telltale shuddery sigh, the flutter of his eyes, heat in his eyes with his mouth open, lips and chin wet from Sören's seed.
You are so beautiful when you come. And Sören was touched by the fact that Anthony loved doing this to him enough that it made him come too.
"There," Anthony said, coming up to kiss Sören, letting him taste himself, and then he gathered Sören back in his arms, rocking him. "How's that?"
"Much better," Sören said, nodding. He giggled and said, "Just what the doctor ordered."
"Mmmm, I'm glad." Anthony kissed the tip of Sören's nose.
Sören's orgasm was intense enough that the sleepiness started to set in, rather than his body craving another round, more of the delicious pleasure. But he felt something hot and heavy on his head, and then he realized he was still wearing the wig. He grabbed the wig and took it off, and promptly fell into hysterics, laughing so hard he snorted and teared up, his entire body shaking.
"You... you gave me a blowjob while I was wearing your wig," Sören said.
"Oh my god." Anthony facepalmed, realizing what he'd done. "Oh my fucking god."
Even in the glow of the nightlight, Sören could tell Anthony was turning beetroot. "Did you... did you not notice?"
"I was paying more attention to your face and your cock," Anthony said, also laughing. "Oh dear god..."
"Wow. Wow, Anthony. What would your colleagues think if -"
"Oh no, don't tell them."
Like I even have conversations with your fucking friends. "No, no worries. But... you know." And the flare of anger was replaced by hilarity again. "That's kinky even for us."
Anthony facepalmed again and wheezed, shaking the entire bed with the force of his laughter. "Sören, I swear to god."
Sören put the wig back on his head and started singing the Rick James song. "He's a very kinky guy, the kind you don't take home to motha... he will never let your spirits down, once you get him off the street."
"Oh no. Oh no."
"He's a super freak, super freak, he's supah frea-kay, yow."
"This is even worse with you wearing the wig." Anthony grinned. "Hold on, let me get my phone and take a vid."
Sören cracked up laughing again, and then he mustered the most serious, dignified look on his face when Anthony turned the cell phone camera on him, before Sören launched back into song. "That boy is pretty wild now, that boy's a super freak. The kind of boy you read about, in legal magazines. That boy is pretty kinky, the boy's a super freak. I'd really like to taste him, every time we meet." And then Sören belted it out. "HE'S ALL RIGHT, HE'S ALL RIGHT. HE'S ALL RIGHT WITH ME. Yeah! He's a super freak, super freak, he's supah freak-ay, yow."
Anthony howled, struggling to keep the camera on Sören as he shook with laughter. Then Sören scowled into the camera and said, "I'm Rick James, bitch."
Anthony buried his face in the pillows, sobbing with laughter.
"Man, FUCK YO COUCH," Sören yelled.
"...This isn't a couch, Sören."
"All right then, FUCK YO BED," Sören said, as Anthony sat up so the camera could get footage of Sören, naked and debauched, still wearing the wig, kicking the bed.
Anthony turned off the phone and collapsed onto Sören, cry-laughing. "Why are you like this?"
"Because I'm Rick James, bitch." When they calmed down, Sören shrugged. "I don't know, but I should ask you that question since, you know, you're the one who went down like the Titanic with me wearing this here wig."
Anthony shook his head. "What can I say? You're so fucking sexy that you're even hot wearing that ridiculous fucking wig."
"Or maybe you have a secret fetish..."
Anthony gave Sören a death glare and then he was in hysterics again, spluttering as Sören gigglesnorted. Then Sören took the wig off his head and played with it, running his fingers through the curls. "So this is a fucking wig now?"
"You," Anthony said, "are. Terrible."
"Takk."
"You. Also need some sleep." Anthony glowered at the clock and then gave Sören a stern look before raising an eyebrow.
"Oh all right. Twist my arm, why don't you." Then Sören yawned loudly, showing how tired he really was.
Anthony yawned too. "Shit."
Anthony put the wig on the bedtable and they tangled up together, legs entwined, holding each other. Anthony rubbed Sören's back, and in the shield wall of Anthony's chest and arms, Sören felt himself relax, safe and at peace with the man he loved. Maybe things will be OK. I should trust his judgment more.
Sören closed his eyes, gave a deep sigh, and fell back asleep.
The next day when Sören woke up, Anthony wasn't there, and Sören found a handwritten note by the bed.
I went for a run. (I had to do something physical because you got me all horny again and you looked too peaceful and beautiful sleeping to disturb.)
Back in a bit!
Sören giggled and scooped up the note from the bedtable, breathing in Anthony's scent before pressing the note to his heart. He tucked it in the box with all of the other love notes from Anthony, and the dried petals from different flower bouquets.
When he came back in the bedroom he saw the wig was still on the bedtable, and he took it out into the kitchen, putting the wig on top of the canister of sugar they used for coffee and tea, waiting to see how long before Anthony would notice.
Anthony got in a little while later, looking sweaty and delicious, and Sören's cock throbbed at the sight of him. But despite Anthony's profession of arousal in the note, he didn't try for sex right away - he got water from the fridge, and started making tea. Sören waited in the living room, looking across at Anthony in the kitchen, and finally Anthony saw it and he facepalmed, leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing.
"I think we need to teach George better habits," Sören said. "We can't have our... um... wig... trying to eat sugar."
Anthony wheezed.
Their romp that afternoon put Sören in a better mood - enough that he was up for some mischief. When he returned to work on Monday morning he knew Anthony didn't have court, so he took the wig with him, and on his afternoon break he took the wig with him to Queen's Square, snapping a photo of George sitting on a low branch of a tree, and texted Anthony with it. It's George of the Not-Jungle.
Sören snapped some more pictures, taking George to the playground and putting him on a swing, sending George down the slide. He took selfies of himself wearing George, including one of himself giving the V, making a face.
Later that evening when he and Anthony were relaxing, having tea, Sören took out his cell phone. "I have something to show you," Sören said.
"I bet you do." Then Anthony's eyebrows went up at the desktop wallpaper on Sören's cell phone. "Kitty?"
"That's Pusheen!" It was a chubby grey cartoon cat, with stubby paws. "I like Pusheen a lot. And Hello Kitty, but especially Pusheen. That's not what I wanted to show you, though."
"OK." Anthony nodded, and gave a wistful little sigh. "I want a cat."
"So do I." Sören frowned. "It sucks that we work ourselves to death."
"Yeah, it really does." Anthony's brow furrowed. "I'd really like a grey tabby."
"Well, in the meantime we have this pet." Sören showed him the latest gallery of George. "He got some fresh air."
Anthony leaned on Sören, laughing. "Sören..."
"Jæja?"
Anthony took Sören's chin in his hand and gave him a little kiss. "Don't change." He stroked Sören's face, his eyes soft. "You've got a beautiful innocence to you. Between... this silliness... and that cute cartoon cat -"
"Pusheen."
"Pusheen." Anthony nodded, and Sören swore he could see the gears in Anthony's head turning, committing it to memory and reference. Then Anthony's attention was on Sören again. "I see so much darkness in my line of work, and you..." He put his hand on Sören's heart. "You are the light of the world."
Sören sighed, feeling choked up at Anthony's words, deeply touched. And then he spoke the deepest truth he knew, remembering how safe he felt in Anthony's arms on Saturday night, Anthony's fire calling to his own. "You are my light."
And Sören felt a shiver down his spine then, breaking out into gooseflesh... the feeling that he'd said those exact words to Anthony before, in the dream time.
"Jesus Christ, where are they," Anthony grumbled. He pushed up the sleeve of his navy blue suit to check the time on his Rolex. Sören glanced over and saw it was 8:17.
Sören and Anthony weren't the only two people wearing suits at the art show - Anthony had picked out the burgundy suit for Sören - but it was also nowhere near as filled with suits and designer dresses as Trisha had claimed it would be; many of the attendants were in preppy casual clothing like sweaters and chinos, and there were a few people wearing exactly the sort of outfit Sören had originally planned on, leather pants and some sort of poet shirt or peasant blouse. A couple of people dressed like refugees from Adam and the Ants, in highwayman outfits with elaborate makeup. Sören once again felt a prickle of resentment, that he'd been dragged out to get a suit he didn't even need and had lost his hair in the process.
But now he just felt stung, not really able to enjoy the attention given to his art, and hearing the occasional compliment, as the minutes wore on and Jack, Trisha and Vincente were nowhere to be found. Five or ten minutes late, Sören could understand - traffic in London could be awful sometimes, especially on a busy Friday night. But twenty going on thirty minutes...
Underneath his suit, Sören was wearing a black lace thong and the vibrating buttplug. He felt the vibration start inside him, as if Anthony knew Sören was getting wound up and this was his attempt at distracting him.
Then Sören heard a vibration that wasn't the plug. Anthony's eyes widened and he reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Sören watched as Anthony checked it, and then he frowned. "That was Jack," Anthony said. "He ended up taking a nap after work and waking up late, and he doesn't feel like going out. He sends his apologies."
Sören sighed. He couldn't necessarily blame Jack if he'd had a hard week, and at least Jack was being honest that he didn't feel up to it, which was understandable, though a bit hypocritical, Sören thought with another sting piercing him, considering how many times Sören had been dragged along to spend time with Anthony's friends when he just wanted to relax at home, putting in the kinds of hours he did.
Then Anthony's phone vibrated again. Sören watched Anthony step off to the side, frown intensifying into a scowl as he checked the text messages, and Sören saw him type back. A moment later Anthony was at his side again.
"Trisha has a migraine," Anthony said, "so she won't be coming either."
"Oh, does she." That's convenient.
"Yeah and Vincente is looking after her." Anthony gave Sören's shoulder a squeeze. "I'm sorry."
"Whatever," Sören mumbled, and then he hoped Anthony didn't hear that.
He truly wanted to give Trisha the benefit of the doubt, he knew that even though Trisha worked Commercial Law her job was still high-stress and now the weather was changing, with winter fading to spring, the trees just starting to bud, so stress or allergies or perhaps both could truly be causing a migraine. But it also seemed a little too convenient, and if the misunderstanding with Jean-Yves and Sören's haircut had in fact been a "misunderstanding" and an act of malice on Trisha's part, then it wasn't wrong to assume she'd be the type of person to snub him on such an important night.
Sören also found himself getting annoyed with himself. Like I need their fucking support. I'm not their friend, they're Anthony's friends. He still felt rejected all the same.
Elaine made a beeline for them, beaming. She was wearing a navy blue pantsuit with a white camisole and Sören blinked - the resemblance between Elaine and Anthony was even more obvious now. Elaine took Sören into his arms and kissed both cheeks, European style, and then pulled back with her hands on his shoulders, giving him a warm smile with tears in her eyes.
"I'm so proud of you," Elaine said.
Sören got choked up too, touched by Elaine's pride. Like the mother I never had. He didn't want to fall apart in the crowd, feeling even more fragile than usual with the probable-snub from Anthony's friends. "Hi So Proud Of You, I'm -"
Elaine tousled Sören's hair. Then she looked around at the gallery, with Sören's art on display, before turning back to Sören. "Your art looks even more magnificent in full-sized prints, framed and hanging up."
"It really does," Anthony said, putting an arm around Sören. He leaned in to kiss Sören's cheek. "I'm proud of you too," he husked, taking Sören's chin in his fingers and tilting Sören's head to face him, to see the love shining in his eyes.
As much as Sören wanted to be angry with Anthony for having shitty friends and shoving them on him, Sören couldn't be angry with him right now. He could feel Anthony's love, his pride in Sören's work, his joy, celebrating.
And normally, Sören would also be celebrating. Einar had called his work shit, had called him shit, and here he was proving all of that wrong, as people made the rounds of his work on display and marveled at it. "Such attention to detail," one woman breathed, looking awestruck. "Beautiful colors," another man said. "Wow, magical," a woman whispered. "I feel almost like I'm someplace else. It just draws you in, like a portal to another world."
Yet, Sören just felt rejected. He tried to slap that feeling away, to focus on the people admiring his paintings, the people who came to shake his hand and compliment him directly. To focus on the delicious teasing of the plug inside him, the look of lust on Anthony's face when they stole glances at each other. But his thoughts kept coming back to Trisha's "migraine". The injury of the haircut, and now the insult of this. He didn't buy that Trisha had a migraine any more than he bought the haircut had been a "misunderstanding", an "accident", and he was annoyed that Anthony, who was well trained to spot truth from fiction, couldn't see through her bullshit. Or maybe wouldn't see through it, so desperate for friendship that he was willing to turn a blind eye.
To sacrifice his own partner so he can fucking have a clique.
Something that Sören had never had, himself. He got along fine with his co-workers enough to enjoy eating with them in a group at the hospital, but he didn't mix business and his personal life, much as he liked Colin Traynor's company and would want to be friends if they didn't work together. Sören was used to being alone, even if it was lonely, and he didn't understand this need to be part of a pack, even if Anthony seemed to be their alpha by virtue of being a little older, and having a reputation, being somewhat famous - or infamous - in London's legal community.
The sting of rejection kept coming back to him and kept coming back to him and kept coming back to him until it was getting closer to the end of the show and Sören fought the urge to tear out of there, nervous with all the people around. I don't belong anywhere.
Sören kept himself together, until at last the show was over and he and Anthony were in the car, heading back to Kingston. Sören started to cry with a mixture of relief and feeling happy he'd had the show and sad over possible/probable rejection. He kept his tears silent, not wanting Anthony to notice, but of course Anthony did notice.
"Love," Anthony said. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Anthony gave him that knowing, penetrating look, and Sören felt a frisson down his spine. This is what he's like in the courtroom. This is why people are afraid of him. Sören felt like Anthony could see into his soul, all of the wounds and scars exposed, the way he was bleeding out.
"I'm not fine," Sören said honestly.
Sören expected Anthony to press the matter, and he braced himself for an awkward conversation about Trisha and Vincente, possibly even a fight, but Anthony did not ask him to elaborate on why he wasn't fine. Instead, Anthony turned up the vibe to a higher setting. Sören gasped, and moaned as the vibe teased his sensitized prostate, his cock throbbing, dripping precum.
Anthony smirked, that smug little "I own you" expression that Sören found infuriatingly sexy.
Sören's need got stronger and stronger on the ride home, almost unbearable, and by the time they pulled in to the parking stall at their flat, Sören was panting for it, his cock tenting his suit trousers. They made their way up the stairs as quickly as possible, and the moment they stepped into their flat Anthony slammed Sören against the living room wall and kissed him passionately. Sören heard himself whimper into the kiss, his hands reaching out to run over Anthony's chest and back, wanting him so badly he could scream.
Anthony undid Sören's belt, and yanked Sören's trousers and lace thong down, as Sören stepped out of his boots and let the trousers and thong slip to the floor in a haphazard pile. Anthony turned Sören around to remove the plug from his ass, taking a moment to look at the gaping, lubed-up hole with an "mmf", before tracing a finger around the rim of Sören's opening, teasing him even further. Sören gave another whimper, and then Anthony spun him around and shoved Sören back up against the wall, kissing him hungrily as they worked together to take down Anthony's trousers and briefs.
The next thing Sören knew, Anthony was picking him up off the floor, and Sören's legs were around Anthony's waist. He held onto Anthony, his weight supported by leaning against the wall. As they kissed again, Anthony pushed into him, and when Anthony was buried in him to the hilt Sören let out a gasp and then a cry of "Yes..."
Anthony growled and kissed Sören again, rocking into him. Sören held on tighter, letting out little whimpers into the kiss as Anthony's cock stroked him just right, and oh, the passion of being taken this way, the need in them, the hunger, not able to wait. Needing it now, needing it like this. Sören cried out and Anthony gave a deeper groan, growling again as he nipped Sören's lower lip, then his neck. "Fuck, I want you," Anthony rasped.
"I need you," Sören husked, and their eyes met.
It was the truth, the full, honest truth, his soul laid bare. Even as Sören was seething over the rejection from Trisha, and felt like it was ultimately Anthony's fault for pushing his friends on him, Sören couldn't be too angry. He loved Anthony too much. He needed Anthony too much. I need you like life needs life.
Anthony slammed into him harder, and Sören heard himself yelping, howling, whining like an animal in heat, loving the way he was taken, fucked, in wild, hot abandon. Anthony's deeper groans followed Sören's cries, until they were synced, calling out together, until they were kissing deeply, drinking each other's sounds of passion, devouring each other, breathing each other in, one flesh. Sören got closer and the pleasure built higher, and higher, until it was coiled so tight, so tense, that Sören could feel himself ready to break, and still he needed more, needed to feel him, needed to stay in this place of burning, all-consuming love-lust where nothing else mattered, not Trisha, not Einar, not anyone, just them, just their fuck.
When Sören came he shattered, spending all over Anthony's expensive suit, and he gloried in the mess he made, defiling the suave lawyer, who himself seemed to also glory in the wildness of it, a look of utter bliss on his face as he climaxed a few seconds later, and then they laughed together in euphoria.
"Holy fuck," Anthony said, panting, grinning.
"Holy fuck is right." Their eyes met. "My religion is you."
Anthony kissed him again, deeply, sweetly. Sören's arms tightened around Anthony and he sighed into the kiss as Anthony rocked him a little.
Somehow, they made their way to the couch, and Anthony just held Sören on his lap for awhile, cradling him like he was a precious child. "You were magnificent," Anthony said. "I don't just mean up against the wall, there..."
Sören chuckled.
"But... your art." Anthony traced Sören's lips with his thumb, and then he booped Sören's nose, making him smile and giggle. "I feel like I fall in love with you all over again when I look at the things you've made."
"Mmm, it's almost too bad that I couldn't show, you know, those paintings of you, considering your mum..."
Anthony turned beetroot and grinned. "Your love shines through there, too." He stroked Sören's face. "Your love. Your spirit of fire. Your light."
They went to bed and made slow, sweet, sensual love together, Sören taking Anthony on his back and then Anthony taking Sören on his back. After the two rounds they fell asleep, and when Sören woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, he realized that despite the stress of the evening, he hadn't had any nightmares.
He wondered how long that would last.
The day after the show, Sören had to work that Saturday, going in at seven AM, but he was due to come home at seven PM. Anthony drove him to work and would be picking him up when his shift was over, and he and Anthony lingered in the parking lot, making out before Anthony pushed him off with a wicked grin.
"Not fair," Sören said, "getting me all worked up like this." He stuck his tongue out at Anthony.
"Well, I'll be thinking about you." Anthony's wicked grin got even more evil. "Might even take care of myself and tell you about it..."
"Fuck. You."
"I love you too."
They kissed again, and Anthony gave his ass a playful swat on the way out. Sören had a spring in his step as he walked into the National, and the warm glow - that they could still make out like horny teenagers and flirt outrageously, we still got it - stayed with Sören through the first half of his shift.
When Sören took a break for lunch in the cafe, eating with Colin, he was interrupted by a man in jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of a florist company on it, carrying a clipboard. "Mr. Sigurðsson?"
"Jæja?"
"Sign here." The man handed him a pen. As Sören signed on the clipboard, the man reached down and then he put a bouquet of flowers on the table. He took the clipboard and said, "Enjoy," giving a smile as he walked off.
Colin rolled his eyes, though he was smiling. "You two are gonna give me fucking diabetes," Colin said.
Sören grinned at the bouquet - a lovely arrangement of orange lilies, yellow begonias, and red geraniums, all fiery. Sören could hear Anthony's words in his head. My spirit of fire. It was such an Anthony thing to do, sending him a bouquet like this, and Sören pulled out his cell phone, about to text him to say thank you. But then he decided to check the card that came with the bouquet first, peeling off the cream damask card, trimmed with gold foil, from the red tissue paper. He opened the card and he read the note:
I'm sorry I couldn't make it last night. Congrats on your big show and cheers!
-Trisha
Sören's jaw dropped.
"What, what is it, mate," Colin asked.
"They're not from Anthony."
Colin howled. "You mean you got someone else chasing after you? Hot damn -"
"No, it's not like that." Sören scowled. Then his mouth opened again. He couldn't believe it. Trisha sent me flowers. What the fuck.
He put the bouquet in the break room with a note, intending to pick it up when his shift was finished. When he went back to work, he was still unsettled by the bouquet - he felt a glimmer of hope, like maybe Trisha's migraine was in fact real and she hadn't intentionally snubbed him, maybe she really did want to be friends. He still didn't like her, but he also wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt and not be judgmental, remembering Trisha's words at their breakfast a week ago: No one thinks the rich blonde bimbo would have academic interests. Sören would have likely judged Anthony too, if they'd met under different circumstances, and Anthony turned out to be the love of his life. Maybe Trisha wasn't so bad.
And yet, something nagged at him. Something felt off, still, and Sören wasn't sure what.
Sören had another break a few hours later, a shorter one. As he sat outside to get some fresh air, he played solitaire on his phone, thinking about the flowers Trisha sent him, still dumbfounded, and then he felt the light bulb go off in his head. He heard her voice in his head again: The history of that time period is also really interesting... little details like the language of flowers that people used to communicate discretely in courtship and friendship...
Sören quit the solitaire game and pulled up the Internet on his phone. He typed "Victorian language of flowers" into Google and waited. He scrolled down, picked a site from the search results, and braced himself as the page loaded.
After scrolling up and down a few times, he figured it out, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Orange lilies meant hatred, begonias meant beware, and geraniums meant stupidity or folly.
It might just be a coincidence. I mean, the flowers look fiery together, she's seen the ink on my arm, or maybe Anthony told her I have this thing with fire.
But it didn't feel like a coincidence, especially next to the other things. The convenient migraine, or "migraine" that kept Trisha from going to Sören's art show, so Sören spent the evening feeling rejected and not able to really celebrate his first show. The haircut.
Sören swallowed hard. He was shaking like a leaf, his heart hammering in his ears.
When he got back in, he marched right to the break room and threw the bouquet in the trash and walked away, not looking back.
It was only later, just before Anthony came to pick him up, that Sören realized he should have saved it to bring home, and show Anthony look, this is evidence that she hates me, but he wondered if Anthony would himself insist it was just a coincidence - after all, it was Anthony's job to defend guilty people for a living. And when Sören looked in the trash, realizing his mistake and knowing he should save the evidence, he saw it had already been emptied, the bouquet gone. He didn't want to bring it up to Anthony without having the bouquet in hand, physical proof; he didn't want to just tell Anthony I got a weird bouquet from Trisha and sound like he was making something up.
"Fuck," Sören growled.
All the way home, Sören felt uneasy, unable to relax despite Anthony playing smooth jazz in the car, the promise of a bubble bath and back rub when they got in. Rain was falling on the windshield, and Sören could feel the storm gathering inside him. The question was no longer if, but when, the thunder would roll. When the lightning would strike and set everything ablaze.
chapter 35 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index