It was a hot Friday afternoon in June, and Sören couldn't wait to get home. He'd been working since eleven o'clock last night, and it was now three PM and Sören felt dead on his feet. He'd considered texting Anthony to ask for a ride home and waiting at the National an additional three hours, but he couldn't take another minute in that place, so he made himself ride the train and trudge in the heat and humidity from the Kingston train station to their flat. By the time Sören got upstairs he was soaked in sweat and felt ready to drop.
He resisted the urge to just undress and climb into bed, marching into the shower. He decided on a cool shower, and for a few minutes he just stood under the water, leaning against the shower wall, hearing himself make tired noises.
As tired as he was, the cool shower woke him up a little, and having iced coffee from a pitcher in the fridge - a treat on a hot day like this - woke him up even more. He curled up on the couch in pajama shorts, shirtless, and for awhile he just zoned out to the BBC News, only half-paying attention.
At last his Wacom tablet, resting on the coffee table, beckoned to him.
He'd been doing a lot more art as of late, since the day the patient died on his table in April, and even more since Dag visited and went back in May, which seemed to rip open the wound that was missing his family, and feeling all alone in London except for Anthony - alone and adrift. And more often as of late, he'd been working on art even when he was tired and would normally jump at the chance for extra sleep. Something in him burned, his list of ideas expanding and expanding, producing more and more new pieces. He tried to explain it to himself - and when Anthony occasionally expressed concern at Sören staying up longer than he should with the tablet - by saying he had an art show in July, and he wanted to showcase new pieces as well as some of what people had seen at the previous one in March.
But the truth was, it was an escape. Art took him somewhere else. It made him forget that feeling of loss and loneliness.
He lost all track of time as his stylus glided over the tablet, bringing the visions in his head to life in vibrant, surreal, ramped-up color, like oversaturated Pre-Raphaelites with more than a touch of fantasy, otherworldliness. This afternoon he was working on the ship burning he'd seen in his dreams - his nightmares - and the other-him watching, commanding, using some sort of magical power to control the fire, madness in his eyes. Long hair whipping about him as the wind fanned the flames. Long hair. Not cut off. The fire burned through him like the baking heat outside.
He was still working on the painting when Anthony got in. Anthony was on the phone, and judging from his relaxed tone, it was someone he knew and not work. Anthony gave a quick wave to Sören as he made his way to the kitchen to get some iced coffee from the pitcher. Just as he opened the door to the fridge, Sören cleared his throat and said, "Wash your hands."
Anthony's eyebrows shot up. He closed the door to the fridge, held the phone away from his ear and said, "I beg your pardon?"
"Wash. Your. Hands. You've been out there dealing with the public and their germs all day. You shake your clients' hands. Jesus Christ, Anthony, it's been almost two years, this should be force of habit now, especially before you go contaminate anything in the damn fridge."
"Can you excuse me for a moment?" Anthony told the person on the phone.
Then Anthony gave him a look as he pushed up his sleeves, took off his Rolex watch and set it on the counter, and proceeded to wash his hands at the kitchen sink, the thorough, like-a-doctor way Sören had shown him soon after he'd moved in over a year and a half ago. Sören felt a little bad for nagging him, nor did he want Anthony to feel like he was being shamed - it wasn't that Anthony was an unclean person, it was something that a lot of people who weren't doctors forgot to do unless it was cold/flu season, but Sören was irritated that he still had to occasionally remind Anthony of this. Especially when Anthony was handling his cell phone, a breeding ground for bacteria.
"That cell phone needs to be sterilized later," Sören muttered, continuing to brush color with his stylus.
"Can I... call you back?" Anthony asked the person on the phone, and Sören heard what sounded like Jack's voice, and then Anthony said, "Oh. OK. Well... yes, I think I can make it. Eight-thirty, you said? Mhm. OK. I'll see you then."
Anthony ended the call, and then he and Sören gave each other a long look. "Hello to you too," Anthony said.
"Was that Jack?" Sören asked, feeling irritation at the edge in his voice, and also at that being what came out, instead of returning Anthony's greeting.
"It was," Anthony said. "He's invited us to go to the pub with the squad tonight, around eight-thirty."
Sören put his tablet down on the coffee table - he resisted the urge to throw it - and he sat on the edge of the couch, hands between his knees, staring at the tablet for a moment before looking up, feeling the fire rising, burning even hotter, feeling his fists clench involuntarily. "Anthony... do you remember what time I went to work last night?"
"Eleven PM."
"Do you know what time I got off work today?"
Anthony shook his head.
"Three PM. As in, I worked sixteen hours. And you already said yes to him...?"
"I didn't realize you'd be working sixteen hours -"
Sören could hear his accent getting stronger as he spoke, his heart beating faster, and he knew his body language was defensive and all the little warning bells in his head were telling him to calm down, but he couldn't be calm. He was angry now. You're a brilliant lawyer, you've trained to observe for a living, and you don't get it? Really? Why are you so shit at figuring people out outside the courtoom? "Except, again, you've been with me almost two years and you know I have worked sixteen-hour shifts before, and you know that although it's not an everyday occurrence, it's not an uncommon occurrence either and I'm pretty well guaranteed to have to that kind of shift at least once or twice every fortnight. So you already said yes to him and -"
"Well, you could have taken a nap, to be more rested for the evening -"
"You know as well as I do that sometimes I can, sometimes I can't. As of late, it's been harder to shut my mind off immediately when I get home from work." Sören leaned back against the couch and folded his arms. "And it's harder for me to sleep on hot afternoons like this one, even with central air. And even if I had taken a nap, when I've worked a sixteen-hour shift and I have to go right back to work tomorrow, the very last thing I want to do is go out and be social for a few hours." Especially not some posh place calling itself a "pub" when it's for trendy idiots with money.
Anthony sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sören, sweetheart, darling, love, I don't want to fight with you." He gave Sören a sympathetic look. "No, I didn't realize that you wouldn't be in the mood to go out when Jack offered. I assumed that having a couple of drinks might help relax you, and... that was an incorrect assumption, clearly."
"Clearly."
Anthony sighed again. "My hands are clean. Would you like some iced coffee while I'm in the fridge?"
"Já, takk."
Anthony nodded, and poured them each a glass of iced coffee. He took his suit jacket off, walked into the hall presumably to put it in the queue for the dry cleaner, and then he came back and brought the coffee over to Sören, taking a seat next to him on the couch. Anthony looked over at what Sören had been drawing on the tablet, and then he leaned in and gave Sören a kiss on the cheek. Sören felt a pang of guilt and kissed him back. As Sören drank his coffee, Anthony asked, "Mind if I take a look?"
"I do, because it's not finished yet."
"Oh. I didn't realize. It looked done -"
"It's not done."
At the hurt look Anthony gave him, now it was Sören's turn to sigh. "I'm just... putting my damn foot in it all over the place today," Sören said.
The painting was close to being done, and to anyone who wasn't him it likely would be "good enough" to be declared finished, but Sören was a bit of a perfectionist and obsessed with detail when it came to his art, and as of late had spent hours tweaking things that might seem minor and consequential to others but had to be just so to get it right, with the way his vision was versus the way it translated when given form. But of course Anthony wouldn't understand that - he wasn't a mind reader, and Sören realized it was unfair to take that tone with Anthony and assume he'd know it wasn't done.
Sören put his coffee down and wrapped his arms around Anthony, who leaned on him. "I'm sorry. It's hot. I'm overtired and cranky. I should take a nap or something but I..." He gestured to the tablet.
"I understand, I think. I've had enough sleepless nights in my own career, after all. I just worry about you not getting enough rest." Anthony rubbed noses with Sören. Then he gave Sören a concerned look. "You haven't eaten yet either, have you?"
"Ugh, not since noon or so, and it wasn't a big meal. Just a sandwich at the cafe and some yogurt."
"Well, I was going to eat something at the pub, but I can make you a couple of grilled cheese if you -"
Normally Sören wouldn't turn down an opportunity to eat one of his favorite foods, but he already felt bad for snapping at Anthony, and Anthony cooking for him would make him feel worse, like he didn't deserve Anthony's kindness. "You need to get ready. I'll, ah. Order delivery or something."
"I could bring you back something from the pub but that would be late and you should eat before then."
"It's OK. Like I said, I can order delivery."
"OK."
There were a few quiet moments as they drank their iced coffee, and then Sören felt bad again for snapping at him, and he put his empty tumbler down on the coffee table and hugged Anthony tight. "I love you," Sören said.
Anthony smiled and kissed the tip of Sören's nose. "I love you too." He looked into Sören's eyes and stroked his cheek. "I missed you last night."
"I missed you too."
"Anything exciting happen on the night shift?"
"Oh, you know. Emergency trauma surgery, head wound." Sören exhaled sharply, seeing the carnage in his mind's eye. "Poor bastard in a car accident."
"Jesus."
Sören nodded. "I'm never in a good mood after I see that shit."
"Well, if I become too impaired to drive, you know me, I'll have my car towed home and take a taxi." Anthony cupped Sören's chin and stroked it. "But I don't like to get that impaired in public, most of the time."
"I know."
They cuddled together for a little while, and Sören felt a little more at ease, but when Anthony got up to take a shower and get ready, Sören felt the return of the anger, wishing Anthony didn't have to go out with those people, wishing they could just get delivery and snuggle and make love and go to bed. He tried to keep his tone pleasant and disguise the irritation when Anthony kissed him goodbye, but as soon as he heard Anthony's Audi drive off, Sören let out a "tillitslaus fáviti" under his breath.
A few minutes after Anthony left, Sören called the Italian place for delivery, and ate most of a small pizza by himself. Then he resumed working on the tablet, even though he knew he should go to bed. He needed to channel his frustration into something, or he'd lay awake, tossing and turning.
He did, however, need to stretch out, so he brought the tablet to bed with him, propped up against pillows as his stylus moved over the zoomed-in screen, adding a strand of hair here, embroidery to a hem there, sparks in the sky here, smoke there, texture of wood, texture of sails, the way the fire burned in the other-him's feverish, angry eyes. And eventually, his mind let him declare the painting finished. With a sigh of relief, he turned off his tablet, hit the light, and lay down. It occurred to Sören a few minutes later he should get up and brush his teeth, but he was too tired, and made a noise, annoyed at himself, as he closed his eyes again.
At some point he was woken up by a weight on the bed, and something soft like petals tickling his nose. The scent of roses. Sören's eyes flew open and Anthony was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a long-stemmed rose with baby's breath. Sören's eyes teared and he felt a stabbing twinge of guilt for snapping at him earlier. "Oh, elskan."
Anthony gave him a kiss, and put the rose in a vase he'd readied next to the bed. Then he started undressing.
Sören saw the time. It was just after midnight.
"I would have been home earlier but I wanted to bring you home flowers," Anthony said. "Of course, florists don't tend to be open at this hour."
"That was... very sweet of you." Sören swallowed hard. "Very thoughtful."
"I wanted to make up for not thinking." Anthony's voice was husky with emotion, and their eyes met. "I really, really didn't think you were going to be that upset by -"
Sören buried his face in his hands and exhaled sharply. He rubbed his face like an annoyed wet cat - annoyed with himself this time - and then he said, "I'm sorry I reacted so strongly. I'm just..."
"Tired. As I said. I should have realized, and I didn't. I'm sorry."
"Well..." Sören held out his arms, and he grinned. "Hi Sorry, I'm Sören."
Anthony threw his tie at Sören, and Sören put it on his head like a hat. Anthony laughed as he came over in his boxer-briefs and climbed into Sören's arms. Sören breathed in the scent of his cologne, and the alcohol.
"I'm not drunk if that's what you're wondering," Anthony said. "I could see your nose twitching."
"Hi Not Drunk If -"
Anthony tickled him, and Sören gigglesnorted before Anthony stole a kiss. Then Sören handed him the tablet. "Here. It's finished."
Anthony leaned on Sören as he surveyed the finished product. His jaw dropped, and Sören saw his skin break out into gooseflesh. Anthony gave Sören a look almost like he was in panic, and Sören realized the painting must have hit a nerve for him.
"You know..." Anthony gave a nervous laugh. "I had a dream where I... wasn't there for that, but in the dream, I had a vision of it, seeing it from far away."
And now it was Sören's turn to break out into gooseflesh. Of course you weren't there for that. That was part of why it happened. Something in me snapped after you left. You were my light, and losing you plunged me into darkness.
"I'd say I need a drink, but." Anthony laughed again, but it was a humorless laugh, and he quickly looked away, a dear god help me expression on his face.
"Is it any good?" Sören felt strangely annoyed that Anthony hadn't remarked on it yet. "The painting, I mean, not the..."
"Oh, yes. It's... well... all your work is brilliant." Anthony glanced at the tablet again. "You have amazing attention to detail."
"I spent hours getting every last thing in order."
"I can tell. It's remarkable, how intricate the painting is." Anthony stroked Sören's cheek. "I hesitate saying it's beautiful, because... well... it is, but it's... haunting, is more accurate."
Sören nodded. "I was haunted by the vision when I painted it."
Sören put the tablet back on the bedtable and Anthony just held him for a few minutes, stroking his hair. Then Anthony got up, went to the bathroom, and Sören heard the sound of him brushing his teeth. When Anthony got back in bed, he gave Sören a minty kiss before turning off the light.
They rolled up together, legs entwined. "Mmmm, you feel nice," Anthony said, arms tightening around Sören.
"You feel nice." Sören breathed a soft sigh, soothed by the feel of Anthony's heartbeat. "I'm so glad I have next weekend off."
"Me too."
"Maybe we can go to Brighton?"
"Yeah, we could do that."
Anthony began rubbing Sören's back in slow, lazy circles, and eventually his fingers started walking up and down Sören's spine, making Sören break out in gooseflesh, nipples hardening, cock waking up. Sören's breath hitched and he let out a soft moan as Anthony kissed his neck.
Anthony licked Sören's neck, and nibbled. Sören cried out, bucking against him, hands clutching Anthony's hips. Anthony groaned in response, and gave Sören's neck a few more kisses before he husked, "You want..."
"Please."
Their mouths met, and Anthony gently pushed Sören onto his back. They kissed again and again as Anthony reached for the lube at the bedtable and poured it over Sören's fingers, guiding Sören's hand to ready him. Then Anthony rode his cock slowly, sweetly, Sören rising to sit up so they could kiss, hands exploring, soothing, loving, teasing. They lost themselves in the sensual, languid bliss of their slow fuck, comforting each other, making it right again, until they couldn't hold back anymore and held onto each other tight, Anthony riding him hard, making a mess all over Sören's chest and stomach as he called out Sören's name. When Sören spent into him, he bit Anthony's shoulder and growled, smiled as he felt Anthony tremble, heard him gasp as he shot off another round of his seed over Sören's flesh.
Sören sank back and pulled Anthony into his chest, stroked his hair, rocked him. "I love you," Sören whispered.
"I love you." Anthony kissed the place over Sören's heart, and looked up to give him a sleepy smile before he snuggled back in, and a few minutes later Anthony was asleep. Sören watched him sleep in the blue glow of the nightlight, feeling tender.
In his mind's eye he saw other-Anthony, light flowing from his hands to nurture the plants in his garden, light flowing from his hands as they ran over Sören's aching body... embracing him and feeling held in a cocoon of light, a feeling like slipping into a warm bath. He saw himself saying go and Anthony turning his back, never looking back, sailing away, and the world grew darker, shadows encroaching, colors fading, desaturating.
I need you.
On Wednesday the nineteenth, Sören had gone into work at seven AM and his shift ended at five PM, and Anthony picked him up straight from leaving his chambers. Anthony handed Sören a cup of iced coffee as soon as Sören got in the car, which made Sören grin and give him a kiss on the cheek with a "takk".
"Hi, Brown Eyes."
Sören's stomach did a little flutter and his grin got bigger, his face flushing. Even after a year and a half, Anthony still knew how to make him feel like a goofy, horny teenager with a ridiculous crush. "Jæja, those green eyes of yours are pretty nice, too."
Now Anthony blushed, smiling. He affectionately skritched Sören's beard like he was a cat, making Sören giggle. "How did it go today?"
"Ugh, you know. I had one of those long surgeries from eight AM until an hour ago. My brain hurts now." Sören swished the coffee around in his cup and took a big gulp. "This helps."
"I thought it might."
"And you had court. How did that go."
Anthony made a face and a noise, and Sören gave a sympathetic chuckle, patting his knee. Anthony's hand covered Sören's for a moment, rubbing it, before it went back on the wheel. "One of those defendants I always feel gross about defending. I hate this line of work sometimes."
"Sounds like you hate it a lot."
"When the person is innocent, or they were defending themselves against an attacker, or they were charged with wrongdoing that isn't so wrong in my book - like environmentalist protesters - or they fucked up but they had reasons for doing so - like my defendants who grew up in council housing, grew up around gangs and drugs and that's the only life they know - I don't hate it as much. Trying to help these people usually makes up for it. But today..." Anthony shuddered. "Today was one of those people where if he was chosen to represent humanity to an alien race, we would be terminated with extreme prejudice."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
A few minutes of silence passed, and Sören sipped his iced coffee, looking out the window, occasionally glancing over at Anthony, wishing there was something he could do, some way to reassure him that he was a good person. Then Anthony said, "Vincente called me when I got out of court."
"Oh." Sören knew Anthony sometimes chatted with his friends on breaks or after work, and it usually wasn't remarkable enough to mention. That Anthony was mentioning it now, meant something was up. "And?"
"He and Trisha would like us to go on a picnic with them on Saturday afternoon."
"A... picnic."
"Yes, at Canbury Gardens. It's right in Kingston, so we don't have far to go. Lots of shady trees, lovely view of the river..."
So why haven't we been, in a year and a half? Sören felt that surge of annoyance again - Anthony knew he loved nature, and it would be nice to go on a picnic with just the two of them; he was irritated that this was the first this idea had ever come up. But he was even more annoyed with Trisha and Vincente being brought into it. "I thought... we were... going to Brighton this weekend." Sören raised an eyebrow.
Anthony exhaled.
Oh here we fucking go. This is totally what I needed to fucking deal with when I get off work after doing surgery all day. "Anthony..."
"Look, Sören..." Anthony exhaled again, and though he tried to keep his expression and tone neutral, Sören could see him starting to tense. Anthony glanced over at Sören and gave him a sympathetic look, and Sören just glared at him. "We could still do Brighton this weekend if you absolutely must. But..."
"But, what." The last word came out of Sören forcefully, and Sören watched as Anthony reflexively winced, as if he'd been slapped.
"Vincente and Trisha feel like you... blew everyone off on Friday, and the last time you were invited, back in May -"
"Oh for fuck's sake." Sören slammed his coffee down in the cupholder between their seats and folded his arms, feeling his fists clench. "First of all, it's fucking rich that they're acting hurt over me 'blowing them off'," Sören made air quotes. "When they didn't bother to show up for my art show back in March."
"Trisha had a migraine."
"I'm sure," Sören said in a tone of voice that let Anthony know he actually wasn't sure, that he didn't buy it at all. Then Sören went on, "If I should be expected to give Trisha a pass because she 'had a migraine' -" Again Sören made air quotes. "Well then... I worked sixteen fucking hours on Friday. Did you tell them that was why I wasn't there? If they had a shred of common courtesy they might understand maybe after working that long I wasn't in the mood to go to a place with a lot of people, and noise, and pretend to be cheerful and not tired as fuck for a few hours." While your friends make idiots of themselves as fucking usual. "And the time before that? My. Brother. Was. Visiting. It's bad enough you went, which was honestly kind of rude -"
"Gee, Sören, you didn't tell me you thought it was rude at the time."
"I didn't want to fight with you, but I also thought maybe I wouldn't have to tell you that was rude, maybe you would have realized. Didn't those posh parents of yours teach you any manners?"
Anthony glared now, and despite himself, Sören felt a frisson of arousal - he thought that look on Anthony's face was incredibly sexy.
Anthony took a few deep breaths - Sören knew he was trying not to lose control by giving into emotion, trying to keep the upper hand by appearing calm. When Anthony replied it was soft-spoken, which Sören had come to realize could be more dangerous than his usual tone. "Again. We don't have to go, but as I said, they are taking it a bit personally that you haven't wanted to be social, and I feel... put in the middle."
"Put in the middle"? You should be on MY side, you're my fucking PARTNER. They're just your FRIENDS, and not even good friends at that. But Sören held back from shouting what he was thinking. "I take it a bit personally that yet again, what little free time I have, you're asking me to share with them. They're your friends."
"And they're trying," Anthony said. "They're trying to be your friends too, but you won't really give them a chance, and I don't understand why."
Sören rubbed his short mop of curls, hoping Anthony would get the hint. But then he felt a twinge of guilt, seeing the hurt look on Anthony's face, remembering his mother's tale of the hurt boy without friends, understanding that Anthony was willing to accept the crumbs of "friendship" from this lot because it was, to Anthony's way of thinking, better than nothing.
There was a time when he would have thought maybe he was being unfair and should give Anthony's friends a chance, but that time had passed after he received the bouquet from Trisha, the student of the language of flowers, with an arrangement of flowers that meant "warning", "stupidity" and "hatred". His gut feeling that the haircut had been deliberate, and that Trisha hadn't actually had a migraine the night of the show, was most likely right as his gut feelings had been about what was going on with patients in the past.
He didn't think Anthony's friends deserved a chance. But as he looked over at Anthony now, whose face was pinched with stress as he focused on the road, Sören didn't want to make further trouble for him - or cause further tension between them - by saying no. Sören let out a deep sigh. "OK."
"OK what?"
"OK we can go."
"You mean it -"
Sören raised an eyebrow. "I said yes." I don't mean it, but I said yes. Accept that.
"Thank you. I -"
Sören raised a hand, indicating he should be quiet. "I really had my heart set on going to Brighton and getting away from it all, Anthony, but. The things we do for love, I guess."
"Awww, well... we could drive to Brighton once the picnic is done?"
"It's a two-hour drive, Anthony, we'd have only Saturday night into Sunday evening, as opposed to going Friday night or Saturday morning."
"I'd still make the drive for that. Just an overnight away..."
I would have liked two full days instead of feeling like we were being rushed, but you had to shove Trisha and Vincente at me. Sören shrugged. "If you want to."
"I don't want you to feel cheated, Sören."
I already do. Sören just gave him a tight smile.
When they got upstairs, Sören and Anthony took turns washing their hands at the sink, and then Sören decontaminated further with a quick, cool shower, pulling on a T-shirt and pajama shorts. He walked out to the living room to see Anthony on his laptop, working on e-mail - he gave Anthony a sympathetic look, knowing his work was never done - and he went to the fridge to get them both iced coffee. Just as he did, Anthony's cell phone went off.
Anthony swiped to accept the call. "Trisha, hi. Yeah, I thought it would be Vincente calling me back..." There was a muffled female voice, and Sören reflexively felt himself bristling, trying not to slam the door of the fridge as he closed it. "He said yes. So..."
Sören put down the pitcher of iced coffee and leaned against the fridge, folding his arms. "What kind of food would she like me to bring?"
"Er." Anthony held the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Well, we hadn't discussed that -"
"Right, so I'm not going on the picnic emptyhanded." So I can be accused of "being rude" later. "Ask her what she'd like me to bring."
Anthony blinked. "Why don't you ask her yourself?" And then Anthony got back on the phone with Trisha and said, "Trisha, Sören -"
"Oh god, no, no," Sören muttered under his breath, not wanting to talk to her.
Anthony either didn't notice or didn't care. "Sören would like to know what kind of food you'd like us to bring to the picnic, so here he is." Anthony then held out the phone and gave Sören an "I'm waiting" look.
Sören reluctantly trudged over and took the phone from Anthony, trying not to snatch it away. Deep breaths. "Trisha, hi."
"Oh, hello, Sören, how are you."
"I'm fine." Not really. "How are you and Vincente?"
"We're doing well, thank you. We missed you last Friday night!"
Yeah, fucking right. "Jæja, sorry about that, I worked sixteen hours on Friday -"
"Oh goodness. You poor dear."
Bitch please, like you care. "So... já, I wasn't much in the mood for going to the pub. But, ah. The picnic. What did you have in mind for me to pack to take to the picnic and share with you guys?"
"Well, anything really. Vincente and I are very flexible with what we'll eat, we're not on any special diets or anything... your choice what you bring. Surprise us!"
"I assume you guys are bringing stuff?"
"Oh yes. Between the four of us there should be plenty of food."
I hope mine isn't poisoned. "That sounds great. I'm looking forward to it." Lies. "OK let me give you back to Anthony -"
"OK, thank you, Sören, dearie. You take care of yourself, yeah? Don't work too hard."
Sören snorted as he handed the phone over to Anthony. "Hi," Anthony said.
Sören brought Anthony his coffee and walked back out to the bathroom, feeling the urge to wash his hands and face even though he'd just taken a shower. Resisting the urge to hop back in and take a second shower, to scrub the ick off of him from talking to her. The word dearie rang in his head and he felt nauseated. Could you be any more fake, Trisha.
He already had a bad feeling about this. I hope she proves me wrong.
The afternoon of Saturday, June twenty-second was gorgeous and sunny, if a bit too warm for Sören's liking. He was also overtired, having just gotten up a couple of hours before the picnic, sleeping in late - he'd gone to bed very late, or very early depending on your definition, after having gotten off work on Friday night at 11 PM and after Anthony brought him home he'd gone straight to work in the kitchen, making things so they'd be fresh for the picnic.
Some things were store-bought, of course, like the packs of bottled water and assorted San Pellegrino cans in their cooler, and Anthony had gone to the store with a shopping list from Sören and picked up different varieties of sliced cheese, like cheddar, Swiss, Havarti, and crackers - from the salty to savory to more buttery - and some fresh fruit and vegetables. Grapes and strawberries were easy finger food, and Sören wanted a platter of cucumber and baby carrots and cherry tomatoes for dipping.
But Sören put his culinary skills to the test. He made traditional raekjusalat with shrimp, hard-boiled eggs, pineapple, paprika, tabasco sauce, dill, lemon juice, salt and pepper, cream cheese, chives and mayonnaise. He made a dip of smoked trout and skyr with capers, dill, and pepper. There were open-faced sandwiches of smoked salmon on rye bread with watercress and egg. For desserts, he made mondlukaka, an Icelandic almond cake with strawberry jam, and a batch of lakkrístoppar cookies.
As much as he hated Trisha, he was going to show hospitality. And though nothing he made was considered fancy food by Icelandic standards, it was all good food, things he enjoyed - things he'd made Anthony once in a great while when he had energy, that Anthony enjoyed - and, as importantly, it wasn't something Trisha would see everyday in London.
Sören felt almost light in his step as he carried the cooler of food to where Trisha and Vincente had said they'd be meeting them. He was proud of himself for working so hard, hours, on the food, and even though he would rather not spend time with those two, he was moved by the beauty of the afternoon in the park. Geese were swimming on the river, the thick clusters of trees were lushly green, sunlight sparkling on the riverfront and dappling on the grass. Trisha and Vincente waved as they approached, crossing from the trail to the green.
Trisha and Vincente were sitting on a blanket spread in the grass, with a large blue-and-white cooler, and an equally large wooden flip-top basket. Vincente was wearing khaki shorts and a cornflower blue polo shirt, with brogues, Ralph Lauren sunglasses, his hair perfectly styled and gelled, sporting a light tan already from the summer sun, and a platinum Rolex. Trisha had been growing out her blonde hair which was now in a high ponytail, and she pushed up her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, bright blue eyes cheerful as she grinned at them. She was wearing a pink T-shirt and white shorts with a pastel floral print, and perfectly manicured toes peeked out of pink thong sandals. There were bangles on both her wrists. "Hello, darlings," Trisha said.
"Hi," Anthony said, setting down his red-and-white cooler of drinks before he took a seat on the blanket.
"Hej," Sören said, setting down his green-and-white cooler of food. He felt a little self-conscious in his jean shorts and black T-shirt, even though he was wearing the Rolex that Anthony gave him.
Anthony was wearing a navy blue T-shirt with black cargo shorts, and his brogues. He took off his aviator sunglasses and smiled at Sören, who smiled back, and he asked, "Shall we?"
"Yes, let us see the goods," Trisha said, rubbing her hands together eagerly.
Anthony and Sören unpacked the coolers and spread everything out on the blanket. At Trisha and Vincente's confused looks, Sören explained what the Icelandic foods were.
"Interesting," Vincente said in a way that suggested it wasn't, really.
"Yes, very," Trisha said, sounding even less enthusiastic.
Sören cracked open a blood orange San Pellegrino and watched as Vincente and Trisha unpacked their offerings. His eyes widened as Vincente took out a bottle of Cristal - not just any champagne, but Cristal, like something out of a rap video - and four sparkling clean champagne flutes. They had also brought Perrier, which wasn't entirely surprising to Sören since Anthony had also brought Perrier, but Sören still didn't like the taste of the mineral water which was why he was drinking San Pellegrino.
But the Cristal was nothing compared to what came next.
The first few items were fairly benign. "Kale salad," Trisha said. "Avocado crab boats. Spicy aubergine hummus and pitas. Crackers, and chicken salad." And then there was the rest.
"Caviar," Trisha said, gesturing. "And a bit of foie gras."
"With Godiva chocolates for dessert," Vincente said, taking out a gilt foil box and opening it.
Sören's jaw dropped and he choked back a gasp. He glanced over at Anthony, feeling his heart race, feeling his stomach sink. He'd spent hours making what looked like peasant food now, compared to Cristal champagne and caviar and foie gras. And they were just so casual about it. Even Anthony was casual about it, sipping his Perrier, not batting an eyelash.
Dag's words came back to Sören, unbidden. We come from nothing. We come from so much nothing that we're completely lost in the world he travels.
Then Vincente popped the champagne, and Trisha held the glasses as he poured. Trisha passed a glass to Anthony and then a glass to Sören, her eyes locked with Sören's, all smiles on the outside, but her eyes were like ice.
"To friendship," Vincente said, "and good fortune."
They clinked glasses, and Sören took his first sip of Cristal. It wasn't the first time he'd ever had champagne, but it was of course the first time he'd ever had that kind of champagne. His cheeks burned as he drank it, and not from the bite of the alcohol. I come from nothing.
Sören looked around at the food. "Well, uh." Sören raised his can of San Pellegrino, feeling more awkward than he'd ever felt in his life. "Bon appetit."
"Mangia bene," Vincente said.
Sören was pretty hungry, and he didn't want to be rude, so he loaded up his plate, trying a little of this and that, though he deliberately avoided the caviar and foie gras, and the chocolates were for later. He also noticed that Vincente and Trisha were mostly avoiding the food Sören had brought, except for the fresh fruit and vegetables, but they weren't even touching the cheese and crackers... even though Trisha and Vincente had brought crackers, a different kind, so clearly they ate crackers.
Sören wanted to relax and zone out and enjoy the peace of the sunshine and the river and the trees and the breeze swaying the grass, but Trisha, Vincente and Anthony started talking about work, their latest cases, what this past week had been like for them. It was a conversation Sören felt shut out of, so much so that he turned a bit away from Trisha and Vincente to watch the geese. Wishing he could fly away.
Then Trisha tapped him, making Sören startle, spilling San Pellegrino all over his shirt. Trisha chuckled and handed him a napkin. "Have some caviar," Trisha said, passing over a plate where caviar and foie gras had been spread onto a few of the crackers Trisha and Vincente had bought.
"Er, ah... takk." Sören politely took a cracker spread with caviar to be polite and took a big bite. He immediately winced as the saltiness overpowered him.
Trisha and Vincente noticed the expression on his face and laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen in their lives.
"Wow, Sören, I should have told you to nibble on it! Smaller bites!" Trisha made a "tsk" noise. Then she rolled her eyes and grinned at Sören, that sweetness-and-venom smile. "How old are you, again?"
"I'll be twenty-nine in November."
"How is it you've made it twenty-nine years without trying caviar?"
Because my grandfather isn't an earl like yours. My grandparents were farmers or the children of farmers. Sören shrugged, and nibbled on the cracker again, but he still hadn't developed a taste for it, and when Trisha and Vincente were re-absorbed in their conversation, not looking, Sören noticed the geese were starting to come in from the river and he threw the rest of his cracker at them. They began to fight over it, honking madly.
Sören would have tried the foie gras to be polite, but he heard that was made from goose liver and he didn't have the heart to eat that in front of their brethren.
Sure enough then, the geese began waddling over, honking like they demanded more food, though they were still several meters away. "Oh bollocks," Vincente said under his breath.
"Shoo!" Trisha threw a pebble, then she picked up a rock the size of her fist and threw it, just barely missing one.
"Hey!" Sören glared. "Don't throw rocks at them!"
"Please don't do that," Anthony said, scowling. "They're just birds."
"I don't want them over here stealing our food," Trisha said. "Or trying to fight us over it. You must realize how aggressive geese can be, surely?"
"There's ways of distracting them," Sören said, rage burning through him at how narrowly close Trisha had come to killing or seriously injuring a goose, fighting off every urge he had to yank up the blanket, throwing everything to the ground - likely breaking the glass - before storming off. Deep breaths. "We have enough to spare, if you give them a tiny bit they'll fight over it and leave us alone."
Trisha gave Sören a withering look as she took a sip of champagne.
"Right," Vincente said, and then he gave Trisha's arm a squeeze and said, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if we gave them some foie gras?"
Trisha snorted, almost spitting her champagne. "Oh my word, Vincente, that's awful. I like it."
"That... no, you can't do that! That's cannibalism!" Sören said.
"Yeah, they might get... mad goose disease." Vincente laughed so hard he teared up, and Trisha laughed along with him.
Anthony looked a little disturbed and he said, "Guys, I don't think that's a great idea. Here." He took some of the crackers he and Sören had brought, that Trisha and Vincente hadn't touched, and began to throw them towards the geese. The geese stopped waddling towards them and made a mad scramble. Anthony didn't toss out all the crackers, as he and Sören would still want to use them for their salads and cheese, but it was enough to keep the geese busy for awhile.
"Nice save," Vincente said.
Anthony took a small bow.
Sören tried to keep the disgust off his face as he resumed eating, but he was starting to lose his appetite. The disgusted feeling intensified as Trisha, Vincente, and Anthony picked up the conversation where they left off - as if Anthony hadn't just witnessed Trisha throwing a rock at geese, and Vincente seriously suggesting feeding them foie gras - except now the discussion shifted from work to the latest shiny new things Trisha and Vincente had bought, and their planned vacation to Bora Bora in August.
More like Boring Boring, Sören thought to himself, feeling bitter.
Sören really just wanted to relax in the pretty park on the lovely summer day, he thought the entire purpose of coming here was to look around, notice all the little wonders of nature - like the birds flying overhead now, the birds singing in the trees, a ladybug climbing on a blade of grass nearby, the shapes the clouds made in the sky - and instead, Trisha and Vincente were showing Anthony galleries on their cell phones, all of these gadgets and trinkets and bragging about how much they cost and the high-end stores where they bought them.
"Bora Bora, wow," Anthony said.
"You should take Sören on holiday there sometime! I bet he'd love it, wouldn't you, Sören? Maybe get some color in that milk-white skin of yours," Trisha said.
"I'm rather pale myself," Anthony reminded them. "And I think we both burn. Actually, on that note..." Anthony took out the sunblock and applied a dollop to Sören's nose. Sören would have given Anthony a nose crinkle and a giggle if they were alone, but now he managed a wan smile as Anthony worked the sunblock over his nose and cheeks.
"Well, yes, I suppose the sun might be a bit strong for you, but you could bring sunblock. Papa recommends one particular resort," Trisha said.
Anthony looked about as thrilled with the idea as Sören felt. "We'll see," Anthony said non-committally. "I think for us, if we ever went anyplace tropical we'd have to go in the winter, or we'd melt." Sören nodded vehemently.
"On that note, have a chocolate before they melt in the sun," Vincente said. "We paid fifty quid for this box."
Sören bit back a Jesus and Anthony took a chocolate truffle and shoved it in Sören's mouth.
Vincente offered the box to Trisha, who waved her hand and gestured to the plain crackers she was working on. She stuffed one in her mouth and shook her head with a "mm-mm."
Just the sound of Trisha crunching crackers made Sören want to scream and tear what was left of his hair out. He felt an irrational surge of hatred as their eyes met, the smooth chocolate melting in Sören's mouth. Bitch eating crackers like she owns the place.
And Sören remembered again that Trisha hadn't had any of the food Sören had brought - Vincente had only tried a little bit of it. Anger surging in him, Sören took the plate of lakkrístoppar and held it out to her. "Try a biscuit," Sören said.
Trisha swallowed her cracker, and she slowly, hesitantly took one, her eyes studying it like it was a legal brief. Sören watched as she nibbled on it. "Mmmmm," Trisha said, closing her eyes, free hand on her heart - a practiced reaction that made Sören wonder if she faked orgasms. He choked back a guffaw at that thought. "Oh, Sören, these are divine. Lovely." Trisha took the plate from Sören and passed it to Vincente. "You must try one."
"They're like crack," Anthony said, taking one when the plate came back to him. "I wish Sören would make them more often, but I know he doesn't have a lot of time or energy, poor thing." He rubbed Sören's head affectionately, and Sören didn't know whether to smile or to glare. On the one hand he was glad Anthony liked them, on the other hand now Sören felt guilty about not making them enough.
"Very nice," Vincente said in a bland tone of voice like he didn't actually think so; Sören thought Vincente was probably less of an actor than Trisha.
"Yes, Sören, really. I love them," Trisha said, smiling in a way that almost seemed genuine. Almost. "They're delicious."
That did little to comfort Sören, and he was relieved when, a little while later, they decided to pack up and go on their merry way. Sören and Anthony stopped at their flat in Kingston to get their overnight bags, already packed, and though there was a bit of food leftover from what they'd brought to the picnic - Sören had made enough for four, and it was really only he and Anthony eating it - Sören went into the fridge for the rest of the produce Anthony got at the store last night, not wanting it to go bad.
Sören took a nap in the car on the way to Brighton, Anthony waking him up when they arrived. Sören saw the time - it was already six PM. They'd be leaving to go back to Kingston in roughly twenty-four hours. It felt like this little holiday was over before it even begun.
Sören was not too quiet bringing his duffel bag and the food cooler in, and even less quiet when he washed his hands, swearing as he scrubbed aggressively, and then began transferring things to the fridge, banging them around.
"Love?" Anthony asked, observing from a meter away, standing at the kitchen counter island. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," Sören said, pausing. "You tell me."
Anthony huffed and looked away. "Here we go again..."
"Oh, what do you fucking mean, here we go again? Like this is my fault? I told you I didn't want to spend a fucking afternoon with those people -"
"And I told you that you could have said no -"
"Except you gave me such a guilt trip. Told me how you felt 'put in the middle'." Sören made air quotes. "So if I'd said no, you would have given me that sad fucking puppy dog face all fucking weekend and that wouldn't have been any fun."
"I would have gotten over it, if, you know, I saw you relax here in Brighton."
Sören shook his head and gritted his teeth, and swore "fáviti" under his breath. Before he could shove what was left of the smoked trout dip in the fridge, Anthony grabbed Sören's wrist and made Sören look at him, into his eyes. Rather than feel fear, Sören felt that frisson of arousal again, cock stirring, throbbing, wondering where this would lead... wanting Anthony to drag him off, manhandle him, pound him until he was a quivering, sobbing wreck.
"Sören, like I told you a few days ago, they're trying. Hell, can't you see that? They wanted to do something nice for you, they went to a lot of trouble and money to put all of that together -"
"Like the caviar and foie gras?" Sören yanked his hand away and slammed the smoked trout dip in the fridge. "That just made me feel like an asshole, Anthony."
"What?" Anthony looked genuinely confused.
"Do you not get it? This... this constant flaunting wealth around that they do. It felt less like they were trying to be nice and treat me, and more like they were... showing off. 'Oh look what we have, and you don't.'"
"I don't think they were trying to do that, Sören." Anthony looked shocked now... and a little hurt. "My god, do you think I'm doing that when I -"
"Not you," Sören said, though Sören was starting to wonder if gifts like the Rolex, and the sapphire and tanzanite studs in his ears, were from Anthony wanting to fulfill some old-fashioned masculine idea of "taking care of his partner", a gift born as much from pride as it was from love. "But them? Já, I do."
"Dear god, Sören." Anthony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. I honestly thought it was very nice of them to go all out for us like that."
"Yeah, you would," Sören muttered before he could stop himself.
Of course, Anthony heard that.
Anthony turned around and started walking off.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sören called out to him, fresh anger boiling. Don't you fucking walk away from me.
"To lay down." Anthony sounded very tired all of a sudden.
Sören let him go, watching as Anthony strode out of the kitchen and made his way to the bedroom. Sören's shoulders heaved with a deep sigh, and he worked on getting the rest of everything put away. He brought a lemon San Pellegrino to the coffee table, fished his tablet out of his duffel bag, and sank down on the couch with a huff.
For the next while, Sören tried to channel his anger into sketching. Another sketch of the other-him, looking fierce, the storm inside him expressed outwardly in the billow of his hair, the fire in his eyes. He kept seeing the ships from the painting he'd finished recently. Burn them all. Burn them all.
But before that, the way he'd snapped. The way something in him had broken, all the world greyed, faded, more quiet than usual. Hollow.
Sören started to sketch the other-Anthony, facing the other-him, and he saw his stylus sketch grief, regret. Matching the fire of rage in the other-him with an equally hot fire of pain.
He couldn't take it anymore. He put the tablet down on the coffee table and put his feet up, burying his face in his hands.
He had to do something with this feeling, and he didn't want to draw anymore today. Not for the first time, Sören cursed his asthma, getting in the way of him doing something physical to blow off steam like run or lift weights.
He found himself getting up, going to the kitchen. He took an inventory of what was in the fridge, both the leftovers from their picnic, and the produce they'd brought, and then he looked in the freezer and cupboards for food they kept on hand for their trips to Brighton. He decided to leave the picnic leftovers for tomorrow, and they could eat something different tonight - soup and a salad. Sören took out cans of soup, but those would be prepared last, when Anthony finally dragged himself out of bed. In the meantime...
Sören washed his hands and made a dressing for the salad with olive oil, vinegar, herbs and spices from the cupboards. He pushed the bowl of dressing aside, then he began to chop lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumber, channeling his anger through the knife, rage with each blow. As a practiced neurosurgeon he was usually very careful, very precise, when he cut vegetables, but now in the heat of his anger, the raw, visceral feeling of stabbing, of getting the hurt out blow by blow, he ended up accidentally cutting his finger, crying out at the sharp lash. He watched his finger bleed onto the cutting board and his instinct as a doctor was to go wash his hands, bandage the wound and not contaminate the food, but he was so angry that he snarled, "Fuck it," and continued chopping.
He heard Anthony coming into the kitchen, coming up behind him. "Sören? I heard all that noise, I came out to see if you're OK..."
"I'm fine," Sören snapped through clenched teeth, feeling the beginning hot sting of tears.
"No, you're not fine." Anthony came closer, and then he was right behind him. He took the knife out of Sören's hand and then he took Sören's other hand, with the bleeding finger, and he put the finger to his lips, kissing it.
That broke the wall around his heart, and the tears flowed. Sören heard himself sob, felt himself shake.
"Shhhhh," Anthony whispered, tenderly kissing the finger again. Then he let go of Sören's finger and he tilted Sören's face to his, and their lips brushed, softly, sweetly, and then he claimed Sören's mouth, their tongues meeting, searching, playing, dancing. Sören moaned into the kiss and Anthony groaned, the kiss deepening, the heat between them rising.
Before Sören knew what was happening, the knife was in Anthony's hand and at Sören's throat. Sören gasped as he felt the blade press against his skin, just enough to feel the bite of it, not enough to cut the flesh, not yet. Anthony held the knife there and began to kiss down Sören's neck, lips and tongue teasing everywhere he knew Sören was sensitive. Then he licked his way up Sören's neck, and the fingers of Anthony's free hand brushed a trail down Sören's spine, knowing how sensitive he was there, too. Sören's cock leapt to attention and he whimpered, biting his lip, wanting. Hungry.
"I'm sorry that you felt so uncomfortable this afternoon," Anthony whispered, before another round of slow, sensual kisses down Sören's neck, making him break out in gooseflesh, making his nipples harden against his shirt, making Sören quiver. "But you know I would never hurt you." The blade bit into Sören's skin just a little harder, hard enough for him to wince, but still not drawing blood yet.
And then, with a deft move of his wrist, Anthony lowered the blade and it sliced down Sören's shirt. Anthony's free hand rent it, tearing it from Sören's flesh, leaving him shirtless, the ruined garment falling to the floor. The knife was back at Sören's throat and then it trailed down over his chest, to glide over one nipple, and across his heart to the other, as Anthony kissed Sören's neck, kissed and licked and nibbled Sören's shoulder. Sören had to hang onto the counter to steady himself, panting, whimpering.
"Your body doesn't lie, Sören." Anthony's free hand reached down to the hard bulge tenting Sören's jean shorts, palming, rubbing gently. The knife continued to bite against Sören's sensitive, aching nipples, making them throb, making Sören's cock pulse with need, making his hole twitch, needing to be filled and now. "You want me. And you want me because you trust me. You know I look out for you. I take care of you." Anthony nibbled on Sören's neck, kissed along his jaw, licked the shell of his ear. "Because you're mine."
"Oh god." Sören let out another helpless whimper, shuddering. His fists clenched against the counter. "Anthony, please."
"Please what, darling?" Anthony licked his ear again, licked his jaw, licked down his neck.
"Give us what we both need. I need it so bad..."
Keeping the knife at Sören's throat, Anthony reached down for Sören's belt. Sören helped him get the belt off, hearing it clatter to the floor, helped him get the jean shorts and boxer-briefs down, pooling around his ankles on the floor. Then Anthony grabbed the bottle of olive oil just sitting there near the bowl of salad dressing, and Sören unscrewed the bottle. He heard the pouring noise, and then he felt Anthony's slick fingers inside him. Sören cried out as Anthony's fingers found that spot right away, rubbing in circles.
"Fuck," Anthony groaned, and he nibbled Sören's shoulder, nibbled that deliciously erogenous place where the neck and shoulder met. All the while his fingers working their wicked magic on that button inside Sören's channel, knowing exactly how to pleasure him, having learned his body well over the last year and a half. Between the thrill of the knife at his throat, Anthony's mouth on his shoulder and neck, and the fingers rubbing that spot inside him, Sören was quickly turned into a sobbing, whimpering wreck, shaking, cock making a mess on the counter with how much precum he was leaking.
Finally Sören heard Anthony undo his own bottom garments - Anthony withdrew the knife for just a second, putting the blade between his teeth as he got them down, making Sören giggle madly, and then Anthony made him pay for laughing once he took the knife out of his mouth and crushed Sören's mouth to his, nipping Sören's lower lip hard enough to draw blood as Sören heard the sound of the oil bottle again.
With one hand holding the knife to Sören's throat, and the other hand on Sören's heart, arm around him possessively, Anthony pushed in. Sören's breath caught as Anthony pushed in and in and in, seemingly endless, and at last he was buried to the hilt and they both groaned together.
Anthony kept the knife at his throat as he began to thrust, hard and fast, kissing Sören's neck roughly, fiercely, nibbling so much Sören knew he would have love bites later. Sören rocked his hips back at Anthony, matching his rhythm and then some, giving back as good as he got, fucking himself on Anthony's cock. "Take it," Sören moaned. "Take it, fuck it, fuck me..."
And then at last Anthony came into the fullness of his power, Sören bent over the counter, one hand seizing Sören's short curls, grabbing them hard, as the other trailed the knife up and down from his throat down to his heart, over one nipple and the other, down to his sensitive stomach and back up. "Mine," Anthony ground out through clenched teeth, slamming into him harder and harder. "Mine, and nobody gets to take you from me ever again."
A shiver went down Sören's spine, and in his mind's eye he could briefly see his other-self pushing other-Anthony away, making him leave. Go. Anthony departing with other people. Never looking back.
"Nobody. Is. Taking. You. From. Me."
"Oh god." Sören shuddered and let out a little keening howl. He was so close, so close, feeling the tension build in his thighs, his balls, rising with each delicious stroke inside him. "Oh god. Oh god, Anthony, please, please..."
"I love you, you damn stubborn..." Anthony gave a deep, menacing growl, not able to finish the sentence - Sören's cock jolted, dripping more precum, and Sören moaned. He loved the sound of that growl, the sound of Anthony's hunger, the suave professional who lived so much in his mind now purely animal, carnal, all base, raw male need.
Anthony seemed to know what that did to him, and his free hand let go of Sören's hair and now it was on Sören's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, his thumb rubbing the sensitive frenulum in time with his thrusts. Sören cried out and grabbed the counter, hearing himself whimpering again, the pleasure building and building, sending him rushing to that point of no return.
And then he was right there. "Anthony. Oh god, Anthony, yes..."
"Sören." Anthony came with him, letting the knife drop as he collapsed onto Sören, shaking and spending into him, giving that shuddery gasp Sören loved so well.
Sören felt himself clench and clench around Anthony's cock, spurting over the edge of the counter and onto the floor, sobbing as the ecstasy throbbed through him, pulsing like the heart of the universe itself.
"I love you," Anthony whispered, a hand on Sören's head. "I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you." Sören closed his eyes and the tears flowed again.
They rested there a moment, before Anthony pulled out of him and then Sören heard Anthony chuckle. "Fuck, we made a mess."
Sören stood up, stretching, and looked down and saw the cum all over the kitchen floor. His laughter rang out, echoing. "Oh my god."
"I'll clean it while you, um. Get back to... uh. Kitchen duty there."
They took a walk after dinner, watching the sunset and the tide on the shingle beach, Anthony standing behind him and looking over his shoulder, arms tight around him. For the briefest moment Sören's mind's eye saw ships in the water and then they were gone, and the breeze was stirring around them in a way that Sören knew the hair of their other-selves would be billowing, flowing. The golden glow of the last light reminded Sören of the way his other-self saw Anthony's other-self for the last time.
Nothing gold can stay.
"I need you," Sören heard himself say aloud.
Anthony let go of him, and for the briefest instant Sören wondered if he was going to say don't be needy but then Anthony was turning him to face him, and Anthony's hands were on his shoulders and he looked into Sören's eyes. "I need you too. God help me, Sören, I need you."
Sören saw Anthony's eyes were too bright, and Sören's arms flew around him, gathering him close. They kissed deeply, fiercely, and then they dragged each other back to the beach house.
"They are talking about me again."
Sören's fists clench. He can feel the rage like a hot knife. Already, he wants their blood.
Anthony puts an arm on Sören's shoulder, rubbing, trying to soothe. "If you do not let them talk, they will think you are a tyrant, seeking to control them rather than lead them."
"Do they not already think that?" Sören shakes his head and laughs bitterly. "Let them fear me. At least they will respect me."
"If they fear you, they will come to hate you. And if they hate you, they will eventually rise up against you. If they are allowed to express their criticisms in a constructive manner, they will see some of those criticisms are invalid just by virtue of being allowed to be expressed." Anthony turns Sören to face him. He puts his hands on Sören's cheeks, stroking, love in his eyes. "Let me go to them. Let me offer to give them a voice. I do not agree with them, but if I pretend to..."
Sören nods. He knows what Anthony is saying makes too much sense. He doesn't need an uprising; he needs his people united in this time.
And so Anthony goes to them. Becomes the leader of the dissent. And in the night, when all have retired, Anthony warms Sören's bed, sometimes with their other brother on the other side. Anthony assures Sören with his body, with his touch, with his kiss, that he is really on Sören's side and is doing what he doesn't really want to do, to keep things from getting worse.
And yet Sören begins to wonder, if Anthony is becoming the mask. He is so convincing in his role. "I sometimes think, brother, you agree a bit more than you say you do."
Anthony sighs. "Not this again," he mutters.
And in the end, after Anthony is gone, there are still those who remain who talk, who didn't leave with him. Sören can feel their fear; he can feel their hatred.
"Burn them all."
He watches the ships go up in flames. And he laughs. Because he will not let them see him cry.
chapter 38 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index