It was Thursday, July eleventh, and the night of Sören's second art show. Like the first one, the show was being held at Blue Moon, the gallery in Bermondsey. Unlike the first one, Sören was not wearing a suit - having seen from the first show that he didn't need to - and instead he was wearing a white ruffly poet blouse with a black vest and black leather trousers. Anthony was in a suit and tie, charcoal grey with a waistcoat, looking dapper. They made an interesting contrast, making the rounds of the gallery arm in arm.
Sören had been spending most of his spare time - what little of it there was - working on art since losing a patient in April. He still truthfully wasn't "over" the death on his operating table, and he didn't know if he ever would be. Moreso than the two other times he'd lost a patient, Sören felt like this loss had ripped open a wound and it was festering. The loss of the patient felt like a microcosm of Sören losing control over his life. In a few seconds Sören was reminded of how short life was, how anyone could go at any time, and he felt like he'd spent the last twenty-eight years doing much and accomplishing little. And while he loved Anthony fiercely, Sören's brother Dag had raised questions that left serious doubts in Sören's mind, punctuated by the attitude of Anthony's friends... and Anthony's continued association with those friends, even when he knew they made Sören uncomfortable. It was easier for Sören to withdraw into his art and escape there, not having to think too much about things.
So he had a lot of new art to show this time around. And Sören took pride in watching the crowd look at his work, watching them study it, and offer praise. Especially when he wasn't the only artist they were here to see - the star of this exhibit was a semi-famous Greek painter named Athanasios Andrianakis, who painted in an Impressionist style with bold, bright colors, and his personality was as loud as the colors he chose. Athanasios Andrianakis had also insisted on certain things for the exhibit, like bouzouki music, and Greek food at the appetizer table, including shots of ouzo.
As ill at ease as Sören usually felt among crowds, a couple of shots of ouzo mellowed him, and at least this time Anthony's friends were there - Sören didn't want to care, since they weren't really his friends, but he also had felt hurt when none of them attended back in March, so seeing them at the exhibit was almost a hopeful sign.
Almost. Sören once again had a bad feeling about this, amplified every time he looked across the room at Trisha. He knew Trisha didn't like him and the feeling was mutual.
And he wondered if any of Anthony's friends liked him. Sören got the sense that they'd shown up because Anthony had put pressure on them, had guilted them, and they wouldn't otherwise be here.
That bad, shoe-about-to-drop feeling intensified when Sören heard Jack call over, "Anthony, come look at this!"
"Be right back," Anthony said, squeezing Sören's waist and kissing his cheek before stepping off.
Sören watched him go over to his clique, and Jack was playing a video on his phone. Trisha, Vincente and Steve laughed at the video like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen, and Anthony chuckled too. Lawrence looked at Sören across the room and gave a little eyeroll as if to say these fucking guys, before smiling and laughing as well.
Sören felt irritation flare in him. All right, you've seen the stupid video, now get back over here.
But then Jack was showing them something else. And then something else. And then something else. And then Trisha took out her phone, and had produced some sort of gallery and was passing the phone around.
The irritation was now full-blown anger. This was Sören's big night, and here he was, standing alone while his own partner was off looking at stupid shit on other people's phones. Yes, Anthony had seen all the paintings before - including on display, when last week Sören and Anthony had come to the gallery by themselves to look at the paintings hung up and offer their opinion on whether or not it looked all right, where things looked best. But it didn't matter to Sören whether this was Anthony's first time seeing them or the hundredth time. This was his show, he felt like Anthony was supposed to be here paying attention to him, offering support and encouragement just by his presence, and there he was watching videos on YouTube and looking at his friends' galleries, which made Sören feel unimportant. Not just unimportant, but insignificant. Sören felt small in a way he had not since he was a child, and that was a very bad feeling.
Sören wanted to cry, but he did not.
He waited a little while longer - five minutes, ten, fifteen - to see if Anthony would pull his head out of his ass and rejoin Sören of his own accord. But he was still over there, chitchatting and laughing with his friends like he was at a pub instead of at Sören's art show.
Sören felt ready to explode. His fists clenched, and he internally weighed what to do - whether to stay and continue to endure this indignity, go over there and chew Anthony out and make a scene, or call a cab and just leave. As he mulled it over, Athanasios came over to him with a shot of ouzo.
"Where is your man?" the Greek asked. He had short, messy salt-and-pepper hair, a trim figure that looked nice in a cerulean tunic and loose-fitting royal blue breeches, a handsome chiselled face, dark eyes, olive skin that was just starting to wrinkle from age - maybe mid-to-late fifties if Sören had to guess. The sort of man Sören would have gladly fucked back in his promiscuous days.
"Over there," Sören said, making a subtle gesture.
"I see. Why is he not with you?"
Sören shrugged and downed the ouzo, then immediately wished he hadn't, remembering when he got roofied in Iceland. This is how upset I am, I'm throwing caution to the fucking wind. Jesus.
"You know," Athanasios muttered, "if I was your man, I wouldn't do that to you." Athanasios glanced at Sören with heat in his eyes, his gaze raking Sören up and down. "We could make beautiful art together, you and I. Think about it."
As flattering as the attention was - as handsome as Athanasios was - Sören felt uncomfortable. Yes, it was definitely wrong that Anthony was paying attention to his friends and not Sören on Sören's big night, and that raised a red flag with Sören. But Sören wasn't about to just leave Anthony for some guy he barely knew, either, especially not someone who so clearly saw him as fresh meat.
"Excuse me," Sören said, giving a tight smile as he walked away.
He walked straight to Anthony. "Hi," Sören said.
"Oh, hey you," Anthony said, putting an arm around Sören. Then he grinned. "Jack, show him that video!"
"Which one?" Jack asked, smirking. "We looked at so many."
Anthony laughed. Sören did not laugh. Anthony noticed Sören was scowling right away, and Anthony asked him, "What's wrong?"
Do you even fucking have to ask. Sören looked right at Trisha and said, "I think I'm getting a migraine."
Trisha blinked slowly but otherwise registered no reaction, simply sipped on a bottle of Perrier.
"Awwwww, honey." Anthony kissed Sören's cheek again. "Well, can you tough it out another twenty minutes, and then we can go? I'd hate to see you leave so early on your big night."
Sören fought the urge to backhand him right there in public. He was horrified with that urge - he did not believe in hitting one's partners, he'd witnessed plenty of incidents where his aunt and uncle hit each other as he was growing up and he was not going to be like that - but he had gone from irritated to angry to enraged. More than anything else Anthony had said or done that evening, this offended him the most. Anthony sure hadn't asked Trisha to "tough it out" when Trisha claimed she had a migraine, excusing her absence. And for all of Anthony's acknowledgment that this was Sören's big night, he sure wasn't acting like it, over here with his friends like nothing was going on.
Sören took a few deep breaths. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" Sören asked, and then he grabbed Anthony by his sleeve and started dragging him.
When they were several meters away from Anthony's clique, Sören got in front of Anthony and just glared.
Anthony blinked slowly, looking a bit in shock. "Sören. Are... are you OK? What's going on. Did someone say something about your art? Was someone a prick to you? I'll go -"
"Yes, Anthony, someone was a prick to me. You."
"Oh shit." Anthony swallowed hard.
"Yeah, oh shit is right." Sören gave him a little shove. "The fuck is wrong with you?" Sören tried to keep his voice down, but now some people were staring at them, and now it was Anthony's turn to grab Sören - by the hem of his shirt instead of his sleeve - and drag him into a corner.
"When Jack called me over, what was I supposed to do? Say no? And I felt like I'd be rude if I ducked out of there -"
"So let me get this straight... you felt like you'd be rude to your friends if after a couple of videos you said, 'Hey guys, I'm here to support my partner at his art show, I'll look at this stuff another time'... and it didn't register with you that you staying there for over a half-hour was rude to me. Your partner. The man you are going to marry in November."
Anthony exhaled sharply. "I really didn't realize that it was going to upset you. I thought maybe you'd be interacting with gallery patrons, talking to them about your work, getting feedback -"
"Even if I was doing that, and you know by now how I am with starting conversations with strangers about something so personal to me, I'd still want you at my side, Anthony." Sören shook his head. "I can't fucking believe you."
"Sören, please lower your voice. You're making a scene again, people are looking at us again -"
"As opposed to you making a scene by being conspicuously absent at my side and hanging out over there for the last half-hour. You know that Athanasios Whateverthefuckis came over to me and felt sorry for me and shit?" Sören decided not to tell Anthony that the Greek artist had hit on him. "Considering how wrapped up he's been in the show and being Mr. Life of the Party, the fact that even he noticed this says a lot about what a bad fucking look it is for you to just flake out on me like this."
Anthony took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then their eyes met and Anthony took Sören's hand and kissed it. "Look. Sören. Honey. Sweetheart. I fucked up. We can discuss this at home, in private, the two of us. I don't want to cause more of a scene than we already have, and make you look unprofessional enough that it costs you future shows. So if you can calm down a little, we can go home in fifteen minutes and once we're home..."
"Fine," Sören spat, and then he started stalking off, making a beeline for the refreshment table.
"Where are you going? I thought you wanted me at your side."
Sören flipped him off over his shoulder, not caring if other people saw and it continued to create a scene - Scene this, asshole. The time for Anthony to be at his side during this had come and gone. Now Sören just wanted to get out of there, and if he couldn't get out of there, he was going to drink. He felt like he was going to need a few more drinks to deal with whatever conversation they had when they got home, anyway.
Sören's march slowed down when he saw Trisha and Vincente at the refreshment table, feeding each other olives. Sören felt his face scrunch up. He didn't want to go to the table until they were gone, not wanting them to see him, and he thought about heading back towards Anthony, but something told him to hold his position.
Trisha's ice-blue eyes locked with his across the crowd, from a few meters away, and her lips quirked - not in a smile, but a sort of sneer. She had definitely seen him.
Sören's heart was hammering in his ears now, and he braced himself.
Trisha leaned in closer to Vincente. "I'm so glad they have Greek food at the refreshment table and not Icelandic food," Trisha said, making Vincente grin. "Can you imagine?" Trisha made a vomiting gesture.
"Calling Icelandic cuisine 'food' is an insult to food," Vincente said, chuckling.
How the fuck would you know? You didn't even try anything I brought to the picnic, apart from that cookie. Sören felt his fists clench.
"Well, you've got that right." Trisha nibbled on a cube of feta cheese. "Although I must say, though I'm a fan of Greek food, I dislike ouzo immensely. I hate the taste of licorice."
Something in Sören's head snapped. His mind's eye conjured the image of Trisha at the picnic in June, trying one of the lakkrístoppar cookies he'd been up all night making, along with the other Icelandic food they disparaged - the lakkrístoppar had chocolate and licorice. And after she'd tried the cookie at the picnic, Trisha had put her hand on her heart, closing her eyes as she said, "Mmmmm. Oh, Sören, these are divine. Lovely."
Sounds to me like you didn't like it at all, and that makes you a fucking lying-ass liar. Sören was seething now, heart pounding in his ears even harder, his stomach doing nauseating flips. He didn't actually have a headache when he'd told Anthony he felt a migraine coming on, hoping Trisha would get the I see through you hint, but now his head was starting to throb. Sören walked towards them and when he knew they were in close enough range to hear him he stopped. "Oh, you hate licorice, do you? Funny, you said 'bring anything you want to the picnic', but you didn't tell me what you didn't want. Wish you would have done so before I went to all the damn trouble of slaving in the kitchen for hours to try to make something nice for you."
And then before Trisha or Vincente could respond, Sören dipped back into the crowd, as angry as he'd ever been in his entire life.
Sören stormed over to Anthony, who looked startled when he saw the naked, undisguised rage on Sören's face. "What now?" Anthony asked.
What do you mean, what now. Like I'm being fucking unreasonable for being upset at the mess you fucking caused. "We're going home," Sören snarled. "Now." Fuck waiting another fifteen minutes.
Anthony kept glancing over at Sören as he drove them back to Kingston - as if he were waiting for Sören to start the conversation they needed to have to clear the air - and Sören just sat there in stony silence, so angry he couldn't make words anymore. Not yet.
They were silent all the way upstairs, and finally when Sören followed Anthony inside, Sören slammed the door behind him. It was that slam that made Anthony whirl around and break the silence.
"All right," Anthony hissed. "I get it that you're angry, and I'm not going to tell you that you've no right to be. But you will not slam that door, or start getting... aggressive. We have neighbors, and we don't need them complaining." Anthony pointed to the couch. "Go have a seat. I'll make tea."
"Don't you tell me what to do," Sören said - even though he would have, in fact, sat on the couch of his own accord, and Anthony knew Sören was a creature of habit and likely to sit there, it was the way Anthony phrased it that Sören bristled at. Now was not the time for Anthony to be ordering him around. Now was the time for Anthony to beg his forgiveness.
"Sören... if we're going to discuss this like adults, I'd really prefer you sit down. Please." But the way Anthony looked at him now told Sören the please was just a courtesy, and he was starting to respond to Sören's anger with anger of his own.
Sören sat and folded his arms. Anthony calmly made tea - too calmly. Watching him putter around - watching the space between his actions, where Anthony paused, looking lost in thought - Sören wondered how Anthony was in the courtroom. If he was like this there, too.
When the tea was ready, Anthony brought it over, and wisely sat in the armchair rather than on the other side of Sören on the couch. For a few moments they drank tea in another painful silence, and finally Anthony put his cup down and said, "I'm sorry."
Sören leaned back in his chair. "For."
Anthony made a vague hand gesture. "For not staying at your side during the show. For going off and socializing with my friends when you needed me there with you." Anthony exhaled sharply. "It's like I said in the gallery, Sören. I didn't realize this would upset you, or I would have -"
Sören raised his index finger and then he pointed. And kept pointing, his hand shaking. "See, that's exactly it. More than you not being there when I needed you, on my big night, I'm upset that it didn't even occur to you that I needed you there, that this would bother me. After over a fucking year and a half together, after baring my fucking soul to you, you didn't even realize how much that would upset me? Do you not fucking know me at all?"
"I'm not a mind reader, Sören -"
"No, but you are a barrister. You observe people for a living and to all accounts you're bloody good at it, which is why people are afraid of you, which is why they call you the Shark, because you know when they're bleeding, you know when to strike. Why then, after a year and a half, you can't put those same skills to use and see how much something like what you did tonight would hurt me..."
"What do you want me to say, Sören? What do you hope to get out of this exchange? I told you I'm sorry. I am bloody sorry. I know I fucked up. I told you that. I didn't, at the time, realize how much I'd fucked up, because like I said - I'm not a mind reader. Eviscerating a witness for the prosecution on the stand is quite a bit different than trying to figure out all of the inner workings of the man I love, even when you have, as you put it, bared your soul to me. Sometimes it's harder to see what's in front of your own face, than what's on the face of other people. And that's on me. I'm not making excuses for myself, all I can tell you is I'll try to do better going forward. I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to, but I did, and..."
"And here we are, with a mess that could have been completely avoided if you didn't have such shitty friends."
Anthony buried his face in his hands and sighed deeply. When he took his hands away from his face there were tears in his eyes, and Sören almost felt bad - almost - but before Sören could feel too guilty about perhaps being a little too hard on him, Anthony said, his voice shaking, "Sören, I don't know what you want from me, but... this conversation is going nowhere productive."
"Oh no." Sören started point-point-pointing again, shaking with anger. "See... you're wrong about that. I just said something true, I just got to the heart of the matter, and now you're shutting the conversation down because you know I'm right -"
"You're putting me in the middle, and I don't appreciate it." And before Sören could say anything in response, Anthony got up from the armchair and put his teacup in the sink. Then he started walking out of the living room.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To bed. Because I am done with this discussion. Like I said, we're past the point of productive communication. I told you I'm sorry. I told you that I will try to do better going forward. That's the best I can do. I'm not going to sit here and be crucified all night."
Anthony walked past him down the hall and Sören, rage surging in him once more, rose from the couch and shouted after him, "Oh, you think I'm crucifying you? Poor little rich boy can't take someone calling him on his shit because Mummy and Daddy thought he was wonderful and could do no wrong? Boy, if you respond to your partner saying he's hurting and in pain with saying that he's crucifying you, I guess we can never have a difficult discussion ever again, can we?"
Anthony's response to that was to slam the bedroom door.
And that pissed off Sören more than anything else Anthony had said or done that evening - Anthony's concern for the door-slamming when he got home, claiming it was for the sake of the neighbors, and now he was clearly disregarding that himself, which made him a hypocrite, and made Sören think he wasn't actually concerned for how the neighbors would react, as he just didn't want to deal with Sören's "tone". "WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE NEIGHBORS?" Sören shouted, needing to get in one last dig.
Sören slept on the couch that night - or mostly, didn't sleep, laying awake for most of the night, continuing to stew in his anger. At some point he was vaguely aware of the sound of Anthony in the bathroom, washing up and brushing his teeth, and Sören wondered about going to him, and then the door was shut again - much more gently than before, but Sören still heard it close.
Sören had work at seven AM on Friday morning, and usually Anthony drove him when Sören was going into work before he did, but as soon as Sören heard Anthony's alarm go off at five, when Anthony went to the bathroom Sören went to the bedroom to quickly retrieve his scrubs, got changed, and left, taking the Tube. He was early, but he didn't want to be around Anthony that morning. Sören questioned his own sanity as he scrubbed in, that he'd barely slept and maybe he shouldn't be performing surgery like this, but then, he'd survived with little sleep before, and he managed to get through the day without errors.
Sören was done at three PM, took the Tube home, and after washing his hands and changing his clothes, he crawled into bed, exhausted. He smelled Anthony on the sheets and pillowcase and it made him cry a little, until he fell asleep a few minutes later.
He was woken up by the feeling of weight on the bed, a hand petting him. Sören opened his eyes and he saw Anthony sitting on the bed, in a navy blue suit and light blue shirt, with such sadness in his eyes that it brought tears to Sören's own. Anthony stroked Sören's cheek and then Sören noticed a bouquet of stargazer lilies was sitting on the bedtable. Sören sat up, and Anthony got down from the bed, got on the floor on his knees, and rested his head in Sören's lap. "Forgive me," he said, his voice husky with emotion.
Sören looked at the flowers again - as pretty as they were, for the first time since their relationship began, the flowers felt like a hollow offering rather than something genuine, like it was too easy for Anthony to throw his money at the situation to try to fix it. And Sören hated that this was his reaction, that he couldn't accept the flowers at face value as he had so many times before, that even a gift from Anthony to try to smooth things over felt like a microcosm of everything that was mismatched about them.
Sören looked down and saw the ache in those green eyes, and instinctively his hand went to rest on Anthony's head. Sören asked himself, Is my love for him stronger than this hurt.
And the answer, for the moment, was yes. He knew Anthony had taken time on the way home from work to get the bouquet, to try to express his feelings somehow. Anthony was trying. That was what mattered.
"I love you," Sören said.
Anthony rose - still on his knees - and he threw his arms around Sören and held him tight. "I am so, so, so, so, so, so sorry. I know I fucked up."
"You did."
"I know. I am so sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to. I don't want to fight with you. Please." Anthony pulled back and looked into Sören's eyes. "I'm sorry I shut you out last night. I was hoping you'd just come in and -" Anthony didn't finish the sentence, just bit his lower lip, cheeks pink.
"And?"
Anthony gave him a guilty little grin and Sören knew immediately what that meant, and Sören rolled his eyes and started laughing, and Anthony laughed too, and then they kissed, and that broke the dam. Sören started crying, sobbing. Anthony got up, sat back on the bed beside Sören, and pulled Sören close, letting Sören cry into his suit, rocking him. "Shhhhh, love. It's OK."
"It's not OK. I hurt." Sören wept harder.
"I know. Shhhh, I know. I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."
Anthony continued rocking him as Sören cried and cried and cried. Every time the sobs would start to subside, Anthony would pet Sören's curls, rub his back, and Anthony's touch would undo Sören all over again, thawing the ice, bringing the flood. Sören could feel Anthony shaking a little bit, and when Sören looked up at him and saw Anthony was in fact crying too, silently, that wrecked Sören even harder, wailing, howling, feeling like he was going mad with the intensity of emotions, overwhelming, all-consuming.
Anthony held him for a long time, petting him, letting Sören cry as long as he needed to. At last Sören had to get up to use the bathroom, and when he came back Anthony was quietly changing into pajamas. They paused to look at each other and then Anthony shifted his weight from one foot to another and rubbed his head, and asked, "Do you want something to eat?"
Sören nodded. "I'm not hungry but I should eat something."
Sören expected Anthony to suggest takeaway, but Anthony said, "I'll make you grilled cheese." Sören managed a weak smile at that - Anthony knew that was his favorite - and Sören got back on the bed, holding Tony the stuffed tiger, feeling that sickening drop in adrenaline he got after having a meltdown.
Anthony came in a short while later with grilled cheese for both of them. They ate in bed, and when they were finished eating, Anthony set the tray aside and pulled Sören back into his arms. Sören snuggled against him and Anthony resumed petting his curls. Then Anthony rubbed his nose in them and kissed the top of Sören's head. Anthony pulled back a little and looked Sören in the eye. "You still have the weekend off, right?"
Sören nodded.
"You want to go to Brighton?" They hadn't discussed weekend plans yet - the week had been dominated by the craziness surrounding Sören's show on Thursday.
"OK," Sören said. He liked Brighton, and it would be nice to get away for a couple of days.
"OK." Anthony pulled Sören back against his chest. "I love you, you know."
"I know." Sören did know it - despite everything that had happened on Thursday. Anthony couldn't undo what was done, but he was trying to make it right now. Sören knew he was trying. Even more than the gift of the flowers, or his apologetic words, Sören could feel it in his touch, could feel it in the strong arms holding him, the shield wall of Anthony's chest, giving him a safe place to just cry it out... to just be. "I love you too," Sören said, honestly.
Anthony kissed Sören's brow. "That's all I needed to hear."
Anthony turned off the light, but neither of them went to sleep right away. Anthony held Sören for a long time, and Sören cried off and on, as Anthony pet him, made little soothing noises.
When Anthony's alarm went off on Saturday morning, they both grumbled. Anthony shut off the alarm and he put his arms back around Sören, who was still curled up on Anthony's chest, their legs braided. For awhile they just lay in bed, holding each other; Sören listened to Anthony's heartbeat, the sound of his breath, as Anthony traced little circles and spirals on Sören's shoulder to the rhythm of his heart. Sören wished they could stay like this forever, cozy and peaceful, this place where all was forgiven, this place where they weren't hurting each other.
Sören wondered how long it would be before one of them would get hurt again. How bad it would be next time. How much work they would have to do to fix things.
Sören was still hurt from Anthony's behavior at his show, and he disliked Anthony's friends even more now - he couldn't shake the feeling that even if Anthony had not been deliberately trying to slight him on his big night, Anthony's friends were. That it wasn't simply that Anthony's friends were too inane to do something like go to an art show without needing to entertain themselves with viral videos on YouTube and picture galleries of their latest "bling" - Sören suspected there had been genuine malice in Anthony's friends luring him away during the show, and despite having a good nose for who was guilty and who was innocent in his legal carer, Anthony couldn't see the guile happening right in front of him. And Sören was stung from Anthony stating that Sören's concerns and complaints were "putting him in the middle", as if Sören and Anthony's friends were on equal footing, when Sören felt that as his partner, he should be given a bit more consideration.
He wondered how much farther things were going to go with Anthony's friends, what it would take for Anthony to snap and wake up and see them for what they were... and if they'd drive Sören out of the picture first.
Sören was still angry, and he was worried, but he was trying to not hold a grudge against Anthony, to see Anthony's faux pas on Thursday night as an innocent mistake on his part, and Anthony's apologies and attempts to make things right as genuine. He was trying to not freeze Anthony out, and here and now as they lay together, things almost felt normal again.
Anthony finally rubbed Sören's head and kissed his brow. "Honey, we should start getting up if we're going to Brighton today."
They took turns showering, and brushed their teeth together in the bathroom, making faces at each other in the mirror. They packed bags, loaded up the Audi, and they were off. They took a stop on the way to get breakfast - both of them got a full English breakfast, though Sören asked to hold the beans, and when Anthony's plate came, Sören snickered at it.
"Who the fuck puts beans on toast?" Sören teased.
"Where else are they supposed to go?" Anthony asked.
"Uh... in a bowl on the side, maybe?"
Anthony shrugged. "You come from a country where people eat sheep's head and rotten shark, so you're not exactly in a position to judge my food choices."
Ordinarily Sören would have laughed at that, and agreed that several traditional Icelandic dishes were horrifying, but now he just thought of Trisha and Vincente's sentiments about Icelandic food at the art show and he bristled. Anthony noticed the tension and he kicked Sören under the table. "You OK?"
"A couple of your friends said rude things about Icelandic food at the show."
"Oh. Well, I'm sure they didn't mean it as rude. People are allowed to not like things, maybe you were just taking it personally -"
Sören slammed his fork and knife down and gave Anthony a filthy look across the table. "People are allowed to not like things. As someone who has very strong opinions, very strong likes and dislikes, I usually agree on that. However, people can dislike things without being dicks about it to the people who do like those things, and they totally were, and no, I'm not just blowing their response out of proportion 'taking it personally'. They. Were. Rude. I don't know why you can't get it through your head that they don't like me -"
"Sören, I asked you to please not put me in the middle." Anthony gave Sören a stern look and sipped his coffee. "Please. I can't have this conversation right now."
There he was again with not wanting to be "put in the middle", which once again implied to Sören that he and Anthony's friends were on equal standing in Anthony's head, and that infuriated him, especially when Anthony wasn't particularly close to his friends - they were people he went drinking with now and again, but they didn't have especially deep conversations, they weren't people he could call at three in the morning when he was stressed out. Sören felt insulted, and he was tempted to storm out of there and say fuck Brighton, fuck this entire relationship, but before he could, his eyes met Anthony's and the hurt look on Anthony's face - the hurt in Anthony's eyes - made Sören pause and take a few deep breaths.
Sören reached across the table for Anthony's hands and squeezed. "I'm sorry."
"OK." Anthony squeezed Sören's hands back. "Now eat your toast before I put beans on it."
It was overcast, and it started to rain as Anthony drove on the highway. But the rain wasn't going to deter them from their weekend - Brighton would be a nice change of pace for both of them, even if they were just at the beach house and didn't go out much in the rain. And there was something about the rain that was soothing to Sören, trying to dial back the tension of earlier.
By the time they got to the beach house it was a downpour, and they made a mad dash for the house but were still soaked by the time they got in. A couple of minutes after they were safely inside, there was a big clap of thunder, enough to startle Sören and make him squeak. Anthony laughed.
"You're so cute," Anthony said, and booped Sören's nose.
Sören gave him a look of mock indignation.
The rainstorm created a chill, enough to warrant turning on the gas fireplace in the bedroom. Sören and Anthony were both drenched enough that they began undressing right away, but instead of changing into fresh clothing they fell on each other - Sören didn't know who grabbed who first - and, kissing feverishly, they made their way to the bed.
Sören climbed the bed, laying on his back, looking up at Anthony expectantly as Anthony climbed over Sören, a hungry look on his face that sent a shiver through Sören, cock jolting up to full erection, twinging with need. Sören wrapped his arms around Anthony and pulled him down, and they looked into each other's eyes for a moment before their mouths met, their tongues playing together, teasing. Hands slid over each other's bodies, exploring, soothing, loving.
Anthony kissed and licked down Sören's neck, knowing exactly how to drive him crazy. Sören clutched at his head, moaning. Anthony kissed over Sören's throat, down his chest, and began to lap and suckle Sören's nipples, making Sören arch to him, writhing, panting, cock dripping with precum. Anthony went back and forth between Sören's nipples, laving, sucking hard, tugging the rings with his teeth, making Sören's nipples swell and throb and ache, making Sören whimper and gasp and start to beg. Anthony kissed and licked Sören's stomach, his thighs, and then Sören's cock was in his mouth, sucking hard and fast, like he was starving for it, and the heat in Anthony's eyes was just as arousing to Sören as the way Anthony's mouth pleasured his cock.
Finally Anthony nibbled Sören's hip and growled, "I can't take it anymore." Anthony rose up, grabbed the lube they kept in the cabin's bedtable drawer, and Sören watched as Anthony poured lube over their cocks, taking them both in his hand, stroking them together. Sören moaned and Anthony gave a deeper groan, and Sören moaned again as he watched the precum flow between their cocks, cock dripping onto cock, making streamers. The velvet steel of Anthony's cock rubbing against his was almost enough to set Sören off right then. But then Anthony was straddling Sören's hips, opening to him, and Sören guided the tip of his cock to Anthony's channel. Anthony gasped as Sören began to enter him, and Sören's cock throbbed as he watched Anthony shudder, taking deep breaths as he took Sören inch by inch. "Oh god." Anthony made a guttural noise when Sören was buried in him to the hilt. "I need you so much," Anthony said, taking Sören's hands in his, kissing them, putting them on his heart, a tender gesture that brought tears to Sören's eyes. Once again he could feel that love between them, a love strong enough that it would find a way, somehow.
Anthony started to ride, slowly. Sören groaned at the sight of his cock gliding in and out of him, at the sight of Anthony's perfect, trim body, the fluid grace as he worked his hips. Sören grabbed Anthony's hips and matched his rhythm, and Sören's cock jolted as Anthony moaned. Watching Anthony lose himself in their fuck, listening to him moan, made Sören mad with lust, and soon Sören couldn't control himself, pounding into him, giving Anthony a good ride, making him work for it. When Anthony started to stroke himself, it was all Sören could do to not come right then, holding back his orgasm and holding back and holding back until they were both on that edge, shaking, gasping, desperate for relief. Their eyes met, and Anthony let out a strangled sob as he spilled over Sören's body. Two thrusts later Sören's own climax rocked him, and Sören heard himself gasping, panting, as he trembled violently, pleasure surging and surging.
Anthony settled down onto Sören's chest and Sören pulled him close. They kissed deeply, and then spent a few minutes looking into each other's eyes, petting. There were no words - there was no need for words. What Sören was feeling, in this moment, was beyond words. A feeling deeper than words, deeper than love, like they were as much a force of nature together as the raging thunder and pouring rain outside.
Still inside Anthony, Sören rose in him again, and Anthony rolled onto his back, pulling Sören atop him. His arms and legs wrapped around Sören and he kissed Sören hard, rolling his hips slowly. Sören started to thrust again, and after a few minutes of slow, sensual thrusting Sören leaned up, put Anthony's legs on his shoulders, and fucked out all of the aggression that had been pent up the last couple of days, pounding Anthony into the mattress, the bed slamming against the wall. "Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck," Anthony cried out underneath him, grabbing onto Sören for dear life. Sören growled and rocked into him harder, balls slapping against him, all primal, savage need. Anthony's cries got as loud as the slap of their flesh, a harmony with Sören's growling, grunting, letting out the beast. Anthony took Sören's hands in his, and then Sören's hands were running over him, making Anthony quiver to his touch, and at last Anthony's cock was in Sören's hand, stroking fast and furious, in time with his thrusts.
"Sören." Their eyes met. "Sören, I'm gonna -"
"Come for me," Sören rasped.
"Oh god, Sören!" Anthony let go, spending over Sören's chest and stomach.
At the sight of his lover climaxing - the feel of hot seed raining over his flesh - Sören came too, making an inhuman noise as he spent himself. Anthony let out little shuddery gasps, shaking, and Sören sank down and kissed him hard, kissed him until they were both breathless, the orgasmic pulses seemingly endless.
Sören lay on Anthony's chest, in his arms. Anthony rocked him, and they watched the rain out the window, the stormy sea. They still didn't speak. After awhile they were kissing again, and Sören had slipped out of Anthony, and now it was his turn. Anthony shoved Sören onto his back, and his slick fingers played inside Sören, knowing how to tease that magic spot inside him until Sören was clawing at his back, begging "Please, take me, fuck me..."
When Anthony took him, he kissed Sören deeply, and then he repaid all of Sören's savagery, Sören's legs on his shoulders, fucking him hard, fucking away everything else in the universe but the two of them and their pleasure and their need for each other. As Anthony's cock rubbed away at that sweet, sensitive place inside him, Sören's nails raked Anthony's back and he heard himself whimpering, keening, at last panting out "harder, more, fuck me, I need this, I need it, I need you, more..."
There was nothing sexier to Sören than the look on Anthony's face as Anthony had him, took him, claimed him, lips slightly parted, eyes narrowed and darkened with lust, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world. Anthony was getting closer, Sören could feel him tensing, could hear the little noises he made as he thrust, as their bodies slammed together, flesh damp from sweat now more than the rain. Sören revelled in it, on that edge himself, wanting to come but wanting to stay lost forever, worship Anthony with his eyes, his body. At last Anthony grabbed Sören's face, kissed him hard, and then he ground out, "Sören, come with me."
They came together, breathing each other's breath with each panting gasp, moaning together, shaking. Sören felt Anthony spending and spending inside him, and Sören's own cock kept shooting, his contractions so intense they almost hurt, it was so good.
The euphoria and the feeling of closeness between them broke something in Sören, weeping, feeling vulnerable, feeling like Anthony had touched the wounded place in him, had touched what hurt, and it was safe, and they were OK again... at least for now. Anthony kissed Sören's tears and Sören saw Anthony's own tears, silent.
It was time for words now. "Thank you," Sören whispered.
"Thank you." Anthony kissed the tip of Sören's nose, then his forehead, and then their lips met, softly, sweetly. "I needed that."
"We both needed that." Sören stroked Anthony's face. "We need each other."
"We do." Anthony gave a shuddery little sigh. "I need you so much it scares me."
I didn't get that impression at all on Thursday night, or whenever you tell me not to "put you in the middle" with your shitty friends. But Sören didn't say it aloud - they had just cleansed the wound and Sören didn't want to rip it back open. He gave a tight smile and gave Anthony another kiss. "Then hang onto me, and don't let go."
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