It was Tuesday, August twenty-seventh. It was now day twenty of Sören's new work schedule - he'd had Sunday the twenty-fourth off, and before that Thursday the fifteenth, but he'd spent most of his time off sleeping.
Six hours a night at the most was the new normal, and it was taking its toll on Sören, who was on his feet all day, and had to use his mind and concentrate when he was working. He was not happy, and there was no end in sight - the schedule posted on the twenty-first was more of the same for the next fortnight. Sören had heard nothing about a new neurosurgeon to fill the gap Pavit Singh left with his death.
Sören had been working since Monday night, and Anthony was still in chambers when Sören had his break at eleven AM. Even though it was still muggy outside, Sören needed some fresh air and made the short walk to Queen's Square. He climbed the steps of St. George's Cathedral and just sat there, throbbing head in his hands.
Anthony's words from earlier that month rang in his head. Thinking about good things to come in the future might help. Sören desperately needed something to keep him from having a meltdown, breaking down and crying from sheer exhaustion and the loneliness of seeing his partner so little - they hadn't even made love since the night of the tenth, after having such a frequent sex life, and Sören was feeling touch-starved. He imagined it was that much worse for Anthony and he ached, wishing there was something, anything he could do.
Once, Sören had such a strong sense of purpose. A sense of destiny. Now he felt utterly powerless, helpless, like he was being tossed around by the winds of change, the tides of fate, and there was nothing that could be done.
Sören took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes, and thought of a time when the NHS would have a new neurosurgeon to replace Singh and he'd be back to seventy-two hours instead of a hundred every week. He thought of spending time with Anthony, cuddling, making love. Going on a picnic with Anthony to Canbury Gardens, just the two of them, feeding each other like lovers. Going to Brighton. Adopting two cats, watching Anthony be tender and loving with the cats, petting them, playing with them, that lovely radiant smile on his face as a cat brought him a toy mouse while he was at his desk working.
It was a beautiful fantasy, and Sören's "happy place" relaxed him. His mind drifted and drifted...
...a loud croak snapped him back to reality. Sören blinked his eyes open and realized he'd fallen asleep. A large raven was strutting around in front of the steps, and when Sören looked at it, the raven cocked its head to one side before it flew off, joined by a mate in the sky.
Sören felt a flood of panic, wondering how long he'd been asleep. He took out his cell phone and saw he'd been "gone" for only five minutes or so, but that still bothered him, a lot. He'd fallen asleep right here, outside, in public - even though Queen's Square was quiet and it was broad daylight, it still wasn't safe to be sleeping like this here.
At least when I'm performing surgery, it's a different state of consciousness. I shouldn't be in danger there. I'll just... make a note of this and be mindful of what I'm doing.
Sören had a big cup of coffee in the break room just to be on the safe side, as nasty as the break room coffee tended to be, bitter and burnt no matter how much sugar and cream you put in it. His next act of the day wasn't a surgery, but a pre-surgery consult, including ordering more tests, and he was aware of how tired his voice sounded, the fatigue hitting him even harder after the patient was gone and he sat down to review the CAT scan results and the patient's case file.
Sören got out of work at three PM; Anthony wasn't out yet and Sören didn't feel like spending the next few hours at the National waiting, so he took the Tube home. The walk to the station was grueling in the heat, and at this time of day there were more passengers and people were in too close proximity for Sören to feel comfortable. Nonetheless, getting to sit and take a load off his feet again got to him, and before Sören could start drifting off again he reached in his satchel for his earbuds and put on Tool, something loud to keep him awake.
Sören took out his earbuds once he was off the train and having to listen as well as watch his surroundings on the way home, careful of oncoming cars. He dragged himself up each step to their flat, and after he washed his hands he fell over on the couch, and just lay there, even as he felt guilty about doing so in his scrubs. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.
When he opened his eyes he realized he'd fallen asleep again, and when he looked at the clock he saw he'd been out for ten minutes. Sören made noises as he pulled himself to his feet and hauled into the shower.
Sören could barely stay awake after his shower, and decided to take a nap before Anthony got home. The weight of Anthony sitting on the bed woke him up, and Sören murmured as he felt Anthony rubbing his shoulder and chest.
"Hey," Anthony said.
"Hi." Sören sat up, and smirked at Anthony in his robes, holding his wig. "How was court?"
Anthony made a noise. "I brought home dinner."
"Oh, takk."
After Anthony got changed they sat on the couch together. It was fish and chips, and a salad on the side. Sören leaned on Anthony as they ate, giving Anthony some silence to decompress from a day in court. Finally Anthony patted Sören's knee. "I missed you," Anthony said.
"I missed you too." Sören kissed his cheek.
Anthony gave him a tired smile. "Mum called when I was just getting off work, so I took a detour to see her."
"Oh." Sören looked at the clock then and saw Anthony was home a little later than usual. "Oh."
Anthony nodded.
"What did she want? Just to see you, or -"
"Well, I asked her for help with wedding planning since we're both swamped at the moment. She let me know she hired a Humanist officiant to perform our ceremony - Dad grumbled about us not getting married in the Church of England, he was like, 'You know they marry the gays now, right?'"
Sören snickered and rolled his eyes. "The gays."
"The gays. This is what I mean when I say he tries but..." Anthony snickered too.
"Neither of your parents are religious, though?"
"No. It's just... traditional to be married in the Church of England. My parents were still married there, even though they're not religious, and..." Anthony shrugged. "But I don't feel comfortable with having a church ceremony, and I know you don't either -"
"No. Especially not after my aunt Katrín found Jesus and started shoving religion down my throat." Sören scowled.
"Yeah." Anthony went on, "Anyway, we're going to be married at the Gallery at H Club London in Covent Garden, which is licensed for a hundred guests. She also had wedding invites printed out." Anthony opened his briefcase and pulled out a royal blue envelope. Sören pulled out a card - marbled light blue, with silver foil scrollwork on the edges, elegant lettering.
Sören Sigurðsson and Anthony Hewlett-Johnson
request the honour of your presence
at their wedding
on Friday, November twenty-second
at one o'clock in the afternoon
Gallery at H Club London
Covent Garden
Reception to follow
Black tie required
Sören snorted. "So formal."
Anthony chuckled. "Well, that's how you're supposed to do a wedding invitation."
"And 'black tie.' As opposed to what, neon green tie?" Sören snickered at the mental image. "Are they only wearing black ties, and nothing else? That's kind of kinky."
Anthony laughed harder and kissed the tip of Sören's nose. "This is why I love you," he said, and booped Sören's nose.
Sören crinkled his nose and bit his lower lip, and Anthony gave a little growl before he put the invitation down and resumed eating.
"So now," Anthony said, "the question is who are we inviting."
"Well..." Sören said, "I assume your family and Dag and Ari from mine."
Anthony nodded. "I have to invite my gran and Donovan, and mum's brother, and my dad's surviving brother and his family... which means you're finally going to meet my cousin Alistair, the Olympic fencer." Anthony made a face. "I hate having to invite him at all but if I don't he's going to raise a shitstorm about it and pretend he's offended."
"He sounds like a twat."
"He is a twat. I should already apologize for his presence."
"OK, so how many people is all of that, between our family members?"
"Presuming Dag and Ari both come, I would say maybe a dozen will actually show up, but that accounts for two dozen invites." Anthony leaned back against the couch. "Anyone from the National..."
Sören nodded. "Colin. Pamela. Ed. Elise Hansen." Poor Elise. I'm sorry I hate you right now. "Elise's husband as her plus-one. I don't want to invite too many people from the National because I like to keep business and personal life separated, and we can't shut down the hospital with having too many people out, but..."
"I understand. In my case, I have to invite everyone at Garden Court Chambers and plus-ones where applicable, or someone will be offended. Not all of them will actually attend, since it's on a weekday, but... enough of them will that it will make up the remainder of the hundred guests. That and, you know, the squad, Jack, Lawrence, Steve, Trisha, Vincente."
Sören wanted to facepalm, but he kept from reacting, not wanting to have an issue with Anthony when he was just tired and needing to go back to bed when he was finished eating. "OK," Sören said, and shoved chips in his mouth.
Sören looked at the clock - he needed to wake up at three AM tomorrow to be at work for five AM. For the first time in days he had over twelve hours between shifts, but it scarcely mattered when they were two different shifts and the shifts were so long. He was hoping Anthony didn't have much more to say, and Anthony got quiet again, but then when Sören glanced over at him he saw Anthony was looking thoughtful, as if he was searching for the right words.
Sören braced himself.
"You still have Friday off, yes?" Anthony prompted.
Sören nodded slowly, and shoved more chips in his mouth.
Anthony took a deep breath. "So speaking of the squad, we have been invited to an evening out with them."
There it was. Sören dropped back against the couch, chewed, and then looked down after he swallowed, letting the displeasure register in his body language.
"I haven't said yes yet," Anthony said, "but I did want to talk to you about it first."
"Anthony, you realize what my hours have been like, and Friday is my only full day off this week, and I have to go in for seven AM on Saturday morning. I don't really think I should be out late on Friday night -"
"Well, we don't have to be late. We could put in an appearance and leave within an hour -"
You and I both know that's not going to happen. Sören gave him a look. Anthony sighed.
"Look, Sören. Like I said, I didn't say yes yet. I'm not going to tell you that you can't say no. But I haven't been out with them all month, and they specifically invited you because they want you to feel included."
Because I felt so fucking welcome and included when they went to my art show in July. Sören stopped himself from saying it aloud.
"And it's getting to the point where they are taking it personally that you're..." Anthony didn't finish the sentence.
"That I'm what?" Sören heard the irritation rising in his voice, felt his restraint breaking. "Still fucking angry that they showed up at my art show just to fucking ignore me and my work? Still fucking angry that Trisha and Vincente wouldn't eat any of the food I worked so fucking hard making for their bloody stupid fucking picnic?" Sören's voice was definitely not an indoor voice anymore, and he hated that he was yelling, knowing Anthony wasn't going to let it go and he just wanted to go to bed and be done with the day, but he couldn't stop himself, fists clenching, body tensing. "They are your friends, Anthony."
"They've been trying."
"You call that trying?"
Anthony didn't answer that directly. "Sören, I have not been anywhere in over a month, and I'd really like to go out with my friends. I'd also feel really guilty leaving you behind considering I don't get to see you much these days."
"So let me get this straight, you're telling me I can say no, but then you're kind of telling me not to say no -"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't say that in those exact words." Sören raised an eyebrow. Stop being a lawyer for five fucking minutes, Anthony.
"Sören. Again. You can say no. But it would mean a lot to me if you said yes. If you gave them one last chance to show that they mean well and want to make my husband-to-be feel welcome. If you gave me a chance to get out for a little bit and..." Anthony's voice trailed off.
"And what?"
"Relax and enjoy myself in a way that I can't really do at home. I don't know, it's just the feeling of being cooped up lately."
"You at least have the luxury of even feeling that way. I don't go anywhere, I can't even miss going anywhere because my entire fucking life is being taken over by..." Sören didn't finish the sentence. He saw that Anthony's eyes were too bright.
"I don't want to fight with you," Anthony husked.
"I don't want to fight with you either. I just wish..."
"What." Now Anthony was challenging Sören instead of the other way around. "What. You wish what."
I wish you would ditch those assholes and find some better friends, or better yet, not be so insecure that you feel you have to have a clique to hang out with. We're not in school anymore, for fuck's sake. But Sören knew the bullying wound ran deep, even though it affected him differently than it affected Anthony. Sören had learned to live as a lone wolf. Going into surgery had reinforced that. Anthony's profession was more social than his.
Sören settled on something less likely to offend Anthony, that was still true. "I wish I had more time. So I wouldn't feel like being asked to something was such an imposition."
Anthony nodded, though he had a wary look in his eye that told Sören he knew what Sören said in response wasn't his first choice of completing the "I just wish" sentence.
Sören sighed. Anthony sighed too.
They finished their meal. Sören showered and got ready for bed, and though it was still early yet for Anthony, he was waiting for Sören in the bedroom, already in his pajamas. When Sören rolled over, Anthony began to rub his back. Sören involuntarily flexed his fingers and toes, feeling the tension roll out of him.
"That's nice," Sören mumbled.
"I love you, you know." Anthony kissed the top of Sören's head, and rubbed his nose in Sören's curls. He kneaded Sören's back harder, and Sören moaned into the pillows as more waves of relief washed through him.
Anthony rubbed Sören's back for awhile, then massaged Sören's scalp, and then at last, Sören's feet. Sören felt like he was melting by the time Anthony was finished, pulling Sören into his arms. Sören gave a little giggle as Anthony kissed the tip of his nose, then his mouth.
The kiss deepened, heated, their tongues teasing, playing. Anthony's hand slid down from stroking Sören's cheek, to Sören's chest, thumb brushing a pierced nipple. Anthony started kissing Sören's neck, his thumb playing with Sören's nipple, and when he reached down for the waistband of Sören's pajama bottoms, Sören grabbed his wrist.
"Anthony, I'm sorry, but I'm too tired."
Anthony gave him a hurt look, and Sören felt guilty - he knew Anthony had needs. And Sören once again cursed his schedule; if he wasn't working so much and so run into the ground, he would have gladly made love with Anthony. The sex between them never got old - if anything, the more time they were together, the better they learned each other's bodies, practice making perfect, the best sex Sören had ever had.
But with his guilt for leaving Anthony frustrated, and his resentment at his schedule and the hand dealt him for the foreseeable future, Sören also felt a flare of irritation, wondering if Anthony had just rubbed him down to soothe him out of the kindness of his heart, or if he was being nice because he expected sex. Sören hated that he was even thinking that, and now that gave him pause for anxiety - that was a bad sign.
Anthony simply nodded, gave Sören a peck on the cheek, and pursed his lips as he turned the light out. "Good night," Anthony said.
"Night, elskan."
Anthony held him, but Sören could feel the tension in Anthony's body, and it intensified his concerns. Before Sören could give reassurance that he still wanted Anthony, Sören passed out, exhuasted.
Friday came, and it didn't feel like much of a day off. Neither had his previous days off since this new workload started, but at least the last two times he'd had off, Sören had caught up a bit on sleep. Today he had to go grocery shopping - resentful that it was yet another thing Anthony could have done on his own, instead of leaving it for him to do, wondering how Anthony survived before he moved in - and even a simple shopping trip felt like he was running a triathlon. But the worst part of it was the getting there and coming back.
Sören and Anthony would be having dinner that night when they were out with Anthony's friends, so at least Sören didn't have to cook anything. After his grocery trip he went back to bed to get in a nap before Anthony got home from work.
Anthony woke Sören up with kisses. Sören's irritation with having to be the one to go to the store faded as he felt Anthony's arms around him, the hand petting his hair, opened his eyes to the green eyes looking at him so adoringly. Then Anthony brushed a rose against Sören's lips, and Sören saw he had a bouquet of pink roses. Sören giggled as a rose was rubbed against the tip of his nose, before Anthony put it back in the bouquet.
"What's the flowers for?" Sören asked.
"To say thank you." Anthony skritched Sören's beard. "I appreciate your willingness to go with me to the pub tonight."
Sören didn't know that he would call it willingness so much as it was not wanting to have further conflict with him. And it added bitterness to the sweetness of the roses. But Sören simply kissed his cheek and managed a smile.
They were meeting Anthony's friends at the pub at eight. It was a place in Canary Wharf, which was forty-five minutes at optimum traffic, could be up to an hour one-way with delays. Sören wasn't happy about the travel time, especially when he knew they weren't going to be there "just an hour" if they were eating there too. But he held his peace as they got in the Audi, and held his peace on the way there.
Despite the sleep, Sören still felt drained - he'd need a lot more than a day of rest to make up for what his mind and body had been through the last few weeks. He half-dozed in the car, trying to wake up a little with iced coffee.
At last they were there, and were seated with Anthony's friends, the last two to arrive.
"Sören," Trisha said, smiling and waving. "So good of you to join us. You look nice."
Sören was in leather pants, a white ruffly blouse and a black vest, a contrast with Anthony's black blazer, white shirt and black trousers. Sören knew perfectly damn well Trisha didn't think he looked nice, and he gave her a syrupy-sweet smile in return, hoping she knew how fake it was. "You look nice too," Sören said - he was really starting to hate the color pink now, with how often Trisha wore it, tonight in a pink-and-black cocktail dress, a matching bow in her hair.
A jazz band was playing, the same one they'd seen months earlier at a club. Sören tried to relax to the music, but as Anthony's friends began chatting at each other and Sören once again felt excluded from the conversation - like he was outside a door but not really let in - he could feel his anger flaring, moreso than usual because of what he was sacrificing to even come here.
The anger intensified as they ate. The food wasn't great for the cost of it, they could have stayed in and eaten better-quality food for less. Sören also hated the sight - and sound - of Trisha and Vincente eating, after the way they'd snubbed his food at the picnic. The memory came rushing back to him, and the way they'd made fun of him about it later at the art show.
But then the worst was when Trisha watched a pair of young women in a table by the corner flirting outrageously with one of the waiters, giggling. "Oh my word," Trisha said, "I hate it when chavs show up in a place like this."
Sören had lived long enough in the UK to know what that word meant, and he found himself bristling. Ordinarily he'd agree that the girls were too loud and raucous while a band was having a gig, but he was also really uncomfortable with the way Trisha seemed to care about that less than the fact that they were of a lower socioeconomic class. He was also really uncomfortable that neither Lawrence nor Anthony said anything to her about it - in Lawrence's case having been raised in council housing, in Anthony's case as someone who not infrequently defended people less fortunate. And Sören himself came from a working-class background, where he was absolutely sure Trisha would judge him if she knew the extent of it. Sören thought about saying something himself, but he held his tongue.
We won't be here much longer.
And yet, every second that passed, with Trisha making a face of disgust at the girls - enough where they saw her staring and gave her a filthy look in return - Sören got angrier and angrier, his heart beating faster. He was reminded of all the Tool he'd been listening to lately trying to make himself stay awake on the commute to and from work, and one song in particular ran through his head now.
Some say the end is near.
Some say we'll see Armageddon soon.
Certainly hope we will.
I sure could use a vacation from this bullshit three-ring circus sideshow of freaks.
Fret for your figure
And fret for your latte
And fret for your lawsuit
And fret for your hairpiece
And fret for your Prozac
And fret for your pilot
And fret for your contract
And fret for your car.
It's a bullshit three-ring circus sideshow of freaks.
Sören sipped his Dirty Shirley loudly, loud enough that now Trisha looked at him, their eyes locking.
Some say a comet will fall from the sky.
Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves.
Followed by fault lines that cannot sit still.
Followed by millions of dumbfounded dip shits.
And some say the end is near.
Some say we'll see Armageddon soon.
Certainly hope we will
I sure could use a vacation from this stupid shit, silly shit, stupid shit.
Sören started to blow bubbles in his drink.
"Could you not make that godawful noise?" Trisha asked. "I'm trying to hear the band."
Sören pulled the straw away from his lips and cocked his head to one side. Before he could open his mouth to say that's funny, considering you've been talking non-stop since we fucking arrived, Anthony tapped him under the table and traced the letters S-O-O-N on Sören's knee.
Not soon enough. Sören's fists clenched.
Sören desperately needed to de-escalate the tension in him before it snapped and he exploded, not wanting to make a scene and upset Anthony. Sören took a few deep breaths and then he ran the mental script of his "happy place" - a future when he would be back to a regular schedule instead of a hundred hours a week, where he and Anthony would have two cats and cuddle with their cats... where he and Anthony could take bubble baths together, make love, go to Brighton. Sören thought about huddling with Anthony in a blanket nest, two adorable cats purring away, and he let the stress roll out of him, going deeper and deeper into that beautiful vision...
"Sören. Sören." Anthony was gently shaking him awake.
Sören woke with a start, and when he looked around the table at everyone staring at him - and people staring a few tables over - he realized he'd fallen asleep again.
"Jesus, mate, you snore like a chainsaw," Steve said, and started imitating Sören's snores.
"It's not that bad," Anthony said, giving Steve a stern look that indicated he should drop it at once.
But Steve wasn't going to let it go. "Who falls asleep in a pub, anyway? You some kind of necro...philiac or something?"
"Narcoleptic," Anthony muttered, looking more irritated.
"Oh right, you're the necrophiliac," Steve said, giving Anthony a playful shove. "Does he get dead like that while you're bonking him?"
Anthony opened his mouth and before he could speak, Sören said, "Why are you so interested in our sex life if you're not gay?" He sipped his drink and raised an eyebrow, hoping that question unsettled Anthony's rude friend, who deserved to be unsettled.
But then Jack spoke up. "Maybe Sören is just auditioning for the band." He imitated Sören's snores.
"He'd have to wear a suit for that," Trisha said with an eyeroll. "And our dear Sören prefers to... dress down... don't you, love?"
Sören tipped back his glass, letting some ice fall in his mouth, and then he began to crunch it, hoping the sound annoyed her. As he crunched his ice he thought of a rebuttal, but he was too tired to be clever. So instead he said, "Well, you know, with all the hours I work, I like to be comfortable. And I don't know if Anthony told you lot ahead of time, but I've been doing hundred-hour shifts lately -"
"And whose fault is that? Why haven't you gone into private practice?" Trisha narrowed her eyes. "Please, spare us the sob story of how much you work, as if we all don't put in a bloody lot of hours ourselves."
Sören snorted. "I haven't gone into private practice because one, the NHS is sponsoring my visa, two, even when that isn't an issue, you realize you're talking to a Scandinavian, you should know how I feel about things like socialized medicine. Civilized countries take care of their own people. As far as my hours versus yours, there's a difference. You work a lot of hours, yes - I know that, I live with Anthony after all. But you don't work a hundred hours a week. You have time to do things like go to the pub. This is taking time out of one of the only chances I get to have some proper rest. I am tired. That's why I accidentally fell asleep. Sorry if it fucking offended you."
"God, you're so negative," Trisha said. "I don't think we'll be inviting you to things anymore, because you're no fun."
"That suits me just fine," Sören said, wiping his mouth and throwing his napkin down, getting up, "because I'd rather have a fucking root canal without anaesthesia than spend time with the lot of you." And with that, Sören got up and started marching out of the club.
Sören stood outside, shaking with chills even though the late August night wasn't cold, lingering warmth from the day. Sören tried to take some deep breaths and get himself under control, but his heart was hammering in his ears. Tool once again began playing in his head:
Fuck smiley glad-hands
With hidden agendas.
Fuck these dysfunctional
Insecure actresses.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
Learn to swim.
Anthony came out, and for a minute he and Sören just looked at each other, then Anthony began to march towards the Audi in the parking lot, pressing his keyring so the headlights flashed and the doors unlocked.
They didn't say a word as they got in the car together, or as Anthony began pulling out of the parking lot and got on the road. It wasn't until they got on the highway that Sören finally spoke.
"I fucking hate your friends."
"OK," Anthony said.
That response annoyed Sören even more than if Anthony had tried to defend them. "Just... OK? I... I don't get it."
"I'm not going to ask you to keep giving them chances and try to make it work with them. It's been a year and a half, it's clear that you guys don't mix well."
Sören leaned back against the car seat and folded his arms. "So wait... wait wait wait, hold up." He waved his hand and then held it up as he looked down, feeling his face scrunch up. His heart was beating harder now and the pit of his stomach started to rise, as he braced himself. "Your... reaction... to all of this is 'I guess you guys don't mix well, oh well,' and not 'they were shitty to you, I'm sorry?'"
"I had a few words with them before I left," Anthony said, looking straight ahead at the road, but his tone was now that icy monotone.
"So you finally see it? That they're not good people?"
"Sören, you weren't exactly on your best behavior either."
Sören glared at him. "Excuse me? They were being... well, you saw it, they were being assholes, and this wasn't the first time. What was I supposed to do, sit there and take it? If I'd said to you, 'hey Anthony, this is making me uncomfortable, can we go home now,' would you have actually listened to me and gotten me out of there?"
Now Anthony turned to look at him, and there was a wounded look on his face. "Yes, I would have."
"You know, you acting hurt that I didn't think that would be your response is rich considering you're the one who's been shoving them on me for a year and a half and you made us stick around when shit got awkward at the art show and the picnic and..." Sören shook his head.
Anthony sighed.
"Oh for fuck's sake." Sören fought the urge to backhand him. I am not going to be the kind of person who hits my partner when he's angry, no matter how tired I am. "Stop acting like you're the aggrieved fucking party here -"
"Well, now I'm even more in the middle than I was before."
"Wait. Wait. Hold on a fucking minute. You mean after the way they disrespected me in there, you're still wanting to be friends with them? If our situation was reversed and those were my friends and they were being like that to you, they wouldn't be my friends anymore -"
"That's because we're not the same person, Sören." Anthony's voice dropped back to that icy monotone. "It is as I have told you countless times by now. I have a history with them. A history that predates you."
"I'm your partner."
"Yes. You are. But asking me to choose isn't fair -"
"And letting them disrespect me isn't fair either! What the fuck, how are you not so turned off by their shitty treatment of me that you're not just -"
"Sören, let it go." Anthony's voice finally left the monotone register and now it was like a blade, cutting him to the quick. "I told you, your response wasn't the best either."
"Excuse me for having fucking feelings. Excuse me for being fucking hurt. Excuse me for being fucking tired where I'm going to be even more reactive than usual because I'm too tired to fucking think, just feel. Excuse me for -"
"Sören, I said let it go. So stop. Now." Their eyes met.
Sören shut his mouth, and they continued on home in stony silence. They continued to not speak and keep a distance of a couple meters away as they got changed and ready for bed. Sören pulled a blanket and extra pillows out of the hall closet and got on the couch, not wanting to share a bed with Anthony tonight, not wanting to even be in the same room with him. As he set the alarm on his phone, Anthony came out of the bathroom and stood in the living room with his hands on his hips.
"Sören, you're not sleeping on the couch tonight. You need to rest in a real bed, or you'll be sore and stiff tomorrow and that's not good when you're on your feet performing surgery."
"Piss off," Sören mumbled. He was very close to just telling him fuck you, fuck this entire thing and he hated that he still loved Anthony, still wanted to make this work somehow.
Anthony came over, snatched the phone out of Sören's hand, scooped him up off the couch, and carried him down to their room. Then he planted Sören in bed, tucked him in up to his chin, and he grabbed Finn and Tony and shoved them in Sören's arms. He hit the light, climbed on the other side of him, and rolled Sören against him.
Sören started to cry on his shoulder. "Why are you still friends with them?"
Anthony sighed. "Because feelings don't work on an on/off switch. And people are complicated."
"They hurt me. They hurt my feelings -"
"Sören... I asked you to stop. I can't have this conversation with you. I cannot be put in the middle like this. The best I can offer you is that I'm not going to ask you to accompany me out with them anymore, and I'm not going to go out with them again until you go back to regular hours and have been back on regular hours for some time, so we can catch up on quality time together. OK?"
That didn't satisfy Sören as much as Anthony promising to get rid of his "friends" would have - Sören felt stung that Anthony still wanted to be friends with them after treating him that way - but it would have to do for now. Sören nodded and sobbed some more.
Anthony pet Sören's curls. "I love you." He kissed the top of Sören's head. "Get some rest."
There is no rest for the weary.
chapter 42 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index