Once again, Sören woke to a handwritten note from Anthony.
I hope you have a good day at work today. I'm looking forward to seeing you on your break and feeling you in my arms. Holding you is my most favourite thing in the world.
"Goddammit, Anthony." Sören got choked up, tears stinging his eyes as he brought the note to his nose, inhaled the comforting - and arousing - smell of Anthony's cologne.
Sören's break coincided with Anthony getting out of court, and Anthony met Sören in the cafe, ready with coffee the way Sören liked it. This time when Anthony rose from the table, watching Sören walk in, Anthony strode over to Sören as Sören marched towards him, and in the middle of the cafe Sören was right in his arms, Anthony spinning him around a little before squeezing him tight.
"God, I miss you," Anthony murmured into Sören's curls, burying his nose in them for a moment as his arms locked around Sören.
Sören felt that tight lump in his throat again, but he didn't want to break down and cry.
Sören leaned on him as they drank coffee together. Anthony stroked Sören's hand as he drank, and when Sören's coffee was finished, Anthony held him close again, rubbed Sören's scalp, which made Sören sigh with bliss as the tension melted out of him.
Sören wanted to rest in Anthony's arms forever, but the cafe had so many people around and it was feeling stifling, oppressive. "Can we go for a little stroll outside?" Sören asked. "Get some fresh air?"
Anthony nodded. "Fresh air would be nice, after being in court all day."
They walked to Queen's Square, hand-in-hand, and after spending some time admiring the flowers - it was September now and soon enough the flowers would be gone - they sat on a bench together and Sören rested his head on Anthony's shoulder again. It was nice to just be, and it was a balm for Sören's soul that Anthony got that. They were each other's refuge. Already Sören felt a little better, even as he wanted desperately to just go home and sleep.
Then Anthony's cell phone vibrated, disturbing the peace. Sören's eyes flew open and he watched as Anthony fumbled for his cell phone, cursing under his breath. Anthony's eyes widened when he saw what it was, and Sören watched as he fired off a text message.
"Who was that?" Sören asked when Anthony was finished sending the message, feeling curious.
Anthony took a deep breath. "Trisha," he said, eyes looking forward, knowing that was still fraught for Sören.
"I... see."
"She wanted to know how court went."
"It couldn't have waited? Give you some more time to relax, and..."
Anthony looked over his shoulder and met Sören's eyes. He kept his expression neutral but there was a tension there now, and Sören knew immediately he'd put his foot in it. "Look. I already told you that I won't push you to socialize with them anymore, and I won't go out with them until you've been back to normal hours for awhile. But I'm not going to apologize to you for having outside friends and people I talk shop with -"
"Oh for fuck's sake, Anthony, I didn't ask you to apologize." Sören narrowed his eyes. "But we were having a quiet moment -"
"And what? Is she expected to be a mind-reader? A remote viewer? Jesus Christ, Sören, she's a barrister, not a psychic."
"I'm not putting this well because I'm tired," Sören said, hearing the edge creep into his voice. "What I mean is, I wish it could have waited until, you know, later. As opposed to intruding on what little time we had."
"I always answer my phone if it's on. You know this. You've known this for a year and a half -"
"OK, well excuse me for thinking my partner might actually think I'm more important than fucking Patricia."
"Beatrice," Anthony muttered.
"What?"
"Her name is Beatrice. Not Patricia. Beatrice Courtenay."
Like I give a fuck. But something about Anthony being so pedantic, so detail-obsessed, was so him and Sören heard himself start to giggle madly.
"What?" Anthony's jaw dropped. "What's so funny?"
"You." Sören laughed harder. "You're so... you." As irritated as he was by Anthony continuing to associate with the people who disrespected him, he was tickled by Anthony's pedantic side.
"I don't get you sometimes."
"I don't get me sometimes either." Sören kissed Anthony's cheek. Then he sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just... tired. And I want to spend time with you, and we have so little of it, and it felt like an intrusion."
"I understand. I should have waited to send the text, it's just... force of habit."
They held each other and Sören giggled again. I'm losing my fucking mind. "I love you."
"I know." Anthony rubbed his nose in Sören's curls. "I love you too."
Anthony came back four hours later to pick him up. Sören was relieved to come home and got in his pajamas right away. As tired as he was, he couldn't shut his mind off yet and needed to unwind, so he curled up with his Wacom tablet as Anthony watched something on TV. A few minutes into sketching, Sören noticed Anthony kept looking at him, and it felt a bit more than the "I haven't seen you all day, let me look at you" kind of look, like Anthony wanted to say something and wasn't.
Sören finally put down his stylus. "What?"
"Um..." Anthony looked at the clock, then at Sören. "Did you want to go out to dinner? I know it's late, but there are places open, and I thought it would be a nice change of pace..." Anthony gave him a shy little smile.
He wants to get laid. Sören sighed and shook his head. "Even though there are less people out at this hour I still don't want to go out and be in a crowd atmosphere after dealing with the public all day. No offense."
Anthony sighed. "OK. Shall I make you some sandwiches?"
I wish you'd make me an actual home-cooked meal. "Yes, takk."
As Anthony got up, Sören felt a pang of guilt, both at not wanting to go out, and over the fact that he should be grateful Anthony was even offering to make him something, rather than Sören having to get up and make it himself. But mostly he just felt numb. Numb and drained.
He'd been working on this same sketch obsessively for weeks, even more detail than his usual detail-obsessed work. The other-him was standing with his shoulders slumped, head bowed, a sad expression on his face. The other-Anthony was a few meters away, walking away, not looking back, silver-gold mane blowing in the breeze. Sören could see it when he closed his eyes.
He could feel it.
Anthony came back with the sandwiches - sliced chicken with bacon, Swiss cheese, lettuce and tomato on rye. He knew how to make good sandwiches, and Sören accepted his with a mumbled "takk". Anthony sat down next to him and began rubbing Sören's scalp and Sören sighed, leaning into his touch.
"Can I see?" Anthony asked, reaching for the tablet.
Sören was once again reminded of other-Anthony as a small boy - before he was the grown man who became his lover - exuberant, hyper, curious. I want to see what you're making. Let me see. Let me see.
Except now, Sören didn't want Anthony to see it just yet, or possibly at all. It was a private expression of his grief, feeling like everything was out of his control.
Sören took his hand away. "I'd rather you didn't. I'm not ready yet."
At the hurt look Anthony gave him, Sören felt bad, but he knew he'd feel even worse if Anthony saw the sketch and got the wrong idea. Even as Sören knew Anthony probably had the same memory.
That was part of why he didn't just walk away when Anthony's friends disrespected him. It wasn't simply that he loved Anthony and would miss him terribly if he was gone, but their love felt bigger than the both of them. They felt fated, even as everything happening right now was chaotic hell and Sören felt at the mercy of it, and they were barely hanging on to ride the storm. Sören didn't just look into those emerald green eyes every day and see his future, but he also saw the past, and with it, a sense of meaning and purpose above and beyond the call to medicine.
"I'm going to Mum and Dad's on Saturday while you're at work," Anthony informed him. "Some things are ready to harvest now."
"Good, gardening is a good outlet for you," Sören said.
Anthony nodded. He looked around at the flat, then at Sören. "I've been thinking, when this craziness is over and you're back to your usual hours... maybe we should move somewhere more central, like Holborn or Covent Garden, so we both have less of a commute time to work. I'd suggest we do it now, but the last thing we need on top of everything else is a move."
"Oh." Sören nodded. "That wouldn't be a bad idea. As pretty as the riverfront is -"
"It wasn't so bad when it was just me, but with the kind of hours you work even without the current schedule, the commute adds up. But also, I'd like to... you know. Move somewhere where I can have a garden. Because you're right, it's a good outlet."
"You have a green thumb in my dreams, too," Sören said, smiling. "Green and gold."
Anthony smiled too and kissed the top of Sören's head.
Then Sören felt the need to ask something, feeling curious and slightly insecure. "Do you ever... do you ever wish we could go back?"
"Back to..." Anthony looked confused.
"That place in our dreams."
"Oh."
Sören realized Anthony probably thought "back" as in "before our relationship" - he hated that even for a second, Anthony seemed concerned Sören would break up with him - and watched the relief in Anthony's posture as he considered the question. After a few minutes, Anthony shook his head. "It was a beautiful world... we were beautiful... but it was a gilded cage. I was miserable, being forced to marry a woman I didn't love, didn't want, forced to stay in the closet, forced to live a lie. And after you were gone..." Anthony gave a shuddery sigh. "It was even worse."
So he does remember that. Sören still didn't want to show him the sketch. "Was it?"
"It was incredibly lonely." Anthony closed his eyes, looking like he was in pain; Sören ached for him, and felt guilty for leaving him alone. Then his arms tightened around Sören. "Even if we could live openly, live free, I still wouldn't want to go back there. Too many bad associations."
Sören nodded. "Same here." Sören felt the sting of bitterness. He remembered leaving there, the endless snow and cold. While he wasn't glad that Anthony had been miserable there too, he was glad Anthony didn't want to go back. Sören found the idea of living there again even less appealing than a night with Trisha and Vincente.
"If what we dreamed was real, something is going on, something about our past is relevant to the present and future. But I don't think the answer to that is to go back there, to that place, to ourselves as we once were. It's not who we are anymore, it's not our world anymore." Anthony pursed his lips. "It never was."
Sören nodded. "This is our life now." He kissed Anthony's cheek. "I will be so glad when this crazy shit is done so we can start living it again."
"Yes. I'd love to show you more of the world, places I've been. Explore new places together."
Sören giggled and started singing "I can show you the world..."
"Oh god." Anthony tweaked Sören's nose.
"That's one thing we didn't have back then... Disney musicals. Just for that alone, I'd rather stay here," Sören quipped.
Anthony threw his head back and laughed; Sören loved making him laugh, it lit up his entire face. Lit up the entire world. "Oh, you."
It was the second week of September and the August heat had returned. Sören grimaced as he walked out of the National, feeling like he'd stepped into an oven. The entire walk to the Holborn station was sweaty and gross and Sören felt ready to cry by the time he got on the train.
Back at the flat he took a long cool shower. Just before he could crawl in bed for a nap before Anthony got home, Anthony texted him.
What would you like me to bring home for dinner?
Sören realized he was trying to be considerate, and any other time Sören would be grateful for the chance to give input, Anthony wanting to make him happy by bringing home whatever Sören had a taste for. But right now it felt like one more executive decision he had to make, after making decisions at work all day. He hated that he was feeling stressed out over something simple like deciding where Anthony would pick up takeaway, it made him feel weak and powerless, it made him feel like a whiny spoilt brat when there were people in the world who were starving.
Surprise me, Sören texted back.
Sören managed to wake up a little before Anthony got in, and was on the couch with his Wacom tablet. Anthony put the bag of takeaway down on the kitchen counter and opened up the fridge to get the iced coffee, nice on a day like this, and before he could get two glasses, Sören said, "Wash your hands."
Anthony stopped and gave him a look. "Sören, I'm not five."
"That's right. You're not five. You know better."
Anthony swore under his breath, took off his Rolex and set it down on the counter, rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to scrub his hands the surgeon's way, the way Sören had taught him. Sören found himself annoyed that Anthony still had to be reminded about this, and part of him wondered if Anthony was being passive-aggressive, a subtle protest of Sören's hours and the fact that he wasn't getting laid, and he hated that he wondered that at all, but then, the company he kept...
Anthony came home with fish and chips, which Sören loved, but he'd eaten fish and chips a little too much the last two weeks. He'd found out it was a comfort food for Anthony - naturally, being British, having grown up eating it - and Anthony was more stressed out than usual lately, between a big case and the added stress of Sören working a hundred hours a week, and they hadn't had sex in weeks. But for Sören, he was a little tired of it. Once again, he found himself annoyed that Anthony wasn't cooking for them, even though he knew Anthony worked a lot of hours himself and was stressed out too.
"Fish and chips again," Sören said, opening the container.
Anthony gave him a look that told Sören right away that Anthony knew Sören wasn't entirely thrilled. "If you wanted something different, you should have told me."
"Anthony, after playing God with people's lives all day, the last fucking thing I want to do when I'm chilling at home is try to decide what we're both eating."
Anthony paused, and put his food down. "Sören, I'm really sorry that I'm not a mind-reader. I was trying to do something nice, so it was one less thing you had to worry about."
"Yeah, I know." Sören pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I know I'm unbearable lately."
"Hi Unbearable Lately -"
Sören laughed with a mouthful of chips. He elbowed Anthony, who gave a tight smile.
Then Anthony quipped, "It appears I didn't have to wait till your schedule evened out to adopt a cat. I'm living with Grumpy Cat."
Sören howled and gave him a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. "I love you too."
Anthony's smile was less tense and more genuine now. He kissed the tip of Sören's nose. "I'll try to do something other than fish and chips next time. I've had a hard time thinking too, with... this case. And missing you. Everything."
Sören sighed. He felt that stab of guilt... and an additional stab of guilt for not feeling as guilty as he should feel, because he was getting too tired to feel. He just felt like a raw nerve all the time. "I'm sorry."
Anthony took his hand and traced it with his thumb. "Thank you."
After their meal, Anthony put in one of the X-Men movies on DVD, something they were both a fan of - Sören liked having someone to geek out with over Marvel. But as Sören lay there and tried to watch the movie, he thought about his own "mutant" ness, all the ways he'd been different as a child, was still different now. Sometimes he and Anthony would have philosophical discussions about it, as one kindred spirit to another. And tonight Sören didn't want deep thoughts, and he didn't want to get himself worked up thinking about being "the other" more than he already had to think about it. So he found himself reaching for his tablet, and sketching. Continuing to work on that sketch of when he and other-Anthony parted ways back then.
"God, Cyclops is such a twat," Anthony said.
That's funny considering how much you're like him. Sören didn't say it aloud. I suppose that makes me Jean Grey. Well, I do have a thing with phoenixes...
"Oh, you're sketching?"
"Mrr," Sören said with a little nod.
"OK." Anthony sounded ever-so-slightly disappointed.
Sören felt guilty again, but he also felt irritated, wishing Anthony would realize this was how he relaxed, not expecting to do everything together all the time. Sören felt the urge to snap at him again, and he knew that was unfair, and also potentially dangerous ground considering how much tension had been in the air lately - he didn't want to actually break up with him.
Sören grabbed his earbuds and mp3 player, to drown out the movie, to drown out everything but his work. The vision, the consuming fire.
Holding the ashes of those days like dust on the wind.
"You poor dear."
It was the first time Sören had seen Elaine in over a month. As badly as Sören needed to rest, he missed his mother-in-law-to-be and her tender loving care. And as Elaine hugged Sören and kissed his cheek, it threatened to undo something in him.
They could only stay a few hours, and then they would have to go home for Sören to get an early night's sleep since he was going in at four the next morning. But Sören was determined to make those hours count, desperately craving something approximating normalcy after what the last month and a half had been like.
While Elaine cooked dinner, Sören and Anthony went upstairs to Anthony's old room. Anthony started to take out the gaming console, then when he saw Sören laying there looking exhausted, he stopped what he was doing and just held Sören for awhile, Jamiroquai playing on the stereo, his lava lamps going. Finally Anthony led Sören down the hall to the second-floor sitting room, with the grand piano, and Sören sat down next to him on the bench while Anthony flexed his wrists and fingers. Anthony took a few deep breaths and began to play the languid, bluesy piece that Sören recognized as the first song Anthony had ever played for him on the piano, what felt like ages ago now.
And for the first time, Sören heard Anthony sing - shyly, hesitantly at first, but in a soulful baritone well-suited for jazz and R&B.
I wished on the moon, for something I never knew
I wished on the moon, for more than I ever knew
A sweeter rose, a softer sky
On April days that would not dance by
I wished on the stars to throw me a beam or two
I begged on the stars and asked for a dream or two
I looked for every loveliness, it all came true
I wished on the moon for you
Tears came to Sören's eyes - the tears he'd been holding back since he arrived, it feeling so good to come home to family that it hurt. Anthony held him and Sören felt him shaking a little too.
"Oh god, I didn't mean to make you cry," Sören said.
"It's OK." Anthony reached for a box of tissues. He wiped Sören's tears, and Sören wiped his. "I worry about you." Anthony gave a sad smile.
"I worry about you too." Sören touched Anthony's face, feeling a pang of guilt, wishing they could make love in his old bed like they had so many times before... "brother to brother". It had been too long, and Sören was still too tired.
"I'm OK," Anthony said, and pursed his lips, nodding.
No you're not. Sören raised an eyebrow. "Do you..." Sören swallowed hard. "Trisha said I wouldn't have this problem if I worked private sector. Are you angry with me because I haven't done that?"
"No," Anthony said. He put his hands on Sören's shoulders. "You're a good man, Sören. I admire your convictions." He pursed his lips again and he pulled Sören close, rocking him until Elaine called up to let them know dinner was ready.
Elaine went all out for dinner, making a beef roast with potatoes and carrots cooked in its juices. Sören felt absolutely famished, and dug in. Elaine watched him eat with a smile on her face. "There's plenty if you'll want seconds," Elaine said. "I also made enough for you boys to take home."
Sören got the feeling that Elaine somehow knew they were surviving on takeaway and sandwiches at the moment, and then he felt the sudden wild urge to yell at her for not teaching Anthony to cook. He stopped himself, and he felt like kicking himself for feeling this way, being angry with a woman who had been nothing but nice to him since they'd met, treating him like she was her very own son. What the fuck is wrong with me.
"I also made banana bread for pudding," Elaine said. "I know how much you both love that."
Sören snickered. "I'll never get over you English calling everything pudding." Then Sören snickered harder as sleep deprivation gave him a thought of random silliness. "Maybe that's the Ultimate Question to the Ultimate Answer of 42 - how many things do the English call pudding?"
Anthony laughed way too hard at this, enough that Roger shot them a look, and then Anthony calmed down, but he and Sören exchanged a guilty grin and had one last sporfle before resuming their eating. Elaine raised an eyebrow. "You look exhausted, dear," Elaine said, pouring lemonade into Sören's glass. She glanced across the table at Anthony. "You too."
"Yeah. Work has been..." Anthony made a noise.
Sören also made a noise.
Sören was too tired to really have a conversation, but Anthony went on about his most recent court battles and something that usually Sören paid attention to - if it was important to Anthony, it was important to him - Sören felt himself starting to zone out. Somehow, after dinner, he made his way to the greatroom where Elaine was serving the banana bread.
And that was when Sören closed his eyes and the world fell away. And then he felt Anthony shaking him. "Sören. Sören, love."
"Oh shit, did I fall asleep again?"
Elaine's eyebrows shot up and she pursed her lips. "Has this been happening often?"
"Not every day, but often enough," Sören said.
"I believe it's called microsleeping." Elaine nodded. "When I was pregnant with Anthony, actually, I started microsleeping by accident. It was rather unsettling, especially when I was waiting in traffic."
"Jesus." Sören's jaw dropped, realizing how close that had been. Sören swallowed hard. "So far it hasn't happened in surgery." He gave a nervous laugh and knocked the coffee table.
"So far. Hopefully you'll get relief from these hours soon." Elaine folded her arms. "You know, I don't mind coming over once a week and cooking enough food for you for a few days, doing your laundry -"
"Mum." Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. "Mum, we're grown adults."
"You're grown adults who are both working very hard and running yourselves into the ground."
"I don't... want... my mother... to be my servant. That just isn't right."
Sören fought the urge to yell at him Jesus Christ, Anthony, she's offering. While under normal circumstances he'd be uncomfortable with Elaine "mothering" them, these weren't normal circumstances and any little things that were one less thing they had to do, made a huge amount of difference. Not having to do laundry once every five days, or Anthony not having to go to the dry cleaners once a week with his suits, would help out tremendously. Sören knew Anthony had his pride - Sören imagined Anthony being a "mama's boy" was one of the things he got bullied about in his youth - but now was not the time or the place for pride, and Sören of all people hated admitting that.
Sören stewed in silent resentment on the way home. He didn't want to be angry with Anthony, especially not after the cozy snuggling earlier that evening, the sweet song on the piano, the gift of Anthony breaking past his shyness enough to sing for him. But he was starting to feel like he was reaching his breaking point.
Sören was frustrated enough that he couldn't go to sleep right away when they got home, even though he needed to go to bed early to wake up early - he knew he'd just lay awake, seething. So he grabbed his Wacom tablet and resumed drawing as Anthony watched something, again, assuming Sören would watch it with him.
"Oh my god, look at that, that is bloody ridiculous."
Sören didn't glance over at the screen. "Mrr," Sören said, his stylus continuing to glide, detail after precise detail. This was going to be hell to color in when it was time. It was nowhere near time.
Sören felt Anthony staring at him, and their eyes locked, and Sören gave him a tired half-smile. Then he got lost in his sketch again. He put in his earbuds and withdrew into the world that he never wanted to go back to, but still haunted his dreams, still cast its shadow over their daily lives. He felt all the loneliness of his teenage years all over again, and he was listening to the perfect soundtrack for it.
When routine bites hard
And ambitions are low
And resentment rides high
But emotions won't grow
And we're changing our ways
Taking different roads
Love, love will tear us apart again
Love, love will tear us apart again
Elaine's leftovers had been a little too much of a good thing, and when they were done days later, Sören found himself really missing home-cooked meals. It was becoming apparent Anthony wasn't going to do it, though he did make a run to the grocery store with a list at Sören's request. And for the first time in months, at three AM, well before Anthony got up, Sören dragged out the slow cooker and threw in the makings for chicken with Spanish rice and beans. Just as he was getting ready to turn the slow cooker on, his cell phone went off. It was work.
"Sören, I hate to do this to you, but can you come in right now?" Ed asked.
Sören made noises. It was two hours before his scheduled shift. "Right now?"
"Right now. We have a trauma incoming."
"OK." Sören would have liked a chance to shower first, but duty called.
Trauma cases were always demanding, and the younger the patient was, the more it upset Sören. This was a woman in her early twenties, and Sören had to keep it together as he operated on her - there was so much life in her, there were family members and friends who'd come to the National who clearly loved her. Sören kept remembering the death on his operating table in April, and the way he'd been passing out randomly as of late, and he willed himself to get through this. Don't fuck this up.
When the surgery was finally over twelve hours later - the patient survived, and this was the first step in the long road of recovery - Sören marched off to the bathroom and cried.
Unfortunately, he wasn't done for the day. Sören took deep breaths, trying to pull himself together.
After the remaining procedures of the day - a biopsy, a pre-surgery consult - Sören felt ready to drop. The walk to the Holborn station felt even more like an effort than usual, and it had been feeling like an effort for some time now. As soon as Sören took his seat on the overground train, enough relief flooded his body just from the sheer act of sitting that he worried about falling asleep. I need something loud to give me a shot of energy. He selected his metal playlist and hit "random".
Then a song all too appropriate to Sören's mental state came on. He closed his eyes and breathed deep.
Can you feel that?
Ah, shit!
Oh, wah-ah-ah-ah!
Drowning deep in my sea of loathing
Broken, your servant, I kneel (Will you give in to me?)
It seems what's left of my human side
Is slowly changing in me (Will you give in to me?)
Looking at my own reflection
When suddenly it changes, violently it changes
Oh no, there is no turning back now
You've woken up the demon in me
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
Open up your hate and let it flow into me
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
You mother, get up, come on, get down with the sickness
You fucker, get up, come on, get down with the sickness
Madness is the gift that has been given to me
The train lurched, and Sören heard Deftones blaring in his ears instead of Disturbed.
It feels good to know you're mine
Now drive me far away, away, away
Far away I don't care where
Just far away I don't care where
Just far away I don't care where, just far away
And I don't care
Sören realized he'd fallen asleep during "Down With the Sickness" by Disturbed - no small feat - and there had been at least half a song since then, probably more. He took out his earbuds and looked at the overhead screen announcing stops, which he usually watched. Now he saw that they were rolling into Shepperton.
Sören let out a little scream. "OH SHIT."
Sören bolted off the train as fast as he could. "Oh shit, motherFUCKER, MOTHERFUCK, mömmuriðill fokking helvítis djöfulsin andskotin skítapíka typpatottar kúkur skítalubbi fokking fokk!"
Sören bounded onto the station platform and whipped out his cell phone. He did a GPS lookup and then Google Maps to see where he was. He had missed a few stops. He could get on another train and go to Kingston, or he could call a taxi, and neither option sounded good to him with his panic through the roof, and fear that he'd fall asleep again.
He dialed Anthony's number. He knew Anthony was probably in court and this was going to go to voice mail. One ring, two, three...
Anthony picked up. "Anthony Hewlett-Johnson."
Sören raised an eyebrow. "Did you not check the ID before you swiped accept?"
"Oh, it's you. And no, I didn't." Anthony gave a nervous little chuckle. "Sören, what's going on? Why aren't you texting?" A pause. "Is something wrong?"
Sören's jaw trembled. First I fall asleep and miss my stop, now I'm bothering Anthony at work... "Ég er helvítis hálfviti. Ég sofnaði í fokking helvítis lestinni..."
"OK, Sören. Sören. Sweetheart. Love. I don't speak Icelandic. Vi kan have denne samtale på dansk, hvis det er lettere for dig, but I need you to take some deep breaths, OK?" Anthony demonstrated on his end of the line by breathing deeply.
Sören took a few deep breaths and had a coughing fit - his asthma kicked in from the run and stress. He took a puff on his inhaler and then he tried to calm himself.
"Whatever it is, honey, we can deal with it. What happened?"
"Are you in court? I don't want to bother -"
"Court just adjourned five minutes ago."
"I fell asleep on the train," Sören said.
"OK. Are you all right? Are you unharmed? Did anyone rob you or assault you?"
"No, not that I'm aware of." Sören patted himself down and then took a peek in his satchel.
"OK. But you... fell asleep on the train and you're calling me because..."
"I'm in Shepperton. I missed my stop and I'm..." Sören took a couple deep breaths. He saw his hand shaking. "I'm having a panic attack and I don't want to call a cab or get back on the train -"
"OK. Are you at the station."
"Jæja, I don't know my bloody way around here so that would be a yes."
"OK. If you can hang tight for another hour to an hour and a half I'll be there to pick you up."
"OK. I'm sorry -" Sören realized that Anthony would be driving past Kingston and it would mean getting home later than usual.
"Shit happens. Try to relax and I'll see you soon, sweetheart."
"OK."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
Sören tried not to cry, since he was in public, but a few silent tears came on anyway, as Sören continued to internally berate himself for passing out on the train. He hadn't thought he'd fall asleep to metal, of all things, but it was proof of just how utterly broken down he'd become with this schedule, and there was no end in sight.
For the first time since the hundred-hour-a-week bomb dropped on him, Sören contemplated having a meeting with Ed and telling him I can't handle it, I need less hours. But he knew that would be seen as unprofessional, and a sign that he couldn't handle the job period, since he knew of so many other surgeons who were putting in or had put in the same kind of hours he was doing now. This was considered par for the course when you entered this line of work - lots of hours in general, every so often a crunch to pick up the slack when someone went. There were other neurosurgeons not falling apart the way he was, and Sören knew it would be seen as weakness on his part. He had worked this sort of shift before in Reykjavik from time to time and not deteriorated the way he was deteriorating now.
And he knew what the difference was. Now I'm living with someone who I'm having issues with, and I feel like I have to take care of two people instead of one.
Sören knew that wasn't entirely fair, thinking of all the little things Anthony did for him, and the chores Anthony kept up with - laundry, basic cleaning - even when he too was feeling exhausted. But Sören thought of the meal cooking in the crock pot and wished Anthony would do something like that. If he can't do it, he should have been willing to let his mother do it, for fuck's sake.
Sören people-watched as he waited for Anthony to come, but he felt as much like an outsider now as he had felt in the world he and Anthony dreamed of. I don't belong anywhere. He felt anchorless... homeless... adrift.
Sören shuddered. He once again thought about the way he'd fallen asleep on the train, and now he had serious concerns about falling asleep during surgery, even though it was a different state of consciousness. He thought about the irony of how he and Anthony met because he'd reported Peter Rafferty, someone Anthony was defending in a malpractice suit - someone Sören had reported as being drunk on the job, too impaired to work. Now Sören felt he was probably too impaired to work, and yet he couldn't tell them that.
"Fuck," Sören said to no one in particular.
When Anthony's Audi pulled up, Sören ran, even though he was tired and that wasn't what his lungs needed right now. Anthony was still in his robes from court, and George was sitting on the armrest between their seats. Anthony had stopped to get them both coffee, and Sören accepted the iced coffee with gratitude.
"I'm so, so sorry about the extra travel time -"
Anthony put up his hand. "Like I said, shit happens. Let's just... get home."
Sören nodded. "I know you had a long day."
"I did." Anthony nodded. "And so did you."
Sören managed a weak smile, knowing Anthony must be feeling demoralized, somehow, wanting to give him some strength, some hope. "At least we have a nice home-cooked meal waiting for us in the slow cooker. I'm making chicken."
When they got home, the flat did not smell like chicken and Spanish rice at all, but the usual neutral-with-a-touch-of-lemon-air-freshener scent. Sören marched immediately into the kitchen and saw the slow cooker was off.
He realized then he'd been interrupted by Ed calling him in when he was putting everything in the slow cooker. He'd forgotten to turn it on, with his mad dash off to work, and he hadn't told Anthony to turn it on.
"Oh no," Sören said. "Oh god. Oh no. Oh shit..."
"What happened?"
Sören pointed at the slow cooker and started making noises. Then he fell apart, sobbing.
Anthony came behind him and his arms were around him, holding him tight, soothing. Anthony nuzzled Sören's neck and kissed his shoulder. "Shhhhh, love. Shhhh, it's all right."
"It is not fucking all right." Sören wept harder. "It's never going to be all right."
"I'll call for delivery, or we can go out -"
Sören took Anthony's arms off him and whirled around, glaring at Anthony in his robes in the kitchen. "No. No we can't. Do you not understand how fucking sick I am of takeaway all the time? Maybe you could survive like that before I moved in, but I like at least one home-cooked meal a week, maybe two. I'm a doctor. Even though we try to not get total crap when we order out, it's still... healthier. And makes me feel like, you know, I have a home I live in instead of someplace I'm just sleeping at, like a hotel."
"I'm sorry."
"No. You're fucking not sorry, because if you were sorry, you'd start cooking once or twice a week like I fucking asked you to -"
"Sören, I told you. I am a crap cook. You bitch about takeaway, but you'd be bitching even more about soup and grilled cheese, plus the sodium content in soup, plus the fat content in the cheese and butter..."
"Anthony Hewlett-Johnson. You. Went. To. Cambridge. It is not that fucking hard to Google recipes on the fucking Internet, or call your mum for fuck's sake and ask her for some simple and easy instructions to follow. OK? I was cooking when I was nine fucking years old for myself and my siblings and my cousin out of fucking necessity because if I didn't cook we wouldn't fucking eat, with my aunt and uncle being drunk all the fucking time, and my sister was a little older but she was actually working odd jobs to get money for food because they pissed the food money away, so that was how I took the burden off her. If a nine-year-old can do it, you can bloody do it. Hell, throwing things in a crock pot to cook all day takes minimal effort - put your stuff in, turn a bloody fucking knob."
"Which is why of course the slow cooker is ready now, oh wait, it's not."
Sören once again fought the urge to slap him, remembering the way his aunt and uncle hit each other before turning their aggression onto the children. Rise above. Sören took a few deep breaths. "Get. Out. Of. My. Sight."
Anthony glared back at him - Sören hated that he found Anthony so devastatingly sexy when he was angry - and then Anthony stalked off, robes flowing. Sören heard the bathroom door slam, and then he heard the sink...
...and Anthony crying, trying to mask it with the sink running.
Sören washed his hands and rubbed his face. He started crying too, as he opened up the slow cooker. The chicken had been sitting out for over twelve hours at room temperature. Sören hated wasting food when he had so little to eat growing up, and he sobbed as he threw out the uncooked contents of the slow cooker. Then he leaned against the fridge, crying, until he was doubling over, and finally dropped to his knees, and then flopped over and just lay there in the fetal position on the cold linoleum in his scrubs, sobbing hysterically.
Anthony came out of the bathroom, grabbed his keys, and left without saying a word, door slamming as he took off. Sören continued to lay there, crying, and wondered if Anthony was leaving to get food or if he was leaving to go get drunk or if he was leaving-leaving.
He wouldn't be leaving-leaving, all his stuff is here.
But the thought that maybe Anthony was starting to consider leaving filled Sören with terror. As angry as he was right now, he still loved Anthony. He wanted things to work. The key word was in fact "work" - they both clearly had things they were going to need to sort out between them. But the thought of Anthony not being in his life anymore...
Sören closed his eyes and he saw his other-self, and other-Anthony, standing in freezing rain.
You have to go back. You can't come with me.
Why?
Because they will kill you. They will kill your children.
I told you I would stand with you, fight with you, die for you -
I know, dear brother. Sören saw his other-self kissing other-Anthony's brow. It is easy enough to die for me. Go live for me. You may be the last of our blood when this is done. Someone needs to carry the fire.
Other-Anthony tugging at him, screaming I'm not leaving you! so much like the small, hyper boy he once was.
Sören rolled over, his face on the cold linoleum tile. His tears puddled on the floor. "I hate this. I hate everything."
Anthony came back a little while later. Sören had somehow managed to scrape himself off the kitchen floor and he was sitting on the couch, staring into space.
"Here," Anthony said. "I got us Indian food."
"Takk."
Anthony sat next to him - a few centimeters away, but still in proximity. For a few moments they ate in silence, and Anthony finally took a deep breath and Sören knew he was gathering his thoughts. "I shouldn't have made that snide comment about you forgetting to turn the knob on the slow cooker," Anthony said.
"No, you fucking shouldn't have."
"No. And you're right that I should be doing more." Anthony looked down. "When I was a kid, I liked helping my mum around the kitchen. There was only so much that she was willing to let me do when I was eight, nine, ten, because, well, I was hyper and my mum actually wanted the food to be edible. But then I made the mistake of going to school one day bringing in a cake I'd made and I never heard the end of it. I got called a mummy's boy and I was told I was a faggot before I knew what that word even meant. Of course years later, here I am, I'm gay, but..."
"But whether or not you can cook has shit-all to do with your sexual orientation."
"Right. But I admit I absolutely internalized the toxic masculine bullshit about cooking being 'for girls' -"
"I cook and I'm not a girl."
"No shit, I wouldn't be with you if you were. But you're also..." Anthony made a vague hand gesture. "Effeminate isn't quite the right word, but there's a reason why my gran asked when I was going to put a baby in you and not the other way around."
"Yeah, I get it. I know I'm sensitive." Sören made a limp-wristed gesture. "Me, myself, I say fuck all that gender roles nonsense."
"Yeah. I know. The idea that cooking is just 'for girls', or soft boys, is... well... it's sexist as fuck and I know it's wrong. But, my schedule being what it is, hasn't exactly made me enthusiastic to try to work against that conditioning and start cooking. I don't have your crazy hours but I'm tired and stressed out too, Sören."
Sören pursed his lips. He ached for the hurt, bullied boy that Anthony had been, and he was angry with society, and he was angry with himself for getting irritated with Elaine on the assumption that she'd never taught him to cook.
"I'm actually kind of ashamed that I don't do more," Anthony went on, "but I'm also afraid of trying to learn how to cook now when I myself am under a lot of stress. I worry about incidents like the one today, where the knob isn't turned, or maybe something else, something gets burnt... and it's my fault."
"I don't get it. You're usually so attentive to detail and sometimes it's like you never forget a thing."
"That's because you'd be surprised what I do forget." Anthony gave a bitter laugh. "One of the reasons why I'm glad I'm in a suit-wearing profession is I don't have to try to match things when I'm half-awake or worry about leaving the house with my shirt on inside out. I'm bloody serious."
Sören gave him a hug. He thought about asking Anthony if he'd ever been evaluated for attention deficit disorder - he worked with enough neurologists that he was familiar enough with the evaluations - but he didn't want to be rude, especially not right now when things were so fraught still.
Anthony returned the hug. "I'm going to swallow my pride and ask my mum to... to help. I don't want to, but..."
"I think that in the long run, it'll be better. And she did offer. I don't get the sense she would have offered if she didn't mean it."
"No, she wouldn't have."
They rocked together for a few minutes and then Anthony said, "Do you still have next weekend off? The twenty-first and twenty-second?"
Sören nodded. A fit of madness overtook him and he heard himself singing "Do you remember, the twenty-first night of September..."
"Oh lord." Anthony chuckled. Then he pulled back a little and looked into Sören's eyes. "You want to go to Brighton for the weekend? The ocean air might do us both some good."
"OK." Sören nodded. "And it would be nice to have some quality time together."
"It would."
Their eyes met, and Sören got the feeling Anthony was thinking about exactly what kind of "quality time" he'd like, and Sören missed it too. He wished with all his heart he weren't so bone-tired, makeup sex with Anthony would have really helped. But he was too exhausted for that, and he knew Anthony was probably going out of his mind with frustration. "I'm so sorry," Sören mumbled into his shoulder.
"Shhhhh, love. Let's just eat and get some rest. Tomorrow's another day."
But Sören couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of tomorrows.
chapter 42 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index