By the time Anthony realized the shirt he wore was one size too small - he'd accidentally grabbed one of Rae's scrub pajama tops, which had gotten mixed in with his laundry - it was too late. It was 6:30 AM, and he was already in the car, surrounded by pill bottles and charts. Alas, a day in the life of Pine Creek Behavioral Health Hospital was unlikely to be an episode of Sex and the City, and there would be no shirtless relief or fashionable excuses. Instead, a neat band of fabric would choke him until 4:30 PM, and he'd go home smelling of antiseptic and angst.
The shuffle of feet and squeak of sneakers echoed through the halls as he strode to his first round of the morning, a rolling cart of medications his constant companion. Anthony liked to imagine he was some sort of posh bartender, shaking up martinis for the sad and lonely, instead of the antidepressant-and-anxiety-medication version of Santa Claus.
He opened the door to the unit, greeted by the chorus of “Hey, Doc!” from a group of patients who were too awake for the hour. He adjusted his glasses, took a deep breath, and prepared himself for the next eight hours of Groundhog Day.
"Here we go," Anthony said, already anticipating how stifled he'd feel by lunch.
Patient after patient, he dispensed water cups and assorted pills, repeating the routine with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, albeit a machine with the occasional awkward stutter. Even his clipboard seemed to emit an air of monotony, each checked box another tick on the slow crawl to four PM. Anthony wondered if he should add "Existential Dread" as a new item on the day's treatment plan.
"You can swallow these for me, right?" Anthony handed another patient his meds, a man who had taken to wearing the same Pink Floyd T-shirt for days.
"Can I chew them?" the man asked, a rebellious grin splitting his face.
Anthony returned the smile with an eyebrow raised to epic heights. "Only if you want them to taste like arse."
Patient interaction: success. He strolled on, dispensing charm and antipsychotics in equal measure.
Though he enjoyed the work — after all, he wouldn’t have chosen psychiatric nursing if he didn’t — there were days when the cycle of medication and routine left him longing for something else. But then, Anthony reasoned, with his luck, that “something else” might involve the building catching fire. Maybe mundanity wasn't so bad.
Anthony took a brief break to grab a coffee, though calling it that was optimistic. It was a cup of scalding despair, dark and bitter, with notes of prison chic. He tried not to burn his tongue and surveyed the room, spotting a couple of techs snickering in the corner, looking as if they were sharing their opinions on his too-tight shirt. He adjusted his glasses, prepared for another round of social awkwardness.
Back on the unit, he gave out more meds. "Here you go," he said, watching a woman with long gray hair and a penchant for humming. Her hands trembled slightly as she took the cup.
"I hear the new art therapist is very handsome," she said with a wink that made Anthony want to run for the hills.
"So they tell me," Anthony replied, his cheeks warming to the same hue as his small shirt.
Before the heat reached his neck, he was saved by a redirection from one of the techs. "She's on ten," said a lanky fellow with enough piercings to set off an airport security system.
Patient Ten. Time to play his favorite game: which medication will work today? A dash of Atarax? Maybe a hint of Klonopin? Patient Ten was renowned for her bad days, and today she looked particularly like someone in need of a PRN.
He moved to her room, careful not to startle her as she paced the floor, mumbling to herself. "Hello there, Leah," Anthony said softly. "How are you doing today?"
Her eyes darted up, and for a moment, she stopped. "Make it go away."
He nodded, offering her the cup. "That's the plan."
She took it with both hands, downing the pills with urgency. As he left the room, he heard her voice, softer now. "Thank you."
He felt the usual tightness in his chest, wishing he could do more. In some ways, he mused, it was still easier than dealing with himself.
He glanced at his watch, the day inching forward. One more round, a bit more paperwork, and soon enough, he'd be free to take his itchy collar home. As he pushed through another hour, Anthony pondered his life with its cycles of boredom and fulfillment, routine and rebellion. Would it kill him, he wondered, to shake things up once in a while? The thought lingered, carrying him to the next patient, the next task, and finally, blessedly, to the second half of his shift.
Anthony was about to tear the traitorous garment from his body when the sight of him stopped Anthony in his tracks. Sören Sigurðsson, the Fingie. The new art therapist. There was nothing remarkable about seeing Sören, except, perhaps, that it was always remarkable. The man made an entrance like he was carrying his own theme music, something classical with dramatic flares and surges. As he swept down the hall and straight into the trauma unit, Anthony was quite certain he caught a "hallelujah!" in the crescendo.
He ran a hand through his dark curls and flashed a grin that made Anthony wish his cheeks had fewer nerve endings. Anthony swallowed hard, feeling himself inexplicably nervous, as if Sören were some rock star and not the slightly dorky, eccentric art therapist from Reykjavik.
“Hey,” Sören called, a glint of mischief in his brown eyes. “I’m doing a special thing today.”
“Oh, are you now?” Anthony replied, hoping he didn’t sound as awkward as he felt.
“Jæja. I need your help.” Sören beamed at him with a smile so radiant it should have required a license. “You are going to join us.”
Anthony almost choked on his reply. “Join you?”
“You’ll see,” Sören said, with an air of mystery and impending doom.
Anthony could feel his composure slipping away like water down a drain. Whatever it was, he hoped it wouldn’t involve a shirtless challenge to the Greek gods or anything that required talent beyond his ability to doodle on a patient chart.
Soon, Sören was setting up in the unit’s activity room, spreading out an assortment of papier-mâché masks and markers like an artist preparing for battle. Anthony stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do with his hands and possibly his entire body.
“We are taking this outside,” Sören announced to the patients who had gathered. “Today is too beautiful for indoors.”
“Indeed,” Anthony murmured, mostly to himself, watching the way Sören seemed to hold everyone’s attention like a magnet pulling stray bits of metal.
Sören tossed Anthony a meaningful glance. “You too, English. Come on.”
With the air of a man heading to the gallows, Anthony followed. His reluctance might have been less conspicuous if he hadn’t tripped over the doorjamb on the way out.
The September day was as stunning as advertised, the kind of crisp, bright afternoon that New Englanders insisted was well worth surviving the winters for. Sören gathered the group in a patch of sunshine, his hair gleaming like a beacon, his arms filled with art supplies.
“Today,” Sören began, “we make masks. I want you to decorate them like how you see yourself, or how you think the world sees you.”
One of the patients with pink hair and an attitude to match raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Why masks?”
“Why not masks?” Sören countered, charmingly evasive. “Also, because I said so.”
Anthony smirked, feeling momentarily more at ease, at least until Sören turned his attention to him.
“And you, Tony. You’re doing this too.”
"...It's Anthony, not Tony." Then Anthony realized what was happening. “Oh, um,” Anthony fumbled, trying not to look completely terrified by the prospect. “Are you sure I’m qualified?”
“Definitely not,” Sören laughed. “But do it anyway.”
Anthony found himself sitting cross-legged in the grass, feeling more like a patient than a supervisor. He picked up a marker, staring at the blank mask as if it might sprout fangs and attack. Around him, the patients were already hard at work, heads bowed in concentration.
“Just draw something,” Sören suggested, like it was that simple. He was a few feet away, sprawled out on the ground, surrounded by color. “Nobody will judge you.”
“Except you,” Anthony retorted, mostly under his breath.
The marker felt clumsy in his hand. He could pass medications and write up case notes, but this was something else. Self-consciousness coiled around him, squeezing tight.
He sketched in hesitant lines, the design as awkward as he felt: half happy face, half frowning face, like some emoji with an identity crisis. He wondered what it said about him that this was his self-image: ambivalent, confused, and unable to match.
Sören worked on his own mask with enviable ease, confident strokes revealing intricate patterns. Anthony peered over, trying to see.
“Is that supposed to be a koi fish?” Anthony asked, pretending to misunderstand, though his dry tone betrayed him.
Sören laughed. “Good guess, but no.”
“A walrus?”
Sören rolled his eyes with good humor. “Here,” he said, tossing Anthony a smirk that made his stomach do very undignified things. He held up the mask, the phoenix imagery immediately clear.
“It’s a phoenix,” Sören explained, his voice quieter, softer. “It means I’ve survived a lot.”
The statement lingered, heavy but hopeful, and Anthony saw the group take notice.
“I used to have some really hard times, and wanted to die,” Sören continued, his candor surprising Anthony. “But I didn’t give up. You shouldn’t either. Keep fighting.”
The patients listened intently, the message touching them more than Anthony would have expected. It even touched him.
The session wrapped up with reluctant closure. The patients chatted with renewed animation, their masks on full display. Anthony caught sight of his own and suppressed the urge to hide it under his shirt.
As Sören packed up, he threw a sidelong glance at Anthony. “And you survived.”
“Barely,” Anthony said, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. He felt a strange mix of awkwardness and inspiration, the two clashing like teenagers in a garage band.
Sören placed a hand on Anthony's shoulder, sending a jolt through him that wasn't entirely unwelcome. “I’ll see you later, já?”
“Later,” Anthony echoed, wondering if that meant in this lifetime or the next.
He watched Sören walk away, sunlight catching in his hair, and felt the kind of conflicted that could last until dinner, if not longer.
Anthony didn't think he'd encounter him after work, both of them out of scrubs and in regular clothes, especially not here at Starbucks, not after a day when his mind already was having its own private viewing of Sören: The Movie. Yet there Sören was, holding a cup of something dark and hot, a good-natured grin spreading across his face. Anthony reconsidered his plans for running to the Prius and speeding away at an embarrassing clip. He hated his own enthusiasm, almost as much as he hated his awkwardness.
"Hey!" Sören called from across the room, as if they'd arranged this all along. Sören was wearing a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt and black cargo pants; Anthony was wearing a lightweight teal sweater and jeans.
Anthony's mouth worked to form a suitable reply, something clever, maybe, or at least coherent. "Oh. Hi."
Sören laughed, his shoulders shaking with an easy warmth. "I didn’t expect to see you here," he said, walking over to Anthony’s side.
Anthony considered telling him that neither did he. "I was, um, getting coffee."
Sören gave a mock-serious nod. "Good place for it."
Anthony relaxed by a half-percentage point, enough to notice the cup in Sören's hand. "Or is it dishwater?"
"Little of both," Sören replied. He held it up like a dubious prize. "Do you want to hang out?"
Anthony glanced around awkwardly, as if "you" was referring to someone other than him. "Me? Hang... out?"
"Jæja." Sören’s eyes sparkled, a secret joke that Anthony wished he understood. "I said it right? No slips like Anal Jessica?"
Anthony shook with silent laughter. And there they were, Anthony unable to find a polite way to say no, though he wasn't sure why he wanted to.
He joined the queue, stealing a few sidelong glances at Sören, who seemed perfectly at ease in this completely unscripted scenario. When Anthony finally got his own cup of Starbucks' finest and not-so-finest, he returned to where Sören was waiting, trying not to look too much like a man on a first date with terror.
“So, uh,” Anthony began, grasping at straws of conversation. “Any exciting plans for the weekend?”
Sören shrugged, a casual lift of his tattooed arms. “This?”
“Oh.” Anthony swallowed, nearly dropping his cup in his haste to act cool and not interested at all. “That’s good, then.”
“What about you?”
Anthony bit his lip, considering how very unwise and very appealing this was. “Um, same, I guess. Maybe.”
Sören laughed, and Anthony forgot how to breathe. “Want to sit outside? Like... go to the park?”
“Sure.” Anthony smiled back, and to his surprise, it didn’t even hurt.
Once at the car, it became apparent that Sören had no vehicle of his own, or if he did, it was invisible. “You drive,” Sören said, as if Anthony might need convincing.
Anthony fiddled with his keys, feeling a mixture of panic and ridiculous elation. “Sure. Hop in.”
They were at the park in under ten minutes, sitting with their coffees on a green expanse that wasn’t half as wide as Anthony's burgeoning panic. Sören stretched out on the grass, making himself as comfortable as Anthony felt uncomfortable.
“You should breathe, you know,” Sören said, a sly note in his voice.
“I’m fine,” Anthony insisted, breathing, or attempting to.
“Sure, sure. So. Why the surprised face when you saw me?”
“I, um, didn’t expect to see you?” Anthony tried to turn it into a question, wondering how the rules of punctuation worked in these situations.
Sören chuckled. “Guess you don’t have to be a psychic to work at Pine Creek.”
Anthony managed a smile, each passing minute allowing him to shed an ounce of awkwardness. Maybe half an ounce.
Sören teased and prodded at Anthony’s defenses, making him laugh, even making him forget how nervous he felt. At least until a breeze shifted and Anthony caught the scent of Sören’s cologne, or maybe it was just him, and his heart did an embarrassing little leapfrog that seemed unprofessional at best.
“How was your day?” Anthony asked, a valiant attempt to steer himself away from staring at Sören’s lips, which looked indecently lush and soft.
“You were there. You tell me,” Sören said, giving him a look that bordered on flirtatious. Or maybe it was Anthony's wishful imagination.
“It was good,” Anthony replied, trying for aloofness and landing somewhere closer to a confession.
“You were great with the patients,” Sören said, and the earnestness in his tone threatened to undo Anthony entirely. “Even with your masterpiece mask.”
Anthony snorted. “I think a preschooler could have done better.”
“Preschoolers are amazing artists,” Sören said, looking entirely serious.
Anthony found himself laughing more, warming to the attention and the company despite the incessant flutter in his chest. He could pretend this was casual. He could pretend they didn’t work together. He could pretend a lot of things, but one look at Sören reminded him he wasn’t good at any of them.
The more they talked, the more aware he became of how close they were sitting, the space between them shrinking along with Anthony’s ability to stay composed. This was not the sort of thing he should be doing. This was definitely not the sort of thing he should be feeling.
Sören made some offhand comment about enjoying fall in New England, and Anthony missed half of it because he was too busy watching the way Sören's lips formed the words. It seemed like a very bad idea to keep this up.
“Can I ask you something?” Anthony said, attempting nonchalance and nearly pulling it off.
“Of course,” Sören replied, his gaze soft and open.
Anthony hesitated, his thoughts jumbled. “Do you, um, do this a lot?”
“Do what?” Sören looked genuinely puzzled.
“You know,” Anthony said, feeling his cheeks heat. “Hang out with coworkers.”
Sören took a sip of his coffee, considering. “Not really.”
Anthony's heart threatened to sprint away, leaving him breathless and very much in danger of falling for someone he shouldn’t. “Oh.”
“Only when I like them,” Sören added, as if Anthony weren’t flustered enough.
It was golden hour, sunset was quickly approaching, and Anthony couldn’t decide if the day had gone surprisingly well or exactly as expected: awkwardly, embarrassingly, intensely.
“You live nearby?” Anthony asked, trying to sound polite, casual, and not at all invested in the answer.
“Já, not far,” Sören said. “Over on the East End.”
“Want a ride? Er, home?” Anthony immediately pushed away the mental image of Sören riding his strap.
Sören smiled, a slow, teasing grin. “You don’t have to ask twice.”
They walked back to the car, the atmosphere charged with unspoken things, Anthony’s mind a jumble of confusion, desire, and outright terror.
They pulled up to an over-the-garage apartment, and Sören turned to him with a look that nearly did him in.
“Thanks, Tony,” he said, as if they were already old friends or something else entirely.
Anthony narrowed his eyes. "It's Anthony."
"OK, Tony."
"Brat."
"Takk." Sören's smile became a grin.
Anthony grinned back, completely disarmed. “Anytime,” Anthony replied, and knew he was doomed.
He watched Sören climb the steps, feeling simultaneously elated and like he needed a cold shower.
By the time he reached home, he was a tangled mess of nerves and hope, uncertainty and unmistakable want.
By the time Anthony made it home, the shirt had left a nice, itchy ring around his neck, the soup on the table had congealed into something resembling modern art, and Rae had that look again. That oh-you-went-and-fell-for-someone-didn’t-you look. The last time he’d seen it was his ill-fated and short-lived fling with the coffee cart guy, and if he squinted hard enough, he could probably still see the espresso stain from where it had crashed and burned. "You're late," Rae said, stabbing a piece of broccoli with disapproving flair.
Anthony peeled off the shirt and tossed it onto a chair, trying to play it cool. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
“Liar.” Rae grinned, pushing the soup bowl toward him. “Who is he?”
“Just a... colleague,” Anthony said, feeling himself under a microscope.
“Oooo, a colleague.” Rae raised an eyebrow, that dangerous, knowing eyebrow. “Like the last one?”
“Not at all like the last one,” Anthony said, taking a spoonful of the dubious soup.
“Are you sure?” Rae pressed, eyes bright with amusement. “You've definitely got that look in your eyes.”
Anthony groaned, knowing exactly what they meant. “What look?”
“Shark bait,” Rae declared with the authority of a teenager who knew entirely too much.
Anthony sighed, feeling the inevitable weight of being read like an open book.
They ate together, Rae occasionally shooting him those sharp glances that made him wish he had a different, less intuitive child. The soup was lukewarm at best, much like Anthony's attempts to steer the conversation to safer grounds.
“Really, it’s nothing,” Anthony insisted, avoiding eye contact.
“Did you at least get his number?” Rae asked, relentless and precise.
“It’s complicated,” Anthony mumbled, hearing the defeat in his own voice.
Rae nodded sagely, the dichroic glass gauges in their ears catching the light. “Mumdad, your entire life is complicated.”
Anthony couldn't argue with that. He couldn’t argue with much of anything when it came to Rae, who seemed to have him pegged before he even had himself pegged. They made it sound so simple: ask Sören out, see if he was interested. They didn’t know about all the layers and awkwardness that came with working together and everything else.
After dinner, Anthony cleared the dishes and felt the familiar anxiety mix with something new and sharper. Hope, maybe, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it a name. He ruffled the ears of Solly and Shmuel, who wove figure eights around his legs with demanding enthusiasm, and tried not to think about how his entire life was on the brink of another ill-fated and short-lived coffee cart romance.
Rae grabbed their hoodie and backpack, eyeing him with the suspicion that he might go and do something reckless. Like date. “Alyx and I are going to the library. Try not to fall in love before I get back, okay?”
“Who, me?” Anthony put a hand to his chest, all innocence and denial.
“Yes, you.” Rae smirked, giving him a quick hug. “Bye, Mumdad.”
The door closed behind them, leaving Anthony alone with his thoughts, his cats, and a strangely exhilarating sense of panic.
He settled into the sofa, letting Solly climb into his lap while Shmuel pounced at the hem of his jeans. The tightness around his neck might have been gone, but the tension of the day lingered. Sören was, by any metric, precisely the kind of complication Anthony needed to avoid. So, of course, Anthony wanted him.
He pushed away the thoughts of what he couldn’t have and grabbed his laptop, hoping a little diversion would do him good. The familiar hum of the screen was a comfort, the site loading as quickly as his wi-fi could manage.
Hey, Jon, Anthony typed, feeling his pulse pick up with anticipation.
Hey, Dennis, came the reply. I’ve been waiting.
Anthony grinned, the thrill of it like a spark in his veins. Eager, are we?
Yeah, I am. You ready to tell me what to do?
This was what he needed: control, excitement, the ability to let loose without the fear of office gossip or uncomfortable silences. Are you alone? Anthony typed, settling into his role.
Yes, the reply came. Is it just you?
It is now, Anthony responded, savoring the change of pace. What are you going to call me?
Sir. The answer was immediate, sending a shiver of delight through him. Daddy.
Good, he thought, leaning back with a satisfaction that erased any lingering thoughts of Sören. Then let’s get started.
As ScrubDaddy, he didn’t have to think about social rules or the awkward dance of maybe and not-quite. He didn’t have to analyze every smile and glance, wondering what it meant and how to act. Here, things were straightforward. Here, he could breathe.
He typed another line, feeling the anticipation build. There was something freeing about it, knowing he could dive into this, immerse himself in the fantasy, and not have to worry about who saw what or why.
The words appeared on his screen like an open invitation, daring him to lose himself completely.
Take your clothes off for me, Jon, Anthony instructed, ready to be ScrubDaddy, ready to forget about complications, if only for the night.
"Dennis" adjusted his glasses, fingers poised above the keyboard like he was writing an erotic manifesto. Touch yourself for me, boy. The words materialized on the screen, blunt and demanding, and he exhaled with satisfaction. A little direction was a wonderful thing, and it was even better from a distance, when he didn’t have to wonder if he’d gotten the signals crossed. When he didn’t have to care.
I am, came the reply, stark and eager, and Anthony imagined the scene, skin and heat and need.
He lost himself in the fantasy, the control of being Dennis. He lost himself in the simple exchange of power and want, the push and pull of anticipation and gratification.
Good boy, Dennis typed, each letter quick and precise. Now rub your clit. The command sent a thrill through Anthony, knowing Jon would respond with breathless enthusiasm.
Yes, Daddy, appeared on the screen, and Anthony imagined the words breaking from Jon's lips as he gasped for more.
The fantasy was a heady, intoxicating thing, a stark contrast to the tentative dance around Sören, where Anthony second-guessed every glance and touch. Here, there was no second-guessing. Here, there was nothing but what Dennis demanded and Jon supplied.
Dennis took control, letting the dynamics of their exchange spur him to bolder, harder instructions. You close? Tell me. His own breath quickened as he typed, each word a deliberate extension of his will.
Not yet, Sir. I'm edging. I want you so bad, can't get enough of you, Jon answered, and Anthony pictured the desperation and hunger etched on his face. He loved having this effect, being the unseen force that drove Jon to the brink.
Of course you do, Dennis wrote, a hint of a smile on Anthony's lips. I’ll tell you when.
Jon’s eagerness made Anthony hungry for more, his arousal swelling with each response. He loved this dynamic, the raw, unfiltered want of it.
If only everything could be this easy. If only he didn’t have to worry about Sören, who seemed to be a permanent fixture in the background of his mind, despite Anthony’s best efforts to focus on what was right in front of him.
The exchange grew hotter, Jon typing in quick, urgent replies that drove Anthony to new heights of intensity. So close, Sir, Jon wrote, and Anthony imagined him teetering on the edge, straining with desire. Please, Daddy.
Don’t come, Dennis commanded, feeling the electric thrill of control. He loved knowing Jon would obey, that he could hold Jon right there until he chose to let him fall.
I’m so fucking hard for you, Jon replied, his need palpable even through the stark, pixelated text.
Show me how wet you are, Dennis wrote, his own breath hitching with the words. Tell me.
I’m dripping, Sir, Jon answered, and Anthony felt a pulse of raw pleasure, imagining Jon flushed and panting, desperation bleeding through every frantic keystroke.
The explicitness of it, the freedom of expression without hesitation or fear, was exhilarating. Anthony felt himself unraveling, letting the intensity sweep him away.
Keep rubbing your clit, Dennis typed, feeling himself drawn deeper into the moment. Make it throb.
Fuck, I am, Jon replied, the words as urgent and frantic as Anthony’s pulse. Please, Sir. Please, Daddy.
The desire surged between them, an intoxicating blend of control and submission. Anthony leaned into it, wanting to feel the full weight of his power as Dennis and his hunger as Anthony, his attraction to Sören lingering at the edges and making him even more fevered. Anthony began touching himself too.
Touch your hole for me, Dennis commanded, savoring the way Jon responded instantly, needily.
Fuck, yes, came the reply, short and breathless.
Now stop.
Fuck, I can’t, Jon wrote, a perfect mix of frustration and want.
Do it for me, Jon, Dennis ordered, and the sensation of having this kind of power made Anthony groan out loud.
His desire built to a crescendo, every message another jolt of excitement, every reply a stoking of his need. He typed with fierce intensity, reveling in the abandon of it. He typed with one hand, stroking his own clit with he other.
Harder, faster, Dennis wrote, almost feeling the urgency through the screen. Make yourself come for Daddy.
Please, Sir, Jon begged, the desperation almost tangible. Please, Daddy.
I’m so wet for you, Dennis wrote, feeling the heat coil within him, ready to burst. So close, so fucking close. Come with me, baby boy.
Please, Sir. Please, Daddy, Jon pleaded, Anthony’s imagination supplying the breathless cries, the sweat-slick skin, the need and tension.
The keyboard was slick beneath his fingers, each keystroke a gasp, a groan, an ache that was about to break. Anthony hovered on the precipice of release, holding out as long as he could, relishing the power, the control.
And when he couldn’t hold back anymore, he typed: Come for me, Jon.
Yes, yes, fuck, yes, yes, the reply was a frantic string, the chaos and intensity pushing Anthony over the edge, his own body answering with shudders and pulses of pleasure.
He slumped back into the couch, glasses askew, feeling the familiar rush of satisfaction and the sweet burn of too much want. His breath came in ragged pulls, his thoughts still tumbling through the haze of lust and control.
I want to meet, he found himself typing, almost surprised by the boldness of it, almost surprised by how much he meant it.
Anthony realized with a jolt that even as he enjoyed the unrestrained power of Dennis, the uncertainty and thrill of his attraction to Sören made him crave something even more real, even more intense.
He took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keys, unsure of what he’d just set in motion. Unsure of what it would mean, but more than ready to find out.
It was rash, foolish, and entirely like him - the man who'd flown across the Atlantic Ocean with a seven-year-old child and what he could carry on a plane, living in a studio apartment in Boston as he put his broken life back together. Anthony imagined the message was still glowing on Jon's screen, his own reckless bravado and the ghost of his desires haunting the pixels. I want to meet. The boldness of it made him blush, or maybe it was the intensity of the orgasm still ricocheting through him, reminding him that this wasn’t going to end as cleanly as he hoped.
What? came Jon’s reply, laced with equal parts disbelief and interest.
I want to meet, Dennis typed again, his heart galloping in his chest. IRL. He could barely keep his fingers steady enough to hit the right keys.
The pause that followed was charged, Anthony’s breath stuck somewhere between his ribs and his throat.
You sure, Sir? Jon wrote, Anthony almost hearing the breathless, hopeful tone.
Anthony took a deep breath, knowing he was sure but not sure he was ready. Yes.
He wondered what Jon would be like, in person, up close. He wondered if he would be anything like Anthony imagined, and the possibility made his pulse skip.
When? came Jon's response, quick and eager, and Anthony knew there was no turning back.
The tension made his fingers clumsy, each word carrying the weight of possibility and the thrill of exposure. “Saturday?” Dennis wrote, setting the clock in motion.
Yes. Where? Jon replied, faster than Anthony could brace himself.
Starbucks? It was the only place he could think of, though the thought of having another dramatic encounter there made him giddy and a little queasy. Anthony could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.
Yeah, Dennis typed, hoping he didn’t sound as frazzled as he felt. 1 PM.
They were both either brilliant or completely out of their minds, but Anthony suspected it was a messy mix of both.
Let’s do it, Jon answered, the finality sending a shiver down Anthony’s spine. He was doing this. He was really doing this. The anticipation thrummed through him, every nerve on edge, every breath charged with a potent mix of anxiety and excitement.
Phone numbers? Dennis typed, taking another leap of faith and wanting desperately to see where he would land.
There was a long pause, an agonizing eternity where Anthony thought Jon might back out, where Anthony wondered if he wanted him to.
Then: Here’s mine, followed by a series of digits that Anthony entered into his phone with trembling hands.
Anthony returned the favor, the tension growing as he waited to see if Jon would text him first. If Jon was really Jon.
Text me? Jon wrote, nudging Anthony toward the brink of the reveal, a casual suggestion that sent Anthony’s mind racing. And we should probably trade photos so we know who to look for at Starbucks.
He took another deep breath, each one less steady than the last. Yeah, Dennis replied. On it.
He tapped out a quick message, his heart in his throat as he hit send. Hey, Jon, it read. It’s Dennis. But my real name is Anthony.
The response came like a shot through the dark, each word a pin in his precarious confidence.
Holy fuck, Jon wrote. Your name is… Anthony?
Yeah.
Not Tony?
Anthony narrowed his eyes. No.
Wow, came Jon’s reply. That’s… interesting. Well, my name isn’t actually Jon. But it’ll be obvious why I called myself that. Sending a photo.
Anthony’s eyebrows shot up and his pulse raced as the final pieces fell into place - his fantasy made flesh - almost afraid to confirm it, almost more afraid not to. You’ve got to be shitting me.
Nope. A pause, like the calm before a storm.
Anthony braced himself, knowing, not knowing, knowing too well. His hands were a tangle of nerves and eagerness.
The text buzzed through a moment later, the photo still loading, his entire life hanging on the progress bar.
It was Sören. Of course it was Sören. Hair long and unruly, tattoos dark against his skin, looking exactly like Jon Snow except with longer hair, tattoos and nipple piercings. Anthony nearly dropped the phone, his hands slick with sweat and disbelief.
Fuck me, Anthony typed, fingers flying, not sure if he was thrilled or mortified or something embarrassingly in between. It’s you.
There was no pause this time, just a quick, almost gleeful response. Surprise?
Jesus fuck, it’s really you.
And then, predictably, relentlessly: Awkward.
Awkwaaaaard, Anthony replied, knowing they were doomed, knowing they couldn’t stop.
He stared at the screen, a blend of horror and giddy delight curling through him. His mind was a jumble of tangled threads, every strand leading to Sören, to Jon, to Sören as Jon.
We should cancel, he wrote, knowing he didn’t mean it.
Probably, came the quick reply. You want to?
Anthony hesitated, not sure of anything except that he’d be counting the hours. Do you?
No.
Me neither, Anthony admitted, the truth raw and exhilarating.
See you Saturday, then?
Anthony took a moment to breathe, to let it sink in. To let it thrill him. Yeah, he typed, certain and reckless. Can’t wait.