Sören looked around at his little band of misfits, each busy with markers or colored pencils and their black-and-white mandalas, ready to explode into vibrant color. It felt like a metaphor for everything he did as an art therapist. It felt like a metaphor for his whole life. Sören had selected this project for the patients because the symmetry was meant to calm them, but it wasn't calming him as he’d hoped it would. His thoughts circled back again and again to the biggest problem he had these days: Anthony, and what would happen if he followed his instincts and got involved with someone at work. It wasn't like him to be so cautious. When he’d seen Anthony arriving at the hospital earlier, he’d just panicked and slunk past him without saying a word. It was embarrassing. A grey-haired man on the couch swore softly, ripped a hole in his paper, and started on another mandala, right back where he’d started. Sören knew exactly how he felt.
He hadn’t thought it would be so difficult.
He watched two women in their sixties giggling together as if they were kids, discussing what colors to use. One of them raised her voice: “Purple! Everything is better with purple, and don’t you dare say otherwise.”
That was how this was supposed to work. A good activity helped the patients forget themselves, forget they were in a hospital. It made them feel normal for an hour or two. Sören would have preferred more normal himself. It was becoming difficult for him to focus, his mind pulling away from the art therapy group. He didn’t feel present for the first time since he’d taken the job.
Sören let his thoughts wander, more like charge recklessly, in the direction of Anthony. After the big reveal last night that they’d been talking to each other on FetLife the last couple of weeks, he’d managed to look like a complete loser this morning, passing Anthony on the way in to Pine Creek with nothing more than a few awkward steps and a nod, as if he were being chased by a mob. A kind of overgrown, sweaty-palmed teenager: that's what Anthony probably thought of him now.
“Hey, you OK?” a young man in the group said. Sören hadn’t noticed him putting down his mandala and walking over to him.
He let out an embarrassed laugh. “No, I’m very fucked,” Sören said. Then, more softly: “I mean, I’m very fine.”
Anthony had been charming and smart. And, Jesus, he was gorgeous. The way they’d just stood there smiling at each other the night before, close enough to kiss. He wondered if Anthony felt the same way, if he had his own reasons for hesitating. Or if Sören had just made things too weird by being such a total ass.
He took a deep breath, gave himself a few seconds to recover, and walked over to where a woman with red hair and a face full of piercings had turned in her chair to light a cigarette. It was one of those stupid electronic things, but it was still against the rules - probably smuggled in by a visiting family member while weekend techs were slacking off - and Sören took it from her gently and set it on a table across the room. He caught the accusing look she gave him. “I know, I’m a monster,” he said. She frowned for a second, then started to laugh.
That was more like it.
Sören went to the sofa and knelt by the old man who’d ripped his paper. “So, how’s it going?”
He held up his new sheet, partly colored and already full of crumples. “I used to be a lawyer. Now I can’t even color a fucking picture.”
Sören liked this guy. He had some grit, and more fight in him than he thought. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow,” Sören said in his worst Bogart impression. The man managed a weak smile, not as certain as Sören was that he’d get there eventually.
An older woman across the room held up her mandala: not bad, all yellows and oranges and blues, the color scheme a bit more psychedelic than calming. She shot him a dark look. “How’s this? I know I’m shit.”
It was a sentiment that resonated a little too strongly for Sören. He felt his face get warm as he wondered again what Anthony had thought of him this morning. He turned his focus back to the patient. “You are not shit,” Sören said. He thought about adding that he was. “It looks good. You should try more colors.”
She picked up a bright red pencil and got back to work.
Another patient sighed loudly and pulled the cap off a Sharpie. Her markers were scattered around her chair, uncapped and uncared for. “I’m making mine black. How’s that for a statement?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but threw herself into her task, blocking out everything else.
Sören blocked out everything else too.
He sat on the floor, leaned against a wall, and took one of the extra mandalas. “OK,” he muttered to himself. “Get your shit together.” But instead of making his mind settle down, he just kept poking at his memories of the night before. He wanted it to happen again. He wanted it to go farther. If he could just relax and be himself, he could probably have Anthony by this weekend. But could he be himself, with everything on the line? This time, he couldn’t just fuck up and move on, like he had with other men.
Art therapy was a small world. Maine was a small world. And he really, really liked his job. That thought came with a familiar panic; he’d only ever had one good job in his life. It was this one.
The idea of seeing Anthony outside of work was exciting and terrifying at the same time. It made Sören want to break out the markers and start his own black mandala, the kind that was raw and crazy, nothing symmetrical about it.
“Not yet,” he said under his breath. “Keep it together.”
It was hard, though. That clean-cut preppy look that drove him wild, the sweater and jeans and expensive hair, the slightly awkward confidence, and the quiet, professional voice that seemed to rise from Anthony’s bones. Not just from his mouth, like other people’s. Sören tried not to think about Anthony’s mouth, about how it might feel, or what might happen if he kissed him.
He worked on his mandala as the group carried on. One of the women accused the other of stealing her colors; the pierced one picked up her electric cigarette, and a balding guy in a leather jacket joked about snitching on her. Laughter rose around him, while his thoughts circled around his frustration. He could have had something. He could have said something. Instead, he was right back where he’d started.
“Hey, uh. Is this yours?”
Sören hadn’t noticed the young man walking up again. He held out the Sharpie Sören had left on the floor. He seemed very serious for someone who’d gone so far out of his way to be helpful.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Sören said.
“Did you want it?”
“Not really,” Sören said.
“I’ll take it then,” he said, and went back to his seat.
At least someone was getting what they wanted.
After what felt like a long time and a hundred lifetimes, the session ended. He told the patients to leave their papers, finished or unfinished, in the box by the door. They filed out, muttering or chatting or silent, leaving behind a roomful of mandalas that looked almost as messy as he felt. He stayed behind, taking a moment to breathe and trying to psych himself up. He had a break coming. He’d see Anthony. He’d say something this time, anything.
He walked the halls in a daze. He was hardly paying attention to anything. When he heard a woman’s voice, it took him a second to understand she was talking to him.
“Sören!”
He turned and saw one of the nurses coming up to him. “That’s me,” he said.
She was about ten to fifteen years older, maybe late thirties or early forties, and wore scrubs with a pattern of blue elephants. Sören could never figure out why they let them wear these cutesy things, and why anyone thought a stampede of pastel animals would be comforting.
“Break time,” the nurse told him.
Sören wished it didn’t feel like a countdown to public humiliation.
He made his way through the hall, the word break sounding like doom inside his head. He didn’t notice that a staff meeting had just let out. The dual diagnosis nurses were everywhere, clumping like teenagers and talking and laughing. Someone called to him as he passed. “Jesus Snow, what’s up?”
His nerves, that was what. He kept going, as fast as he could.
He slowed down when he got close to the break room, peeking in and almost losing his nerve when he saw Anthony at the table with a cup of tea. His perfect green eyes. The close-cropped hair and the way he held himself with such casual confidence.
Sören took a deep breath, forced himself not to think about it, and just walked in.
Anthony looked up as the door opened. “Hello there,” he said, just as Sören passed. Sören felt his legs turn to water and his face flush so deeply he could swear it would leave burns.
It was like watching a disaster film, Sören thought, as he moved as fast as he could out the door. A very, very bad disaster film, where everyone dies in the first five minutes.
By the time Sören got to the supermarket after work, he felt like a hunted man. He’d spent the entire bus ride turning around, convinced that everyone behind him was Anthony. Why did they have to work at the same place? Why did he have to work at all? It was too much. It was just too much. He only had enough money for a couple of weeks without a job, but maybe it was worth it to be unemployed and relaxed. They’d teach him basket weaving at the unemployment office, and he’d have no bosses to panic about. Just thoughts of leaving Pine Creek made him feel calmer. By the time he hit produce, his breathing was almost back to normal, and when he turned the corner near the soup aisle, his breathing went right back to where it had been on the bus. “Oh,” he said. “Hi.” Anthony was reaching for a can of tomato bisque, and Sören was sure the surprised look on his face was nothing compared to the one on his own.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I love tomato soup,” Anthony said.
Sören had the distinct impression that he was not the only one who’d had trouble breathing.
He blinked a few times. Anthony stood with his hand outstretched toward the soup can. It was funny. Everything he did seemed a little elegant. Everything he wore seemed just slightly out of Sören’s price range. This time, it was a dark green sweater and khakis. It seemed he’d gone home to change. It was cheating, almost like he’d left the hospital in full armor, while Sören was still in a battered old scrub top with long sleeves to hide the tattoos.
“I’m sorry about today,” he finally said. “I was just, you know. In a hurry to not make a fool of myself.”
“How did that work out for you?” Anthony asked, then added, “You can tell me the truth. I’m a psychiatric nurse. I’ve heard worse.”
It felt like maybe he’d misjudged things, like maybe Anthony was as off-balance as he was. The nerves that had been jittering inside him calmed, but not all at once. He gave an awkward laugh, then looked down at the floor. When he looked back up, Anthony still had the soup in his hand and was looking at him with the same polite expression he wore at Pine Creek, whenever patients were about to unravel.
“Very bad,” Sören said.
They stood in the aisle, facing each other. His head felt like it was full of clouds. Everything was suddenly brighter and clearer than he’d thought possible.
“What’s up with that, anyway?” Anthony asked. “You looked as if you’d just seen Voldemort.”
“I felt as if I’d just seen Voldemort.”
“So,” Anthony said, trying to look serious and not quite succeeding, “which of us is Harry Potter?”
“I’m very sorry,” Sören said again, more composed this time.
His courage was about as cheap as his long-sleeved shirt. After their steamy chat last night, plans to meet at Starbucks this weekend, and then finding out who they’d been talking to all this time, Anthony probably thought dating a co-worker was not just a bad idea, but a deadly one. Like smoking six packs a day, eating glass, or licking handrails on public transit. Sören had hardly even been able to lick a stamp this afternoon.
“I just panicked,” Sören said. “Not that I do that or anything.”
“You?” Anthony said. “I never would have guessed.”
Sören did a double-take. It was like a little sun rising in his chest. A strange and warming feeling: the impossible, unmistakable sensation of not having fucked everything up after all.
“I can’t be the only one who feels this way,” he said. It came out more like a question than a statement.
Anthony laughed. “That would be horrible. You have any idea how shy everyone else at Pine Creek would be, if they’re worse than you?”
The panic and indecision of the last few hours suddenly seemed ridiculous, more like a bad dream than a reflection of real life. He shook his head and laughed, mostly at himself. “So there’s no way they’d be worse?”
Anthony set the soup can back on the shelf. “Unlikely. I’m sure there are a few more dramatic employees than you, but the really shy ones tend to find jobs where they don’t have to talk to people.”
“Like telephone psychics.”
“Like janitors.”
“Now you tell me,” Sören said.
They began to walk down the aisle, side by side, more casually than he’d imagined they ever could. As they turned a corner, Sören felt a few drops of water from an overhead sprayer. He wiped them off his forehead and pushed his hair back, just as a young couple passed in front of them with a cart full of ramen noodles and a giant sack of oranges.
“You’d think the sky was falling,” Sören said, as they hurried to get out of the way.
“It’s hard being a student,” Anthony said. “Especially when you have no idea what to do with seventy-five oranges.”
A heavyset man behind them snorted, which Anthony apparently took as a sign of encouragement. He kept talking as they walked. “I suppose they’ll learn as they go along.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Sören said.
He felt a little lighter than air. Anthony had managed to untie all the knots inside him with a couple of bad jokes. It was a talent, maybe even a superpower. If he could do that much after Sören’s flustered dash out of the break room, there was no telling what else he might be able to do. Sören thought of his top-drawer fantasies, and let himself imagine they might actually come true. Not tomorrow, maybe. But soon.
They were at the meat counter now, behind a middle-aged woman with very large glasses and a Red Sox sweatshirt. “Do you have anything besides chicken today?” she asked the guy behind the counter, as if he were the only thing standing between her and starvation.
“Lamb shanks,” he said, pointing to a tray piled with a suspiciously white substance. “Right here.”
“Lamb?” she asked, staring at it. “That’s lamb?”
“It used to be.”
She looked skeptical. “It’s very pale,” she said.
“Do you want it?” the man asked.
She had a discussion with herself, then took half the tray. It didn’t leave much for anyone else, but Anthony got the last package of two, just before another lady came up and gave them a dirty look.
Sören thought about doing the polite thing and letting her have them. He was no good at cooking anyway. But when he looked over, Anthony was watching him carefully, like he was a mandala he couldn’t figure out. Maybe he thought Sören would give up on this, too. “Hell with it,” he said. “I like lamb.”
Anthony smiled in a way that Sören hadn’t seen before, an expression that managed to be approving and incredibly sexy at the same time. His lips were curved and his eyes narrowed, as if he'd caught Sören doing something sneaky and was rewarding him for it. It made him feel ten years younger and fifty times more hopeful than he had this afternoon. If he had the slightest bit of luck left, it would stop being cute and polite between them very soon.
Sören wondered how to say it, then decided to just throw it out there.
“So I was thinking,” he said.
Anthony interrupted. “Were you?”
“Ha. Ha,” Sören said. “I was thinking you probably don’t want to talk to me now. But, uh. Do you?”
They stood in front of the checkout line. There was another silence, but it was a different kind than before. They were watching each other, waiting for the next thing to happen. Sören had some hope, the kind you get when you haven’t managed to ruin things entirely. It was nice. It was more than nice. He held Anthony’s gaze longer than he ever would have thought possible, feeling more daring with each second.
“I do, actually. We should… talk.” Anthony laughed and ran a hand through his hair.
They walked to the register. Anthony got his card out of his wallet, and they paid for their things, still talking. Still closer than Sören could have hoped this morning.
It felt good.
It felt like tomorrow could be better than today.
The rain that had been threatening to pour all day finally began sprinkling as they left the supermarket.
“Don’t think I didn’t see your bus go by,” Anthony said, smiling at him like a shark. A friendly, adorable shark with perfect hair and very expensive clothes. Then Anthony pointed to the sky and said, “You think we’re going to make it?”
Sören had the bag with the lamb in it. Anthony had the rest. They looked like a couple of idiots on a first date, he thought. A first date with perishables. “I guess we’ll see,” Sören said. Anthony’s Prius was all the way down towards the end of the parking lot. He couldn’t tell if the adrenaline coursing through him was from being next to Anthony, or from racing the rain to his car. They didn’t make it. “I’m drenched,” Sören said, standing at the passenger-side door and dripping on the leather.
“Get in.” Anthony pointed, and he had his serious look on. The one that made Sören feel like he was naked and embarrassed and ready for him, all at the same time. It was a bad idea, a horrible idea. But he got in.
He smelled like rain and faint desperation.
Anthony’s car was warm and dry. If Sören was a crazy optimist, he would have said it was inviting. If he was an emotional realist, he would have said it was the last place he should be, considering everything he was about to risk. He was feeling a little more realist than optimist just then.
Sören reached over, his hand already in the wrong direction, and tried to buckle his seatbelt. It wasn’t cooperating. He wished it were a little more like Anthony. He wished he were a little more like Anthony. “Is this kidnapping?” he asked.
“No,” Anthony said, switching on the ignition and backing out. “This is the part where you keep your promise to Daddy and tell me how wet you are.”
“Shut up,” Sören said. But he was a little in awe, like maybe he’d had the world’s most incredible stroke of luck and Anthony was going to be OK with this after all. After today, and everything he’d botched and floundered through, maybe Anthony was even going to be the one who convinced him it was possible.
He stared out the window and watched the drops fall on glass, until the building tension inside the car and the radio going in the background got to him. It felt like they’d been driving for hours, and he’d barely managed a word. Anthony didn’t seem nervous at all. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as if they were riding along together on a Sunday drive, as if the city wasn’t flashing past and Sören’s heart wasn’t beating five hundred times a second.
Sören couldn’t help wondering if there was someone else, if Anthony had another guy in his life. That thought stopped him cold. He told himself he had to just take a breath, to man up and ask. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, like it was out of service, or at least in no hurry to form the words.
Instead of Sören speaking, it was Anthony’s phone. “I see you’re not just a fancy British nurse,” Sören said. “You’re a very popular fancy British nurse.”
Anthony made a face like he was deciding whether to pick it up or not. At last he reached into his pocket. “You’ll survive a minute on your own,” he said.
It wasn’t what Sören expected, or what he was used to. The guys in his life usually put him second, third, or last, with even the smallest interruption. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll try.” He sat still as the call began. Anthony’s voice went quieter and softer, like there was someone delicate on the other end.
“Hey there,” Anthony said. “I know. We’re having a hard day, aren’t we?” It was a side of him Sören hadn’t heard before, but he had a sick feeling he knew who he was talking to. Someone he didn’t want to know about, didn’t want to think about.
A long pause, the occasional “Mmmm-hmmm,” the muffled words Sören was desperate to understand. Then: “I can’t tonight, sweetie. Let’s try tomorrow.”
His stomach was doing flips. It would be a repeat of every time he'd had feelings for a guy. There was always someone else, and Anthony was obviously just being polite. So polite, so reserved. So impossible to read.
Sören tried to block it out, even as the words “tomorrow” and “sweetie” rang in his head. The only sound was the radio again. It was playing something that made him more miserable, the one that goes who's gonna drive you home tonight? The answer seemed pretty obvious. The answer was not going to be Sören.
If he had to hear Anthony call someone “sweetie” in that voice again, he’d let the guy go without a fight. He was less than halfway to dropping out entirely. All Anthony would have to do is admit there was someone else, and he’d know he was about to repeat the pattern that he was scared of most.
The silence had grown, the rain still falling outside. He took a deep breath and forced the words out. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Anthony looked surprised, like maybe Sören had thrown him off. “Is that what this is about?”
“What?”
“That.” Anthony waved a hand and made a wide, ungraceful gesture, something so unlike him it seemed like Sören had called him out on it and he had no way to recover. “Boyfriend? You thought?”
“What was I supposed to think?” Sören’s voice cracked on the last word.
“Oh, G-d,” Anthony said, laughing in a way that put Sören a little more at ease and made him want him more than ever. “You’re worse than I am.”
“Not possible.”
“You are.”
“You called someone ‘sweetie,’” Sören said.
He watched Anthony’s profile as they drove. He wasn’t nervous. He didn’t stammer or make excuses or do any of the things Sören had learned to expect. It was infuriating. It was sexy. It made him feel like his whole body was an antenna, picking up a thousand different signals, each one stronger than the last.
“True,” Anthony said at last. “But that someone is my kid. Remember, I told you a couple weeks ago in chat, I have a kid? Their name is Rae. They’re nineteen. They're non-binary. And I call them sweetie because that’s what they are.”
There was something daring about the way Anthony said it, a twist at the end that seemed to prove his earlier point. He was never going to live it down, never going to hear the end of how ridiculous he’d been.
“So no boyfriend?” he asked again.
“Why?” Anthony said, as if he were truly mystified. “You looking?”
It took Sören a second to process everything he’d heard. The clouds that had settled in his brain slowly lifted. “Fuck you,” he said, more out of hope than out of anger. It was a half-whisper, a tiny spark of his usual snark. But he knew that was what Anthony had wanted to hear.
“You wish,” Anthony said, giving Sören a sideways look that almost sent him over the edge. A self-conscious grin spread across his face as he let himself start believing it.
“Your kid,” Sören said. He tried to look serious, like it was some kind of impossible feat to imagine Anthony with a nineteen-year-old child. He had to push the envelope, make it clear he could give as much as he got. “You don’t look a day over thirty. How’s that work?”
Anthony smirked. “Boy, I’m old enough that you should start worrying about cradle-robbing. You’re not, I hope?”
“Shut up,” Sören said.
“Shutting up is the last thing I have in mind.”
Sören blushed. It was hot, almost unbearably hot in the car. He thought of what it might be like to keep this up with Anthony. He thought of what they’d done in the grocery store, the checkout line, what they might do on an actual first date. Then he thought of what else they might do, if they could keep themselves under control. If it turned out to be impossible, as impossible as he was starting to believe.
“I have to,” he said, and didn’t manage to finish the sentence.
“Do you?”
They were close, almost too close. He was surprised at the words tumbling out of his mouth. “Kiss you,” Sören said. “I have to kiss you. Is that completely insane?”
“Yes,” Anthony said. “Very.”
“I don’t care.”
Anthony parked outside of Sören’s garage apartment and cut the ignition. There were two paper bags between them, grocery hostages as they stared at each other. His heart was somewhere up near his ears. It had skipped the last ten beats and he couldn’t bring himself to notice. “Are we doing this?” Sören asked.
“We’re doing this,” Anthony said.
They didn’t wait to get upstairs. He leaned in, pushed the bags into the back seat, and reached for him.
Sören met him halfway. The rain was slowing down and he didn’t care. The last of his doubts disappeared when Anthony’s lips met his, as their tongues played together. He could have stayed there, could have lived there, forever. But it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted more. More of the dizzy, breathless feeling that Anthony had been giving him since the night before. “Upstairs,” he said, pulling back just far enough to talk. He couldn’t take the space between them. “Come up. Let’s see how bad an idea we can make this.”
“Terrible,” Anthony said. “Absolutely horrible.”
“You’re gonna get it,” Sören said, wondering how on earth he’d ever had the courage to be this reckless.
Anthony followed him up the stairs, taking two at a time. Sören had the distinct impression he wasn’t going to have to wait long to find out.
“Oh, my fucking G-d,” Anthony said, as Sören unlocked the door and let them in. “How do you live with that smell?” The cat box was near the entrance. He felt a little self-conscious, a little embarrassed, a little like he might die of happiness before they even started.
“You get used to it,” Sören said. “Like I will eventually get used to you and your shit.”
The last hour had been crazy, more crazy than he ever thought possible. His blood was rushing and his heart was pounding, and he couldn’t believe they were here together, about to see what it felt like when neither of them held back. He made it halfway across the room with the grocery bags before Anthony grabbed him and pinned him to the wall. “Believe me, boy, you haven’t seen the beginning of my shit,” Anthony rasped, lips pressing hot against his neck and hands reaching under his shirt.
Sören made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and his knees almost gave way.
It had never felt like this. He’d wanted men before, sure. He’d had good sex, great sex, mind-blowing sex. But just based on their chat sessions, Anthony was more. Anthony was everything he’d thought, and more. They hadn’t even started, physically, and he knew it would ruin him for the next ten years.
“Hang on,” Sören said, breathless as he set the groceries on the counter.
“Why?” Anthony asked.
The perishables were out of sight and, in a few seconds, completely out of mind. Anthony followed him, his eyes intense and his jeans just as intense. Sören had time to wonder if this was the best idea he’d ever had, then forgot everything except Anthony and how close they were to what he wanted.
Sören folded out the couch into a bed and half-fell onto it, Anthony’s body against his. Anthony kissed him, unrestrained and out of control. The rhythm and the insistence of it made him want more than he’d ever let himself want. The strength of Anthony’s arms holding him down, the pressure of his weight against him: Sören had no idea it would feel like this. He’d imagined everything and hadn’t even come close.
Anthony pulled back, just far enough to let Sören breathe. His hair was messy, his eyes wide and full of promise. “We don’t have to,” he said, not meaning it at all.
“Shut up,” Sören said, knowing it was the most dangerous thing he could say. But he loved it, loved being at Anthony’s mercy and knowing he’d give him more than he could handle. “Just shut up.”
Anthony pushed the sleeves up on Sören’s shirt, as far as they’d go. He ran a hand across his arm, pausing to trace the flames with his thumb. His expression was almost like reverence, almost like something he hadn’t meant to let show. “Thought I’d never see all of these,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Sören let out a laugh. “Shut up,” he said again. It came out more like a gasp than a joke, as Anthony gripped his wrists and kissed him, hard and impatient. He shifted, pressing one knee against Sören’s crotch. The pressure was unexpected and perfect.
Sören arched his back and felt the heat spreading from between his legs. He could tell Anthony was loving every second, feeling him lose control. It drove him wild, but not as wild as when he started to talk.
“Just like that,” Anthony said. He let go of one wrist and moved a hand under Sören’s shirt, up his ribs and over his chest. He traced the outline of a nipple and then flicked it, sending an electric charge that made Sören cry out and rub up against him harder. He took a second to play, pinching and twisting the ring before his hand went lower. The sound Sören made would have embarrassed him if he hadn’t been past caring.
“Oh, fuck,” Sören said, half laughing and half gone to another planet. He reached for Anthony, grabbed the hem of his sweater, and tugged it up. It went over Anthony’s head and landed on the floor. He finally had him. Finally. Anthony was all muscle, chest hair, and green eyes, trying to pull Sören’s jeans off with one hand. The frantic feel of it made Sören sure that Anthony was as close to the edge as he was.
“Let me,” Sören said, almost giddy with how much he wanted it. He worked Anthony’s belt and jeans with both hands, as Anthony shifted his position and let him take the lead.
“Bossy little brat,” Anthony said, an impossible mix of approving and teasing. He was pulling off his own boxer-briefs before Sören had time to blush, the words bringing another rush of blood and more heat than Sören thought he could stand.
They fumbled out of their clothes and kicked them aside. Sören threw himself at Anthony, kissing like the world was ending and it was the last chance he’d ever have. The kisses landed on his mouth, his cheek, his neck, everywhere Sören could reach.
He pushed Anthony onto his back and ran a hand over his broad chest, relishing the feel of a man as starved as he was. Anthony’s reaction told him that it had been too long for both of them. The moan he gave when Sören rubbed against him, bare skin on bare skin, drove Sören out of his mind.
He pressed down on Anthony’s hip and arched again. Their bodies made friction and more friction, like they could melt into each other if they just rubbed long enough. It was more than Sören could take, the hard, burning pressure that threatened to send him over. He almost came. He almost lost it completely.
“Oh, no,” Anthony said, reading his mind and slowing it down. He was a nurse, after all. Sören’s mouth was open and his eyes were closed, and he was somewhere between a groan and a growl of frustration. “You’re not getting off that easy, boy.”
Sören opened his eyes, his breathing rapid and ragged. He’d gone so far past the point of caring that he cared even more. He wanted to draw it out, make it last until he lost his mind and then start over, making sure that Anthony was as far gone as he was.
“Fuck me,” he said, knowing it was exactly the right thing.
Anthony smiled and rolled so he was on top again. He was good at that. He was good at a lot of things. He spread Sören’s legs with his knee, held his wrists down, and kissed him like they were inventing the idea of it.
“Don’t stop,” Sören said. He wrapped a leg around Anthony’s and moved his hips up to meet him, back and forth and up and down, and it was wild. He wasn’t sure he could last long enough, but he didn’t care. Anthony was hot and intense, clit sliding against clit, making him crazy. Sören’s eyes fluttered and his breathing came faster, the pressure and insistence of Anthony’s pussy making him lightheaded. It was more than he ever expected, more than he thought possible.
“Not stopping,” Anthony said. He was out of breath, lips full and red and still hungry. Sören felt the stubbly scruff of Anthony’s cheek against his own, felt him hold back just enough to torture them both. It was driving him insane, how close he was and how close Anthony was. It was too much, too much and not enough.
“Oh, G-d,” Sören said. It was like a confession and a cry of victory, as Anthony finally gave him everything. He let out a low, throaty noise as Sören arched against him. He pinned him harder and let go of his wrist long enough to squeeze a nipple, sending Sören over the edge.
Sören felt his muscles clench. Felt his whole body clench. He’d lost track of everything, every thought except Anthony, every sense except this one, as he reached his orgasm and moaned, loud and open. Then he felt Anthony contracting against him, gushing.
It was long and intense and a thousand times more than he’d dreamed. Anthony kissed him as the sensation took over. He’d never been more exposed or vulnerable, and he’d never felt better.
Sören lay back, head spinning and heart pounding. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Wow.”
He wanted to make it just as good for Anthony, better than Anthony had imagined. The thought filled his chest with warmth and his cunt with a new kind of urgency. He didn’t have to wait long. Anthony gave him a half-second, just enough to recover, and then pulled him close and kissed him. It was gentle and still full of promise. It let him know this was just the start.
“C’mere,” Sören said. “Please.”
It didn’t take much convincing.
They shifted on the bed, and Anthony turned around. His legs were on either side of Sören, his pussy inches away. Sören opened his mouth and pulled him down, one hand on Anthony’s ass and the other on the small of his back. He heard Anthony gasp, heard him moan as Sören went down on him.
Anthony got a second wind. He shifted and held Sören’s hips, and Sören nearly lost his mind when he felt Anthony’s mouth. Anthony kissed and licked and sucked and did everything that Sören thought should be illegal, maybe even fatal, but was definitely not the thing to do if you wanted to get your partner to last.
It was a race to see who could drive the other one crazier. Anthony’s lips tugged on Sören’s clit, rolling it around in his mouth, and he pushed his fingers in Sören’s tight, wet cunt, making that hooking motion, finding that spot inside him. They both moaned, and Sören flicked his tongue faster, fingering Anthony in the same rhythm as Anthony's fingers banging him. Anthony bucked and squeezed, growling and snarling like he didn’t care if the neighbors heard. Like he wanted them to.
At the wicked magic of Anthony’s mouth and fingers, Sören lost it before he expected, not that he expected anything by this point. The words “Oh, fuck” again, the words “Please, please, please,” just before he cried out wordlessly and came. He’d never been this loud in his life.
It was impossible to believe this had happened. It was impossible to believe it would happen again. They shifted back, sweat and damp curls on their foreheads. There was an expression on Anthony’s face that made him dizzy, even though he was already there. A mix of surprise and lust and satisfaction, like maybe Sören had been worth it after all.
They were greedy, insatiable, but the urgency that had driven them earlier had eased a little - though Sören didn’t think Anthony had come from their sixty-nine. “Hey,” Sören said, not sure how he’d wound up with the world’s hottest, smartest, most incredible man in his bed. “Hey,” he said again.
Anthony looked down at him, half-suppressed need all over his face. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Sören said. “You?”
“No,” Anthony said. “Do something about it.”
Sören could have stayed like this forever, letting Anthony have him any way he wanted. But he’d never been that patient. He gave Anthony a cocky look, then opened his mouth for a smart remark. The remark turned into a gasp. He was flat on his back before he knew it, with Anthony straddling him and pinning his arms again. “Or I’ll do it myself,” Anthony said.
“Oh, fuck,” Sören said. “G-d, yes.”
Sören could tell his nipple piercings drove Anthony crazy. Anthony flicked them both with his thumbs, rubbed against Sören and pushed them both to their limits. His face showed everything he was feeling. So did Sören’s. They were grinding, thrusting, bringing each other closer with every frantic movement. Sören was more out of control than ever.
“You know what to call me,” Anthony said. “What are you going to call me?”
“Tony.”
“You bratty little bitchboi.” Anthony growled and bit his neck.
Sören was going to say “Oh, fuck” again and be a brat some more, but changed his mind at the last second, as he began to lose it again. “Daddy,” he said instead. “Fuck, Daddy, fuck...”
“Good,” Anthony said, not slowing down. Not holding back. "Good, good boy. Daddy's good boy. Such a good little slut for Daddy." His voice was like raw whiskey and it went straight to Sören’s hard clit.
The world fell away as their clits rubbed together just right, wet sloppy pussy lips kissing and making delicious slurping sounds. It was only Anthony and his green eyes, and his body, and his voice. Sören’s thoughts spiraled inward like the world’s messiest mandala, like a child’s idea of heaven. It was more than sex. More than a physical connection. More than he knew he could have, or wanted to hope for.
He cried out, clung to Anthony and held on, and he was sure he’d never been happier. It went through him again and again, building like a wave, like the ink on his skin, and Anthony came with him, squirting inside him. Sören moaned as the last orgasm broke over him and he lost everything, except Anthony. He knew what it felt like to get exactly what he wanted.
“Shit,” Sören said, when he could talk again.
“Yes,” Anthony said, when he could talk again.
They held each other in the tangle of blankets. Anthony’s breath was hot on his neck and he could feel Anthony’s heart beat against his own. “I can’t believe you’re real,” Sören said, meaning it.
Anthony gave him a look of mild disbelief, but the tenderness behind it made Sören’s heart race all over again. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he said, voice rough and as serious as Sören had ever heard him.
Sören wondered what they’d be like tomorrow, next week, and next year. He could see it, even this early. Maybe it was as stupid and brave as he’d thought, maybe he’d be sorry. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not after what they'd just done. Not after this.
He was going to call Anthony a liar, but didn’t have the strength to joke. “Oh, my fucking G-d,” he said. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that captured it all.
“Yes,” Anthony said again. He curled closer and kissed Sören’s shoulder. They drifted off, unguarded and entangled and completely unaware of how much time had passed.
Sören wasn’t sure what he was happiest about: having Anthony in his bed, or having him in his life. It was a toss-up, one he hoped he’d never have to decide. He wasn’t sure what had taken more out of him: having the courage to let himself be happy, or having three massive orgasms. It was a toss-up, one he hoped he’d have to decide again, very soon. He lay curled against Anthony, his head on Anthony’s shoulder, and waited to see which of them would speak first. He waited to see which of them would be brave enough to tell the truth.
It was almost ten PM.
“Shit,” Anthony said, looking at the time. “I need to go. Rae is expecting me. I am very, very late for dinner. I am very, very late for... everything. Rae's going to think I'm fucking dead.”
“Aw, man…” Sören grinned. “Here I was hoping we could eat each other some more.”
Anthony sighed, like he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
“I’m exhausted,” Sören said. “So?” He ran a hand over Anthony’s chest, light as air, not wanting to start anything he couldn’t finish but also not wanting to stop.
“So you should go to bed,” Anthony said. “And I need to get home.”
They were already in bed, tangled in the couch sheets and more naked than seemed possible. Sören took a deep breath, loving how natural it felt, how much like a small victory. “You are home. This is your new home.”
“Hopeless,” Anthony said, the fondness in his voice cutting through the dryness.
Sören rolled over and looked at him. Anthony’s eyes were heavy-lidded, and his usually neat hair was a wild tousled mess, like his whole body was just waking up to the possibility of not being uptight and English.
“Shouldn’t I be saying that?” Sören asked.
“Probably.”
They lay still for a long minute. Sören’s hand made circles on Anthony’s chest. Anthony reached up and took Sören’s hand, folding it inside his own and letting it stay there. It was sweet, warmer than anything Sören thought a man from London could be.
Sören was caught in the place between sleep and waking, where every breath was easy and every thought was half a dream. It was evening, but everything inside him felt like a brand new morning.
Then something shifted in Anthony. Sören felt it in the quickening of his pulse, in the small motion he made, almost like an attempt to sit up. Then Sören felt him tense a little, like the awareness of time and deadlines had put some of the London back in him.
Anthony let go of Sören’s hand and swore softly. It was a British kind of swearing, like the rumble of distant thunder that never quite broke. “I really need to go,” he said, his regret as clear as the rest of his voice. “I hate to fuck and run, but I should go.”
“You should stay,” Sören said. He knew it wasn’t what Anthony wanted to hear. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but his mouth and his brain were having a difficult time cooperating.
“I can’t,” Anthony said. “Not this time.” It was what Sören expected.
“OK,” Sören said with a resigned sigh. But he could feel himself get lighter as he watched Anthony fumble for his sweater and underwear, a tangled mess on the floor. It made the impulse to rush things disappear, as he saw Anthony trying to pull the sleeve of his sweater over his head and struggling.
He was hopelessly adorkable, but Sören loved him like that.
“It’s getting serious,” Sören said, when Anthony’s arms finally made it into his sleeves. “You’re not thinking about calling me in a week, are you?”
“I’m thinking about Friday night,” Anthony said. “Come over, bring the cat, spend the weekend.”
It was like a fresh shock to the system, like Anthony’s first touch had been. Sören wanted to grin like an idiot, wanted to do anything but play it cool. But he did his best to seem calm and nonchalant, and knew Anthony wasn’t buying any of it. “Snúður? That was fast. You haven’t even met him yet.”
“You think I only care about your pussy?”
“Shut up,” Sören said, wanting to launch himself at Anthony all over again.
Anthony paused at the small counter, next to the fridge and the awful mess of the cat box. “Really,” he said. “You’ll come?” There was the slightest hitch of nervousness in his voice, the smallest hint of uncertainty. It was as endearing as it was funny, after what they’d just done.
“If you’re not too sick of me.”
“Being sick of your shit just means I get to punish you,” Anthony said, with the same dry wit that made Sören so crazy for him in the first place.
He watched as Anthony laced his shoes, the casual movement making him more handsome than Sören thought possible. Anthony looked up from the floor. He had a glow and a confidence and a scruffy, artless look about him. “Well?” Anthony asked. “Yes or no? I’m waiting.”
Sören threw on his pants and his most arrogant expression. “Jesus, Tony,” he said. “Hold your horses.”
The indignant gasp was worth it. “You bratty little shit,” Anthony said, catching Sören around the waist and pulling him closer than was safe. “You know I hate being called Tony.”
Sören gave him a helpless shrug. “Maybe that’s why I do it,” he said. “You gonna do anything about it?”
He could feel Anthony’s arms tightening around him. “You’re gonna get it.”
“Promises, promises,” Sören said, not at all convinced it was an empty one. He kissed Anthony goodbye, and hello, and goodnight, and for an extra minute just to be safe.
It was going to be an interesting weekend.