Sören woke up hard and horny. He was sleeping in the guest room again, and even if he hadn't been, he was increasingly repulsed by Justin; they hadn't had sex in a couple months. Sören listened for him now, because if Justin could hear him he'd start pounding on the door wanting a shag, and when Sören was satisfied that Justin either wasn't home or was still in bed himself, he reached down his pajama bottoms.
He thought of Eiliv, kissing him, rubbing his nose in that bushy ginger beard, the ginger pelt on his chest. Licking and sucking Eiliv's pink nipples to hardness, kissing and licking him all over his muscled, freckled body, so much taller than him, a gentle giant of a man who made him feel absolutely safe. His mind burned with memories of sucking Eiliv's cock and being sucked, getting fucked on his back, one of his legs on Eiliv's shoulders. Riding Eiliv's cock, the two of them holding each other, kissing fiercely as Sören bounced feverishly. Being taken from behind, Eiliv's chest against his back, Eiliv's fingers in his mouth as he kissed and bit Sören's neck. The very rare occasions where he topped Eiliv, making Eiliv grunt and gasp with pleasure as he showed Eiliv what that Prince Albert piercing was for, Eiliv's hot cum spraying his chest an instant before he seeded Eiliv deep.
Then suddenly, Anthony sprang into his fantasies. Anthony taking him from behind, grabbing his curls, spanking his ass. Riding Anthony hard. His legs on Anthony's shoulders as Anthony pounded him.
Anthony had appeared in his masturbation fantasies plenty of times before, but it felt different this time, now that Sören had met him in person and was finding fault with him. He didn't want to keep lusting after Anthony like he was a teenager again with a stupid crush. But his cock stiffened all the more as he thought about Anthony taking him, cock plunging in and out, that smug little smile on Anthony's face as he took what he wanted.
Sören desperately tried to bring it back to Eiliv. He was so close now - thinking of Anthony brought him right to that edge - and his mind's eye replayed a particularly hot memory that never failed to make him come, Eiliv fucking him against the wall, holding him up, so strong, so powerful, Sören clinging to him for dear life, the two of them kissing and kissing, wanting each other so much they'd taken their clothes off the minute they got in the door, insatiable for each other. Eiliv kissing his neck, licking, his gruff voice rasping Kom for meg, lille kråke.
It turned to Anthony taking him against the wall, those sexy green eyes, and Sören turned his head and let the pillows muffle his whimper as he spilled over his hand, onto his T-shirt, the contractions so intense they almost hurt, deep relief and soaring bliss, spinning, floating. Sören gasped for breath, his toes curling, hands shaking with the intensity of his release.
Sören sat up, dazed, cheeks on fire with hot shame. Thinking of Anthony made him go off like a rocket, and they were filming another episode today. Sören was really starting to regret having signed up for this, but he reminded himself he was securing his future - and hopefully, a way out of this present mess with Justin - and he needed to endure.
Fuck you, Anthony, Sören thought to himself as he got up to head to the bathroom and start his day.
Today's event was catering an "unbirthday party" for a dozen trans men and trans women who had recently legally transitioned, to congratulate them.
While Anthony did not discuss his private life with the press, he was nonetheless openly gay and at least once per season, there was an LGBT-themed event, and contestants knew that going in, so there wasn't any awkward incidents with someone refusing to bake a gay wedding cake or something similar. This year, with the increasing amount of transphobia in the UK, Anthony wanted to do something to support the trans community and show solidarity. This made Sören soften a little in his opinion of Anthony - Sören's late older sister was a trans woman - but he still felt a bit grudging about it. He didn't want to like this guy.
He especially didn't want to be horny for him. Every time Sören looked across the room at Anthony, his mind oh-so-helpfully replayed the fantasies from this morning.
Focus, Sören scolded himself. This is important. Do it for Margrét.
After racking his brain, Sören decided he would do another phoenix design, and the batter would be strawberry, his favorite. As he whipped up the batter he watched Anthony once again making the rounds, taste-testing raw cake batter and offering his opinion. When Anthony got to Sören's table, before Anthony could say or do anything, Sören glared at him and said, "You make another crack about ginger and you'll be wearing it."
Anthony's laughter rang out. Sören hated how gorgeous Anthony was when he grinned and laughed. "Oh ho." Anthony folded his arms, smirking. "All righty then, Sparky."
Sören stopped mixing his ingredients and raised an eyebrow. "What did you just call me."
"Sparky." Anthony grinned again. "You've got that fire in you. I like it."
Sören didn't want him to like it. That meant Anthony would pick on him more. With that fucking dazzling grin. Fuck you, Anthony.
Anthony gestured to the bowl with a fresh spoon. "You mind?"
"Yeah, but you're gonna do what you want anyway."
Anthony cackled and spooned up some cake batter. He took a taste - Sören really wished he wouldn't think about Anthony sucking cock as he watched Anthony suck on the spoon. Their eyes met, and Sören's cheeks burned. Anthony licked his lips. "That's good." He nodded and walked off.
Sören stood there with his mouth open, not able to believe Anthony had actually complimented him instead of being a dick. When he noticed other contestants staring at him for just standing there dumbfounded, Sören got back to work, stirring his batter like a madman.
The elimination this round was Camilla, a plump, jolly middle-aged woman who still dyed her hair purple and wore cat's eye glasses. Camilla's cake wasn't horrible - a slightly messy bouquet of blue, white, and pink roses, the colors of the Trans Pride flag - but everyone else had gone all out and hers looked lackluster by comparison. Vivian's cake in particular was lovely: soft blue, white and pink clouds of meringue atop a base that looked like a sunrise, with delicate little butterflies dancing over the cake and into the clouds.
Sören's design was a tier cake. The tier cake was frosted in ombre shades of pastel blue, white, and pale pink. On the bottom tier was a sugar glass egg in rainbow colors, that looked like real stained glass but was edible, and the egg opened to a rainbow swirling up the tiers of the cake, trailing from a fire-and-rainbow phoenix wearing a crown of blue, white and pink flowers, perched proudly on the top. It was the most flamboyant cake Sören had ever done, even moreso than the unicorn or the phoenix-crow. It was art. Delicious, sugary art.
He didn't expect to win. He honestly thought Anthony was going to make a snarky comment about "Sparky" doing "another phoenix?" or perhaps make Lisa Frank jokes. He braced himself, not wanting to have a meltdown if that was what happened.
...But he won. Once again, his jaw dropped when Anthony pinned the gold star to his apron. Now he had two.
Anthony couldn't behave completely, an evil grin on his face as he stepped back, patting Sören on the shoulder, that touch making Sören tingle. "Congratulations, Sparky."
Sören's nostrils flared.
"That's a beautiful cake," Vivian said, shaking his hand.
"So's yours," Sören said sincerely.
Vivian smiled.
Fifteen contestants left, and Sören had won twice. He could almost let himself believe he had a shot, but he didn't think the road to victory was going to be that easy.
But for now, he savored the win. Fucking "Sparky" and all.
He was still in a jubilant mood when he got home. Justin was already home, for a change, and sneered at Sören when he got in the door. "What are you so happy about?"
"I won another round today," Sören said, gesturing to the second gold star pin on his apron that he hadn't changed out of yet.
"Oh, did you." Justin did a sarcastic slow clap.
Sören's joy deflated. It felt like storm clouds had blocked out the sun. "Do you have to be like this?" Sören asked as he walked into the kitchen to get himself a Pepsi - only to find he was out. Sören closed the refrigerator door and stood there. "The more rounds I win, the longer I survive, the more I get paid. Money's been good. More breathing room than me hoping my paintings sell." Sören had sold enough of his art to be able to pay rent and eat, but there hadn't really been room for much else and he'd had to be careful.
"Yes, instead of doing what I did and getting a real job, you've been trying to sell those bloody paintings, like anyone wants to look at that crap."
Sören finally turned around to look at Justin on the couch. He wasn't going to try to explain to Justin yet again that Justin was lucky he'd gotten a job at all - the only real jobs open were gig jobs like delivery work that required more physical strength and agility than Sören had, especially now with long COVID. As it was, being in a kitchen hours a day was tiring enough, never mind delivering heavy bags and cases of food up and down stairs.
But he was damned if he was going to stand here and take Justin's abuse. Fearing that Justin would either throw him out on the street or would throw a tantrum, Sören hadn't been wanting to tell Justin he was moving out until he had the money and was ready. He still wasn't there yet, but his need to let Justin know beyond the shadow of a doubt they were through, overtook his better judgment.
"Well, now I'm likely going to win a job in one of Anthony Hewlett-Johnson's restaurants, and when I do, that will be good publicity to attract buyers to 'those bloody paintings' as well. So consider this your notice. I'm leaving. I was going to wait and just tell you on the way out, but I think I want to watch you squirm as you have to scramble to find someone else to pay half the rent."
Justin sat for a moment, stony-faced, and then he got up. Sören's heart beat a little faster, feeling the surge of adrenaline. He hoped Justin would just stalk off to his room and slam the door, which he'd done a number of times.
This time Justin walked towards him. Sören's body had gone into fight-or-flight mode for a reason. In the year and a half plus that Sören had been living here, Justin hadn't hit him - he'd thrown and broken things, but hadn't physically attacked him. Today that was about to change. Sören took a few steps back. Justin grabbed Sören by the throat and started choking him with one hand, punching and slapping with the other.
Sören panicked as it got harder to breathe and each blow landed harder and harder, making him dizzy, making things grey out for a few seconds and come back. Sören struggled to free himself and Justin's grip got even tighter.
Sören looked out at the kitchen equipment, what little of it Justin had, and flailing and fumbling around, trying to give Justin the impression he was still struggling, Sören reached for the frying pan and once it was in his hands, he slammed it into Justin's face as hard as he could. The minute Justin let go of him, Sören brought the frying pan down on Justin's head. Justin fell on his knees, holding his face; Sören watched Justin's nose bleed. "OW, YOU DIRTY, ROTTEN FUCKER -"
Sören made himself stop from hitting Justin with the pan again. Sören was almost sure he wasn't the first partner Justin had hit, and a still small voice in the back of his head told him he'd be doing the world a favor if he kept hitting Justin with the pan until Justin was dead, but then he'd go to jail, and he wouldn't survive that.
Sören ran before Justin could get up, taking the frying pan with him. He let himself in the guest bedroom, that he'd completely moved into in recent weeks. He locked the door behind him - he'd taken the key awhile back to make sure Justin couldn't get in when he was having one of those throwing-things-fits - and then, still wheezing after being choked, Sören took a puff on his inhaler and thought fast.
His unsold paintings were wrapped in plastic bags in the closet. Sören took them out, and reached for the duct tape in a bin of household fix-it supplies that were also in that closet. He bound the bags together and made a makeshift sling with the duct tape.
Then he packed a few days' worth of clothes, his photo album, his identity documentation, and the few plushies he owned, and stuffed them into a backpack with his new laptop. He was leaving clothes behind, his winter coat, his art supplies, his recipe cards, a few personal effects from Iceland and Norway... but he could come back with a police escort for those maybe. He had a feeling he wasn't going to see those again; the art supplies and winter coat were not cheap to replace, and things of sentimental value were irreplaceable. His life was more important.
Sören opened the window and put the paintings and his backpack out on the fire escape, then he took Eiliv's guitar and also put it out there, then he crawled out the window, carrying the frying pan, and closed it behind him.
He chucked the frying pan off the edge of the fire escape - while Sören rather doubted Justin would call the police, there didn't need to be an object used as a weapon with his fingerprints lying around, either. Sören watched the frying pan shatter on the sidewalk, cheap shit, Sören scoffed to himself, lamenting the professional cookware he'd owned when he lived with Eiliv in Norway; cooking Eiliv's favorite foods had put him on the path to becoming a chef. Sören also cringed a little at the broken mess, knowing that if he slipped from this high up he could end up like that frying pan.
He still needed to go. Now.
When the backpack was on his back and the paintings sling and Eiliv's Ibanez guitar properly situated, Sören began the descent down several flights, having to pause here and there because of his asthma exacerbated by the long COVID shortness of breath, the fatigue, and vertigo from the dizzying descent. It didn't help that he could feel the fire escape shaking and swaying as he came down. Sören almost didn't think he would make it, that he might collapse - or Justin would break the guest bedroom door down, get the window open, and chase him - but when he came off the last step onto the sidewalk he fell apart, sobbing in relief.
He tried to pull himself together as he staggered down to the nearest Starbucks - a short walk when he wasn't encumbered by heavy canvases and a guitar and a bag of clothes - and once he got a table, he sat down and called an Uber. He decided to skip ordering a coffee, because he didn't need the caffeine jolt when he was hyped up on adrenaline like this, and he was going to have to be even more careful with money now. He pulled up Google on his phone and began to look for hotels while he waited for the cab.
Once his Uber arrived, the driver gave him a wary look as he piled himself and his belongings into the back. "You OK, mate?" the driver asked.
"No," Sören said, figuring it was no use to lie. He got a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and saw bruises starting to show from where Justin had knocked him around.
"Hospital?"
"Hotel," Sören said, and gave the address of the cheapest one he could find. This threw a big monkey wrench into his plans of finding a new place to live, bigger than the replacement laptop - he couldn't afford to replace his tablet yet - but at least he was alive.
He hoped he was free of Justin for good. That seemed worth all the money in the world, right now.
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