"Hey, Sparky."
Sören narrowed his eyes and stopped stirring for a split second, then he resumed stirring his batter, harder and faster. Anthony thought the death glare made him sexier, and he fought back the urge to say rrrrrowrrrrr.
Anthony continued to stand there, waiting for a response - Sören was ignoring him - and finally Sören stopped stirring again and said, "Hey yourself, Dickface."
Anthony reflexively took a step back, blinking slowly, not able to believe what he'd just heard.
According to Clive, ratings were up and reviews kept praising the tension between Anthony and Sören; Clive encouraged Anthony to pick on Sören. Of course, Anthony had his own motivation for goading him - it seemed to make Sören's cakes even better, tastier, prettier, as if each cake was his way of saying "I'll show you."
But it was another thing for Sören to call him Dickface. It had bothered Anthony when Sören called him a dick; this was somehow worse.
Anthony quickly composed himself, not wanting Sören to notice the reaction - and as importantly, not wanting the audience to notice. Anthony cleared his throat and put his hands on his hips. "You do realize you are in my kitchen."
"Funny, I thought we were in a studio."
"Yes, a studio where you're baking on my show, hence my kitchen. You will show some respect for me in my space."
"Or what, you're going to eliminate me? I have two gold stars. Do you really think it's worth doing because I called you Dickface, or would you rather have, I don't know, another Torture Me Elmo cake?"
Anthony exhaled. Of course he didn't want that; Sören was damned good, and once again, Anthony was reminded that it was probably going to be him or Vivian who survived to the end. Like it or not. Anthony needed talented chefs in his kitchen, he didn't hire just anyone off the street, genuinely good help was hard to come by, and it wasn't like he had to deal with Sören's personality if he was working in Paris or Sydney or New York.
Even so, Anthony needed to assert his authority. He wasn't going to let the press mock him. And if he let Sören think he had a sure win, the quality might decrease.
Anthony's voice lowered - he tended to speak more softly when he was on edge. His voice was a raspy, growly near-whisper now. "You. Will. Not. Call. Me. Dickface. In. My. Kitchen."
"Fine." Sören folded his arms, looked Anthony in the eye, and then he glanced down at his ingredients - Anthony looked over at it too, there was both cinnamon and ginger today - and then their eyes met again. "Let's start over."
"Fine. Hi, Sparky," Anthony said with his best for-the-camera smile.
Sören smirked like he was amused and up to no good. "Hi, Posh Spice."
Anthony's eyebrows shot up, not expecting this. "What."
"You're posh, you're obsessed with making cracks about me using spices..."
Anthony walked away, not saying anything at all, his cheeks burning, feeling like Sören had gotten the better of him and it was better to pretend he was ignoring Sören's antics rather than letting Sören see he'd rattled him. As he went over to the next contestant to taste-test the batter, he tried not to facepalm as it hit him. Ah shit, I forgot to taste-test Sören's batter.
His brain shot back with, I bet you'd like to 'taste-test Sören's batter', all right.
He wasn't going to go back to Sören's table. He took some deep breaths, calmly taste-testing batter... his face still on fire. He called me one of the bloody Spice Girls. Anthony had been a teenager when the Spice Girls were popular, and he had loathed all of that cheesy pop, preferring serious music like Nirvana and Korn.
Dickface was still worse, and he knew logically he couldn't be upset about being called Dickface when he picked on Sören more than the other contestants, but it still bothered him. And now, as his mind went in the gutter about "taste-testing Sören's batter" - his mind replaying hot jerkoff fantasies that had starred Sören, sucking and fucking, those fantasies making him come hard - another realization dawned on him. He wasn't just picking on Sören for ratings and reviews. He found that death glare very sexy indeed. He was getting Sören to make that face at him because he liked it. And as much as it bothered him to be called Dickface - and Posh Spice - Anthony found that bad-boy smartass attitude sexy, too. He liked Sören, smartassery and all. He liked that fighting spirit of fire.
If Sören hadn't been one of his contestants and just some guy at a bar, Anthony would snatch him up in a heartbeat and make him see stars, make him walk funny for days. He bet Sören was a wild ride in bed, bratty as he was. But Sören was his contestant and he had to be professional.
He did not need to be crushing on Sören like a lovesick teenager.
He couldn't help glancing across the room at Sören and their eyes met again, Anthony watching Sören watching him. Sören smirked again and shook the jar of ginger into his bowl like he was mocking Anthony with it.
Anthony's heart was hammering in his ears, his mouth dry, his cock starting to go hard. This was bad.
This was very, very bad.
Today's theme was a garden party, for a touch of spring and summer as London gave way to fall with its gloom. The elimination was easy enough, a twentysomething woman named Robyn who choked under pressure and had made a sloppily-frosted cake of yellow, purple, blue and white roses on a hideous base of pastel orange, with purple squiggles.
No one would even touch the cake, except Anthony who had to because it was his job. It was a dried-out yellow cake, and the sickly globs of frosting made it worse. Anthony couldn't help but wonder if Robyn wanted to lose and it was easier to get sympathy - and subsequently, a job somewhere - if she was eliminated than if she quit.
"Yikes," Anthony said. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long, long pause, at a complete loss of what to say. Finally the snark came to him. "That cake looks and tastes like it's from the 1970s. Goodbye."
It was much harder to decide a winner, there were so many good cakes this time.
Sören had made a delightful apple-cinnamon-ginger cake, with an apple tree rising out of a green base ringed by a picket fence, and a cute little golden retriever puppy sitting under the apple tree. It was one of the most adorable cakes Anthony had ever seen.
"What's his name?" Anthony asked about the puppy, and then he had to rib Sören again. "Oh wait, I know, don't tell me... Sparky."
Sören's nostrils flared.
Vivian had made a beautiful cake of pink apple blossoms ringed around the top, and the sides had a lovely simple but elegant white scalloped design. Around the bottom of the cake was a ring of candy pearls. The cake itself was almond, and the light, subtly sweet flavor was to die for.
But today's winner was a Black thirtysomething named Josiah, who had made a two-tier cake, detailed green leaves on a green base, with stems leading up to yellow, pink, orange, red and violet tulips that almost looked real. While Sören and Vivian's cakes were flawless, Josiah's cake looked like spring and the guests and Anthony all loved the lemon-orange flavor, which was nice and sunshiny on a chilly, rainy, foggy day like today.
Sören and Vivian both congratulated Josiah before the others did. Anthony thought now there might very well be a third contender, with Josiah keeping the two stars on their toes. Josiah seemed to know it, too, beaming proudly.
Anthony's eyes met Sören's again and Sören's smile faded. That death glare again, for just a split second before Sören resumed smiling to be a good sport for Josiah's win.
That sexy, sexy glare. Anthony exhaled sharply as he walked away, feeling like he had been the big loser this round, horny and frustrated.
On the drive home from the studio, Anthony's mind usually went on autopilot, paying attention to the road but otherwise not noticing the world the way he would on a walk or run. It didn't help that it was raining and that made urban London even uglier; Anthony was keen on getting home to his cats and his creature comforts. And a good wank. Anthony's cheeks burned, thinking about that sexy brat.
As if thinking of Sören summoned him, suddenly out of the corner of Anthony's eye he noticed Sören walking down the sidewalk, wearing a black hoodie over his street clothes, hood hiding his mop of curls, but it was still unmistakably him with the beard, the pouty full lips, long lashes, brooding. No umbrella. Anthony was a few streets away from the studio, he hadn't yet gotten on the motorway to head to Kingston.
He slowed down and, despite his better judgment, rolled down his window. "Hey, Sparky."
Sören paused in his tracks just long enough to confirm it was definitely him, and then he glanced over at Anthony, that glare back in his face, fire in his brown eyes.
Anthony pulled over, not able to believe he was doing this, but Sören walking in the pouring rain without an umbrella, getting drenched, really bothered him. "Sparky."
"WHAT."
"Get in, you look like a drowned rat."
"At least I don't look like a drowned dickface."
"You know -"
"I'm not in your kitchen anymore, am I?"
"Fine, suit yourself. I was trying to do something nice so you don't catch bloody, sodding pneumonia, but fine, think I'm Satan." Anthony was about to pull back out onto the road, but then Sören sighed, shoulders heaving, and he walked up to the car. Anthony waited.
Sören came around to the passenger's side and Anthony unlocked the door. Sören got in and as Anthony pulled onto the road, Sören put his hood down and shook his curls free; even his curls were damp, beads of water glistening. Anthony had only seen Sören with his hair down once, in the opening, since the chefs were required to wear hats as well as hairnets, and Anthony couldn't help but admire that mane of curls, even wet Sören's hair was gorgeous like the rest of him.
"Where are you headed?" Anthony asked.
"Hotel," Sören said, and gave him the address.
That wasn't the hotel where the foreign contestants who needed lodging were holing up, but one of London's cheaper, raunchier establishments, and Sören would have had another twenty to thirty minutes to walk. Anthony wondered why Sören wasn't taking a cab or public transport, but most of all he wondered, "Why aren't you at the Hilton with the other contestants?"
"What?"
Anthony blinked. "You really do know nothing, do you?"
Sören made a growl of exasperation and before he could reach for his door handle to let himself out on the street, Anthony activated the power lock. Then he decided he'd probably gone a little too far and he said, "OK, look. I know you're not stupid. I'm just... confused -"
"When the show started I had another living arrangement so my brain kind of... glazed over... with all that information." Sören sighed. "I do feel stupid now, if you guys are paying for lodging. I'd forgotten, like I said, I hadn't been paying attention to that at the beginning, didn't think I'd need it."
"I can arrange for you to get a room at the Hilton, yes, we're paying for it, though you can't go wild with room service. I hope you haven't been... where you've been staying... terribly long." Anthony was curious why Sören had gone from "another living arrangement" to this, but he decided not to press it, his contestants' personal lives weren't his business.
"I've been there about a week and a half." Sören rubbed his hair then his beard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
Anthony made a face, then composed himself, not wanting Sören to think he was a snob. Why does it matter if he thinks that?
"All right, so let's go get you your things and then I'll have Magda check you into the Hilton and I'll take you there."
Sören nodded. "Thank you, I appreciate it."
They rode in silence on the way to the hotel, listening to the falling rain, the gentle clack of the windshield wipers. Every now and again Anthony stole glances at Sören, slumped in his seat, looking like he was zoning out; Anthony got the sense Sören needed to compress after a long, high-pressure day, so he just let Sören be. But his mind was buzzing with questions - and concern. He got the feeling that if Sören had been walking to the studio in the rain, he didn't have money for a cab or public transit, and once again he wondered what the "other living situation" had been. Anthony did a double-take when he noticed, now that the makeup-for-TV was washed off, fading yellow-green bruises on Sören's neck and the side of Sören's face, like someone had choked and beaten him.
Anthony's mouth opened. He quickly closed it and looked away, not wanting to be rude by staring - not wanting to make Sören uncomfortable. He desperately wanted to ask Sören if he was all right, if he was going to be safe, did he need to go to the police, but he made himself hold back, not wanting to be overbearing.
Anthony waited in the car while Sören ran in to get his things and check out; Anthony called Magda who got a room reserved for Sören.
Sören had asked Anthony to pull up to the door, which he didn't mind, and now as Sören came out of the hotel Anthony saw why Sören had requested that. Anthony didn't know what he was expecting - a suitcase or two - but Sören came out with a backpack, a black Ibanez guitar painted with silver futhark runes, and about a dozen painted canvases, give or take, in plastic wrap, bound with duct tape.
Anthony popped the trunk and Sören loaded it, then got back in the passenger's seat. "Takk," Sören said.
Anthony nodded. He began to drive out of the parking lot, and finally, even though Anthony felt like he was being nosy - this was way over the line of boundaries with his contestants - Anthony asked, "You play guitar?"
"No," Sören said. "That was my late husband's."
So Sören was gay, or at least bi. He had sort of pinged Anthony's gaydar but Anthony had learned by 2021 not to assume. Even so, Anthony felt a wave of relief that he wasn't drooling over a straight guy. Then there was the heat of shame again, that he was drooling at all.
Anthony noticed the words late husband. The curiosity went deeper and deeper. He made himself keep to the minimum. "What about the canvases?"
"Jaeja, I paint."
"I'd like to see them." Anthony couldn't believe he was saying this, like there was going to be some opportunity for them to socialize. He couldn't do that with his contestants.
Sören snorted. "No, you wouldn't."
"If they're like your cakes, I bet they're good."
Sören shrugged.
As Anthony headed in the direction of the Hilton, he said, "You have a lot of canvases, which strikes me as more serious than a hobby, but... you're a chef instead of a painter?"
"One of those makes money. I don't have to tell you which one."
Anthony nodded. Yes, he was well aware the "starving artist" stereotype existed for a reason.
Anthony decided to stop asking questions, but as they started to see signs for the Hilton, Anthony heard Sören's breath hitch and when he looked over he saw Sören's eyes were too bright, and his jaw trembled. Now Anthony had to ask. "Are you all right?"
"Jæja, I'm fine." Sören clapped his hand over his mouth, blinked back tears, and took some slow, deep breaths, trying to compose himself.
"Are you... sure?" Anthony cocked his head to one side. He didn't want to come right out and let Sören know he noticed the bruises, in case it was too triggering or touchy to talk about, but he felt that prickle of concern again.
Sören took another deep breath and nodded. "Rough week. Ish. Just feeling relief that I don't have to pay lodging for a bit and I can save up for a new place to live." Then he bit his lower lip and said, "Sorry, you don't need to hear about my problems -"
"It's OK. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't care."
Sören smirked. "You sure act like a dick for someone who cares."
Anthony smirked back. "Well, that's because you know nothing, Jon Snow. I'm not as bad as you think I am."
Anthony got out when Sören did and helped, carrying the canvases which were the heaviest of his items. Anthony really did want to see them, but once again he reined in that curiosity, feeling like he was crossing too many lines. Even so, he and Sören lingered at the front desk as Sören was being checked in by the concierge.
"I hope you find this more enjoyable than what you were dealing with," Anthony said sincerely.
"I will," Sören said with a nervous laugh. "Thanks, again, for... the ride, and for getting me set up."
"You're welcome." Anthony handed the canvases over. He wanted to give Sören a hug, sass and all - the fading bruises were much more obvious in the bright light of the hotel lobby - but he kept that impulse in check. He gave a little wave and then he was off.
Alone again. Horny and frustrated again... and conflicted, feeling like a creeper for fancying someone who seemed like they were in a rough spot.
Wishing there was something else he could do to make it better. Wishing he'd given Sören that hug, a moment of kindness and warmth.
He hoped Sören didn't feel as sad and alone as he did, right now, looking at his photos of Mark, once again feeling wistful for what could have been, feeling like he had it all and yet there was this big empty space.
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