Today's cake theme was animal cakes, for workers of Mayhew, a no-kill shelter that also provided low-cost and free veterinary care, and helped London homeless with their pets. Both of Anthony's cats had been adopted from Mayhew, and he made a sizeable donation to them every year and encouraged donations to Mayhew on his website, as he would in today's program. As this charity was very near and dear to Anthony's heart, he had more concerns than usual about his contestants getting it right, all twelve that remained. He put the pressure on everyone today, not just singling out Sören, but Sören still sassed him back anyway.
"Hello there, Sparky."
"Hey, Posh Spice."
Anthony narrowed his eyes. That was better than Dickface, but only marginally. "No ginger today? You haven't taken 'animal cake' to mean 'fire-breathing dragon'?"
"The only big, scary dragon I see is right in front of me."
"Who needs a hoard when there's the goldmine of such wit?" Anthony rolled his eyes.
Sören smirked.
It felt less aggressive this time - perhaps the handling of Sören's ex and the subsequent car ride in the rain had shown Sören it wasn't personal, they weren't really enemies.
The hours wore on and at last it was time for the party, where the cakes were revealed, and sampled and reviewed by Mayhew staff, with Anthony's judgment to happen when the party was over.
The elimination was obvious for this round: a cake that appeared to be a hedgehog, baked by a young American man named Zack, and Anthony couldn't tell if Zack was joking or the cake was just that poorly executed.
The hedgehog had a face of chocolate balls for eyes and nose, with crooked edible false teeth, in a misshapen loaf of gloppy pink frosting, the top stuck with chocolate sticks.
"Nice tribute to Adam Duritz of Counting Crows," Anthony snarked, then realized Zack was probably too young to know who that was. "Goodbye."
The winner was much harder to choose.
Josiah had made an adorable beagle with a yellow rose in its mouth, sitting atop a cake that looked like a white cushion in a bed of pastel yellow, peach, pink and violet roses. The cake itself was chocolate.
Sören's cake was funny and adorable, two tiers of an apricot-almond cake covered with fondant frosting to make it look like swiss cheese, and edible mice naughtily getting into the cheese.
And then there was Vivian's cake, an elegant white swan wearing a gilded crown, and the inside of the cake was a light, airy pistachio.
Vivian's cake won, if only because Anthony had a weakness for swans.
Anthony did an interview in his trailer when the show was over, and when he went back into the main studio building - he had to cross through the building to get to the parking lot - he saw Sören sitting on a bench, checking his phone, scowling.
Anthony paused, feeling a twinge of concern. It was a bit late for Sören to still be here. "Hi."
"Hi," Sören mumbled, not looking up from his phone.
"Is everything all right?"
"No, my cab's late." Sören's brow furrowed. "Very late. Should have been here an hour ago. Didn't call either."
It was raining again, and Sören's other option for getting back to the Hilton was bus or train, which still involved walking in the rain to get to the station. That black hoodie didn't look warm enough.
Anthony cleared his throat, glanced around to make sure they weren't being watched, and then he lowered his voice. "Wait outside the back door, I'll pull around. Try to make sure nobody sees you." He didn't want to risk a studio employee talking to a tabloid, or worse, snapping photos, which could look very bad.
"You sure -"
"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't sure, Sparky." The name just slipped out, and for the first time Anthony hoped Sören wasn't annoyed by it, but Sören nodded, muttered his thanks, and got up to head in the direction of the back exit, while Anthony went in the opposite direction, to the parking lot.
Sören was standing just outside the back exit, already soaked from the rain, as Anthony pulled up. Sören quickly got in - Anthony once again glanced around, but nobody else was in sight, unless they were very good at hiding, and Anthony rather doubted anyone would be hiding out here in this weather.
"Thanks, again." Sören met Anthony's eyes and gave a small, apologetic little smile. "I'm sorry to make you go out of your way -"
"Shit happens." Anthony glanced down at Sören's hoodie and back up at him. "I know you Scandinavians handle cold well, but you... don't have a warmer jacket than that?"
Sören let out a long, exasperated sigh. "I left my winter coat behind when I, ah. When I left Justin. I could go back with a police escort but he's probably thrown it out or sold it for drug money."
Anthony felt a sharp flare of anger - he hated bullies, he had been bullied in his younger years - and he hurt for what horrors Sören had experienced at the hands of Justin. He remembered the bruises fading on Sören's face. The way Justin had grabbed Sören's wrist in front of him. Violent enough to take on security guards, and try to attack him.
Then Justin's words came to Anthony's mind. I understand you joked about how you wanted to shag Anthony Hewlett-Fucking-Johnson a few weeks after you first moved in.
So he was Sören's celebrity crush. He knew, of course, that a lot of people fancied him - he'd posed in his underwear, a few years ago - but it was different coming from a contestant.
A very sexy contestant. Anthony found himself wishing they had met under other circumstances, ones where he would be free to want. Anthony had to pretend he hadn't heard those words, had to pretend that Sören's crush on him wasn't very, very mutual. This was bad enough, giving him a ride yet again, it couldn't go farther than this. Even this, if anyone found out, could ruin his reputation and call his ethics into question, accusations of favoritism, or worse if Sören ended up winning this series.
Anthony forced himself back to the present, back to what Sören had said about not having a warmer jacket. "Winter is coming," Anthony quipped - Sören's eyes narrowed - and then Anthony sobered and said, "You need something warmer -"
"No shit. Right now I need a place to live. Rent in London isn't exactly cheap."
Anthony sighed. Of course he knew that, but he'd never had to struggle to make ends meet. Knowing Sören had to choose between saving up to move to a new flat, or buying a winter coat, tore at him. He resisted the impulse to take a detour to one of the malls and buy Sören a jacket and a coat - they couldn't be seen together in public, or all hell would break loose in the papers.
Then Sören's stomach growled. Sören grimaced and looked out the window. The show had catering on-set but that had been a good six hours ago; the contestants didn't eat at the cake parties. The high-pressure stress of putting together cakes and surviving the elimination worked up an appetite; Anthony was planning on starting dinner as soon as he came home.
Against his better judgment, Anthony found himself asking, "What are your plans for dinner?"
"Uh. Fish and chips, probably. You guys have a limited budget for the hotel restaurant and I need something more than a salad."
That wasn't Anthony's fault but he felt guilty nonetheless. Anthony liked fish and chips as much as the next Englishman but he got the sense Sören had been eating a lot of that in recent times. "Right. Well, I'd like to cook you a proper meal."
Sören's eyebrows shot up. "You mean... a home-cooked meal."
"At my place, yes."
Sören's mouth opened.
"I'm not a serial killer," Anthony assured him.
Sören snorted and shook with silent laughter. "It's not that. It's just... I don't want to impose. I can deal with fish and chips -"
"You can, but it pains me that you have to resort to a chippy because the studio is too cheap to feed our contestants. Please?"
Sören made a noise and finally, he nodded. "OK."
"Splendid. Do you have any food restrictions or allergies I should know about?"
"Ah, no."
Anthony gave the thumbs-up and pulled onto the motorway, heading for home. In total shock this was something he was offering. Even though they were highly unlikely to get caught, Anthony still knew he was crossing a line by doing this, showing one of his contestants special treatment.
It's just dinner. You're just feeding someone down on his luck, because it's the right thing to do. It's not a date.
Anthony grit his teeth, speeding up a little as he merged into the fast lane. Not a date.
Despite his status as an international celebrity chef, Anthony lived comfortably but not extravagantly, in a three-bedroom, two-bath blue single-story house with a terrace on the riverfront in Kingston-upon-Thames. He wanted to live as "normal" a life as he possibly could, eschewing a mansion in Chelsea in a gated neighborhood with servants and security. Anthony had a housekeeper come in twice a week, but that was the extent of it; Anthony didn't even want a personal assistant, preferring to do his shopping himself, even if he had to partially disguise himself to do it. That was easier to do with masking.
However, what was a "simple" life for Anthony was still luxurious by Sören's standards, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he got out of the car and got a good look at Anthony's house. He followed along to the front door - Anthony picked up the pace when he heard the choir of cats meowing.
They stopped in the foyer. "Shoes off, please," Anthony said - a shoeless house was easier to keep clean - and as Anthony took off his brogues and Sören kicked off his Doc Martens, the cats circled, sniffing Sören cautiously. Sören stooped to pet them, making high-pitched noises that Anthony found adorable.
"I love cats," Sören said. "Such sweet babies." Seamus chirped and headbutted Sören, and Solly sat politely, allowing Sören to skritch, leaning into Sören's touch.
"They like you." Anthony smiled.
"I like them."
"The grey one is Seamus and the brown one is a girl, Solly. Both of them are from Mayhew."
The cats came over to Anthony and began meowing insistently. "Yes, I know you're starving," Anthony said, rolling his eyes. He gestured for Sören to follow. "Let's get these poor neglected cats fed, then I'll start dinner for us."
The cats trotted ahead, meowing all the way. Anthony chuckled, and so did Sören. Once they were in the kitchen, the meowing got even louder. Sören took a seat at the kitchen table as Anthony opened a can of cat food. As soon as the food was in the dish, the cats began inhaling it; Solly chowed right down, face in it.
Anthony checked the contents of his fridge. "What do you think about steak?"
"Oh wow. It's been a long time since -" Sören's voice trailed off and he composed himself, nodding. "That sounds very good."
Anthony smiled again. He wanted to spoil Sören, feeling a touch of guilt that he could afford to eat whatever he wanted and meanwhile red meat was a luxury for Sören. He took out two ribeye steaks - which he found superior to filet mignon in terms of flavor - and then ingredients for a marinade: butter, rosemary, garlic. As he worked on the marinade, he mentally planned the rest of the meal: baked potatoes, asparagus.
When the cats were finished eating they came over to Sören for more pettings. Sören actually squeaked as he saw Solly had gotten food on her nose.
"OH GOD SHE'S SO CUTE I'M GONNA DIE."
Anthony grinned - Sören's reaction was cute. "She gets a foodsnoot every time she eats. It's really cute when I give her a little sour cream or mashed potatoes."
As the steak marinated, Anthony battered and baked shrimp and mushrooms as an appetizer. When he sat down to eat the appetizer with Sören, the cats came over to beg.
"No," Anthony said.
Solly let out a plaintive wail like she hadn't just had her nose in cat food twenty minutes ago.
"This is good," Sören said, taking a short pause from devouring his plate of shrimp and mushrooms. "Just this, alone, hits the spot."
"I hope you'll still have room for the steak. I can't eat two by myself."
"I think I can manage that." Sören looked around the kitchen, a soft dove grey with Shaker cabinets. "I can't believe I'm actually going to eat your cooking. I've always wanted to go to one of your restaurants, but I can't afford it. Now... you're going to cook for me. For free. I feel like I should do something." Sören looked at the bowl of marinating steaks, the empty pan that the shrimp and mushrooms baked in. "Your dishes?"
"No, Sparky, you're a guest." Anthony frowned. "Please, relax. OK?"
"I'll try." Sören shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Uh, where's your bathroom?"
"Down the hall from the living room, second door to your left."
Anthony guarded Sören's food, but Seamus followed him, and Anthony heard the muffled sounds of Sören laughing and talking to the cat from the bathroom. When Sören walked back into the kitchen, Seamus was riding on his shoulders, and Sören had a guilty grin on his face.
"He just jumped on me and -"
"Yes." Anthony chuckled into his water. "He's taken a shine to you."
"Does he do this to your other guests?"
"Just to me." Anthony exhaled. "I don't entertain often. Really, not at all."
Sören's face fell. "Now I really do feel like I'm imposing -"
"No, Sparky, I said it was fine. Truth be told, I could use the company." And the nice eye candy. But Anthony restrained himself. This wasn't a date. They couldn't go there.
As the potatoes began baking and Anthony put the steaks out on the grill on the terrace - he grilled in all weather and all seasons - he invited Sören to sit in the living room. Sören spent awhile admiring Anthony's collection of books and vinyl records, which got them talking about favorite bands and authors. Anthony was pleased that they both had Ursula K. Le Guin as a favorite author and they both liked metal and grunge and 1980s-era goth rock and 1970s classic rock as well as old-school R&B and hip-hop. Even though Sören wasn't that much younger than him, Anthony was used to feeling out of touch culturally, not able to keep up with the latest trends in music or pop culture.
Sören also studied the abstract paintings on the walls here and there, a vibrant contrast to the muted greys and earth tones and deep blues of Anthony's decor. "Interesting."
"My gran made those," Anthony explained. "I've been thinking about buying some more paintings to hang up. There's just never enough time to visit galleries and browse for original art that catches my eye." Anthony gave Sören a pointed look; he was keenly curious about the paintings Sören had brought with him to the hotel.
Sören looked away.
Anthony wasn't going to let it go this time. "I'd still like to see your work." A pause. "Maybe even buy some of it or commission you -"
"I don't need your charity."
Anthony gave a dry, sarcastic laugh. "Sparky, you've seen how I am about cake. Do you think I'm going to hang something in my own home that I think is an eyesore? Your cake today was brilliant, I bet your paintings are bloody good."
Sören shrugged.
Anthony felt a little irritated at Sören's lack of self-confidence - but he knew that was misplaced. He remembered what little he'd seen of Justin's abuse of Sören, and he had no doubt Justin had destroyed Sören's self-esteem, too. "Did someone tell you that your art is no good? Was it that Justin creep?"
Sören hung his head. "Yeah," he muttered.
Anthony's nostrils flared. "But I bet before him, you got some compliments."
Sören sighed and looked up. "My late husband liked my art, but he was biased, I think."
"Perhaps, but perhaps not. You said that guitar was his, right? He was a musician, another creative type? If he was any good at it, he probably had an eye for good art, too."
Now it was Sören's turn to let out a bitter little laugh. "If he was any good at it. Jaeja, he was in a band."
Anthony felt that little sting of grief, the wound from Mark that still hadn't quite healed all these years later. Mark had never been famous - though he should have been, with that voice, his ability to play several different musical instruments, and he had composed the most beautiful songs Anthony had ever heard. Anthony wondered what Mark was up to now, if he was OK, and then he made himself refocus on the present - on the beautiful Jon Snow lookalike sitting in the armchair with Solly purring away on his lap. With the sad, sweet brown eyes. His thoughts turned from wondering about Mark to wondering what Sören's life had been like before they crossed paths, and he found himself probing, even as a voice in the back of his head cautioned none of your business. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking."
Sören took a deep breath. "Anders Behring Breivik happened."
That sounded vaguely familiar to Anthony. He cocked his head to one side.
Sören seemed to pick up on the tip-of-the-tongue-not-quite-getting-it-but-almost. "2011 Oslo attacks -"
"Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ, I'm sorry." Anthony facepalmed. Now he remembered hearing it on the news. The twenty-second of July, 2011.
Sören's accent was stronger, his words slower. "Jæja, my husband's band was playing a free concert on Utøya for the, ah, Arbeidernes ungdomsfylking. The, ah, Workers' Youth League." Sören closed his eyes and winced like he was in pain.
Solly made a high-pitched noise, grabbed Sören's wrist with her front paws, and began gently nomming his hand. Sören opened his eyes, gave the cat a sad smile, and resumed petting her. She rubbed her face on him, purring louder.
"So your husband's band was famous?"
"He was in a Viking metal band called Blod Ulv. They were very political, left-wing, anti-fascist, anti-Nazi. My husband's name was Eiliv Erlend Heyerdahl, you can look him up on Wikipedia." Sören shrugged again. "You can do it now if you want, I don't care, I won't think it's rude."
Anthony took his laptop off the coffee table, not able to resist the curious impulse. He woke his laptop up and thirty seconds later, there was the article, with a photo of a man sitting backwards in a wooden chair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, shoulder-length ginger hair, and a bushy ginger beard, scowling into the camera, wearing a large wrought iron Mjolnir pendant on a chainmail necklace, and a camo T-shirt that exposed muscular biceps and veins visible in the freckled, ginger-pelted forearms, and the shirt clung to beefy pecs. He looked like a tank, and meaty fists gripped the top of the very same guitar Anthony had seen Sören bring to the Hilton - black with silver futhark runes.
The Wikipedia article wasn't hugely long, but it mentioned Eiliv was openly gay and had a widower, an Icelandic national named Sören, who was currently a contestant on the 2021-2022 series of Let Them Eat Cake.
Anthony's jaw dropped. He glanced at Sören, then back at the photo of Eiliv. Anthony didn't look a thing like Eiliv - he was short-haired, clean-shaven, wiry build, not rugged, pale and clear-skinned. The article also mentioned that Eiliv was six feet, nine inches tall; Anthony remembered Mark being about that tall as well.
Anthony put the laptop back on the coffee table; Seamus promptly climbed onto Anthony's lap and stepped onto his shoulder, draping himself. Anthony stroked the cat, trying to formulate words.
"I met him when I was nineteen," Sören said. "They played a show in Reykjavik, I won tickets. I had fun backstage." Sören cracked a grin and attempted a wink that was more of a clumsy blink. Then he got serious again and continued, "I showed him around Iceland for a bit, then I tagged along the rest of their European tour, and finally I moved to Oslo for him. We were very, very happy together. We had a big, fluffy Norwegian Forest Cat, named Oskar, who I took with me after Eiliv died, Oskar lived on the ship with me and everything. Oskar lived to be old, renal failure in 2017, had to be put down." Sören hung his head. "I really miss having a cat, but it's just as well I didn't get one when I arrived in the UK after my ship had to stop sailing when everything went into lockdown, I wouldn't put it past Justin to... well, never mind." Sören shuddered.
"Fucker." Anthony's fists clenched involuntarily.
"I miss Oskar."
"Awww." Anthony's heart ached. He fought the urge to go over and give Sören a hug.
"I miss Eiliv, too. It's been ten years but it still..." Sören sighed. "Justin was just a fuckbuddy. He still managed to hurt me. It was like living with my shitty drunk uncle all over again."
"I'm sorry."
"What about you?" Their eyes met. "You said you don't have company over, and I take it nobody lives with you?"
"No. My last partner, Mark, left seven years ago, because he wanted to keep a low profile and my celebrity status was too much for him." Anthony got up - Seamus riding on his shoulders, digging in his claws - and he gestured for Sören to follow, over to the collection of photos that was a little shrine to Mark and to his late mother. "That's Mark."
Sören let out a low whistle as he got a good look at the man in the portraits with his long black hair, intense light-silver eyes, thick eyebrows, sultry good looks. "Wow, he's gorgeous."
"Yeah, he was."
Sören took a closer look. "Looks like the same kind of height difference with you and him that there was with me and Eiliv."
"They were the same height. Mark was also a musician, incidentally."
"What did he play?"
"Everything." Anthony laughed. "He played guitar, but he also played piano, drums, violin... harp."
"Harp. That's something you don't see every day."
"No." Anthony sighed. "I miss it. He liked to entertain me while I cooked for us."
"And who's the... lady?" Sören studied the handsome-rather-than-pretty woman with a black pixie cut starting to silver, green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Is that your mum?"
"That's my mum, yes."
"You look like her."
"I was very close to her, too."
"Was?" Sören's eyebrows shot up. "Did something happen? I hope she didn't have a problem with you being gay -"
"Oh god, no." Anthony gave a nervous laugh. "Nothing like that, though... she didn't know. She was liberal enough where I think she wouldn't have had a problem with it if she knew, one of my uncles was and she adored him, but she's dead now. She, also, was the victim of terrorism, she died in 9/11. She and my dad were tourists visiting the World Trade Center, wrong place wrong time."
"Shit. I didn't know."
"I thought it was common knowledge. It's on my Wikipedia article."
Sören's mouth opened, then he closed it, turned pink, and there was that guilty grin again. "I've actually never read your Wikipedia article, which is amazing considering I've been, ah, a huge fan of yours for years."
Once again Anthony was reminded of Sören's crush, and his cheeks burned. A cute boy likes me and I can't even reciprocate and I haven't been laid in years. Fuck my life.
"You can read it now if you like, there's time." Anthony patted Sören's shoulder, instantly wishing he hadn't, feeling like he touched a live wire, cock stirring just from that brief contact. "You can use my laptop."
Anthony checked on the potatoes and the steak, and threw the asparagus on the grill, and he came back to Sören sitting there with his laptop, looking engrossed.. and then Sören let out a deep snort and shook with silent laughter.
"What?" Anthony folded his arms.
"Your given name is Cornelius."
Oh, bloody hell, I shouldn't have told him to look at the article. Anthony pulled down the hem of his shirt and squared his shoulders. "Yes."
"Cornelius Anthony Hewlett-Johnson."
"Yes, I've gone by Anthony since I was a tween. For obvious reasons, having a name like 'Cornelius' is putting a 'kick me' target on one's back for bullies. Not that going by Anthony stopped them."
"Jæja, I was bullied too. I was smart and had asthma."
More common ground. Despite this, Sören still flashed him a grin before he popped back into the kitchen. "Cornelius."
Anthony made a deep disgruntled noise, but he couldn't quite be angry when Sören's face lit up like that.
When dinner was ready, Anthony put Dark Side Of The Moon on vinyl, and lit his collection of lava lamps, which delighted Sören. Over dinner they commiserated over their shared experience of being bullied as teenagers, and the way they escaped - Anthony into books, Sören into art. They talked about what made them each pursue a culinary career, Anthony recounting cooking with his mother and keeping her memory alive, Sören recounting cooking for Eiliv and wanting to see the world aboard a cruise ship, a needed distraction in his grief.
"I like cooking," Sören said, relaxing with a glass of wine once the meal was over, "but I don't have the same passion for it you do. I want to win your show, I want to work in your kitchen, but I'll be honest with you, then I plan on retiring early in about ten or fifteen years so I can just focus on my art and not have to worry about it."
"The same art you don't want me to see because you think it's not very good." Anthony frowned. "Because Justin put that poisonous thought in your mind."
Sören looked away.
"Anyway," Anthony said, sensing the storm cloud rolling over Sören's mind, not wanting him to be upset, "thank you for being honest with me. I can't assure you that you'll win -"
"That wasn't what I was looking for -"
"I know, but I'm saying it anyway. There's still eleven contestants left. Yes, it looks like it'll be you or Vivian or Josiah, but someone could surprise us, and those two are still stiff competition. You already know this, but I had to be careful about us being seen together because I can't have people assuming -"
"There's nothing to assume." Sören's voice had an edge.
"No, of course not." Anthony tried to smile, but it felt like a rebuff and it stung, even though he knew that nothing could come out of this. "But you know what I meant. You're a guest, I like you, but that doesn't guarantee a win -"
"Again, I wasn't fishing for that." Sören glared.
"Didn't think you were."
"You better not."
Anthony needed to defuse the tension, now. "Simmer down, Sparky."
Sören's glare became murderous, and then there was the return of that grin as he shot back, "OK, Corny."
Anthony facepalmed but he couldn't help laughing. "Goddammit."
There was a long pause and then Sören looked around. "I like your lava lamps."
"I like them too. I know they're kind of kitschy but they make pretty colored lights."
"You have any more?"
"I have some in my bedroom."
Anthony couldn't believe he was taking Sören down to the master bedroom, where he'd slept alone since 2014 save a few regrettable one-night stands, nothing in a good five years or so. He didn't think "show me your lava lamps" was innuendo, but his body still acted like it was, cock stiffening, having to fight off the urge to kiss Sören and drag him over to the bed with every fiber of his being, not wanting Sören, abused by Justin, to feel triggered or unsafe. He was a perfect gentleman as he turned on his other lava lamps and took pleasure in Sören's simple joy at the colors, and finally there was the piece de resistance, Anthony's Van De Graaff generator. He cackled as he watched Sören's curls poof up as the violet lightning surged through the glass sphere, tickling Sören's hands.
"I wish I had one of these," Sören said. He sighed. "I wish I had a fucking place to live, right now, never mind stuff to put in it."
Anthony wanted to say "I'm sorry", but he felt that would be trite, like offering "thoughts and prayers" in the face of a tragedy. His mind's eye replayed the scene that led them here, Sören waiting for a cab that never showed, waiting out in the back of the studio in the pouring rain with just a black hoodie to keep warm.
"I have something for you," Anthony said.
Sören's eyebrows lifted and he pursed his lips - Anthony wondered if Sören's mind was going in the gutter like his was, but instead of undoing his trousers to give Sören the half-hard cock that he was desperately trying to keep from getting fully hard, not wanting to make this weird, Anthony went to his closet and took out a black wool trenchcoat. Sören was two inches shorter but the coat would still fit.
"Oh god. This looks like it cost a fortune. I can't -"
"Take it. I have more than one coat, you have none. The weather's only going to get colder. OK?" Anthony gave Sören a stern look as he pushed the trench at him. After a moment Sören reluctantly accepted, and hugged the coat, rubbing his face on the soft wool.
"It's a nice coat," Sören said. "Thank you."
"Try it on."
Sören did, and Anthony nodded. "It looks good on you," Anthony said, then realized that was a close admission to saying he found Sören attractive and that was unprofessional. But it did look good on Sören. Though Anthony thought Sören would look best wearing nothing at all, probably. His cheeks burned as Sören took the coat off and threw it over his shoulder.
Anthony glanced over at the alarm clock. He needed to get Sören back to the Hilton before he got tempted to invite Sören to spend the night. "Shall I take you back now?"
"OK." Sören nodded. He bit his lower lip - adorably, Anthony thought, cock stirring again. "Are you sure you don't want me to help with dishes -"
"Jesus Christ, Sparky, no. You don't owe me anything."
Their eyes met, and held. As much as Anthony wanted him, he meant that sexually, too, and he had a feeling Sören got the message. He had a feeling Justin had treated Sören like some kind of whore, and he thought it was important Sören not feel like that in his presence.
Sören lingered to say goodbye to the kitties, and then Anthony walked him out to the Audi. They rode back in companionable silence, with Metallica playing on the car stereo as the rain fell and the windshield wipers clacked. Once they arrived at the Hilton, Anthony gave Sören door service, but Sören took a moment, turning to Anthony with that shy, sweet smile that took his breath away.
"Thank you," Sören said. "For tonight. For the food. For the coat. For... being good to talk to. It's been awhile."
"Same, and me too."
Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
And nothing else matters
Sören narrowed his eyes. "It's interesting. You play an asshole on TV but you're actually a nice, decent guy in real life. Justin has everyone convinced he's a great guy, he acts sweet and charming in public, but he's a bastard in real life."
"And you look like a bad boy but you squeak at kitties."
Sören laughed, and Anthony did too. Then Sören reached out and mussed Anthony's hair, and quickly recoiled, as if he'd put his hand on a hot stove. In the glow of the Hilton's lights, Anthony watched Sören's cheeks turn pink. Anthony's own face was on fire, wanting so badly to lean in and give Sören a kiss, but he did not, could not. "G'night, Sparky."
"Góða nótt, Corny."
Anthony shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he smiled just the same, and kept smiling on the way home, feeling giddy and ridiculous.
Careful, he warned himself. Don't play with fire, you'll get burned.
But it made a lovely light.
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